The Woman Next Door(21)
They’d talked until late. Or at least, he had and she had been the perfect listener. He told her about how he’d made a series of ‘fuck-ups’ that had landed him in prison, the most recent stint ending only a couple of weeks previously. But he was ‘turning over a new leaf’ now. ‘It’s all going to change, Mel,’ he’d said. ‘I’m tired of it. I’ve had enough of behaving like a kid.’
As Melissa listened, she began to relax. It was obvious that he knew nothing about what had happened later; the pivot on which the rest of her life had turned. The relief was like slipping into a perfectly warm bath; she snuggled further into the sofa, drank more wine and found herself laughing at all his jokes.
It had been fun. But it had still been a mistake, because it had led to a much bigger one.
Melissa runs her finger along her jaw, squeezing her eyes closed. She’d had to apply her foundation carefully to hide the slight stubble rash that had erupted on her chin. The evidence of last night was there too in the residual ache between her legs.
There was no point in pretending to herself that it had been a surprise. The squeak on the landing. The bedroom door opening; the slice of moonlight on the floor crossed by a dark shape.
By her third glass of Merlot it had started to feel inevitable. She told herself it was a little ‘fuck you’ to Mark that he would never need to know about.
She hadn’t been sleeping when he’d climbed into her bed.
They didn’t speak.
His body was so different to Mark’s and not just because he was younger. Mark was soft and familiar. Jamie was ripples of velvet skin over taut muscle. Everything silken smooth and hard at the same time. While Mark smelled of aftershave and soap, Jamie had a hint of clean sweat about him that made Melissa bite and scratch, hating him at the same time as wanting him to burrow into every part of her.
It was good to feel that desirable again.
When it was over they lay for a while in the dark, listening to the sounds of the sleeping house and their own gasped breaths, bodies bathed in soapy sweat. And then Jamie had rolled over, ready for her again. This was a novelty too. She and Mark hadn’t been like this since the earliest days. No one was, surely, when there were kids, late-night conversations about putting the bins out, or the box set they’d just watched?
She’d kicked him out at five a.m. and it was the only time they’d spoken since he came into the room. All the words had been used up earlier in the evening.
She didn’t want specifics of why he was here. She couldn’t have cared less. Her main priority was waiting until Tilly was out of the house today before she could get him to leave. The half-light in the bedroom last night had made everything seem sexy and illicit. Now it all just felt squalid and cheap and she wanted to wash all evidence of him away.
Melissa runs the filtered water tap and pours herself a long glass before taking a desultory sip.
She wonders how Hester is feeling. She hopes Hester won’t try to be friends again. The thought of her cringing all over the place and apologizing makes Melissa feel even more weary.
In the end, Tilly had been remarkably sensible about the whole thing. She hadn’t gone so far as to help mop it all up, but she had been the one who insisted Hester be covered by a duvet and she laid out water and painkillers for her. When Nathan had confessed to what he’d done, Tilly had let rip at him in a way that had surprised and impressed her mother. She said that Hester could have been on medication for all he knew, and that alcohol could have killed her. This thought hadn’t really occurred to Melissa, who had then fretted her neighbour was dying all over her spare room.
She’d forced herself to check on her at one point, just in case she choked on her own vomit, but the older woman appeared to be sleeping quite peacefully, gentle snores puffing from her lips.
It was funny, but sometimes Tilly could be very mature for her age. Other times, well …
Melissa pictures herself at fifteen. Mature, yes, but in all the ways she shouldn’t have been.
***
When she’d first met Jamie, back when she was Mel for short and Melanie for long, he’d been living with their foster parents, Greg and Kathie, for six months.
She remembered that first evening in Technicolour clarity. They were sitting round a table to have their tea, which had seemed way over the top. She’d sat back in her chair and rhythmically lifted dollops of the mashed potato (which tasted weird and not at all like Smash) before letting it slop back onto her plate.
Jamie had watched her with wide brown eyes, his mouth hanging open a bit to reveal a mess of masticated chop and liquid potato. Eventually, Kathie had lightly reprimanded him in her soft Glaswegian accent.
‘You just concentrate on your own dinner, Jamie,’ she’d said. And then, ‘Are you no’ enjoying that, hen?’
Melissa had shrugged, exaggeratedly. She wanted them to kick off at her. Angry lava was bubbling up inside her and she was aching for a way to let it out. ‘Come on,’ she’d thought, ‘just give me a reason.’
There was no point in getting comfortable, like that weird boy. Didn’t he understand anything? She wouldn’t be allowed to stay for long and neither would he, in the long run.
‘Maybe she isn’t used to good cooking,’ said Jamie smugly.
It was almost a relief.
Smiling broadly, she’d given him the finger, then lifted a forkful of potato. She’d then flipped it neatly across the table, splattering hot stickiness across his cheek. Jamie let out a howl of pain and outrage.