Chapter 17
Sean
The house was empty when Sean got home two weeks later. He kicked off his trainers at the door and padded through to the kitchen, where he poured a glass of water down his throat at record speed. Prepping to cycle one hundred miles was thirsty work.
Beyond the patio doors, he saw the summerhouse door was open. Cherry would be in there, in her new poker HQ. Something about her presence comforted him, took the edge of his loneliness, even though he would have preferred her in the house with him.
It was amazing how quickly you could get used to someone being there, even when they weren’t always with you.
The glass with the succulent red lipstick mark on it by the sink, her tiny denim shorts and glittery vests hanging on the clothes airer, the smell of floral shower gel wafting out of the bathroom.
Her energy was everywhere, even when she wasn’t.
But this wasn’t how it should be between newlyweds. He shouldn’t be here alone, wishing he was that glass. Maybe after ten years together, but not now.
They weren’t like normal newlyweds, though. It was better to think that they weren’t married at all.
He didn’t want to think that. He wanted his wife. Was that so wrong?
Sean went upstairs, took a shower, came back down, and with a bowl of potato salad in one hand, opened his lap top and navigated to the email he hadn’t done anything about yet.
The one where had he to go online and book an appointment for his American visa interview in London. He ought to get cracking on that, although it didn’t seem so appealing anymore.
A sea of dates swam in front of him; most of them were a few months away, but there was a free one in two-weeks’ time.
You’re going to have to go for it, Seany, because if you don’t, you could end up with nothing.
He booked the slot. If she gave him a sign, he could cancel it.
He really hoped he would have to cancel it.
Sean placed his empty bowl on the table and picked up a book and tried to read.
But his mind wasn’t focused enough, so he began to scroll through the photos on his phone.
He came to one of him and his dad standing together in their kilts at one of the annual distillery Burns’ suppers.
Eighteen-year-old Sean had been so proud to attend as Jimmy Butler’s son and over the moon that he’d been allowed to do the Address to a Haggis that year. His dad had even coached him.
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race!
A sucker punch of grief hit him right in the solar plexus.
Shit. Grief could hit you at the most inopportune times. He didn’t want to cry when Cherry could walk in at any minute. That would be embarrassing.
On the internet tabs on his phone, he flicked to some stuff he’d been browsing over the past couple of weeks, dipping in and out and wondering what to do with the information.
Articles and blog posts about the effects of miscarriage on relationships.
He wanted a deeper understanding of what it meant because, with that, he had a better chance of holding onto his wife.
There was no denying it was depressing stuff. It seemed that the strain could tear even the strongest couples apart.
But he thought he’d found something that might give some hope.
The patio door clicked, and Sean turned to see Cherry.
God, she never failed to take his breath away.
Tonight, she was softer, more vulnerable-looking than the public-facing version.
Her face was clear of make-up. A flowing black skirt fell to her ankles; her feet were bare, with pink-polished nails.
And heaven help him, was she wearing one of his work polo shirts?
Yep. Due to the size of the shirt on her, the Butler’s Cooperage name was on her right breast.
A powerful wave of something unfamiliar crashed through Sean. What was that? It was as if the cord of energy between them had thickened. Was it primal? Like she was sending him an invisible message that she belonged to him.
But she didn’t. This was one giant tease.
But what could he say? It was just a t-shirt.
‘Hey,’ he said, lowly. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Hey.’ Cherry ran her hand through her mermaid waves. ‘It’s going good. I came in for some water. Did you get something to eat?’ She held her glass under the running faucet.
‘Aye, old potato salad. Nice top.’
She glanced down at the shirt, more precisely at the logo on her breast. ‘Oh, yeah, sorry. I found it hanging on the clothes airer. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Nope. It suits you. Keep it if you like. I’ve plenty more.’
He wondered if it smelled of him. It was clean, but maybe wearing it reminded her of him. God knows, if he had an item of her clothing pressed to any part of his body, he’d have her on his mind.
‘How was training tonight?’ Cherry perched on the arm of the couch, then leaned back a little as if noticing something wasn’t right. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Aye, I’m fine. Just been thinking about my dad and getting sentimental over old photos.’ He motioned to his phone. ‘Training was good – cycled forty miles with Nate. Hard work, mind you. Don’t know why but I’m struggling a wee bit.’
‘Oh.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘How so?’
‘Och, I’ll be fine. It’s normal to have peaks and troughs and feel a bit like a teenage girl at a boyband concert.’
‘Eh?’
‘Bit dizzy at times.’
‘Jeez! You need to see a doctor.’ She touched his arm, softly, like she did care.
‘I’ll be fine. It was probably low blood sugar or something. Nothing a can of Bru won’t sort out.’
‘Sean! Come on. See a doctor, please. People need you.’
People. People needed him. Was she referring to everyone else but herself? ‘Are you one of them?’
Her hand moved back faster than he could have anticipated, and she gave him words in place of physical affection. It would have to do. He was right. She did at least care.
