Chapter 36
36
THESE ARMS OF MINE
Becca
I’m stuck to the sofa, exhaustion having taken over. Between the weekend away and the drama at the hospital, I am completely, and totally, worn out.
I know I should haul myself up, go and wash my face, brush my teeth and slip into my pyjamas and my bed, but my body does not want to comply. So I sit with Daniel and we stare at the cold embers of the fire together, his head resting on my lap.
At least, I think, at least it is a happy kind of exhausted. A relieved kind. I can still hear the thump thump of that little heartbeat that promised so much.
My finger is hovering over my phone as I try to think of what message I could possibly send to Adam to let him know how much I love him and how proud I am of how he supported Jodie this evening. I saw the fear in his face. I knew what was running through his mind, but he had shown maturity and compassion and had done himself proud. My boy – now a man, I realise – is growing up.
My doorbell rings – the noise making both Daniel and me jump. Unlike Daniel, however, I don’t immediately break into a volley of excited barks in response. It’s almost eleven and no one ever calls to my house at this time. Ever. Unless there is some sort of awful emergency. My heart plummets once again, as my brain scans for all possible awful outcomes to find the one I will worry about most until I’m brave enough to open the door and see who it is. I know it can’t be Adam or Jodie. I know they are safe and sleeping at Niamh’s.
Saul is my first thought. Because Saul is a walking disaster. The doctors in A&E used to joke they’d name a bay after him as he was such a frequent flier. Sprained ankles, broken fingers, on one particularly memorable occasion an arm fractured in three places due to his belief he could perform stunts on his BMX without any practice. But no, I remind myself, Saul has just messaged me and he is fine.
Which brings me swiftly to my biggest, most enduring worry – that something has happened to my mother. Could it be the police at my door? Or my brother Ruairi, pale faced and bearing grim tidings? Could it even be Mrs Bishop, who has zipped over here in an Uber to break some awful news?
That, I think, as I get up to walk through to the hall, would just take the bloody biscuit. Just as I find a sense of inner calm and purpose, something huge would come snowballing into my life to knock me for six. But not in one clean sweep, of course. That would be too easy. This would come in stages – one strike just strong enough to almost but not quite knock me off my feet followed by a dirty big hallion of a strike that would floor me like no other. Please God, I beg, please let my mother be okay.
A big part of me wants to ignore the door. I could pretend I didn’t hear it ring. Or tell myself it was just a hallucination. Surely then whatever was waiting for me on the other side would take the hint and simply go away. I’ll go to bed – since I’m already up on my feet I might as well – and when I wake in the morning it will be like The Wizard of Oz and today will just have been a dream.
Maybe I’ll be back in the yurt and I can decide to swim in the sea after all and that will change everything. (I’ve no idea why it would change anything, let alone everything, but I’m happy to cling on to whatever hope I can at this stage, if we’re being real.)
There’s a shadow of a person through the glass at the side of the door. It’s definitely too big to be Mrs Bishop. She’s all of five foot on a good day and bird-like in physique. This figure is tall and broad. Definitely man-like. Should I be scared? What if this is some psychopathic serial killer hunting his next victim? Well, God love him if it is, I think. Because I could probably use someone to take out all my frustration and hurt on. This mother-fudger won’t know what’s hit him.
I’m just getting ready to grab the lamp from the hall table to act as a makeshift weapon when the bell rings again, Daniel barks again and I feel my blood pressure start to skyrocket. I do not need this now.
I’m on the very, very verge of going full Hulk when the figure behind the door calls out and I can hear a muffled, yet familiar, voice.
‘Becs! It’s only me. Let me in, will you, it’s bloody Baltic out here!’
Conal.
Conal is here.
‘I heard about what happened with Adam and Jodie. I wanted to check on you,’ he calls.
Laura, who I had sent a garbled voice note to as I left the hospital, must’ve told him. I would, of course, have told him myself but Laura was the first person who came to mind. It was only natural for me to call my best friend.
Putting the lamp down, relieved I won’t have to use it to batter the head off a random serial killer, I open the door and there stands this handsome, caring man with an expression of sympathy so genuine that my resolve finally falters and I disintegrate into a mess of tears as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me in tight for a hug.
I let him hold me and feel him kiss the top of my head softly.
‘You must’ve got an awful fright. All of you.’
