Chapter 17
Peter
Ishould have gone to work, but I hadn’t.
Not for any other reason than that I had to actually get out of bed to do so, and currently?
I couldn’t. There were a million other things I should have done too, but where my brain made endless to-do lists?
My body failed to cooperate with my minuscule willpower.
I’d been back home for…around a week, maybe more, my days becoming more hazy by the hour, and it was like everything had gone dark, all over again. I couldn’t even face ringing the boys, and anyway, we no longer had a landline and my phone?
I had no idea how to even solve the small problem of getting someone to deliver my phone to me, because I, for one? Was not returning to pick it up. The shame and fear washing over me in waves just thinking those kinds of thoughts.
Surely they could post it to me. Get one of the runners to…
Crap.
I turned over in bed, letting the smell of sweat and fear mixed with the scent of stale bedding hit the back of my nose.
Laundry. I might busy myself with that today. Return the many plates that were sat on my draining board. I’d eaten and cleaned them yet couldn’t face bringing them back next door.
I didn’t want to have another conversation with Mrs Patel. Not now. Not yet. Didn’t want to know. I was never going to watch any of it anyway, and nobody would be watching. It was a small web-based thing. Not quite the BBC, was it?
Maybe it was Friday, the faint sound of the refuse truck moving down the road. Bin lids slamming. Perhaps it was. Or maybe my hearing was just tricking me. Reality was just too much to handle, and hence? I chose not to engage with it at all.
Trying to get up and failing badly, I finally rolled into the bathroom to relieve myself, catching a glimpse of my dishevelled appearance in the mirror.
I looked like hell. My hair now too long and the beard all over my face was not an attractive addition. Patchy and weird, making me look way older than I actually was. I felt old. Old and grey.
And here was another idiotic knock on the door. Followed by the key turning again. Was this not my home? Was privacy not a thing?
“Peter,” she said, letting her eyes travel up and down my length. Not like that. This was Mrs Patel after all and no.
“I know,” I said weakly.
“I know,” she replied, her voice finally softening in concern. “You have a parcel. I kindly took it off the delivery man. He was most distressed by the state of your path. You need to get out and keep it clear. I told him you’d been unwell, but it’s simply not an excuse anymore.”
“I’ve not been unwell.”
“Sure.” She snorted, throwing a parcel on the kitchen table. “Are we getting dressed today?”
“Nope,” I said in sudden defiance. “I’m still on my sabbatical and can do whatever I want.”
“Of course.” She shook her head. “That Wren. The sixth episode was theatrical gold.”
“I don’t want to know,” I said sternly.
“I see.”
Nosy.
“Amara, I don’t want to talk about it. I really don’t.”
“The world hasn’t ended, Peter. Nobody cares. You just need to get dressed and go out there.”
“And do what?” I almost shouted, as she took a step back.
“I need my plates. We have company tonight, and if you want food, you’ll have to come get it.”
“You don’t have to feed me,” I said quietly. “I know it’s kind, and I appreciate it…” I raised my arms in defeat.
“You should watch that programme of yours. It’s good.”
“No,” I said sternly. I might not be able to dress myself or get my house back in order, but I did have some backbone. Somewhere.
Mrs Patel picked her plates off my draining board with more clatter than was probably necessary, turned around and walked out the door, letting the door slam behind her.
She’d be back. She always was.
The parcel? I’d almost made my way back to bed when I remembered, shuffling back out there and ripping the envelope open.
No note. No return address. Just a plain envelope with my phone inside.
The sigh of relief was immediate, but of course.
Dead. Chargers. I stood there, in the middle of the room, looking around in disbelief.
I usually had a charger in the kitchen. One that the boys no doubt had pilfered. Was there one in my bedroom? Maybe…or was that the one from the kitchen?
And here it was, Mrs Patel no doubt returning to deliver another dose of guilt-tripping abuse. Heavy banging on the door, as I braced myself for whatever she was going to hurl at me this time.
I wasn’t watching the goddamn show. I didn’t need food. I could feed myself, and I wasn’t completely useless, and if she mentioned the damn grass again…
I flung the door open, ready to go straight into battle.
Instead I stood there like a fool, catching my breath in my throat.
He just stared at me, his body all tense. It was him, of course it was, and how he’d found me was beyond…
Him. Oliver. Seemingly taller than I remembered him, more put together than in my hazy memories. Yet, of course it was. And the very fact that my body tensed up at the same time as I could feel myself boiling up on the inside. And then relax. What…what the…
“You’re…” I started, trying to take him in.
All that curly brown hair, looking particularly messy.
Very him. He was smartly dressed. A soft jumper over proper trousers.
Brown shoes. He looked tired, though. Frazzled.
Those plump lips of his getting bitten by his teeth as he looked to the side.
Hands in his pockets. Rocking on his heels. Then he stared at me.
