Chapter 25 #2
I wasn’t nervous. I was… Oh God. Oliver.
He opened the door on the first knock, and then we just stood there. Looking at each other.
“Come in for a sec?” he said.
“Cal’s downstairs, in the car.”
“Won’t take long.” He reached out. Took my hand. And I…I just couldn’t take it. Not like this. I fisted his hoodie and slammed him right into the wall, there in the hallway. My mouth on his. His on mine. Deep, guttural sounds coming through my chest.
Him. Desperation. Anger. Fear.
All mixed with…joy. An overwhelming joy.
“Oliver,” I mumbled in between trying to let him breathe. Kiss after kiss. My hands around his face.
“This…” He was trying to speak. I wouldn’t let him, constantly at his mouth with mine.
“I want this.” Good enough words. All I could manage. And again.
“Stop,” he said, and pushed me away. Just a little. Still managed one more kiss. “I need to talk to you. Here. Where there’s no boys, and no Mary.”
“Mary…is dead.”
Oh, Peter. You fucking wanker.
“Oliver, it was just a thing we did when she had gone. Something to make things a little more bearable. We were so grief-stricken and I was in shock and it happened far too fast. We knew she didn’t have long, but…
there was just not enough time. We kept her.
And we talked to her, and we made this thing real so we wouldn’t hurt so much.
She’s not really there. It’s just…grief.
It’s a horrible, awful thing. We try…just to make it something we can… live with.”
“I get that. I don’t mind.”
“But I should have moved on. I should have taken her out and let her go. It’s the done thing. It’s not fair, not to me. Not to the boys.”
I just looked at him. My gorgeous, lovely…Oliver. His eyes so dark and…those lips. His little nose. There was a freckle on his eyelid. I kissed it. Because I could.
“It’s not fair on you.”
“But…I’m here. And you’re there.”
Such simple words. I loved that he said them. That… How suddenly this was…so easy. Yet so complicated. So many different angles and hurdles and ways…
“I need to just tell you something before we go because you need to know.” He was now holding me at arm’s length. Awkward, because I would have to learn to do this. Have him close and not try to eat his face.
“Okay.” I was calm. There was nothing he could say that would hurt me. Nothing. Still high on being here and him being wrapped in my arms. Like he was a protective armour. Him.
I want to kiss you. I want all of this.
I’m sorry. I do. And I hate that I can’t just. I… God. Oliver.
He suddenly didn’t seem so tall. Or maybe I was just wearing shoes.
“I have a problem with cocaine. I’ve had…an addiction for a while. It’s really destructive, and I need to work through that.”
I tried to take those words in. Those words every parent fears. I could deal.
I’d lied. The hurt in my chest was awful. I didn’t want those words to make sense. To be real. But then they were, and… No. No. Please don’t do this.
“I have an appointment with an addiction therapist on Monday. A good one. I am going to fix this, head-on. I just need you to know…everything. I need you to know that I am not hiding anything.”
“I…” Oh. I knew this. I knew how to handle this. “Thank you for telling me,” I said, breathing out. Yes. I could do this. Please. No.
“I’ve been at it for years… It’s… It became awful.
In the end, I couldn’t function, and I was out every night and partying and meeting up with men and…
Peter, I’ve never had sex sober. Ever. I’ve never…
kissed anyone…without a whole bunch of stuff up my nose.
Or an enormous amount of drink. It’s all a coping mechanism. I don’t have to…you know. Think.”
“It’s probably a lot more complicated than that.” For fuck’s sake, Peter!
“Not really. The last time I did coke was the night before I went into filming. I hooked up with someone and got fucked. Woke up in a strange apartment and freaked out. A regular occurrence. It wasn’t good.
But it was what I did, and even then, I knew it was out of control.
Absolutely out of control. It’s been weeks since then, and I haven’t touched anything. ”
I was stroking my hands, up and down his back. Up his arms. Down them again. Stroking his fingers. A nervous movement that seemed to calm us both.
“I know it’s not good, and I know it’s probably not what you want to hear.” His voice was so low. So sad.
“No, probably not.”
“I didn’t take anything in the…whilst we were filming. I didn’t need to.”
“No, because we didn’t…”
“I was offered stuff. Thom had all kinds of things. Some runner provided it.”
I didn’t know what to say. How had I not known that?
“You never told me?” My hands were around his face. He let me. And I was still here. Still breathing.
“Didn’t know how to. I mean…there was so much going on. And I didn’t want any of that on camera.”
“True. Good thinking.”
“Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you couldn’t tell me.
I’m glad you did. Like. Now. And to be very honest with you?
I thought maybe you had something like this going on…
you know. You weren’t sleeping; you were obviously distressed, very anxious, all the panic attacks at night.
The withdrawal symptoms were pretty classic.
I was just hoping I wasn’t reading them right. ”
“You…probably were. Reading them right. I struggled in there, but things are better now. A little better. And it’s not like I have a problem with, like. Having a drink. Wine with dinner. I love a nice cocktail. Just…I need you to know that…you know. Sex. I don’t think I’m… It’s going to be…”
“Oliver,” I said sternly.
“I have an appointment to get checked out. To be tested for…everything. I wasn’t looking after myself, at all. Not in the end.”
His phone rang. He just looked at me.
Then mine rang. Okay. Cal. Car. All that. And he grabbed my arms even tighter, speaking far too fast, like there was so much he needed to say and no time to say it.
“I’m triggered by shouting because my stepdad was a dick and he beat my mum and he was violent and drunk, and that’s why I can’t be around beer cans, only bottles.
It’s stupid, and I know it’s awful and crazy, but that’s me.
You need to know. And I need to get over myself and I need to move on and I fucking know how much therapy I need, okay?
But I’m getting it. I’m getting it. And when I am more in control, I need to go back and see if I still have a job. Because I fucked that up too.”
“We need to talk.”
“Hell, yes,” he said.
I kissed him. Hard.
“I’m not in a good place. But I will be,” he whispered.
“I talk to my dead wife. My marriage was a mess. The boys…they think…”
“I figured. I’ve been talking to Cal.”
“Cal thinks the sun shines out of your arse.”
“I told him about the coke. He told me to grow the fuck up.”
I had to laugh, because that? Was very much my son. My darling sons.
“Wanna come home with me and hang with my kids and the ghost of my wife?”
“Idiot.”
“She’s cool. Likes to drop kitchen utensils on the floor on occasion. I haven’t told the boys that. Still want to come home with me?”
“Absolutely,” he said.
And now there was banging on the front door. And my son, standing there with a big grin on his face.
“The security guard downstairs is calling the police. We have, like, three minutes.”
Okay. I could do that.
What on earth had my life become?
“I’ve packed,” he said. Oliver. Getting a bag off the floor and toeing his shoes on. Posh leather slippers to my threadbare trainers. Me in a shirt and suit jacket. Trainers. Him? A jacket being pulled off the hook.
“Let’s go home,” I said.
So, we…did.