Chapter Three
I sit for a while, make myself more tea and try to regroup.
My reality is shifting again as I consider the truth of Ewan’s words.
He’s right; my influence over Ed was always limited.
My husband did as he liked and somehow managed to drag me along with him.
I’d convinced myself that Ed cared about me, loved me as much as I loved him.
Now I’m not so sure. Even on that last, fateful day, he’d put his own wishes first. He had known that Ewan was happy to offer me a lift whether or not I swapped with Caroline, and turned that down without even talking to me.
I was left believing that I had somehow forced her onto the bike, when of course I hadn’t. Ewan was spot on about that.
So, where does this leave me now? I ponder that as I undress and climb into my bed. I had needed to adjust, to re-orient myself. I was a wife; I’m now a widow. I had a husband; now I have only myself. I was part of a couple; now I’m alone.
Well, perhaps not quite alone. I have my sister and her family. And I have a neighbour who seems nice. Maybe.
I can’t sleep. Nothing unusual about that these days, but this time it feels different.
This time it’s not the usual lump of dread lodged in the pit of my stomach keeping me awake as I roll and toss and imagine the empty, yawning gulf that constitutes my so-called future.
This time my head is spinning with confused and tangled possibilities, with half-formed ideas and the chaos of wondering what’s next.
It’s all Ewan Lord’s doing. He unravelled me with effortless ease, held me while I sobbed all over him, then left after an hour or so.
We chatted, polished off the bottle of wine, then I made some tea for us both.
He told me about his work as a civil engineer.
His specialist niche is sports stadia, and he tends to get roped in at the early stages of most of the major sporting events anywhere in the world.
His current project is in Qatar, laying the groundwork for the 2022 FIFA World Cup.
It sounds so much more exciting than my boring job with Em See Squared.
I dreamed once of being self-employed, of owning my own graphic design consultancy.
I’d thought perhaps I could spend a few years working for another outfit, learning the industry, making contacts, saving what I could.
In the past Ed and I always needed the money.
We relied on my regular salary coming in to pay the bills.
It would have been a while before I might have felt ready to leave the safe haven of Em See Squared and take the risk of starting out on my own.
But with Ed to support me, maybe I could have done it. Now, alone, it all looks too daunting.
Or does it? I wonder what Ewan’s take would be. And even more incredibly, I actually want to know what he thinks.
The irony is, I have more money now than I ever imagined.
I could easily afford to take the plunge.
Every cloud and all that, Ed’s insurance has left me with no financial worries.
I had no inkling that he’d laid down such generous provisions for me.
I still can’t believe it. I wasn’t short of advice about what to do with the money—the bank, Helen, colleagues, all had their suggestions to make.
Investments, buy an annuity (whatever one of those is), blow it on an expensive holiday.
My head was a whirl, so I did nothing. The bulk of the money is still languishing in my bank account.
* * *
I wake up feeling better, more refreshed than I can recall feeling for months.
A weight has lifted, and as I clean my teeth in the bathroom I realise what that was.
Guilt. I no longer feel guilty, no longer responsible.
I’m finding some perspective. What happened was cruel, but the awful, crushing burden of self-blame is receding.
Not quite gone, not yet. I’ve hugged the grief to me for too long to be entirely free of it with just a few well-chosen words, but it’s easier now.
I miss Ed. I expect I always will. But I’m ready to start moving on. My first move will be to say thank you to Ewan Lord for talking some sense into me. And I’ll ask him what he thinks about me starting my own business.
I hesitate in front of his door. I’ve been into the house next door a few times, to chat with Caroline. We shared a coffee occasionally, and once or twice she accepted parcels for us that I would go round to collect. Now, as I lift my hand to knock, I have no idea what I’ll say when Ewan answers.
He’s in. I saw him get into his car earlier and drive off, but he was back within half an hour. He unloaded some shopping bags and went inside. The car is still here so that means he is too. I rap on the door before I lose my courage, though why I should be afraid of Ewan I’m not certain. Not now.
The door opens. He smiles. He has dimples in his cheeks—quite breath-taking. I’m struck again by the colour of his eyes, a deep, dark brown that compliments his almost-black hair.
“Faith. I thought it might be you. Would you like to come in?”
“Yes, please. I wanted…” I realise the business advice was a cover story, my excuse to come here. In truth I’m not entirely sure what it is I want from him. Just his presence, his company seems to be enough.
He gestures me to follow him and heads back down his hallway. I trot along in his wake, my eyes fixed on his tight bum beautifully showcased in his casual denim Levis. I follow him into his kitchen. The shopping bags are on the table, the fridge door standing open.
“I have the makings of breakfast. Can I offer you anything?” His smile is pleasant enough, but my overwhelming impression is that he is one devilishly gorgeous man. How did I miss that fact last night? Caroline was lucky to have him. I always thought so.
Christ, where did that come from? I never approved of their relationship, the specifics of it that is. And I was in love with my husband, I would never have so much as looked at another man.
“Are you alright, Faith?”
“What?”
“You look a little… odd. Would you like to sit down?”
