Chapter 16
sixteen
. . .
artie
Berlin is lit up for Christmas. Everywhere I turn there are festive decorations and lights burning bright against the cold winter darkness. Cafés are illuminated sanctuaries full of laughing people, and the city seems alive with jollity.
Today, however, I have no eyes for any of that. All my attention is on my husband.
I see him as I walk up the street. As he sits waiting for me at a café, he watches people walk past and seems a study in stillness, a thing that’s so unusual for him it makes me pause. In London, he’s a hive of activity even while sitting. His phone is always in his hand, and his attention is on ten things at once. He’s the one person in the office to whom everyone wants to speak and to whom all the problems come.
Here in Berlin, he’s different. I’ve privately christened his visits as the Magic Hour. During our shared sixty minutes, he focuses only on our conversations, and he seems at peace in a way that really suits him. I’d love it if he spent more time at peace, but that’s not up to me. Maybe, as his friend, I can persuade him. Of course, I still want more than friendship, but I’ve spent the last six weeks training myself not to think about it, breathing through the pain until the feeling dissipates.
Jed might have rejected my love, but he’s too big a part of my heart to cut out of my life completely. I’ll take whatever minutes he’s comfortable with giving me. Maybe one day, he’ll settle down and introduce me to the man who’s shown him it’s okay to be brave and love again. It won’t be me, and I’ve accepted it.
I rub my arm absently, glad it’s not burdened by the bulky cast anymore. Jed hasn’t spotted me yet, so I enjoy my chance to gaze at him uninterrupted. He’s wearing jeans and a black sweater, which I know is cashmere, without even seeing the label. He has an addiction to the soft wool, and I’ll always remember the feel of it on my face when I rested my head against his chest. His hair is a bit longer than usual and flopping over his forehead. Usually, he’d sweep it back impatiently, but today, he’s concentrated on something.
I follow his gaze towards a small child with a red balloon. The little boy is laughing, pure joy is in every line of his little body, and a smile plays over Jed’s mouth. It’s gentle, and not for the first time, I wonder what he’d be like as a father. I think he’d be brilliant because he’s gentle, kind, and firm. You’d feel safe with him. I always have.
He shifts position, tapping his finger on a book that’s facing down on the table. His hands are big and laced with veins, and I have a flash of them holding me down while he sucked my cock, pulling off and licking, teasing me and laughing until I begged him to let me come.
I push down a pang of longing with the ease of practice. I’ve missed him so much since I left, but I know being on my own has been good for me. I needed to get out of his shadow for a while, and the job has been interesting. Karl, my boss, has actually been nice despite Jed’s opinion of him. He and his family have spoilt me by having me over for dinner a few times, and the people at the office are friendly too. They’ve taken me out with them to explore the city, and to eat and drink in bars and restaurants.
Still, I miss all my Confetti Hitched people. Obviously, I miss Jed most of all. Some nights my longing is a visceral ache, and I’ll fall asleep with my hands clutching a pillow to my chest. I’m homesick, not for my house, but for him.
As I get closer, Jed looks up and spots me, his whole face lighting up immediately. My heart flutters, wanting to break free and fly towards him. I take a deep breath and smile at him.
“What are you reading?” I ask as I come up next to him.
He flips the book over, and I gasp as I see the cover of a political thriller that’s been in the charts for ages.
“Oh, I recommended that last week,” I say, delighted. “Are you enjoying it?”
“Yes, but I need to discuss the plot twist you didn’t warn me about. I wasn’t expecting that at all.”
I grin. We seem to be running our own book club lately, and I adore discussing them with him. He’s fiercely intelligent and loves a debate, and under his guidance, I’ve grown to love it too. I don’t shrink from offering my opinions anymore, because he seems to revel in them.
He stands up and holds out his arms, and I slide into them for a hug. It’s how he’s greeted me every week, and it’s probably my imagination, but he seems to hold me tighter than he ever did before, and he always gives a big sigh before he lets me go, as if everything is right with his world. It’s a gorgeous thought, but I can’t dwell on it.
