Page 7 of An Unholy Affair
‘Mmmm?’ he replied, lazily circling Sylvia’s nipple.
She pushed him off and sat up. ‘You don’t find me attractive enough?’
‘No! Jesus, Sylvia, you’re a stunningly beautiful woman in every way.’ Kneeling in front of her, he tucked a strand of long red hair behind her ear. ‘Iwantto be here. I have no idea why—’ he cleared his throat, ‘—it’s not working.’
‘Has this ever happened before?’
He shook his head. Women came to him wanting to feel special and wanted. He was failing Sylvia in the way that mattered most.
‘Do you have anystimulantsyou could use?’
Now he was truly impotent. He shook his head again. ‘I’ve never needed them before.’
‘Maybe it was the amount of wine we had with dinner?’ she asked tentatively. ‘You, er,wedid drink rather a bit?’
Could he blame that? In the past, he’d always been able to perform completely shit-faced.
The sound of his phone vibrating in his trouser pocket broke the silence. It currently had more capability to satisfy Sylvia than he did.
‘Do you need to answer that?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m sorry, I should have turned it off earlier.’
‘It has been ringing a lot this evening.’
It has?He took her hand. ‘Sylvia, this may sound a cliché, but it’s not you, it’s me. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll refund your money.’
‘No, Jasper. These things happen—’
‘Not to me they don’t.’
His phone kept buzzing.
‘Please answer it,’ she said. ‘At this time of night, it might be an emergency.’
Jack stepped to the floor and pulled the phone out as it stopped buzzing, seeing around thirty missed calls from his mother and ten from his sister, Emily.
He rang his mother back, and it connected immediately.
‘Jack!’ she screamed in between sobs.
Adrenaline knifed him in the guts. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
‘It’s your father,’ she howled. ‘He’s dead!’
By the timehe stepped off the bus at seven-thirty the next morning on Foxbrooke high street, Jack’s head had gone from pounding to splitting in two. After leaving Sylvia in the hotel room, he’d dashed back to his Soho flat to pack a bag. He’d missed the last public transport of the night, so went to Paddington station and waited to catch the first train of the morning to Bath Spa. When it arrived in Bath, he took the bus to his hometown of Foxbrooke.
He hadn’t slept a wink. Was that why he felt a heartbeat away from an aneurysm? It certainly wasn’t the wine from the night before. Apart from the odd foray to the UK, he lived across the channel, where people routinely put away a bottle or two a night with no ill effects.
As the bus pulled away, he paused, dreading what was to come. He hadn’t been home for years. He was half expecting to find it had changed, but the old buildings seemed frozen in time. Foxbrooke was quaint and beautiful. He didn’t belong here.
A wave of nausea rolled through him with unstoppable force. He made it to a drain at the side of the road before vomiting. Eyes watering, he bent over, bracing his hands on his knees as his stomach turned itself inside out.
Breathing heavily, his head dizzy, he took a bottle of water from his bag to wash out his mouth, then rinse the reddish remains of his sick down the drain. Thank god it was still early and no-one was around to see his disgrace.
Finishing the rest of the bottle, he started towards the estate where he and his sister had grown up. One side of Foxbrooke was ancient, with the high street, Manor, church and cottages. The bigger, and more modern side of Foxbrooke, extended out from the edges of the old village. The family home stood on what was called ‘the new estate’, even though the houses had been there for sixty years.
Was his dad really dead? Jack had spent so much of his life wishing for this outcome, but now it was here? Every cell in his body was numb.Just get the funeral done, then fuck off back to France.
