Now and again Pete interrupted but only to clarify events for himself. Mostly he just listened, nodding when she sought reassurance, echoing her sense of shock when things had been most critical. When she had finished he hugged her again. ‘I’ve never been so scared,’ he admitted.
‘Well, I’m here now.’ She drew back. ‘In one piece, more or less. He was wound up that tight, Pete, I should have taken more time to calm him down.’
‘Christ, Janine, you’re not blaming yourself?’
‘No, just figuring out what I’d do different.’
‘Next time?’ His face grew pale, a sign of anger.
‘No! Possibly! But he wasn’t there trying to hurt me – he was giving himself up.’
‘I don’t want there to be a next time,’ Pete said. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’ He squeezed her hand.
‘Me neither,’ she tried to smile. It was late, she was spent. Battered physically and emotionally. Janine took another swig. ‘You’d better go.’
‘Yeah?’ His voice suddenly softer. His eyes were burning into hers. He wasn’t just asking about this evening.
There was a pause. Janine’s stomach flipped over. It would be so easy to just give in, to feel his arms around her. The familiar smell of him, the feel of his lips, the shorthand of communication that they’d built over all the years. But when she tried to imagine Pete actually coming back, back in the house, back in her bed, she couldn’t. He’d hurt her, so very deeply, the last year had been the hardest in her life. Any love she had for him now was tainted by that.
‘I can’t… we can’t go back. I couldn’t…’ What? She thought. Do it, trust you, face it going wrong again – all of the above? ‘… after everything… it’s too late…’
‘The kids…’
‘We’ve still got the kids, Pete. We’re lucky.’
His face fell, he twisted away, then back. For a moment she thought he might argue with her but instead he just said, ‘I’m sorry. Oh, Janine, I’m sorry.’ She could hear the passion in his apology, his voice cracking. She believed him. He really was sorry. So was she. But sorry didn’t make it all better.
Then he held her again and she squeezed her eyes tight to contain the tears and wished for the thousandth time that they could turn the clock back. That things could be as they were, that he’d never cheated on her, left her, ruined it all.
When he had gone she ran a shower, washing her hair and her body, turning the water very hot until she was breathless, then a shot of cold. She pulled on comfortable clothes, towelled her hair dry Then, with exquisite bad timing, Charlotte woke up.
