The House Swap(25)
He smooths the crumpled collar of my shirt, his long fingers moving along my shoulder. ‘Steven talked to me again yesterday, about the transfer,’ he says, as if he’s read my mind. ‘Looks like it’s all going ahead. Couple of weeks, and I’ll be working out of the Bishopsgate office. So, you know. No longer colleagues.’ His voice is a mixture of regret and anticipation.
‘A bit of space to think. I guess it could have its advantages,’ I murmur.
‘It could.’ He tightens his grip on me again, just slightly, but it makes me push myself up against his chest, wrapping my arms around him. ‘Only if you want it to,’ he says, his lips against my neck, ‘and if we decide it’s a good idea.’
‘We’ll have to see how it goes.’ It’s the closest we come to talking about the future. When I am on my own, I spend hours turning it over – trying to understand what on earth we are doing, what the point of it is, what we want, where it is going. Somehow, when we are actually together, these thoughts crumble into nothing.
His hands are snaking up underneath my skirt, running slowly up my thighs and stopping just at the place where my skin meets the thin fabric of my knickers. I know he won’t go any further, not here – not anywhere, until I say. Sometimes it seems that his capacity for self-control is far greater than mine. I am constantly battling the impulse to move his hands exactly where I want them, to show him that I don’t want to wait any more. His fingers are stroking lightly across my skin and I lean my head back against the wall, hearing my breath come hard and fast as his mouth finds mine again. He bites down on my lower lip, gently at first, then so hard that I gasp and scratch my fingers across his back, pulling him into me.
He draws back a little, his dark eyes thoughtful and appraising. ‘You really like this,’ he says, ‘don’t you.’ His voice is low, sending a shiver rushing through me. Silently, I nod. We stand motionless for a few moments, regulating the rhythm of our breathing together. I dip my head down to his chest, feeling the warmth of him against me.
‘We’d better go back,’ I say after a while.
‘Yeah.’ He shifts against me and sighs. ‘You’d better go first. Give me a couple of minutes to calm down, you know.’
‘OK.’ I disentangle myself from his arms, slipping out and away. I glance back for a second, my hand on the door handle.
He smiles at me, his eyes creasing at the corners. ‘Go put your lipstick back on.’
I nod, and it hits me again – the bizarre ease that there is between us, the lack of game-playing or confrontation, the happiness. I know it when I feel it, even after all this time. The trust we had built as friends has moved unexpectedly and fluently into this new context, and it feels natural and right, despite the fact that we both know it should be wrong. The truth is, I don’t care. All I know is that I need it, and I’m not about to stop.
At six o’clock, I’m turning into our road and walking towards home, counting the houses and looking for the light burning in the lounge window. It’s cold for April, too cold for the short skirt I’m wearing, but that isn’t why my legs are shaking. I’m replaying the telephone conversation I had with Francis on my lunch break, trying to remember how he sounded. There isn’t a lot to remember because he barely spoke at all. These days, my husband has only two modes of expression: long, rambling monologues which he rattles off so fast they veer towards mania, and veiled, monosyllabic utterances that feel more like crossword clues than conversation.
As I turn the key in the lock, nausea flutters and tightens inside me, making me catch my breath. It’s insane, to feel this level of trepidation at entering my own home. Gritting my teeth, I stride through the hallway and into the lounge. Eddie is sitting in front of the television, rapt before a Disney video; when he hears me, he waves and calls out a greeting, then returns his attention to the screen.
‘Hello!’ Francis is smiling, but my heart sinks. His eyes are too bright, his movements jerky and exaggerated. He’s overcompensating, trying to make me think he’s fine. The disappointment roots me to the spot and I stand unmoving as he springs up from the sofa and embraces me. ‘Look!’ he calls to Eddie, too loudly. ‘Mummy’s back.’
‘Not for long,’ I say, slipping out of his arms. ‘I’m going to give Eddie his bath and put him to bed, and then I’m going out again, remember?’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Francis says hurriedly, though his eyes cloud with momentary uncertainty.
I glance at the sofa, trying to see the long white envelope I’ve been checking almost every day since I first found the pills. They disappear at an alarming rate, and then they’re miraculously and inexplicably restored, dividing and replenishing like cancerous cells.
‘You don’t seem yourself,’ I say, realizing as I do so that I have no real idea any more if this is true. I have no sense of who this self really is. ‘Look, Francis—’ I take a breath, knowing I have to continue. ‘I know you’re taking the pills again. I think you need to—’
‘What are you talking about?’ he interrupts, his face creased in confusion.
‘You’re denying it?’ My eyes flick towards the sofa again, and I know he sees me look, but he nods.
‘Yes!’ he declares, eyes forced wide and unblinking in an effort to convince me. ‘You’re being silly. I’m fine!’