Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Amy
Terry left hours ago, and I sit in the same position as when he walked away. My bare feet are chilled against the cold laminate floor. Numbness climbs my shins like ivy.
I tried to stand, but my legs gave way, and I fell back onto the mattress. The sun has gone down; our bedroom is veiled in darkness. The only light comes from the stingy streetlight outside our window. Day slid to night without asking.
Our bedroom door is firmly closed. Terry shut it behind him. He’ll come back; he has to. But in my heart, I know he won’t. My breath waits for a key that won’t turn.
Being a father is non-negotiable for me, Amy. Sometimes love just isn’t enough; sometimes one person must walk away to realize their dream. His words loop until they grate inside my skull. Vicious. Raw. Truthful.
I’ve watched discontent harden him, grain by grain. In recent months, he has become more conscious of his ageing body and reduced opportunities.
Before Christmas, I encouraged him to apply for a role in an amateur drama production of Beauty and the Beast. They cut him before the warm-ups were done. His confidence plummeted.
Terry hasn’t been on stage for years, but I hoped I could reignite his passion for theater. He returned home that day, told me it had been a disaster, and never mentioned it again. Back then, I told him it was one audition. Tonight, it feels like an insight into our destruction.
Goosebumps prickle my skin. The heating hasn’t kicked in like it normally would. Resolving myself to move, I push up from the bed and make my way to the boiler. It sits in the corner of our kitchen, hidden behind a white cupboard door. I squint at the control screen. ERROR flashes across it.
For fuck’s sake, this is all I need. The brochure is wedged beside the boiler, covered in grime and dust. I flick aimlessly through the pages and give up. I need to sleep. Or at least close my eyes and not think. Returning to my bedroom, I crawl under the covers fully clothed and cry myself empty.
The following morning, I emerge from my duvet cocoon. The spring sunshine streams in the window. For a stupid second, I think I dreamed it.
“Terry,” I call. “Terry, where are you?”
Silence.
Sitting up, I glance around the room. His stuff is gone. It happened. He packed up and walked away from me. He walked away over a situation that is completely out of my control. My heart aches; my mind hisses. The wardrobe sits open, ransacked like we were robbed.
My cell sits on the bedside cabinet. Hastily, I retrieve it and turn it on. No messages on the screen. No missed calls. The blank lock screen may as well spit in my face.
The boiler, I remind myself. Right. It’s not working. I flick through my contacts until I find the one tagged Boiler Repair Man. Luckily, I saved it after the last time the bloody thing broke down. He was a kindly older gentleman, if I remember correctly. Hopefully, he will be available today.
“Good morning, Austin’s Boiler Repair,” the old man says.
“Hello, this is Amy Trodden from Willow Court. You repaired our gas boiler some time ago.”
“Ah, Mrs. Trodden,” he replies, “lovely to hear from you. But I assume your call isn’t to trade pleasantries.” He chuckles. I wonder how many times a day he uses that line. “How can I help?”
“My boiler has stopped working and is showing an error code. Are you able to come out and have a look?”
“Oh, Mrs. Trodden, I’m very sorry, but I’m fully booked today. I can see if my nephew, Malcolm, can squeeze you in. Just give me a moment.” There’s a rustling and mumbling voices are heard before he speaks again. “Yes, Malcolm can be with you within the hour.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Do you need my address?”
“No, no. I have it all here,” he confirms, and we both hang up.
After staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, I resolve to survive a cold shower.
My scalp goes tight; my skin pebbles. I wash my hair in record time before slipping into my comfiest velvet tracksuit.
It’s ten years out of date with the words hot stuff printed across the butt, but it’s what I wear when life is shit. My triage uniform.
It's the only thing holding me together, both soft and ridiculous. I stare at my reflection, puffy eyes and hollow cheeks stare back. My world has shrunk beyond recognition, and I’m alone.
Terry’s gone. The house is empty. And somewhere along the way, everyone else has drifted.
My friends, they’ve all but disappeared.
The thought lands like a punch. Katie’s miles away.
Bex even further. Ben is juggling a broken heart and grieving kids.
And Trey, well, he’s part of the gym, not my history. He doesn’t need this mess.
A knock at the door interrupts the spiral, and I go to open it. Behind it is a tall man in his early thirties. His hair is long and dirty blond, tied back in a loose knot at the base of his neck. He gives me a soft smile before introducing himself.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he says in a strong cockney accent. “I believe you’re having some issues.” Unable to speak, I move to the side and signal for him to come in.
