Page 59 of Conviction
I take Amoeba up to my bedroom, show her how the shower works and pull an old Shift T-shirt out of my wardrobe.
“Is that it?” she asks.
“Is that, what?” I ask her, genuinely confused.
“Is that all you’ve got for me to wear? Are there no bottom halves?”
“I don’t know how tall you think you are babe, but I think you’ll find that’ll come down to your ankles,” I gesture with my chin toward the T.
“Fuck off. I’m not that short and I still want something on underneath.” I chew on the inside of my lip as I think about her wearing nothing but my T-shirt.
“Stop looking at me like that, Con. I need to shower. Then we need to talk.”
My belly churns at her words. I know that I’m not going to like whatever it is she has to tell me.
“Go shower. I’ll leave you some clean bottoms on the bed.”
As soon as I hearthe bedroom door close, I strip off my day old clothes and step under the multiple jets of the shower.
I slide down onto the floor.
And I cry.
I cry for my lost baby.
My lost life.
My lost chance at loving Conner.
For all the years Conner could’ve spent loving me.
But they’re not tears of pity. I’m not feeling sorry for myself, I’m way beyond that. I’m angry, so fucking angry. Rage like I’ve never known bubbles inside me to the point where it actually makes me want to vomit.
Our life together was stolen, our choices taken away. My entire adult life has been controlled by someone else's decisions, and I’m so fucking pissed off at the way I’ve been manipulated that I’m shaking from the inside out.
When I finally feel a little more in control, I wash myself quickly, turn off the amazing shower and step out into the bathroom. The space is beautiful. As well as the massive walk-in shower with the body jets, there are two sinks and a huge timber bath. I’ve never seen a bath made of wood, but this looks stunning against the natural stone coloured tiling.
Conner’s home has really surprised me. For some reason, I imagined him living in a penthouse apartment, somewhere in central London. The décor brash and glitzy. Black, white and red leather, with lots of glass and chrome involved.
I don’t know why I thought that? Con was never flash or a show off when we were younger. I’ve always considered him to be drop-dead gorgeous, but he was never up himself. He was just… Conner.
I wander out of the en-suite and sit on the edge of his enormous bed and look around the room. The bed and the bedside tables are made out of bleached timber, which contrasts beautifully with the gold, chocolate brown and red bedding that covers it.
On the wall facing the bed is a giant flat screen television and to the left of that is an open fire, with a huge wooden mantel that matches the timber on the floor and the frames of the floor to ceiling bay windows. In the space in front of the windows is what I can only assume to be a custom-made leather sofa in a rich chocolate brown, similar to the ones downstairs. The sofa is curved and follows the shape of the bay windows perfectly. To the right of the windows is a door and when I open it to take a peek inside, it reveals an ‘only in your dreams’ sized walk-in wardrobe. The space is probably three times the size of my bedroom that I’m currently sleeping in at Sophie’s place. Everything’s in order, jeans, shirts, suits, jackets. There are shoes on racks, undies, socks, ties and T’s in drawers.
I close the door and step back out to the bedroom. I’ve used Conner’s shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, deodorant and face cream. I cleaned my teeth with his toothbrush and paste, and now I’m pulling on a pair of his boxers and his T-shirt. I sit back down on the bed, which looks so inviting right now. I’m so incredibly tired. Both, physically and mentally exhausted. I’m beyond pissed off with my brother’s spiteful actions and overwhelmed by the rush of emotions that being near Conner is evoking in me.
I don’t know what this is? What it means for us, for him and me? Whatever we had in the past has stayed with both of us, but I’m having trouble believing that he’s missed me as much as he’s saying he has. He’s lived the single, party life of a rock star. I’ve seen the photos, read and listened to the gossip in the magazines and on the celebrity gossip shows. I sort of tried to avoid them. The pictures of him with a different woman every week, the rumours about the wild sexploits that he and Jet, allegedly got up to. But, at the end of the day, I’m only human and a human woman at that, and as a woman, I’ve done what most women in my shoes would do… I googled and researched the shit out of those bitches that were captured hanging off his arm at various events. I know I was married to someone else, but I was jealous of those women regardless. I wasn’t jealous of their long legs and flawless features. I was jealous of the fact that they were withhim. He was meant to have been mine, and there they were spending time with and getting to know him. I often looked at the pictures and wondered if they knew him like I did? If they knew about his mum and how she died. About his nightmares. I wondered if any of them knew that he liked meat pie and HP sauce sandwiches, and endless cups of tea?
So much has been said last night and this morning, I’m wondering if this is just a knee-jerk reaction to being back in each other’s company. Could we really just pick up where we left off fifteen years ago? We’re two entirely different people now, we’ve each lived a life. How could we be sure that we’d have anything in common, or that we’d even get along?
In saying all of that, when he kisses me, when his arms are around me, I feel safe, secure and like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. In those moments, it feels as though we’ve never been apart. I only hope it’s not all just wishful thinking. That we’re just clinging on to a stupid teenage dream. I’m finding it hard to believe that he’d give up his apparently wild ways to be with me. I’m just a hairdresser from Surrey and him, well he’s Conner Reed.
I walk into the kitchento find Conner, Soph and Josh all sitting around the huge dining table.
Conner was right about the T-shirt, it comes down to just above my knees, but I can’t help but pull it down when his eyes roam from mine to look up and down my body.
“Fuck. Me.” He mouths from where he’s sitting and then gives me another one of those perfect smiles. The ones that give me a mini orgasm. A smilegasm. My lips twitch as I attempt not to smile at the self-diagnosis and name that I’ve given to my condition.