He squeezes me now and inhales deeply. Before I can ask, he steps away, pulls out a chair for me, and says, “First thing.”
After we sit, he slides the familiar box across the table to me. I open it, gasping in delight when I see a red paper rose nestled in tissue paper. The folds and lines are delicate and beautiful. He’s got so good at this.
“A rose?” I ask. “That’s a change from a peony and a sunflower.”
He shifts position, and I’d think he was nervous if I didn’t know better. “It seemed right for the moment,” he says hoarsely.
“What moment?” I ask.
“Not here,” he mutters, glancing towards the busy café.
“Not here what?”
He closes his book carefully and doesn’t answer.
I raise my eyebrows and take the opportunity to bring up something I’ve been wanting to discuss. “I settled up with the builders this week. Somehow, I have more money in my account than when they began their work. It’s almost like my money has magical abilities. I’m trying to keep it quiet in case Rumpelstiltskin comes calling.”
He taps his ear. “Sorry. My hearing is going.”
“So is your bank balance. I’ll be paying you back, of course.”
“I don’t think so. You can’t get into my bank account.” I open my mouth to argue, and he gives me his most charming smile. “How’s your week been?”
He waves the waiter over and orders me the hot chocolate he knows I love. It’s laced with brandy and cream, and it’s delicious.
I subside for now, but I’ll repay that money whether he likes it or not. He forgets that I’ve been his assistant for years and know a lot more about his personal affairs than he ever remembers. When I’d discovered he’d been paying the builders, I’d tried to be annoyed, but had been charmed and almost amused, instead. Crafty caring is such a Jed thing to do.
I carefully set the flower back in its box. I’ll put it with the others he’s made for me. He brings something every week, and my bedside table is full of them. I like to lie in bed and look at them before I sleep.
“It’s been good,” I finally answer his question. “Dieter took me to a gay club this week.” The smile he gives me looks forced. I eye him in concern. “You okay?”
“Absolutely fine,” he says firmly. “So, you’ve become good friends with Dieter, yes?”
I nod, sitting back as the waiter places my drink in front of me. I take a sip, relishing the chocolatey goodness, and Jed’s face softens as he watches me, pleasure at my pleasure written all over him.
He lifts his chin and straightens his shoulders. “So,” he says. “Friends?”
“Pardon?”
He fingers the neck of his jumper. The dark cashmere makes his eyes look very green. “You and Dieter?”
“Oh.” I shrug. “Yes, he’s nice.”
The wire of tension in his posture relaxes, and he grins at me. “A gay club?” His eyes suddenly widen with what looks like dread. “Did you get off with anyone?”
“No.”
He lets out a long breath. “Probably best, yes? Get your feet steady first.”
“Yes, you’re right,” I say slowly.
A few men had seemed interested in me at the club, but I didn’t encourage them. I’m hopelessly in love with the man sitting opposite me. Real love, not a fantasy. Jed’s dealt with builders, bricked-up doors, and malfunctioning boilers. He’s taught me to dance and how superb sex can be. We’ve sweated and groaned and climaxed together. My fantasy Jed became wonderfully real in the past few months, and my love for him has only deepened.
Now, as I sit at a respectable distance across from the man I’ve been so intimate with, I wonder what people see when they walk past. A couple of friends, or something else?
“How’s the office?” I ask, unable to hide my longing.
He brightens. “Fine. I put Raff and Joe on a wedding last week.”
“ Together ?” I ask incredulously.
He chuckles. “I must have had a senior moment.”
“Did it go well?”
“Oddly so, considering their usual disasters.” He pauses. “They all send their love. Everyone misses you.”
Do you? I think, but don’t say it.
His gaze shifts from me to the paper rose and back. “ Everyone ,” he says with emphasis, and I breath in sharply. “It isn’t the same without you.” He pauses. “But I said I wouldn’t do this now,” he adds firmly. “Tell me something.”
