Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Terry
Ben sits at the breakfast bar sipping a beer. He glances at me as I enter the kitchen, and his eyes widen in surprise. “Going somewhere?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “This is the first time you’ve looked fucking presentable since you arrived.” He snorts, then goes back to his drink. Dickhead.
“Just for a drink,” I respond, but don’t look him in the eye. I can’t. If I do, he’ll see the guilt written all over my face, the kind that gnaws in the dark. I don’t need another layer on top when he volunteers his opinion on what I’m doing.
“With who?” he prompts. His voice is level but firm, demanding an answer to his question. His eyes narrow as he focuses on me, applying more pressure to tell him what I’m up to.
“A friend,” I say evasively. He pauses mid-sip then places the brown glass bottle onto the marble worktop. He turns to look at me, a curious look on his face.
“Need a lift?” he asks. “This is my first drink, so I’m okay to drive. Then you can have a few drinks.”
“No, I’m good,” I mumble. The last thing I want him to know is that I’m dating. Well, not exactly dating― looking for a womb for my offspring is probably a better way to put it. Even saying it in my head sounds obscene.
Two weeks ago, when I walked out on Amy, I had nowhere to go.
I’d checked into a local hotel for a few nights while I got my bearings.
Ben had called me the day after I left, having spoken to her.
He told me she had gone to Scotland to stay with Katie for a while then offered me a room at his house for me to stay in until I got sorted or went home.
Not that I can go home. Not after what I said. Not after watching her face crumble as I packed. And going backward wouldn’t fix the break. Amy and my time together has ended. I’ve accepted that.
His huge bungalow sprawls out across an acre of garden. There are six bedrooms with en-suite bathrooms, a vast kitchen/diner, two living spaces, an office, and a game room.
A few years back when Ben and Bex finally got together properly, they moved here within months.
Bex was already unwell, and their city apartments were not suited to her worsening condition.
It had been perfect when she was restricted to a wheelchair.
She was able to move around freely through the wide doors and empty spaces.
I always thought Ben knew how things would progress. He had always been planning for the end, even from the beginning. I suppose he can’t help it in his line of work―he had more knowledge than anyone of what to expect.
The house is identical to the day Bex died.
Everything is as she planned it. Bright colors cover every wall, and there is an abundance of pots of potpourri.
With the stark white furniture and sleek kitchen, it has this odd appearance of being minimalistic but cluttered.
Bex’s picture is in every room―she is still very much here. This is her home.
Sometimes I catch Ben staring at a photo of her when he thinks no one is watching. Maybe that’s what love looks like when you’ve run out of chances. The one that got away, and a hope never to be rekindled.
“Where are you meeting your friend?” Ben says, interrupting my thoughts. “Is he someone you recently met? You haven’t mentioned anyone.”
He emphasizes the word he, and I nod but say nothing. I’m not telling him I’m meeting a woman. He’ll be furious. He was livid when I told him why I left my wife. His words had been honest and direct, and they cut me to the bone.
“Fuck’s sake, Terry,” he’d snarled. “Amy can’t help the situation any more than you can.
Are you really going to throw away a marriage like yours over something that may never happen?
You’re in your fifties with a woman who loves you completely.
An amazing woman at that.” He glared at me in disgust. “Take a few days to think about it. Then fucking grovel. I know you’re struggling with it all.
But please, think twice. Finding a love like yours isn’t easy.
Would you rather have the woman you love or a woman you’re using? ”
“You’re fucking one to talk,” I retort. “You’re not exactly the epitome of a perfect husband. How many times did you and Bex fuck behind Kelsey’s back? How much time did you spend fucking around and making the wrong decisions? Look where you ended up. Alone.”
Once again, words come out sharper than I intend, too cruel against someone I care for. The lowest blow I could make. The moment they leave my mouth, I hate myself a little more.
“Terry,” he says, his tone measured. “The love of my life died.” His voice never rises; it doesn’t have to. I know I’ve gone too far. He pinches the bridge of his nose and looks at the floor, then back to me.
“I made more bloody immoral decisions than I care to admit. The result was a painfully short amount of time with the woman I love, lots of broken hearts, and a blended family. Would I change them? No, of course not. But do I wish I’d listened to my heart a decade before I did?
Of course, I fucking do.” He takes a deep breath before continuing, “I’d have saved everyone a lot of heartache.
Bex and I would have been able to make the memories we should have.
In the end, the clock was always going to run out too soon, and I loathe myself for it. ”
I look away, pretending to check my watch. It’s safer than letting him see what the truth is doing to me. Maybe I’m walking the same doomed path. Slower, perhaps, but my eyes are wide open, and I’m making the choice.
My mood plummets at the recollection, and the hatred I feel internally devours me again.
No wonder my old friend is appalled with me; I’m appalled with myself.
But there’s no going back now. I’ve made my decision.
The life I want to have has children in it.
That’s not a life I can have with the woman I love.
“I’ll see you later,” I say and head for the front door without looking back.
Abigail Stephens sits at a small wooden table set for two in the corner of an old-fashioned tearoom. Her brown bobbed hair is styled to perfection, not a strand out of place. Her face lifts as I approach the table.
Her bright green eyes are large, almost too large for her fine features. She blinks, and it reminds me of an owl watching you through the darkness at night.
After rising from her seat, she holds out a fine-boned hand with long, perfectly manicured fingernails. I take it in mine. It feels delicate and fragile in my grasp. Not like Amy’s hands: strong and capable. The kind that held on even when I let go first.
“Hello,” she says. Her voice is soft, and I have to strain to hear her. “Thank you for coming to meet me today.”
“My pleasure,” I respond. “It is a strange situation, is it not?”
