Chapter Ten
Juliette
Oh God.
I collapse into my chair, shaking all over, put my elbows on my desk, and cover my face with my hands.
I can still feel the heat from his lips, as if they’ve seared into my flesh. This guy is going to give me third-degree burns all over if I don’t stop kissing him.
I’m so ashamed. I was just starting to convince myself that last night was a terrible mistake and that it would never, ever happen again, and then Henry comes into my office and within five minutes I’m letting him kiss me senseless.
What the hell has happened to my willpower? I normally have a lot of self-discipline—when I decided I was going to give up sugar for a month I didn’t touch a grain for the whole twenty-eight days. When I agreed a few years ago to run a half-marathon for charity, I got up at five a.m. every morning to train. So why does it all fly out the window whenever Henry West walks into the room?
The problem is that I told myself I only slept with Henry to punish Cam, but it’s not true. I like him. And I like the way he makes me feel. I love the way he looks at me. I love the things he says to me. I like everything about him.
Find a man who smudges your lipstick, not your mascara.
Now you just need to work out which one’s which.
I press my fingers to my lips. It’s not that easy, Mum. There are other factors to take into account.
I’m not a Hindu per se, but my father taught me about Hindu beliefs as I was growing up, and they took seed inside me. Hinduism tells us of the importance of Ahimsa—the principle of non-violence and compassion towards all living beings. We’re not supposed to cause physical or mental harm, and we should be kind and empathetic to others. It also teaches us Dharma—the moral and ethical duties and responsibilities we should follow, which include righteousness, duty, and proper conduct.
Is it Dharma, Juliette, to cheat on your partner with your colleague?
Does Ahimsa involve doing something that will hurt Cam terribly if he finds out?
Not everything is about sex.
Are you sure?
My phone buzzes, announcing a text. I glance at it and see Cam’s name. Oh, holy fuck. I lean forward and bang my forehead on the desk. These men are going to drive me insane.
I pick up the phone. Hopefully it’ll be a loving message that’ll bring me to my senses.
How does cheesy pasta sound for dinner tonight?
From Cam, that’s as loving as a romantic message. But it doesn’t have the same effect on me as the text Henry sent this morning. I pull it up.
I burn for you. I need you. I love you. Just so you know.
Disgusted with myself, I toss the phone on the desk and lean back in my chair. I’m the worst human being that ever lived. In fact, I’m not even a human being. I’m an insect. Or an amoeba, floating in primordial soup and somehow still managing to get its knickers in a twist over the amoeba swimming next to it.
The intercom beeps, and I lean forward and press the button. “Yes?”
“Your first appointment is here, Juliette.”
I sigh. They’re early. I need to get my head into gear. “Thanks, Rose.” I get to my feet, grab my white coat, and pull it on. It’s my last day in the office today. I have two appointments this morning, but then this afternoon it’s the office party, and after that we break for Christmas. I won’t have to see Henry for a few days—not until we go to Damon’s wedding. Cam is supposed to be coming with me to that. I grimace. Henry is not going to be happy about it, and Cam isn’t exactly going to be ecstatic either. He doesn’t really like any of the guys I work with, Henry least of all.
I’m not going to think about it now. Leaving the office, I head for the main treatment room, and decide to lose myself in work.
*
I keep myself busy all morning. At twelve-thirty, I take my sari to the bathroom, pin it in place, touch up my makeup, and then head for the main office workroom. The food has arrived, and the office staff has laid out the sandwiches, sushi, hot savories, mince pies, Christmas cake, and a hundred other things on several tables, along with bottles of bubbly and orange juice. Christmas music is already playing, and laughter and conversation rings throughout the building.
At one o’clock, I round up James, Tyson, and Alex, who are all still working, and bully them into the workroom. They start circulating, thanking the staff for their hard work during the year.
I’ve organized the Secret Santa, and not long after, Henry appears wearing a Santa suit and begins handing out the named presents. I move around the room, avoiding him, but of course eventually he has to come over to me.
“Here you go,” he says softly, handing me a present with my name on it.
I don’t look at him. “Thank you.”
He hesitates. I don’t look at him, though, conscious of Alex standing not far from us, and unwrap the gift. Henry goes to say something, but in the end he walks away, over to the next person.