‘I know how much this bike ride means to you, and I want to see you succeed. Your family needs you. Your dad, I’m sure, is watching you and cheering you on, too.’
‘Aye, maybe. Or he’s up there telling me to “Calm doon, son”.’
Cherry smiled, and Sean realised how much he needed to see that. It was like oxygen being injected into his bloodstream. ‘Did he say that a lot?’
‘All the time. I got a tattoo of it.’ He rolled up the arm of his t-shirt and showed her the inking of his father’s words. ‘Got it done about six months ago. I wanted him to see it.’
‘Oh my God, I adore it.’ She ran her finger under the tattoo. A tiny gesture that burned fire right through him. ‘It’s so sweet of you. And it’s hilarious, too. Did he like it?’
‘Aye. Rolled his eyes and told me I was as daft as a brush, but he laughed, too. Safe to say he loved it. Anyway, I didn’t listen to him any of those other times he told me to calm doon, so I’m not about to start now.’ Sean pulled his sleeve down. ‘I’ll rest when this thing’s over.’
Her concerned gaze roamed over his face, an emotional engineer examining him for signs of malfunction.
‘Really, I’m fine... Enough about me. Cher, listen…’ Fuck it, he’d grasp the nettle while he had her here. ‘I’ve been doing some reading—’
Cherry glanced at the airport thriller on the table. ‘Any good?’
‘Not that. On the internet.’ No point beating about the bush. ‘About…miscarriage.’
‘Oh.’ Her mouth froze on this word. And did that one syllable hold tinges of betrayal? Was he overstepping the mark by doing this? As she rose from the arm of the couch, he feared he had his answer. ‘Sean, I have a tourney in twenty minutes. I can’t start on tilt.’
‘Oh, right. Another time then.’ The last thing he wanted was to fuck up her game.
But then she sat back down again. ‘Sorry, that sounded dismissive. What… What did you read?’
‘Are you sure…?’ He waited for her nod of agreement before sitting forward and tapping at his phone.
‘I found something kind of promising. It was in this article about this woman who’d had five miscarriages before she had a baby.
It mentioned new treatments that are coming to analyse the womb lining and––’
‘Sean…’ Cherry inhaled deeply and let the breath out on a slow exhale.
‘You’ve no idea how amazing you are for reading that.
But I’m thirty-seven. It’s too late for me and new treatments.
Those things will help women in their twenties who don’t even know yet that they’re going to have problems. People my age, who exist in this dead zone when it comes to understanding, are fucked.
On our own.’ She raised her palms up in the universal shrug gesture.
‘This is the medicine logo for me. It doesn’t know the answer and isn’t in enough of a hurry to help.
’ Rising from the arm of the couch, she covered his hand with her own and gave him a bittersweet smile before trailing her fingers away.
‘Thank you for caring. You’re gorgeous, inside and out. Sorry, I have to go to work.’
Sean so badly wanted to grab her hand and tell her to stay. Pull her down to the couch, onto his knee, breathe her in deep and slow, kiss her in the same way, crack his heart wide open and tell her how he would try with everything he had to make it okay.
But that would be na?ve.
So, he let her go.
The patio doors closed, and he watched her drifting back to the summerhouse, her honeysuckle scent still floating tantalisingly in the surrounding air.
Fuck. He leaned back on the couch and let out a deep sigh of his own. That was heavy, heavy stuff.
He needed a beer.
As he rose to get one, something by the printer caught his eye. A pile of paper. He moved closer and, Jesus, if his heart didn’t stop beating in his chest.
He’d known it was there, but what was on the top sheet made him aware of every muscle in his body, yet aware of nothing but the two words glaring at him.
Nullity Application.
The step that Cherry, his wife of nearly one month, had taken in ending their marriage.
Nothing could have prepared Sean for how heavy this made him feel. He picked up the paper and flicked through the sheets.
She’d filled the whole fucking form in. There had been no mention of that. Twenty pages of boring, formal detail done and dusted. A box ticked for the reason it was all ending before it had begun.
The marriage was not consummated owing to the wilful refusal of the respondent to consummate it.
That was true.
But how depressing. All their passion and fireworks boiled down to this cold, black and white document, so some judge somewhere could make a decision on whether their marriage was a mistake or not.
It wasn’t a mistake. Not as far as he was concerned.
Sean hated this.
Loathed it.
Nonetheless, there was one question niggling at him.
Cherry had dotted every I, crossed every T and left the form sitting by the printer for him. But there was nothing left to fill in. So why hadn’t she posted this or pressed him to do so?
A suspicion crept through him that Cherry was struggling to decide. Somewhere deep inside her, she didn’t want this either. Perhaps she was hoping he would post the form for her and take the decision out of her hands.
Or chuck it in the bin.
Who did she think she’d married? Mr Give Up After The First Hurdle?
Sean was not that guy.
Then he had an idea. A wee thing to test her out.
It was a gamble, but how Cherry responded would speak volumes.