She giggles under her breath and shrugs her shoulders.
“Needs must,” she replies. “We’re all in the same situation.
An empty nest and a ticking biological clock.
Shall we sit?” She tucks her flowing floral dress beneath her as she lowers herself onto the old wooden dining chair.
It creaks softly in protest. Hopefully, mine is more substantial.
I’m probably three times the weight of this woman.
We get settled across from each other, both silent as our gazes meet.
On the table is a porcelain teapot, decorated with painted roses, and two small cups with saucers.
She gestures to the pot, offering me a drink, and I nod in assent.
The tearoom is compact, with tables and chairs squeezed into every crevice.
Every seat is occupied. Each table is covered with traditional tablecloths and scrumptious cakes.
People talk animatedly to one another as they stuff the delicious fare in their mouths.
I bet no one is having the conversation I’m going to be having today.
Abigail pours the tea into the cup, then adds a splash of milk and one sugar.
“How did you know how I take my tea?” I ask.
“Wild guess,” she says with a smile. “You look like a man who wants things to be pleasurable with a hint of sweetness.” She passes me the cup and saucer. “So, Terry, tell me, how do you find yourself here?” Her manner is unassuming but direct. This woman is so bland, she’s forgettable.
She’s nothing like my wife. The opposite in every way in fact. Professional and composed, she lacks the glee that shines normally from Amy’s eyes. Maybe that’s why I picked her profile; the last person I wanted to be with was a reminder of the woman I let go.
I decide honesty is the best policy in this bizarre situation we find ourselves in.
“I’ve separated from my wife as we are unable to have children together.
She is unable to have a child,” I confirm.
“I’m very much aware that at over fifty, I need to find a partner and get a move on if I want to reproduce. ”
“When did you separate?” she asks.
I swallow.
“Was it recently?”
“I’m embarrassed to tell you this, but I must be truthful. It was two weeks ago.” Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise as she processes what I said.
Her polite expression doesn’t change, but mine does. Saying that out loud makes it real in the way a suitcase and closed door didn’t. Two weeks. That’s all it's taken for me to pretend I’m ready to start again. What kind of man does that?
“Please understand, this is something I’ve been looking into for months.
Amy and I have been together a long time, and we’ve been trying to start a family for a decade.
But this past year has made it quite clear that our lives are moving in different directions.
She has accepted the fact that she won’t have children and is focused on other priorities. Whereas I can’t give up on this dream.”
She smiles softly in encouragement.
“Abigail, I can’t promise I will love you. Amy is my soulmate. What I can promise is my loyalty and that I’ll be a good partner and father. Having a child would be my absolute focus.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” she says, “and Terry, I’m not looking for love.
I need a sperm donor and a dependable partner, someone who will care for the family we can create between us.
I don’t buy into love fixing everything; I believe there are more important things in life.
It sounds as if you are on the same page. ”
“I suppose I am,” I mumble, unsure if it’s true. Amy’s face the day I left has haunted me since, and it probably will forever.
I’ve walked away from Amy to create a family with a woman I don’t know. Love is firmly down my list of priorities.
After twenty years of being in love with the same woman, fully committed to her, I’m ready to move on. My life turned into a shambles, and now is my time to be selfish. Put my own needs before others.”
She nods but doesn’t volunteer an opinion on my words. We continue to talk and swap life stories over the course of the evening. No sparks fly, but the time with her is pleasant. She’s easy company, and I cling to the idea of simplicity because chaos is all I know.
I could see her as a mother, but imagining myself coming home to her is another matter. Since I’ve never thought about going home to anyone other than Amy, it feels foreign and unwanted. A grim necessity in creating the life I desire.
Our conversation draws to a close. “Thank you,” she says and cocks her head to one side. Her gaze runs over my face as if she’s considering her next words. “If you would be agreeable, I’d like to meet again. We could discuss further what we’re both looking for.”
“That sounds good,” I reply.
“Excellent, I’ll inform the agency that our initial meeting was successful. I know we are encouraged to attend counseling together and go through further compatibility testing. Would you be happy to progress this arrangement further?”
“Yes.” The word is stark and honest. But nothing else is required. At the end of the day, this feels like a business transaction, not the start of a new relationship. Emotions and feelings have minimum value. For now, that’s what I need. An agreement, not an ache of love or hope.
We say our goodbyes, and I head back to my current lodgings to ponder over what’s to come.
“How's your friend?” Ben asks as I walk through the door. He’s waiting for me in the hallway as I enter. “Amy called to speak to you.” My heart sinks, and my guilt grows at hearing her name.
“What did you tell her?” I ask, keeping my eyes firmly on the floor.
“That you were out,” he says, “and I would tell you she called.” The look he gives me makes me feel like an asshole. “Was there something else I was meant to tell her? She said she’s been calling you, and you haven’t been answering.”
Heat sears my cheeks, and I drop my gaze. I’ve been dodging her calls, her questions, our reality. Every ring feels like a lifeline I refuse to grab because I’m not brave enough to hear her voice.
“She’s worried about you. She’s frightened you’re not going to come back.”
“Ben, I’m not going back. It’s over.” We’re in the hallway, standing less than a meter from each other. You could cut the tension with a knife. His jaw ticks, and his lips thin further. “I’ve made my decision. I’m moving on.”
“Well, you better make sure she knows that,” he snaps. “I hope whatever woman you were meeting tonight knows what an ass you’ve become.”
His words land, solid and deserved. I don’t argue. Him hating me makes sense. My friend shakes his head, then turns around and walks back toward his kitchen. I disappear to my room, not wanting to continue this discussion or leave myself open for any more questions.