“You left,” he hissed out from behind gritted teeth. “You just fucking left.”
I had. Truth. But?
That had been so long ago. It weirdly felt like years.
I took a step back, kind of weirdly motioning something with my arm. Like, step inside my strange, dark abode. Where I tried to clean but did a terrible job of it. And once again, the way I smelled hit my nostrils as I must have grimaced in shame.
“I’m not leaving,” he hissed, “until I have answers.”
“What is it with people demanding answers today?” I said, sounding completely unhinged, but then I supposed I was. Rattled to the bone.
Oliver. My Oliver, the guy… I couldn’t make my thoughts make sense. He was my Oliver, and I had…left him. There had been reasons. And anyway?
He looked pale. He looked angry. Fumingly so.
“So you’re just here, like nothing ever happened,” he gritted out, walking past me and then…stomping around my front room. He hadn’t stopped pacing since I’d closed the front door behind him. And my heart was beating out of my chest.
“You didn’t even leave a note. No number, nothing. I tried to get hold of you, and your practice nurse was bloody useless, and the production company won’t take my calls, and I am so…”
He stopped for a minute, making a guttural sound somewhere at the back of his throat.
“You left me, Peter. Just fucking left me in there.”
“I know,” I admitted, trying to swallow through the dry sensation in my mouth. “I had to.”
“You didn’t have to do shit, Peter! We were good. We were talking, and you promised. You said we’d have each other’s back!”
Had I?
“Oliver, it was such a blur. Everything was so wrong, and I just…”
“And what about me? What about me?”
“Not everything was about you.” I tried to make my voice soft, but instead it just came out in weird stutters. “I had…I had to leave.”
“You didn’t have to do fucking anything,” he shouted.
He was angry. He was so bloody angry, and yes. I could sympathise, because what in the moment had seemed right?
“I know you’re angry at me. I would have been too.”
“Fucking right, I’m angry!” Here he was, shouting again, now traversing the room with his hands in his hair. “I thought we had something good, you and I. I thought we were friends, that’s what I thought. Have you seen yourself? Eh? Did you ever stop and look at yourself?”
“No?”
Perhaps he was losing it. Perhaps this was what people did when they had a breakdown. He hadn’t been fully himself at times, back there. When we’d been…
“Look. Do you want to sit down?”
Yeah, here I went, motioning to the table. Next, I’d make him a nice cup of tea, and we could discuss the weather.
“No, Peter. I do not want to sit down.” His voice was far too low. And he was staring at me. At least he’d momentarily stopped pacing.
“Then what do you want?” I tried to remain calm, when in truth? “Please stop shouting at me. You don’t like it, and neither do I.”
I was starting to worry. I was worried about him. Worried about Mrs Patel barging in on us. I was worried…about the way my heart was beating in my chest. The way his eyes were staring at me. Dark and angry, pinned on me like arrows.
Then he moved. One step at a time. Walking up towards me as I walked backwards. One shuffling step at a time, not stopping until the kitchen counter pressed against my back. And his chest was right up against mine.
“You lied. You spent all that time in there telling me lies. Because I have watched every bloody episode. And you lied. Because it’s right there for everyone to see.
And I didn’t see it because I thought we were being honest. I thought…
Fuck, Peter, I don’t know what I thought, but you were supposed to… you were supposed to look out for me.”
“I did,” I whispered. He was right. I’d lied. I hadn’t looked out for him. I’d floated around in there in some haze of confused shock, and I’d run away as soon as the opportunity had arisen.
Another lie. I’d fled. Fled in a panic because it had become too much for my fragile self to handle.
I was standing there, my eyes blinded with whatever this was. That he was here, shouting at me. Deserved. I probably deserved every word he was spitting out at me, because I’d known from the start that…that idiotic escapade would end in tears.
I would have done anything right now to erase the past month. Anything. Not to have to deal with this. This absolute wreck of a man in front of me, his breath hot on my skin. His mouth was too close to mine.
“You lied, Peter, and I need to know what is really going on. Because I can’t take this anymore. I really can’t. Everything I thought I knew was wrong and…and…”
Something kicked in, somewhere deep inside of me. My arms found themselves folding around his waist, where I tried to weirdly hug him. Grab him and hold him against me, because that’s what…
I needed. I needed to calm him down and hold him, and we needed to sort this out. I hated how his body was vibrating with…fear.
He was scared. He was so scared, and I was…
I looked up, tried to meet his eyes.
He closed his. Wouldn’t look at me. Just his lips pursed in a scowl. His skin flushed. He was trying so hard not to cry. So very, very hard.
I couldn’t take it.
I couldn’t take any of it. I should have…
I had no idea what I should have done.
But then he put his hands around my face, far too fast for me to flinch away. Held me hard in his sudden grip.
And then his lips were on mine.