I study the book about the New Zealand national netball team, the Silver Ferns, my vision blurring, and swallow hard as Alex walks up to me.
“Nice,” I say brightly. “Haven’t read this.”
“How are you doing?” he asks.
“Great.” I ball up the paper and toss it into one of the nearby black rubbish bags.
“Everything all right between you and Henry?” he asks.
“Mind your own business,” I snap. He lifts an eyebrow, and my face heats. I lift my chin. “If you want to know if it’ll affect our working relationship, it won’t.”
He frowns. “Hey, give me some credit. I’m worried about you.”
Oh God, these guys. Why do they have to be so nice to me?
He dips his head to try and catch my eye. “Are you still with Cam?”
“Yes,” I reply, because Henry is my work colleague, and I’m not supposed to have feelings for him.
Alex sighs, though. “Aw, Juliette…”
“Don’t…” Fighting back tears, I take the book and walk away.
I try to enjoy the rest of the party, but it’s impossible when I feel so miserable. Everyone else’s high spirits eventually get to me, and I slip away, back to my office, collect my purse and laptop, and then head out to the lobby. Nobody will notice I’ve gone.
That proves to be a lie though, as I head for the front doors, only to hear someone call, “Juliette!” behind me.
I stop and turn, and sigh to see Henry—minus the Santa suit—jogging toward me. He slows as he nears, and stops a few feet away.
We study each other for a long moment. I’m conscious of Rachel sitting behind the reception desk with a glass of bubbly, out of earshot, and we’re also visible to everyone in the workroom through the glass walls.
“Are you going home?” Henry asks.
I meet his eyes and nod.
He frowns, but it’s not a glare. It’s more a look of concern or worry. “I know you said he wants to talk,” he says. “And that’s fair enough. But… don’t sleep with him.”
His gaze locks onto mine like a heat-seeking missile, and I can’t look away. Was it really only this morning that we were making love? That he told me my name feels like a spell in his mouth? That he said I’m never going to be able to look at you again without thinking about being inside you?
I haven’t been fair to him, but even so, he shouldn’t ask me something like that. Cam is my partner, and Henry can’t demand that I don’t go to bed with the man I’ve lived with for seven years.
“I have to go,” I tell him. “I’ll see you on the twenty-eighth.”
“Juliette.” He calls as I begin to walk away. I stop and glance over my shoulder, knowing I’m going to cry if he asks me again.
“Meri Kirihimete,” he says. It’s Māori for Merry Christmas. He holds out his hand. On it is a small velvet box.
I lift my gaze to his warily. “No,” he scolds. “Not yet anyway.” He gives me a mischievous look. “Go on, open it.”
I should refuse it. But I don’t. I take it from him and crack the lid.
It’s a pair of earrings. They’re in the shape of lotus flowers, an important Hindu symbol. They could be silver studded with cubic zirconias, but I know Henry better than that. They’ll be white gold or platinum, and they’ll be diamonds.
“I haven’t got you anything,” I say, my voice little more than a squeak. We take part in the Secret Santa and don’t tend to buy each other gifts.
“You’ve already given me the best Christmas present I could ask for,” he says. “It was fun unwrapping it.” He smiles.
He looks so handsome standing there, his hands in his pockets, a twist to his lips. His hair is flopping over his forehead. But his blue eyes are gentle.
I should say I can’t accept the earrings. I should give them back to him.
My eyes prick with tears. “Meri Kirihimete,” I whisper.
Clutching the box, I walk through the door, and out into the sunlight.
*
I get home before Cam, who’s also having his office party today.
I go straight into our bedroom and put the velvet box with the earrings into my bedside table without looking at them again. Then I go back out into the living room.
The apartment is quiet and a bit stuffy. He prefers to put the aircon on, but I like to open the windows, even though I appreciate that city air isn’t the same as being in the country. I open the sliding doors onto the balcony, then go back in and through to the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of white wine.
I take it through to the living room and stand in the middle of the room. It’s relatively quiet—music drifts up from a balcony below, some cheesy ballad from the seventies. It makes me think of Henry singing Dr. Hook’s A Little Bit More and chuckling while he pressed kisses all over my face. I close my eyes and sway a little, remembering when I said It’s not fair to you.
I don’t care, as long as I get what I want,he replied.