I grin at him. This is my favourite bit of our hour together. During our first meeting, Jed told me a story about his dad—something he’d never done before. Everything I’ve learned about his family has seemed accidental, but this bout of sharing was deliberate, and my heart had warmed from the gift of a piece of him no one else saw. After that first story, he’d asked me to share something as well. We christened the exchanges Tell Me Something, and while we’re apart in the week, I store up things I can tell him.
Today, I tell him more about the gay club and how Dieter split his trousers.
When he laughs, I savour the sound. His eyes twinkle, and his expression makes my heart thud. Then he sits back in his chair and waves a hand at the scene around us. “We have half an hour left. Why choose this café to meet?”
I sit up eagerly. “Ah, we need to walk a block or two, and I’ll show you.”
He nods, signalling for the bill. After he’s paid, he stands and pulls on his black peacoat. He holds out his hand, and I stare at him.
He waggles his fingers. “Hold my hand?” he asks, his voice slightly hoarse.
I stand up and slide my hand into his. It’s so smooth and easy, and I’m painfully aware that lovers hold hands like this. Not friends.
He squeezes my hand as if sensing I might pull away. “Lead on.”
I meet his gaze for a moment and then tug him away from the café. Down the street, we cross the road and begin walking up a slope.
“You have me intrigued,” he says, looking around curiously.
Drawing my attention away from his big fingers curling possessively around my hand, I focus on his comment. “I know you like Berlin, so I thought we could do more exploring.”
“No.” He tugs me to a stop. “Berlin is a beautiful city, but the reason I like exploring it, is because I’m with you. It’s you who intrigues me.”
I scan his features. His eyes are tired, his face very pale, and his whole body looks weary. He coughs, and realisation suddenly dawns. “Oh my god . Have you taken cold medicine again?” I demand.
“ What ?”
I gesture with my free hand. “Cold medicine makes you loopy. Do you remember when you took it before the Simpson-Brocklehurst wedding and thought the flower arrangements were moving? I had to do some quick talking when you attacked one with a rolled-up copy of the wedding service.”
“I’m sure they were moving. It was like Jumanji without the rhinos.”
I pat his chest. “I’m sorry you’re poorly.” I realise I’m caressing his chest and go bright red. “Sorry,” I mumble.
He grabs my hand, and I look at him in surprise when he holds it to his chest. “No, stay,” he commands. “I don’t have a cold, Artie.” He pauses, shakes his head, and laughs grimly. “Fuck, this isn’t the way I?—”
A man bumps into us, and we break apart. He offers profuse apologies, giving Jed an admiring glance. Jed waves him off kindly, unperturbed. He’s in a strange mood today.
He smiles at me, and it’s the smile he reserves only for me—warm, soft, and genuine, his eyes twinkling. “Well, where are we going, mystery man?”
Thinking up fun places to take him is one of the things that keeps me going since we’ve been apart. Sometimes our adventures take us over the allotted hour, but we’re both careful not to mention it.
I check the number of the building beside us and draw him closer. “We’re here.”
He narrows his eyes at the building, and I can’t blame him. It’s a very nondescript structure painted a dreary grey. The front door is set between an osteopath and a tattoo parlour.
“This is Hauptstrasse 155, but fans keep removing the house number to take away as a memento.”
He looks intrigued, and I relish his attention. “Why?”
“Because this is where David Bowie lived in the seventies.”
“No,” he gasps. “ Really ?”
I smile and nod, pleased by his reaction. Jed has every record Bowie ever made and regularly proclaims him to be the greatest musician England has ever produced.
He gazes up at the building again with wide eyes. “I’d read about the place, but I’ve never been here before. It’s not what I’d have imagined.”
“When he came here, he was finished in the music world because drugs were destroying him. The city built him back up.” I grin at him. “Guess the name of his flatmate and collaborator when he lived here?”
