Page 31 of Taste

My father had been a respected man. He’d been silent and stern, with a firm belief in right or wrong. He didn’t believe in affection or the kindness of words.

I was becoming more and more like him every day, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Mark didn’t deserve that; he deserved so much more. He needed warmth and cuddles and someone to make love to him, not someone who might one day lose control and turn to the fists clenched at my sides instead of words. I had once lashed out at Matty, and that was something I never ever wanted to do again. I was terrified of my temper. I was horrified at what I could become.

Yet that Christmas Day morning had been the most wonderful morning. It hadn’t even been about the sex, which, by the way, was the hottest fellatio in my pathetic book of sexual encounters. It had only been a simple blow job, but it was the most erotic act anyone had ever subjected me to. Which was a ridiculous notion. I had fucked and been fucked. I’d once loved someone so much that it had almost driven me insane. I had survived heartbreak and despair. But that? That had been different.

Mark had given me everything. He had taken the fucked-up broken shell of me, and he had made everything right, calmed the storms in my head and finally, made me feel.

He had made me fucking feel. And while I was drunk on being loved and protected, he’d gone and planted that seed that this could be something. That this could be right. That maybe I had a choice in this mess of a life I was living. He had given me an open door right into his heart. Wasted on emotions, I had been sucked right through it. Then I’d coldly turned around and left, knowing there was nothing else I could do. The guilt and regret were already mixing with spurts of violent anger in me, and I’d been there before, when I’d lost Matty, and not learned a single lesson because here I was again, hurting the people I loved the most before they could hurt me back.

Yet I was hurting more than I ever had.

* * *

It was nearly the end of January when I heard one of the chefs mention Mark in passing—a careless sentence thrown out to a group of co-workers, something about going clubbing, and that Mark was back in town.

I was a reasonable human being. I would stay away. As far away from Mark Quinton as I could.

I’d started applying for jobs, looking for posts abroad and in small-town hotels where I could make my mark, because I couldn’t stay here. I woke up every morning with this dull ache in my chest. I dreamt of featherlight kisses and strokes of my hair. I wanked furiously to video clips online only to close my eyes before climaxing. All I could see was the man I craved. I missed the way he looked at me. I missed his smile. I missed his relentless chatter, and I missed hearing his footsteps coming down the corridor past my office. I missed it all—every little breath he had ever given me, every reckless smile. I longed to see him, one last time. One final taste. Just one little hint of him on the tip of my tongue.

It was bewitching. Irresponsible. Dangerous.

I caught a glimpse of him one morning, standing there like he had never been gone. He looked up. I looked away.

I avoided him. He stayed out of my way.

I knew the solution was staring me right in my face. The sooner I could leave, the better. Obviously, I needed to go. Move. Leave London behind so I could get my sanity back. I couldn’t go on living like this, yet my stomach churned with nausea at the thought of walking away from him.

I’d been here once before, and yes, I could easily get laid. Find someone to take my mind off him. But I didn’t want anyone else. Clearly, he’d ruined me forever. He’d shown me something I didn’t know I’d needed, and now I wanted my life back. I wantedhimback. I needed him so fucking desperately I didn’t know what to do with myself.

At the same time, I needed to let him go. There was someone out there who would love him so much better than I could, who would hold him at night and keep him safe.

That person would never be me. Because I would never make him happy. I had no idea how on earth I could.

I ran into him outside the staff canteen the next morning, him all fresh-faced and clear-eyed, in a bright-blue suit jacket I hadn’t seen before. Me an unkept mess, with my jacket open and my tie in my hand. I was late for a meeting. He was just leaving, an empty paper cup nestled in his hand.

He looked thinner than I remembered him, and there were faint dark circles under his eyes.

My first instinct was to grab him and shake him, ask what the hell we were doing, but I came to my senses before I did something idiotic. I had no right to ask. No right to demand answers.

He didn’t even speak. Just looked at me with so much hurt in his eyes that if my heart wasn’t already shattered, it would have broken all over again.

He nudged his shoulder into mine, hard, as he walked away from me. A last defiant blow. And just like that, we were finally and irrevocably over.

Unfortunately, my heart didn’t get that little memo.

I stared at him shamelessly all day, from behind the front desk where I pretended to work when all I could see was him. The faint reflection of blue flashing past as he moved around the restaurant during the lunch service.

I made several completely unnecessary trips to the kitchen, asking pointless questions and double-checking orders I had no interest in, to catch a glance of him. To know he was there.

I told myself I was just worried about his welfare. It was my responsibility to make sure he was okay. I needed to know I hadn’t broken him too badly, that we could at least look at each other, but when his eyes caught mine, I looked away. It was all too raw.

Two days later, he wore the pink shirt he had worn the first time he kissed me. I couldn’t help thinking he was taunting me.

He stared at me from the lectern outside the restaurant entrance. His hands fiddled with papers, but his eyes were firmly on me as I stacked magnetic key cards in neat little rows in front of me. There was no need for me to be out there at the front desk. I should have been in the back sorting out paperwork and running the staff rosters. I had a million things to do, yet I stood there all morning, hoping for something, wishing for some kind of divine intervention. Of course, God had abandoned me long ago, and my faith was non-existent, so it was up to me. Was there anything left here for me to fix?

At the end of my shift, I passed Mark and Mabel in the corridor down to the staffroom. Mabel treated me with silent defiance. I returned the favour with a calm gratitude for our temporary truce. Mark ignored me, sending a smile at one of his chefs.

As I dodged, unseen, into the changing rooms, I clocked Ben, then Adam and a few of the waiters. I could hear them chatting, making plans for the weekend. I picked up the word ‘club’ and a few crude suggestions being thrown around like they were overexcited immature teenagers.

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