I nod, allowing him to comfort me. Although ultimately the news had been good, I’d had a moment of feeling so very sorry for myself as we’d left the hospital. Paul had hurried to hug Jodie and then wrap his arms around Niamh. Adam had stayed almost attached to his girlfriend and I had found myself standing alone, desperate for a hug – desperate for someone to share this news with. It was too late to call my mother – who is of the very, very firm belief that only sociopaths call people after nine at night. I didn’t know if Conal and I were at the stage in which we could call each other in a crisis yet and very obviously I was not going to call Simon. So I’d sent a voice note to Laura and walked back to my car alone, hands thrust into my pockets, like the saddo I am.
Or was.
It might not seem like much to some people. He is doing nothing more, after all, than hugging me and letting me cry, as we stand on my doorstep with the bitter chill of the January night swirling around us, but it feels in this moment as if he is doing everything.
He is letting me feel my feelings without judgement or comment. He isn’t trying to minimise the multitude of emotions running through my body. He is caring for me – in a way that no man has in over a decade, if not longer. Simon was never really the hold-you-while-you-cry kind of a person. He tried, but he tended to get a little embarrassed by shows of emotion, especially any on a scale as big as this.
I can feel Conal sway just slightly, as if he is rocking me to soothe me. And I’m back in the workshop as those feelings of empowerment and safety rose up in me, and I’m back in my boys’ nursery as I rocked them to sleep and ‘The Blower’s Daughter’ played again and I am not embarrassed. I am not urging myself to get it together in front of this man. I am not worried that he will see me, and judge me, as an emotional woman. I’m not concerned he might think I’m overreacting. That I have nothing to cry about.
I am just feeling my feelings and I know with this man – this man who teased me relentlessly through my teenage years – I am safe.
He continues to hold me, and I breathe in the warm scent of him, revelling in the warmth of his body against mine. When the worst of my sobs have subsided, he pulls me just a little closer.
‘Becs,’ he says, and I can feel his breath on my ear. ‘Can we go inside now? It’s bloody freezing!’
That’s when I look up at him and see his warm caring face looking back me. I take a step back and another, and he follows me into the house, but we don’t take our eyes off each other.
He kicks the front door closed behind him, and to be honest, if I wasn’t absolutely emotionally drained in this very second, it would be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Or at least it would be until he cradles my face in his hands and tips my head up towards his.
‘I’m so glad everything is okay. I’m so glad you’re okay,’ he says before bringing his lips to mine. It’s a kiss that speaks a thousand words. Words that mean so much more than ‘I want to have sex with you very much right now thank you very much’. It’s a kiss that makes me believe, to my very core, that when he says he’s glad I’m okay, he means it with every cell in his body.
As he pulls back, and drops his hands, and leads me back through the living room where Daniel is patiently waiting for some attention, the only thing I can think of to say is, ‘You’re not supposed to be the iceberg. I am.’
* * *
For a moment, when I wake up, I am confused. Daniel is staring at me, wide-eyed, from where he stands beside my bed. And yet I can feel that I am not alone in my bed. There is definitely something – someone – in the space Daniel normally tries to commandeer until I chase him off into his dog bed.
Daniel doesn’t seem too distressed by the presence of someone other than me in the room. This isn’t necessarily reassuring. Daniel the Spaniel is easily bought. A slice of ham, a Bonio or a piece of chicken and he would let the devil himself get up close and personal with his nearest and dearest.
As the memories of the last twenty-four hours start to form in my mind, I realise it’s not likely to be a ham-toting serial killer but more likely to be Conal.
Conal, who arrived late last night and had listened as I talked, who had asked to see the photo I’d taken of the ultrasound screen. Who had listened when I said I had to accept I am going to be a granny. Who laughed uproariously when I told him how Laura had mentioned his mother had referred to herself as a GILF .
‘God, I miss her,’ he’d said when he stopped laughing.
‘She was an incredible woman.’
‘There are a lot of those about,’ he said, his smile shy and soft.
We’d talked until the small hours, cuddled on the sofa, until we were both yawning. So I invited him to stay over.
No. It was not about sex. We did not have sex. We both seemed to understand that we were tired. I was emotionally wrung out. We were not at our best. It was a relief, to be honest, because my legs are hairy, I need a shower and I am most definitely not at my most alluring.
We just held each other and slept. Until now, when I sense his presence in my bed.
‘Morning, Becs,’ he says, his voice a little croaky and tired. ‘Did you sleep?’
‘I did. Surprisingly well, in fact. Thank you,’ I say, reaching for my phone on the nightstand to check the time. It’s still dark outside but given that it’s January that could mean anything up until about half eight. It is, in fact, just after half seven and Daniel’s paw on the bed and mournful look of ‘Please let me out into the garden now before I pee on your deep pile’ makes me grateful I didn’t sleep beyond that.
‘I need to let the dog out,’ I say, pulling myself up to sitting.
