The Passion Play Page 23

  "Well that's just physique. It's not really important in the greater scheme of things."

  "So he's a little guy?"

  "Not exactly."

  "How not exactly?"

  "He's on the team," said Felicity, and ducked her head to stare at her underwater fingertips.

  "On the . . . on the team? Dan's team?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh my God! Does Dan know about this? I hope he does! I bet he's spitting tacks!" Caroline laughed an evil cackle, and Felicity frowned at her.

  "I don't think so. He might. Dan saw a little bit of Luke when he showed up on the doorstep unexpectedly one time, but he didn't recognize him right away. So I don't know but I think Luke would have said something to me if Dan knew."

  "Okay, so actually he is your type." Her eyes were still sparkling with inappropriate glee. "And this must mean he's younger too."

  "Twenty-seven."

  "Yum! A twenty-seven-year-old professional athlete. You must have been making up for some lost time then." She grinned wickedly.

  "Um . . ."

  "Oh you did, you did! You go girl! So all right, spit it out. What was wrong with him? What would you not find charming when you finally got over Dan – who I might remind you didn't have you heartbroken in the first place."

  "Pardon?" asked Felicity, confused.

  "You told me you weren't all that upset when Dan broke up with you. I mean, my guess is you really didn't have much to get over in the first place. You'd been over him for years. You were just going through the motions because you're . . . well, unnaturally tolerant. Or you have low expectations or something. Or you hold marriage sacred."

  "Maybe all three."

  "Precisely. So anyway what did Luke do that made him so refreshingly different from Dan?"

  "He just . . . he wanted to spend time with me. He wanted to talk, and he really listened to what I said. Every time we . . . uh . . . had sex . . . he wanted to," she waved her hand back and forth in front of her chest to describe a meeting of hearts, "connect with me. He wanted to give me what I wanted, whatever it was. He watched me and he'd figure out what I liked and then just fall into line with it . . ." she trailed off. Caroline’s eyes had gone all round and she was giving Felicity a puppy-dog look. "What?"

  "Can't you hear yourself? You're saying you were worried you would get attached to being treated right. To being treated like you were in an actual, real, loving partnership. I think you are certifiably insane. Can you seriously not see that?"

  "I don't . . . I just . . . that's not the way it works. You can't go from being peacefully married to one man, to being in love with another man in less than three months. That's just not realistic. What?" she finished in exasperation, seeing Caroline’s eyes open even wider.

  "In love?"

  "I . . . what?"

  "You said 'in love'. You said you couldn't be in love because it wasn't realistic."

  "Yeah. So?"

  "So why are you even bringing it up? You didn't say anything before about being in love with him." She spoke very softly, very gently.

  Felicity's hand crept up to her mouth. "I . . ."

  "You know, I met Mark when I was on the rebound from my childhood sweetheart, Leo Grayson. Man, I haven't thought about him in awhile. He broke up with me at the end of school, and I was devastated. Then I met Mark and we started dating and I didn't think much about him at the time. I thought I was heartbroken and I'd never love again. Very melodramatic. Anyway he was persistent and after awhile I realized I really, seriously liked him, and the rest is history. You know I'm not saying that's the way it has to be for you, because everyone's different. But don't write off a relationship just because it comes straight after another important one. Judge being with Luke on its own merits."

  Felicity just stared at her, not really seeing her, still stunned by the revelation of her own feelings.

  "And for God's sake, if you love the man because he's a really great guy who's treating you right then don't break up with him, you idiot. There aren't rules here. You just do what feels right. And if you're so depressed you're almost catatonic – over a guy you broke up with – and you don't take that as some sort of sign about what actually feels right to you then you really are a bigger idiot than I have time for," she finished with bracing impatience.

  "But love isn't like this. It's . . . excitement. And uncertainty. It's this huge, passionate thing where you don't even feel like yourself-"

  "Sometimes, I guess. I mean for some people. And in Hollywood, maybe. And for people who are younger and don't really know what life is. They fall in love with something they imagine the other person to be. At our age you know something different. Like maybe you've spent a few years living with a person and you know it's about kindness and respecting him and him respecting you. It's having kids with him and loving him more because of how he loves these little people you love too. It's how well he knows you and accepts you and wants to be with you even when you're not pretending to be perfect. It's him sticking by you when things get rough and all you do is argue, because even when it doesn't feel like it, life is so much better together than apart. And actually it's how wonderful you feel to have this wonderful friend who just loves you and is there for you. Not uncertainty or being someone other than yourself. Just being you."

  "God. I've never had that before. Except maybe some of it with Luke. I don't . . . I don't know how to . . . What do I say to him?"

  "To Luke? If you're right and he loves you then all you probably have to say is 'Let's get back together.'"

  "I really hurt him. When I broke it off, I mean."

  "Well then you have to grovel, as much as he deserves, and never mind your dignity. Think of it as your punishment for putting rules and doing things 'right' over a good man's heart."

  "Wow. Ouch. You don't pull any punches."

  "I'm just helping you get ready for groveling. Just in case."

  "Thanks. Very thoughtful."

