Page 98 of Duplicity

I wail.

I howl.

I actuallykeen.

I cry on Brendan like the world is ending, like I’ve lost everything there is to live for, which is ridiculous! Because Tabby’s had her lifesaving op, and she survived it! It’s as though my body hasn’t got that message, as though all of that embodied trauma of the past hours and days, years even, is making a break for freedom, as though my body has been a pressure cooker all this time and now, at the kindness of my boss, it’s completely unleashed.

I cry like I’ve seen mourners cry on the news at bomb sites. I cry in a way we Brits tend to find overly dramatic, incredibly awkward, and not a little unseemly. If he didn’t band his arms even more tightly against me, I would certainly fall to my knees. I’m practically bent over with the relief of it all and the grief of it all, with a tidal wave of emotions I can barely make sense of. Emotions I’ve pushed down and down and which now have me in their chokehold. Emotions, it seems, that have no intention of going back in that very effective bottle of mine.

As I fall apart in spectacular, horrifying style, Brendan holds me under the water, rocking us gently, whispering words of reassurance and praise, the same words I’ve whispered to Tabby over and over this week, words with whom parents have comforted their children through the ages.

That’s it. Let it all out.

Such a brave girl.

I’m so proud of you.

You did it.

It’s over now.

Everything’s going to be okay.

You don’t have to worry.

I’m here now.

You’re not alone anymore.

I’m not leaving you, I promise.

CHAPTER 46

Brendan

Idon’t know whether to be terrified or relieved that Marlowe has broken down so spectacularly. I think I’m a bit of both.

I’ve never seen her like this. This isn’t a chink in her armour: it’s as if every last wall has come crashing down, allowing the beautiful, brave woman within to bare herself. To recognise her needs and to let them sing. Her physical nakedness seems symbolic of this emotional collapse.

Impulse control has never been my thing, but the force that propelled me to get on that plane, to go to her, wasn’t a mere impulse—more an instinct of rightness. And while I may have second-guessed that instinct most of the way over the Atlantic, I couldn’t be more relieved that she’s unburdening herself on me so freely.

I won’t flatter myself that she trusts me now, that she’s forgotten the things I tried to make her do—things that make me burn with shame now that I know the full picture. It’s more that I’m here, that she needssomeoneto parent her after going through God knows what without any real support. But I’d like to think it’s also a testament to the relationship we’d built before I got the fear and behaved like a twat. Transactional it may be,but it’s given us a level of familiarity, of intimacy that stands us in good stead now.

I’d like to think she wouldn’t jump into the shower with just anyone.

It may be harrowing to see her like this, to bear witness to such a raw and painful outpouring, but I know better than to try to distract or deflect. She needs this, and frankly it’s better than seeing the brittle, exhausted version of her we encountered at the hospital.

Besides, I’m only human. Having Marlowe naked in my arms, leaning on me, both figuratively and literally, is indecently pleasurable. So pleasurable, I’m having stern words with my dick, because now is not the time to sexually harass this woman who’s sought refuge in my arms.

Instead, I hold her, and I sway with her, and I comfort her. I stroke her hair, and I tell her how proud I am, how amazing she is. I observe as the animalistic wailing turns to sobbing and then shuddering. Eventually, she’s still, aside from the occasional hiccup. I keep a tight hold on her. I don’t want her having some sort of vulnerability hangover after this.

‘Will you let me wash you?’ I ask, and she nods against my chest. So I do. I pump shower gel into my hands and I lather up her beautiful body, sliding my hands over her and doing my damnedest to make my touch soothing rather than creepy.

‘You’re hard,’ she says.

‘Sorry. Ignore it. Hard not to be with you around.’ I bend, and she raises one leg and then the other for me to wash.

‘You should wash your bits yourself,’ I tell her in a voice more strangled than I’d like.

---