I’m pretty sure that he already knows the answer, but he just smiles, his eyes eating me up. “Tell me, wise one.”
“Iggy Pop.”
“You’re joking!”
I shove him gently. “You can’t fool me. You already knew that.”
“Maybe. I like the Berlin material.”
“Me too.”
He looks startled and yet pleased. “You’ve been listening to him?”
I nod. I started it as a way to still feel close to Jed, but I’ve come to love the man’s music.
He looks around. “So, did they go to that café?” he asks, pointing to a café farther down the street. Chairs and tables are set up outside it, but they’re empty on this wintry afternoon.
“Yes. I think that was the first openly gay and lesbian café in modern Berlin, and they came here for breakfast most mornings. Bowie recorded ‘Heroes’ in the city. This was his second chance, and I like that he took it.”
Jed’s gone very still, and I look at him curiously.
“I wonder if I can do the same,” he says softly.
I narrow my eyes. Am I finally going to hear about why he’s been acting so oddly?
“Artie, I need to tell you something.” He takes a deep breath. “My feelings have changed, and you need to know about my heart.” The words are quiet yet loaded with so much feeling.
My thoughts of Bowie disappear like dandelion seeds blown away on the wind. “Pardon?” I say hoarsely. A terrible thought blasts through my brain like a lightning bolt, and I gasp out loud.
He frowns. “What is it? Artie, are you okay?”
Has he found someone else? Is he screwing up the courage to tell me? I swallow hard. “Who is he?” I demand.
“Who’s what?” he asks, staring at me.
My heart is thumping so hard, I can’t find words. I take a heaving breath.
“Shall we finish early?” he asks carefully. “We can finish this conversation another time. You don’t look well.” His hands are on my shoulders, kneading gently.
I knock them away and he startles. “Artie?”
“Your feelings have changed?” I accuse. If he’s admitting this, then he’s obviously found someone to love again.
He flinches, his face pale in the winter light. I’m right. I know it. Pain rips through me. Suddenly, I realise how badly I’ve been fooling myself. I can’t be his friend and watch him be happy with another man. I just can’t .
Despair twists in my chest, leaving me breathless. Will life never give me what I need and want?
“Yes,” he whispers. “And what do you think about that?”
I give his green eyes a final glance and then turn and walk away. I can’t be here, so I won’t. It’s as simple as that.
“I need to go,” I call over my shoulder. “I just remembered that I have an appointment.”
“ Artie ?”
I hear his hurried footsteps behind me, but I still startle when he grabs my arm and spins me around to face him. His face is white, the lines around his mouth drawn, but his eyes burn with emotion.
“Hang on,” he says hoarsely. “Please don’t go.”
“Let go of me.”
He swallows hard. “Do you still love me?” he blurts out. “I have to know.”
I’m suddenly furious. “How dare you? You didn’t want to know that six weeks ago!”
“Artie, please.”
“No! Don’t interrupt me. You didn’t want my love then, and now you’re asking me about it because you’ve found another man, and you’re ready to be happy with him. I didn’t know you could be so cruel , Jed.”
There’s a startled silence, and then he shakes his head as if clearing it. His grip is too hard on my shoulders, but I can’t tear myself away, the painful feelings a reflection of the turbulence roiling between us.
“I don’t understand,” he says, gazing into my eyes. I try to step away from his hold, but he stays me. “No,” he says sharply. “We’re having this out now.”
Rain has started to fall, misting our faces, and making everything blurry. It’s so fucking apt that I want to laugh. Cold and dreary could describe my entire relationship history.
Raindrops clump his eyelashes, and the green of his irises has become almost grey in this stormy light. We’re alone on the street now, as everyone sensible has headed indoors.
“You’ve met someone,” I snap. “Well, I don’t want to know about him. Stop talking.”
“Believe me, I haven’t even started yet,” he says grimly. He shakes his head, drops spraying from his hair. “But I have to insist you explain yourself first, as me meeting someone is complete fucking news to me.” The incomprehension in his face would be comical in any other situation.