Both Conal and I are still fully dressed. We did at least take our shoes off though. I think by the time we had climbed the stairs, I was just too exhausted to do anything more than the very, very bare minimum. God only knows how rank my morning breath is, or how awful my face looks. It will be a mess of yesterday’s make-up, destroyed by a night’s sleep and a few hours’ crying before that. My mouth is like a furry boot even though no alcohol whatsoever was consumed and I can feel my pores screaming for hydration.
I don’t turn to look at Conal as I get out of bed and head straight for the door to bring Daniel downstairs. I can nip into the bathroom when I come back up, have a quick freshen up and walk back into the room looking less bog witch and more ‘this is a woman I want to have a relationship with’.
‘Bloody dogs,’ I hear Conal tease. ‘Always getting in the way of true love.’
My heart starts at the mention of the L word, which is frankly ridiculous. I know this is just an expression and there is no way there is any love to speak of yet. Well… not that kind of love anyway. I suppose I sort of love him and always have because he’s the brother of one of my best friends and we used to hang out together back in the day. But that’s not the same as love love. You know, the big ‘in love ’. It’s much too early for any declarations as substantial as that and certainly not in relation to a dog and their need for a morning pee and poo.
My head knows all this to be true but my heart is clearly still on emotional high alert and is not behaving. Maybe because while my heart feels it is too early for love love, it knows that it’s not too early for icebergs. And isn’t that exactly what Conal had done by showing up last night? He’d been my very own iceberg.
The bitter cold of last night has turned to a persistent and dirty fall of rain – the kind that will keep the sky extra dark and makes everything look as if it is being viewed through a murky filter. Heavy splats of rain pepper the patio as Daniel sniffs around for a place to wee in much the same fashion a sommelier sniffs a fine vintage.
Why we have to go through this rigmarole is beyond me. Both Daniel and I know he will eventually take his spot by the fence, arse pointed towards next door’s garden and their yappy wee shite of a dog.
There’s no message from Adam on my phone. I hope he is still sleeping. I hope both he and Jodie had a restful night. I hope Niamh and Paul had a chance to talk through all of their worries. I hope everyone feels just as content with their lot as I do this morning.
‘He’s a good sort, isn’t he?’ I say to Daniel, who is staring at me, unblinkingly, as he squats.
‘I’d like to think so,’ I hear Conal say from directly behind me. Of course, I immediately startle before remembering my current bog witch appearance. He was not supposed to come down the stairs. He was supposed to wait there in the bed while I threw some water on my face and did a world-record-breaking, dentist-defying tooth-brushing session. He was not supposed to see me big-upping him to the dog. I am mortified.
‘Don’t look at me,’ I squeak, immediately covering my face with my hands.
‘What are you on about?’ he asks, and I can hear the amusement in his voice.
‘Seriously!’ I say. ‘It won’t end well. I’m like Medusa at the minute. One glance at me in my current state and you will turn to stone, or turn to run or something…’
I push past him, leaving Daniel to finish his morning ablutions without me, and straight back upstairs and into the bathroom where I lock the door and assess the damage.
I look… and there is no other way to say this… old. Old and tired. My skin is blotchy, and my eyes bloodshot. My hair has taken on a life of its own. I immediately start picking myself apart with no compassion for the woman who has gone through a traumatic experience. It’s so easy to let that little voice in, I realise. I’ve known her my whole life, after all. She’s familiar. A constant. She even sounds like me, so who am I to tell this negative Nelly in my own head to go and – to use a phrase Niamh once delighted us with – ‘ride her hand’. It’s a colourful one, and not for polite company, but sometimes it is the only way to say it.
I take a deep breath.
‘Becs, I’m going to nip out. Get some coffee and croissants from that bakery on Ivy Lane for breakfast,’ I hear Conal call. ‘I’m taking Daniel with me for the walk. Be back in half an hour.’
Immediately I go to tell him that he doesn’t need to take my dog out for a walk, and he absolutely does not need to go and get fancy coffee or lovely, flaky croissants that make my mouth water. I go to tell him he doesn’t need to bother doing that for me.
But I stop.
I stop and look again in the mirror at the old, tired face. I take a deep breath, and call, ‘Thank you.’ And I smile as I hear the front door close behind him. He doesn’t need to do all those things for me. But he wants to. Because he’s a good man.
I start the shower running, turning the water up as hot as I can tolerate, and before the bathroom mirror steams up I look at myself again.
