Page 25 of The Trouble With Love

‘For thirty-six years I’ve wondered, Holly. What did I do that was so bad she had to abandon me like that? Am I the son of the Devil?’ He stopped, and his pacing had brought him right in front of me. ‘Who am I? And what made me so unlovable that she wrapped me in a fucking newspaper?’ A deep breath. ‘Yes, you were right, talking helped. Now bugger off.’

I stared at him. ‘Are you really a complete bastard, or do you just get off on imitating one?’ Then I cringed inside. The guy has laid himself bare, now he feels shitty. Taking it out on you is the only thing he can do. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, you’re right.’ A shaky hand raked through his hair. ‘Now you can see why all my relationships have been so short. I’m a bastard.’

‘But it was deliberate, wasn’t it?’ There was that hole again, less black now, more of a mirrored surface. This man was so like me that it hurt. Keep them distant, keep them from loving you. Protect yourself.

A shrug. ‘I’m a high-functioning disconnected personality. Work alone, live alone, and when people get too close . . .’ he dropped his eyes and considered the carpet as though it held the answer to universal mysteries, ‘behave so badly that they get the message.’

‘But why didn’t you tell anyone? If you’d explained, or even mentioned your past, women would have cut you some slack.’

‘Right. So, they’d have caught me in bed with their best friend and thought “oh, he was an abused child, it’s nothing personal”, would they?’

I stared at him. ‘You did that? With someone’s best friend?’

‘Yeah. Quite a few times.’

‘With the same best friend? Or different ones?’

He tipped his head on one side. ‘Oh, there were lots. And other stuff too. I . . . I hurt people, Holly. And I have enough self-awareness to know why I’m doing it, but I still do it, still drag them in and then . . .’ He stopped. Slapped the bedside table so that dust jumped and a water glass hit the edge of a lamp with a high-pitched clink.

I stared at his somewhat skanky appearance. ‘Blimey, there’s loads of women out there complete pushovers then. Or do you have some kind of strange power of suggestion?’

The sun had faded now and we were lit only by the reflection on the snow. It was an odd golden light which accentuated his eyes and the atmosphere felt strangely heavy, as though we moved through something semi-solid, something which slowed our responses into deliberation. ‘Yes.’ He leaned in, touched my hair, his eyes never leaving mine. His hands were cold but even icier was the touch of the silver ring which almost stuck to my skin as his fingers drew my face in close. But his mouth was warm as it came down and it tasted of lust.

And I knew what he was doing. Recognised that need to block real life out with sex, to hide from the big and the scary and the sheer perpetuality of the ruthlessness and the guilt, behind physical reactions. It was how I got through the days, after all. His tongue flickered against mine and his teeth slid gently over the soft skin on the inside of my lower lip, raising an erogenous zone I hadn’t even known I had. One of those long legs slid between my thighs, bringing his body in so close that I felt the bones of his hips against my flesh and the firm length of arousal around my navel.

It felt slightly weird to be inside the moment whilst knowing what was behind it all, but, dear God, he was gorgeous . . . I kissed back, reaching up until I could put my arms around his neck, pulling him into me, thigh to thigh and lip to lip, my body held against his chest so hard that I could feel his heart racing and the faint tremble of his ribs as he breathed in. He smelled musky and the taste of his mouth was pure sex.

He moved, trying, I think, to touch bare skin, but the movement unbalanced us. We toppled backwards, landing on the bed in a tangle of legs and arms and hair; I was underneath suddenly, lying on a duvet which smelled of his skin, staring up at his chest. From the way he was gazing down at me his usual blocking technique wasn’t working for him this time — his expression was all distress and confusion.

‘Well,’ I said, to hear a normal, human sound.

‘Well indeed.’ He rolled off me, and lay flat on his back. His eyes looked a bit unfocussed. ‘I’m sorry.’ A flick of a look, ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

I was breathless. ‘Where did it come from? Not that I’m complaining, you understand, just . . . it was a bit intense.’

‘Habit, I guess. Use sex to block everything else out. But I usually try for at least a little subtlety, not that . . .’ He waved an arm, struck wordless. ‘It was like pole dancing.’

‘It was from where I was standing,’ I said, and giggled. ‘I bet you’re really something with your clothes off, Mr Rhys.’

‘Ha. Of course I am.’ He turned towards me. ‘I guess I was — I dunno. Overwhelmed by the moment? Uptight and in need of some contact? Because when you’re using your body, you don’t have to use your mind, and I really don’t want to think at the moment.’

‘Well, I’m here,’ I said, almost as an instinctive response and then bit my tongue as the realisation blossomed slowly through my mind that I didn’t want to be something he used to block everything out. Knowing what he was trying to do had blown my own life open in front of my eyes and left me staring at the wreckage.

‘Yeah.’ A fingertip traced the contours of my face. ‘You are.’

The line we hadn’t yet crossed trembled in the air between us. Part of me wanted to throw myself over, let gravity take me down, but that part was pure habit and the part that was looking down from above and starting to understand the suffering of this man held me back. There was a sense that something was changing.

‘But this isn’t what you want.’ My voice sounded hoarse, dark, unlike me.

‘No.’ His hand fell away to rest casually against my hair.

‘Thanks very much.’ I didn’t move away though.

‘What I said just now, about short, intense relationships. And how there’s nobody when you need someone. Understanding . . . I’m having a major rethink about it all, about my life.’

‘Whilst lying on a bed with a woman.’

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