Page 17 of Fletch

I sigh heavily. “Nothing. It’s just, well, you’re working a lot lately.”

I feel his eyes on me briefly. “I’m a fucking surgeon, Gem. I work when I’m needed, and last night, I was needed.”

“And was she on shift?” I brace myself for the temper tantrum I know will follow. It always does when I mention his past affairs.

He doesn’t disappoint me, slamming his hands on the steering wheel. “Why does it always come back to her?” he yells angrily.

“Well, because I can’t help but be curious when you’re gone all night. It brings back memories,” I snap. He slams his foot down, swerving in and out of traffic and causing other vehicles to beep at us. “Slow down,” I hiss.

“I’m so fucking tired of hearing it, Gemma. You said you’d forgiven me. I thought we’d moved on.”

“We have,” I mutter, gripping the door handle of the car as he swerves to avoid a vehicle slowing in front. “Please, Pete, slow down.”

“Scared one of your colleagues will pull us over?” he sneers.

“Well, you’ll get the ticket,” I retort.

“All you care about is that job and your image.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re one to talk.” He turns onto our road, and I let out a sigh of relief. “And don’t think I didn’t realise you never answered me.”

He pulls onto the drive, pressing for the garage door to open. I frown when he turns off the car engine and climbs out. I follow his lead, wondering why he doesn’t put the car away, and pause when I see a new car already in its spot with a huge ribbon on the bonnet.

“Yes, Gemma,” he hisses, “Carla was on shift. Did we fuck? No. Did we even speak? No. Because you made it quite clear what would happen if I did.” I keep my eyes on the white BMW, its red ribbon blowing gently in the breeze. “I’m tired of going over the same shit, Gem.” I notice just how exhausted he sounds. “And by the way, I got you a car.” Then, he stomps up the steps and into the house, slamming the door behind him.

I go into the garage and run my hand over the shiny paintwork. I hate white cars. I laugh to myself, allowing a tear to roll down my cheek. And I fucking hate BMWs.

When I go inside, I hear Peter upstairs. “I love the car,” I call out, slipping off my shoes and dumping my bag. I head upstairs to find him in the shower. “I said, I love the car.”

“Liar, you hate BMWs.” It begs the question why he’d buy me one if he already knew that.

I lean in the doorway and smile. “I like that one because you got it for me.”

“We have dinner with your father in an hour,” he informs me, and I groan. “He called last minute, so I couldn’t say no.”

I go into the bedroom. “You could. It’s an easy word.”

I pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the bed just as Pete’s phone flashes with a text message. I bite my lower lip and glance back towards the bathroom. The shower is still running, so I quickly go over to his bedside table and stare at the screen. I shouldn’t check it. I haven’t done it for so long, not since I first found out about his affair with a nurse at work. It lights up again, and the fact he has it on silent makes me more suspicious. My hand hovers over it, and I groan, snatching it up and opening it. There are two text messages, and as I scan them, my heart breaks all over again.

C: I can get out at ten tonight.

C: Maybe we can get some food and then I can treat you ;)

Tears fill my eyes as a third message comes through. The picture of silk underwear laying on a bed mocks me, and I don’t even realise the shower has turned off until Pete’s voice fills the room. “What are you doing?” he asks.

I turn to him with silent tears rolling down my cheeks. “You didn’t even have the decency to come up with a better name,” I whisper, and his expression changes from confused to guilty. “What was the plan? You’d get called away from dinner, leaving me to face that bastard alone?”

“Gem,” he mutters, his tone pleading.

“Why couldn’t you just be honest?” I ask, dropping his phone onto the bed. “You could’ve just left the first time, but you asked . . . no, you begged for me to give you another chance, and again, I did.”

“I tried to stop,” he explains.

“But she was just too tempting.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh god, you’re so fucking pathetic when you’re ridden with guilt. Get the fuck out.”

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