  "Anytime. You want me to drive you over there? I don't think you should be on the road right now, if you're still shaky from being an ice cube."

  "This probably isn't the best time to do this. I should wait until tomorrow."

  "Just do it. It won't be as bad as you imagine. In fact it will probably be fine. But I'll wait outside his place for while after I drop you off, just to be sure."

  "I don't even know if I have his address. I've never been to his home." But as she said it she thought of his little note stuck to the fridge. "Actually I do. And he will have finished work by now. I . . . okay. I should . . . I should get it over with." Her stomach churning viciously with a mixture of dread and excitement, she stood up, not certain if the next few hours would be wonderful or horrible. She had really treated him so badly. She had always had good intentions, always been honest until that final conversation, but still so certain they would never have any significant sort of relationship she had closed herself off.

  He had given freely of himself and she had never met him halfway, with the same generosity. Then she had cast him off as if she no longer had a use for him. She had used him like an object. She could just imagine-

  "Stop worrying so hard. You're going to make yourself sick," said Caroline, handed her a towel from the nearby railing, then walked out of the bathroom still talking. "Put on something pretty, and a little bit of makeup, then show up with some flowers. Like, seriously apologize, and ask to be taken back."

  She made it sound so easy but then she was not the one who had deliberately got pregnant and then kicked out the father of her child, who loved her and-

  "Stop thinking," called out Caroline in a sing song voice from the bedroom, and Felicity gathered herself, wrapped the towel around her and took up another one for her hair. She followed Caroline into her bedroom and found her friend rummaging diligently through her clothing. There were already some skimpy underpants and a bra on the bed. "This dress," said Caroline, triumphantly emerging with her choice thrust out in front of her.
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br />   It was a filmy, floaty little red number with the tags still attached, a lonely impulse buy she had not had the courage to wear yet. She looked at it, intimidated but also intrigued, opened her mouth to protest then shut it again.

  Caroline watched her face and when she saw there would be no argument she laid the dress on the bed with a stroke of satisfaction. "Perfect," she said. Then she came to sit on the Queen Anne chair. "Do you want me to leave you alone while you get ready?"

  "No, that's okay. I've been alone a lot lately. It's nice to have the company."

  It really was. It amazed her she had not seen the heavy wave of depression as it rolled over her, shut away by herself in the house, going out only briefly for work appointments where she went through the motions, burying herself in research and calculations at home and when she was done sitting staring blankly into space or sleeping.

  Boy, she had been completely submerged in sorrow and not letting herself acknowledge it at all. It was frightening how good she had become at shutting her emotional self down after all those years doing it with Dan. She had to take better care of herself.

  Particularly as it was not just her anymore.

  She gave her abdomen an apologetic pat, thinking 'sorry, little one,' for her foolish blindness. She would do better next time. Even if . . . even if Luke did not want to take a risk on her again – she imagined him turning away, his face closed, shutting the door in her face and tears rose up to sting the insides of her eyelids – even then she would not let herself get in a bad way like that again.

  She would take a cruise or go and see that counselor Caroline had recommended or do something to break out of that melancholic daze. She owed it to both of them, her and the baby, to take better care.

  When she had finished blow drying her hair she put on the underwear and dress – and Caroline said "Perfect," again – then her makeup. The instant she stood up from the stool at the dressing table, her friend was on her feet also, pulling car keys from the pocket of her jeans.

  "You don't need to stay after you drop me off," said Felicity. "I can just take a taxi home if he . . . if he doesn't . . ."

  "No way. I'll be fine. I've got my ebook reader. Believe me, a chance to sit and quietly read is a huge treat. You go in and have your little chat and just come out and tell me when you know everything's okay. Then I'll come back here and get busy in your craft room," she finished, rubbing her hands together with glee, the keys clanking quietly within her palms.

  "Alright, alright. As long as that's okay with you, it sounds like a plan."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  They drove in silence, Felicity too much on edge to talk and Caroline perhaps sensing her mood and giving her space. As they pulled up at the curb Felicity double-checked the address on the piece of notepaper in her perspiring hand.

  This was it.

  It was a tidy condo, nothing flashy. Functional. It made her think of his car. This was how he was then: sensible with money. Frugal, with good plans and follow-through. She admired that. She admired him. Oh, why had it taken her so long to see-

  "Good luck," said Caroline, and pulled her ebook reader from her handbag on the back seat of her large car where it was crammed in between toys, children's discarded clothes and food wrappers.

  Felicity got out of the car and walked to the door on unsteady legs. It was clean and well-presented, a new building four levels high. At the door was a keypad with a scroll button option. She pressed it until Luke's number came up, then hesitated with her finger on the bell button.

  Was this the right choice? She did not want to make another mistake, to hurt him again . . .

  But she did not want to be without him, either. She wanted him back, her passionate lover, her friend, her love.

  She rang the bell.

  It was a long, breathless twenty seconds before he answered, and she felt the shock of hearing his voice go through her, making her shiver. He sounded pleasant and calm, without that special warmth that had always curled through his tone. A warmth he kept just for her?

  "Hello?"

  "Hi Luke. It's me. Felicity. I'm downstairs."