“Er, yes. Thank you.” I plonk myself on one of the chairs beside his kitchen table and stare at him. Shit, he’s beautiful.
“Faith?”
“What?” I fancy him. I fancy this man whose girlfriend I…
The realisation hurtles through my head, ricocheting around my skull.
Impossible. Inappropriate. This absolutely cannot be happening.
But it is, or at least it seems to be. I try to sweep together the dregs of any good sense and reason I might still lay claim to.
I didn’t do anything to Caroline, her death was an accident, not my doing at all.
I do now accept that. Any feelings I might have, or imagine I have for Ewan are just the conjurings of my lurid sub-conscious.
Yes, that must be it. We shared a traumatic experience.
It’s natural, surely, that I might turn to him now.
He’s the one person in the entire world who shares my grief.
“Bacon sandwich? Tea, perhaps? Or do you prefer coffee in the mornings?” His voice is friendly, light. He doesn’t sound to be exactly grieving. Me neither, but there can be no other realistic explanation for this madness.
It’s not just my head playing tricks. My body is too.
My pussy is damp, that familiar sensation of need, of burgeoning arousal that Ed could elicit with his smile, his touch, a few dirty suggestions.
My libido has been dormant for months but there can be no mistaking its re-emergence now. Holy shit.
“I need to go.” I leap to my feet and head for the door.
“But you just got here.”
I stop in the doorway, turn to him, my expression probably bordering on frantic by now. “Yes, but I, I forgot something. Something I need to do.”
“Bollocks! Get back in here and sit down.”
“What?”
“I said, get back in here and sit down. Now.” His tone has hardened, his eyes are cool. The dimples are gone. His expression is stern, implacable. It never occurs to me to disobey. I return to the table and take my seat.
“Here. Drink this. And tell me why you’re here.”
He places a cup of tea in front of me and takes the seat opposite. I notice he also has a drink. He seems to be in no rush to put his shopping away right now.
I take a sip. It’s hot. Too hot. Like him.
“Take your time. Calm down, then talk to me.” He sounds less harsh now, less commanding. My pleasant, friendly next-door neighbour is back.
I take another sip of my tea, and concentrate on re-gathering my shattered wits. Well, sufficient to frame an answer.
“I wanted to thank you. For last night. You were very kind.”
“You’re welcome. As I told you, I’ve been concerned about you. I wish I’d been able to talk to you sooner.”
“No, that’s fine. You’re busy. I understand that. And, there’s something else too.”
“Oh?”
“I’m starting a business.”
“I see. In graphic design? You did say you were a graphic artist, didn’t you?”
I’d told him a little about myself and my job over our cups of tea last night. I nod now. “Yes. My own design agency. I’m going to specialise in web design. I’ll work from home.”
“Right. That won’t be too isolating for you?”
“No. I don’t think so. I’ll be busy, and of course there’ll be a lot of client contact. I’m thinking I could convert my attic into a design studio. Install a roof window to get the best light. I have some money, from the insurance…”
If my mention of life assurance causes him any pain, he hides it well. “Sounds like a plan then. You didn’t mention this last night.”
“I hadn’t thought of it then. Or at least, not properly decided. Now I have. So, what do you think?”
“I think it sounds great. You go for it. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, I mean, I just… I just wanted to know what you thought. If you approved.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why does my approval matter to you? Why not ask your sister? Or someone at work? Friends, maybe. Why me?”
Good question. And one I can’t answer, at least not out loud. Not even to myself. All I know is I woke this morning, the notion of starting my own firm already crystallising in my head, and my one thought was to come round and tell Ewan Lord about it. So here I am.
I shrug. “No reason really. I just wanted to talk to someone, and…”
He smiles again, quite dazzling. The dimples are back. “I’m glad you chose me. Any time you want to talk to someone, if I’m here, you’re to come round. Or you can give me a ring if I’m away.”
“I don’t have your number.” It doesn’t occur to me to ask him why I should rely on him. It’s enough that I just can.
“Give me your phone.”
I hand my mobile over and he keys in his number. “There, now you do. Remember, any time.” He hangs on to my phone. “Now, do you have an accountant? A business bank account?”
I shake my head, my heart sinking at all the officialdom I’ll need to navigate. I like design; the paperwork leaves me cold. Oh, God, I’ll even have to deal with the VAT man.
Ewan taps another number into my phone. “This is my accountant. He has a lot of sole trader clients so he’ll be able to advise you.
He can do all the company setup stuff too.
You’ll need to find a bank online. Check out which ones are offering free business banking, that sort of thing.
Do you know a builder who could do your attic conversion? ”
Again I shake my head.
“Right. This guy’s a friend of mine. He’ll do a decent job and not charge you an arm and a leg.” More details keyed into my phone.
My head is reeling now. So much to do, so many projects to set in motion. And for the first time in months I’m eager, actually itching to get on with it.
“Thank you. I wouldn’t have known where to start.”
“Yes, you would. I’ve just given you a few shortcuts. We small traders need to stick together. I’ll be expecting mates’ rates on my website design though.”
“You’d hire me? But you haven’t even seen my work yet.”
“I know you’ll be good. I’m your first client. Don’t let me down.”