I raise my chin and try to keep the awful hurt from my voice. “Now your fake husband is out of the way you’ve taken up with someone else.”
“Out of the way ? I didn’t bury you in a field. And I haven’t taken up with anyone else. I’m bloody married. What the fuck ?” He draws in a bolstering breath. “I don’t know where this fictional person even came from, Artie.”
“You were trying to tell me about… him.” I quickly play back our conversation, and suddenly what seemed so sure doesn’t anymore. I shift awkwardly. “I mean, weren’t you?”
His eyes flare with emotion. “No, I fucking wasn’t .”
“Oh.” I stare at him and say quickly, “Then let’s forget what I just said and not discuss it anymore.”
“No, let’s.” He scrutinises my face.
I raise my hands in confusion. “So, what were you trying to say, then? You’re being very odd today.”
“I was trying to tell you that I’m in love with you.” The words come out loud enough to be a shout.
I feel like I’ve just been hit on the head with something heavy. “ What ?”
“I’m so fucking in love with you,” he repeats, still loud but not as shouty. “I tried to ignore it and call it something else, but the truth is that you’re everything to me. You’re bright and bold, and you warm me all the way through to the cold bits no one has ever touched. And if I’ve lost you because I was stupid, then you can rest assured that it will be the biggest regret of my whole fucking life.” He sucks in air, his eyes panicked. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”
“Why?” I say faintly.
“I had a whole lovely speech planned. This is not the way I wanted to tell you.”
“How did you want to tell me, then?” I whisper.
“With flowers and a big speech. Not on a side street in the middle of a rainstorm while we’re shouting at each other.” He shakes his head in disgust. “ Shit ,” he says again with feeling.
Suddenly, I want to laugh. Emotion is filling me up like helium in a balloon. So much of it that if his hands weren’t tethering me to the ground, I would float away to the moon.
The rain is thundering down now, bouncing on the pavement and running in rivers down the street. He lets me go and starts to pace, forcing his hand through his hair and muttering about being an idiot. His hair is sopping wet, clinging like a seal’s pelt to his skull.
“Well, I think it was absolutely perfect,” I say loudly, cutting through his emotional rant about being the stupidest person in the world.
“What?” he snaps.
I smile at him. “I said that I think it was perfect.”
He stops mid-pace. “You do?” he asks cautiously. He bites his lip and this wild-looking man is so far from the buttoned-up perfect man I first loved that I want to laugh and kiss him.
I know so well now that he is not perfect. Yet, in the end, it turns out he’s absolutely perfect for me.
“I have a confession,” I say softly, coming closer.
He swallows hard. “Tell me.”
“When we got married, I lied to you.”
His shoulders tense under his sopping jumper and coat. “Why?”
“I was in love with you then,” I say steadily. “I think I’ve been in love with you since I walked into your office, and you smiled at me and took my jacket. And I never stopped. I can’t. It would be like stopping breathing.”
He gasps, his face transforming before me, jubilation and happiness chasing away the heartbreak.
“And,” I continue, “I should have told you that before I made you fake-marry me.”
“I wasn’t ready to hear that you loved me,” he says. We’re two feet away from each other, but it feels like we’re already in each other’s arms. His eyes are brimming with emotion. “I wasn’t ready when you told me, and I’m so sorry for that.”
“I’m not,” I say, suddenly both serene and very certain. “You had to come to it in your own time.”
“Well, I’m sorry it took so long. I’ve been blind. I even kidded myself that these hours we’ve been spending together are just about being friends, when, in reality, the moment you left, my whole world turned grey, and I needed to experience full colour again even if only once a week. Will you forgive me?”
“Of course I do,” I say steadily. “And I’d rather like you to kiss me again.”
And then I’m in his arms. Rain pours down on us as he kisses me. His lips are warm in the cold, and water slicks us, but we don’t care as we kiss on the street, taking our second chance in the same street where David Bowie found his.