Sighing, I have a large mouthful of wine. I shouldn’t have slept with him. Twice. I groan out loud. It was such an idiotic thing to do. I’ve changed our relationship, and I can’t undo it, like when you mix different colored paints on a palette. You can’t turn purple back into red and blue, or orange into red and yellow. It’s done. All I can do is paint a new picture with the color I’ve ended up with.
Still dancing to the music, I finish off my glass of wine.
Then I pour another one.
I wander through the apartment, looking with fresh eyes at the life that Cam and I have built together. Furniture, mirrors, paintings, throws, crockery, glasses. Paid for out of our joint bank account. The product of a shared life, as impossible to divide as the paint.
How many people stay together because it’s too difficult to break up? Because they can’t face the notion of dividing up the items they’ve taken a lifetime to collect? Or they just can’t summon the strength they know it’s going to take to end it?
That’s not why I’m here though, I remind myself. I’m not staying because of shared plates or bedding or towels. I love Cam, and I’ve invested seven years in making this work, and I don’t want to throw it all away because a handsome guy gave me an orgasm. Or two. Or three.
But then that’s not fair to Henry, because even though I accused him that not everything is about sex, and he said Are you sure?, that’s not what last night was about. Or not only, anyway. It was about comfort, and solace, and friendship, and… love? Yes, maybe about love, too. Just a different kind of love from that which I have with Cam. Cam loves me—I have no doubt about that. But our love is like the Egyptian pyramids, constructed over time, built stone by stone with hard work and determination. Not beautiful exactly, but impressive nonetheless. My relationship with Henry is more like an ice sculpture, something created in hours that is breathtaking but fleeting, and won’t be around this time tomorrow.
Or is that unfair? I’ve known him almost as long as I’ve known Cam. We have a solid friendship. I’d trust him with my life. I would say I love him, as a brother.
No, not quite as a brother.
Would you rather be with a pyramid or an ice sculpture?
I want both. I want Cam to be like Henry, to be open and affectionate. To tell me he loves me with all his heart. To do romantic things like buy me flowers and jewelry. To leave me notes that say I love you on the bathroom mirror. I want his friends to say he talks about me all the time. For my girlfriends to be jealous of how he treats me.
I want him to send me texts that tell me he burns for me.
I wish… I wish he’d ask me to marry him. But he told me when we were first together that he thinks marriage is outdated and pointless, and he’d rather spend the money on the apartment. I didn’t argue, because technically he’s right. What’s the point of marriage? Of wasting thousands of dollars on a wedding and a dress that can only be worn once, when we could spend the money on something we really need? Rings are an outdated symbol of ownership, he said, a medieval stamp of possession and jealousy like a chastity belt.
But there’s something about the thought of a guy asking you to be his wife that just gives you the tingles, right? Or is it just me?
He sometimes says he loves me, but I don’t feel it. I want to feel his love. Is that too much to ask?
I finish off the wine and pour myself another.
I didn’t know about his abuse when I started seeing him. But when he told me, I made the decision to stay, to help him work through it. What kind of person does it make me now if I say I’m leaving him because I can’t cope? It’s not his fault. He’s experienced this terrible thing in his past, and he deserves to be with someone who’ll work with him to help him through all the aftershocks it’s caused. Is that person me? I want it to be me. I don’t want to end the relationship because it’s too hard.
It’s just… I wish he was… normal. There, I said it. It’s a horrible word, I know it is. Cam is normal—he’s a normal guy who’s had abnormal things done to him. But I wish he experienced love and sex the way other men seem to. I wish he looked at me, and desired me, and his body responded the way it should do, without caveats and complicated displays of power and control.
Henry didn’t blanch when I hinted at what Cam has asked me to do in the past, but I could sense his indignation and resentment. He said You shouldn’t have to change yourself to please him, or do things you don’t want to do. That’s not fair. But surely, when you love your partner, you listen to their problems, and you try to help?
It was such a relief, though, to have Henry kiss me, and to feel his erection, and to make love with him in such a straightforward, simple way. With no humiliation, no embarrassment, nothing except desire, pure and clear, like the air at Lake Tekapo in the middle of the mountains, where there’s so little light pollution that you can see the Southern Lights.
I wish—
I’m cut off mid-thought as I hear a key in the lock. I turn guiltily, even though I’m just standing there with a glass of wine, and watch as Cam comes into the room.