Instead of picking apart my face, and my body as I undress, I speak the same words of kindness that had been spoken to us at the body positivity session. Our faces, and our bodies, are not only valuable in our youth. Our beauty does not lie only in youth, and positive times and smiling when you feel like crying. Each line, each wrinkle, each tiny red pinprick of my bloodshot eyes is testament to my life, my experience, the people I love and how hard I love them. They are testament to a person who has value whether twenty-four, forty-four or a hundred and four. Who are we to say that beauty is only a smooth face, adorned with make-up, or a perfect, stretch-mark-free body, free of scars?
My body, and my face, is my journey.
And to my surprise, as I step into the shower and let the water pummel me awake, I do not even want to throw up in my mouth at using the phrase ‘my journey’.
I use my good shower gel and my favourite scented shampoo. I go all out and put both serum and moisturiser on my face as I dry off. I’d like to say I was a serum and moisturiser every day kind of a woman, but I’d be lying.
I spray myself with perfume – all over and not just on my pulse points – and I dress in one of my favourite long jersey dresses and some coloured tights. I brush my hair through but leave it to dry naturally, and by the time all that is done and I’m walking down the stairs, Conal returns with two cups of coffee and a bag of the freshest-smelling pastries in the world.
‘Definitely less Medusa-like,’ he says with a smile when he sees me. ‘Although if I was less of a gentleman, I’d make some joke about you being even more likely to turn me… or parts of me… to stone now…’
Something flips inside me. I’m not initially sure what it is. It’s an odd sensation, but not a bad one. In fact, if anything, it’s quite pleasurable. I look at him, and it happens again. A clenching. A turning over. A turning on.
I realise, as my face grows hotter still, my libido is like an old engine. It may have seized up through lack of use but it seems that turning the ignition a few times, and having patience, means it’s only a matter of time before it will be purring again.
Dear God, I think, as he steps towards me, setting the coffee and pastries down on the hall table. This is what longing feels like. What desire feels like. Real desire and not just the strange attraction I sometimes feel for Ian the paramedic in Casualty .
I want to take this man by the hand and lead him back upstairs, leaving Daniel to his own devices locked in the living room, while I have unabashed, passionate, incredible sex.
Conal is closer to me now. His mouth just inches from mine. I can feel the heat of his body, sure that he must feel the heat of mine coming, which is positively pulsing off me in waves. It’s my turn to reach up and place my hand against his cheek, revelling in the roughness of his unshaven face. Forget Ian the paramedic. Not even David Duchovny could have me feeling as feral as I am right now.
‘Rebecca,’ he half whispers, half moans as his lips close in on mine and… now I finally know what it means to feel utterly undone. My body feels charged with electricity – with the desire to be touched.
My lips tingle as his brush against mine and all I want is to keep kissing this man, long and hard and deep and?—
A volley of barks, loud enough to wake the dead, and most certainly loud enough to pull Conal and me apart from each other, makes me jump, which results in an unfortunate and definitely not sexy head-butting incident.
Daniel whizzes past us, his tail whipping our legs as it wags at hyperspeed. Before we know it, he is at the door, jumping up and scrabbling his claws against the woodwork, his barks segueing into pitiful whining.
‘Becs!’ I hear Laura call. ‘Is Conal there? Only I have Lazlo and I?—’
I open the door, after giving Conal just enough time to grab the coffees and pastries and dash through to the kitchen, where he will have the chance to regain his composure.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, as Daniel and Lazlo greet each other as if they have been lifelong besties. Laura pulls me into a hug. ‘It’s just, I have to go to work and I can’t leave Lazlo home alone because he will shite somewhere and Aidan will not be happy. But never mind that, how are you? How is Adam? And Jodie?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I reply. ‘Adam and Jodie are fine, as far as I know. Jodie just has to make sure to take things easy for a bit. Conal’s here. He’s just getting coffee.’ I wonder if she can tell just by looking at me that she has interrupted something that could’ve been truly earth-shatteringly, body-shockingly amazing.
‘I thought he might have stayed the night, but more about that later…’ she says with a raised eyebrow, and I almost want to tell her to pull that goddamned eyebrow back down because nothing has happened thanks to some spectacularly timed cock-blocking on her part.
Just then Conal reappears, looking distinctly less flustered than when I had last seen him.
‘Sis,’ he says. ‘Thanks so much for minding Lazlo. You’re a star.’
‘Sure, I know. I’m the very best. You’d do well to remember that,’ Laura says with a smile, and leans across to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Hurt her and I will break you,’ she whispers, not too quietly.
‘I really have no plans to,’ he says as she turns to leave.
Closing the door behind her, I haven’t the chance to gather my thoughts before the two dogs bolt for the pair of us, determined that now is a time to play games of their choosing – and we are absolutely not going back to the one we had come painfully close to playing ourselves.