“I’m Malcolm.”
I nod as he walks past me. His bright-green eyes focus on my toes, then rise again, hesitating on my breasts. No bra. Right.
“This way,” I mumble. “It just stopped working.”
“Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll get this bad boy up and running before you know it. Can’t have you too cold, now.” He smirks, his eyes lingering for a moment on my nipples before returning to the boiler. “It’s freezing in here. Is your husband home?” he asks, changing the subject.
“Um,” I stammer. He gives me a funny look.
“My uncle said your husband was quite the comedian,” he continues.
“Terry left,” I say. “He walked out on me. Last night.”
He stops what he’s doing and turns to face me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “He must be an idiot.”
I shrug, not knowing what to say and certainly not expecting this conversation with Malcolm, the boiler repairman.
“Are you all right?”
At that moment, I split open. My carefully threaded stitches on my heart ripping wide. The dam breaks, and every emotion spills from me. Tears fall, and I scream. Not words, only sounds. A wounded animal in my own home.
Malcolm doesn’t move away. He steps forward and wraps his strong arms around me, placing his chin on the top of my head.
“Let it out,” he whispers. “Let it all out.” I sob into a stranger’s chest. We don’t speak; he only shares his warmth with me.
After a few minutes, I wriggle from his grip, then peer up at him.
He’s tall, much taller than me. Slim-built but strong.
“Can you help take the pain away, Malcolm?” I ask.
Slowly, I lift my top over my head, exposing my bare breasts.
He gulps. His growing erection strains against his jeans, and I run my fingertips across the surface.
“You like what you see. How do you feel about an uncomplicated fuck? Just you and me. No rules, no commitment. I need to feel something, and you need to shoot your load.” I step forward and go up on my tiptoes to place a kiss on his lips.
“I’m going to go into that room there.” I point toward my bedroom.
“Come and get me if you want to help me forget.”
With that, I saunter away, swinging my ass. I don’t look back. Once in the bedroom, I undress fully and then lie on the bed. Silence answers. After what feels like an eternity, I get up and go back to the kitchen. His tools are gone. So is he. The front door lies wide open.
Fucking great, now there’s no mindless anything, and the boiler’s still broken. What a crock of shit. I pull my top back on with shaking hands and shut the damn door.
***
I don’t sleep. Terry still hasn’t contacted me. He won’t. Earlier, I’d called Trey and told him what happened. He said I needed to take some time off. Take a break. Get out of the city to clear my head.
Knowing I won’t be able to sleep, I get up and start throwing clothes into a case. There’s no planning, no consideration for what I might need. Jeans, leggings, too many panties. If I keep moving, I won’t think.
After filling it to the brim, I wrestle with the zipper, then lug it to my car and throw it in the trunk. I climb into the driver’s seat and plug Aviemore into my GPS. In nine hours, I will see one of my closest friends. After turning the key, I pull out and go off in search of support.
Heavy rain has been hammering down since I crossed the border into Scotland. The journey snakes and skids. Why the fuck did Katie have to escape all the way up here? Could she not have gone to Wales or something?
After what feels like a thousand miles of twisting dark roads, I turn into the driveway to Eden House.
The road, if you can call it that, is filled with holes.
Blackness surrounds me. The eerie mansion sits at the end of the road, with only two small lights at the front door.
I know Katie is staying in a cottage around the back of the house, so I carry on.
The small cottage, painted green, sits in a quaint garden with a meandering path to the front door. Lamps dot the house and gardens, highlighting pockets of green. I pull up and stop at the gate, the rain still bouncing off the roof.
Once I’ve grabbed my bag from the passenger seat, I open the door and make a run for it. I arrive at the front porch, drenched but alive.
Water pools in my shoes. Candles flicker in the windows, and as I peer in, I see Katie sitting on the sofa watching TV. I batter on the door to be heard above the rain. My friend springs up, shock etched across her face. She appears moments later as the door opens.
I run into her arms, and she cradles me while I cry, “He’s left me. He said he needs children in his life. He needs to be a father, and he needs to be with someone who can give him that.”
“Oh, honey,” she says softly. “Let’s get you inside, and you can tell me all about it.” I step over the threshold, and for the first time in months, I finally feel safe.