“Oh,” he says, looking surprised. “I didn’t think you’d be home yet.” He’s carrying a couple of bags of groceries, and he walks through to the kitchen and puts them down.
“I left work early as it was the last day,” I tell him.
“Yeah, me too.” He walks into the living room and stands a few feet away. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come home.”
“I’m here.”
He nods, looking into my eyes. His are a very pale green, much lighter and cooler than Henry’s dark-blue ones.
Oh God, when will I stop comparing everything about him to Henry? I drop my gaze and have a big mouthful of wine.
“I might get myself one of those,” he says, and goes back into the kitchen to pour himself a glass.
No kiss. No hug and a ‘hello darling, it’s so nice to see you.’ My heart aches for it. But it’s not Cam’s way.
I could go up to him, slide my arms around him, kiss his back, tell him I’ve missed him. But I know what’ll happen. He’ll stiffen, then move away to put something in the fridge. And I couldn’t bear that rejection right now.
As he starts unpacking the groceries, he says, “I’ve got some garlic bread to go with the pasta.”
“That’ll be nice.”
“Sit down,” he says, “put your feet up. I’ll get started.” He turns the oven on and begins filling the kettle.
This is how he expresses affection, I tell myself as I sit down. It’s one of the five love languages, isn’t it? Words of affirmation, acts of service, giving gifts, quality time, and physical touch. Cam’s number one is definitely acts of service. He tells me he loves me by cooking, cleaning, tidying, and doing chores, and he appreciates it when I do the same for him. He’s also happy for us to spend time together—watching TV, going for a walk, playing computer games.
But he doesn’t give gifts. He doesn’t tell me he loves me. And he doesn’t touch me, not in the way I want to be touched.
“How was your day?” he asks as he puts the pasta on, then begins to peel an onion.
“Not bad, thanks.” I tell him about my morning appointments, and a bit about the Christmas party. “How was yours?”
“Pretty good, actually. They had a seventies theme so there was lots of dancing to Saturday Night Fever and ABBA. And plenty of flares.”
“You should have stayed if you were enjoying it.”
“No, I had something much more important to do.” He smiles.
I curl up on the sofa and rest my head on the back. The wine is starting to have an effect, my limbs and spine beginning to loosen. I’m not going to think about Henry and what happened at the hotel. I’m going to practice mindfulness, and think about right here, right now.
I watch Cam cook, which he does capably and fluidly, frying the garlic, chopped onion, and chicken, adding spices, cream, and cheese while he tells me about an article he read today about the captain of the All Blacks. He couldn’t cook much when I met him, but he’s enjoyed learning techniques over the years, and even though he doesn’t exactly tackle soufflés or consommé, he’s better than Henry, who openly admits he even burns toast, and has a chef come in to prepare his meals every week.
Nope. Not going to think about Henry.
I rest the wine glass against my cheek to cool my hot skin, and sigh.
When the pasta is cooked, Cam tosses it in the cheesy sauce to coat it before serving it with a sprig of parsley. I rise and lay the table, carry through our dishes and cutlery and the green salad he’s prepared, and we sit opposite each other to eat.
“This is lovely,” I tell him truthfully, taking small bites of the chicken and pasta.
“Yeah, not bad,” he says. “I think I got the recipe nailed now.”
We’re polite as strangers, circling each other, just observing. We’ve had enough arguments that we both know how this works. It takes a while for the heat of an argument to die down. For hurt feelings to subside, and for forgiveness to take their place.
He knows he’s hurt me, and that at the moment our treaty is fragile, so he steers clear of any topics that are likely to cause problems. We talk about what we’re doing the next few days. I’ve bought most of our Christmas presents for both our families, but there are a couple of things we need to get, and we also need to wrap them all. Cam suggests we shop tomorrow morning, then spend the afternoon wrapping together while we play some Christmas music, and I agree.
Sunday is Christmas Eve, which we’re spending with my parents and my brother. Then on Christmas Day we’re going over to his parents’ place. His brothers and their wives will be there, too. Then we’ve got a couple of days alone before we fly up to Wellington.
“Is Henry going to the wedding?” Cam asks.
I stop with my fork halfway to my mouth. My face heats.
Oh shit. I should’ve known this was going to happen.