  "Felicity . . . Hi," he said, now wary. He did not offer to come down, nor invite her up, and she cringed at everything that implied.

  Should she try telling him her feelings through the intercom? Maybe that was what he would prefer, and she did not want to intrude.

  But no, she could not bear to do that. Could not even really picture standing on the concrete bent over with her mouth to the receiver, trying to apologize or make a case for herself. To tell him she loved him. It was impossible.

  "Could I maybe come up?" she said, tentative. He did not speak again but after a pause there was the 'clunk' of the door release mechanism.

  Without further instructions she pushed it open and walked through into the plain cream-walled box of the atrium. The floor was granite and there was a single elevator. She pressed the button and the door slid open. Inside, hoping his number 4C would correspond to level four, she pushed that button. It lit up and the doors slid closed.

  She readjusted the strap of her shoulder bag, then tidied the arrangement of hellebores she carried from her garden, trying to make them perfect. Her heart was beating hard, so that she could almost feel the thump of it shake her chest. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, released it.

  The doors opened onto a carpeted hallway and she stepped out, scanned left, and saw him a few feet away, propping open a door with his body, his hands shoved in his back pockets, his head down, looking at the tips of his shoes.

  She stepped into the hallway and heard the elevator close behind her. Slowly, on heavy feet, she walked forward. He never looked up. Just stood there, his mouth set, his eyelashes forming half moons against his cheeks.

  She had no easy words. Eventually she held out the flowers, almost under his nose so she could be certain he saw them.

  "Luke? I wanted to say . . . I wanted to say I'm sorry."

  Now he tilted his head to one side to look at her out of the corners of his eyes. A measuring look, cool and unfriendly.

  "For what, exactly?" he asked.

  "For being . . . brutal. I shouldn't have said those things I said. I was afraid you would try and change my mind if I wasn't nasty and I . . . didn't think I could manage it if you did that."

  He frowned a little, his lips pressing together. "So. Flowers, huh? That's the proper thing to bring for an apology?"

  She took a deep breath and her head went up, her eyes narrowing. "I think so," she said after a moment. "I believe it's conventional. I want you to know I . . . take it seriously."

  "Oh, I know you take it seriously, Felicity. You take everything seriously." The cold tone turned it into an insult, and heat rose in her cheeks.

  "Maybe I do, and I'm sorry if you don't like it. Anyway I came to say I-" but she couldn't just say 'I love you,' looking at that closed face. There was a darkness about him, a power that made him seem menacing, a brooding big, bad man who was foreign to her, so different from her sunny Luke.

  "You what?" he said softly, and she thought she heard tiredness and maybe contempt in his voice and suddenly she really could not do this. She dropped the flowers on the floor and turned away, walked the short distance to the elevator and stabbed blindly at the button with her finger. It clanked and slid open.

  She stepped in and felt a big hand on her upper arm, holding it tightly, making her revolve towards him. He blocked the elevator door, kept it open. He bent towards her, his face close to hers, and she smelt the mint of freshly brushed teeth and a hint of soap, felt that broad palm on her arm, the controlled strength of him keeping her in place and she was torn, yearning yet afraid of what he might say, how he might hurt her feelings right now, so vulnerable did she feel and undefended.

  Oh, this was what love was too: the fear, the weapons one gave another person when one let them in. She mostly trusted Luke but she did not trust this stranger and it reminded her of another man
– a husband – who had been one man while courting her and become another when she did anything of which he disapproved.

  She stared up at him, transfixed, not thinking clearly but only wishing he would let her go so she could retreat.

  "Don't look at me like that!" he commanded and immediately she dropped her gaze to the floor, breathing hard, willing him to step away.

  Instead his hand slid down to clasp her own where it hung, cold and clammy, by her side. He gave it a tug, gently.

  "Come and talk to me," he said, and she still heard the tiredness there. Or was it tiredness? Maybe it was defeat. She looked at him under her brows and saw he was watching her and his eyes were sad, not hostile.

  Her hand drifted upwards to touch her mouth in uncertainty and he followed the gesture then as her index finger pressed against her lower lip his eyelids drooped and he turned away.

  "Come if you like," he said, sounding indifferent, and walked back to his door, left it ajar behind him.

  She stuck out a hand to stop the elevator from closing, took three deep breaths then stepped out into the hallway and followed him.

  He had picked up her flowers.

  As she walked over the threshold of his home she could not help but look around her. Even in this moment – when her focus was him – still she wanted to know him better, to understand this man who had sneaked up on her so deftly. It was easier, too, to look at the furniture and decor rather than him. Each time she put her eyes on him she had a disconcerting lurching feeling in her chest: joy and recognition and dread all rolled together in one fraught bundle of nerves.

  She had been so blind. So stupid and blind to think she could not love him. It seemed like the most teeming idiocy now, now when it was too late and the mistake was made.

  He sat at the dining table, staring at his hands clasped in front of him. The dining table itself was all glass and stainless steel. Simple, modern and masculine, like most of the furnishings. It looked like the home of a man who had a good eye for that which was straight-forward and well-designed. Nothing screamed money or ostentation. Everything was functional and the walls were bare. The flowers lay on the table.