The little thoughtful gestures, the things he does without having to be asked. She always thought he was perfect, even though she knows there’s no such thing as perfect.
Inhale. Exhale.
She slowly folds and rolls her clothes, feeling the texture of the fabric beneath her fingers. Yoga clothes, sundresses, bikinis, sarongs, shorts, vests.
Inhale. Exhale.
She notices the familiar smell of the fabric conditioner that she’s used for years, the one her mother used. She squeezes socks and underwear and sandals into stray corners of the suitcase.
Inhale. Exhale.
She remembers all the conversations she and Will have had about this retreat over the last few months – about whether or not she should do it. He constantly encouraged her, ignited that flame of excitement and adventure inside her that has helped her to feel alive again, told her how strong she is. Now she wonders if he wanted her out of the way.
Now she needs that strength more than ever.
Inhale. Exhale.
She picks up the small plush Piglet that sits by the side of her bed. She presses it to her face, the toy that will always remind her of everything she and Will have been through. Almost as an afterthought she puts it in her suitcase too. It feels as though she is leaving for longer than a week.
She pushes the suitcase lid down with the weight of her upper body and slides the zip around. Then she sits at the bottom of the bed and waits for her husband to come home.
For months after Mum died, I missed her so much. We’d spoken on the phone three or four times a week after I moved to London and to not have those conversations any more left me empty. I didn’t really know anyone in Cambridge then and, after Mum, I found myself living a quiet, isolated life. I went to work, I went to yoga, I watched TV, I read, I went to bed. And then the next day I would do it all over again. The days seemed endless, pointless, always seeming to require too much effort – as though I was walking through jam.
Until Will came along.
The first time Will stepped inside my house was a Sunday morning in February. It was one of those days when the sky is the colour of slate and the air completely still. One of those days when it’s bone-achingly cold. A typical East Anglian winter. Will turned up on my doorstep with champagne and eggs to cook me brunch. I hadn’t invited him.
He looked out of place in my tiny house – too big for the rooms – but he brought life and happiness and laughter to walls that hadn’t known anything but my sadness since I’d moved in.
Will had been slowly bringing me out of my shell. I don’t think he knew it at the time, but he was helping me rediscover who I was. I’d always thought of myself as somebody who wanted a big life, who wanted to travel, to drink champagne, to fall in love. Until I met Will I’d never even left the country. He brought me out of my chrysalis, let me spread my wings. He transformed me.
After we’d eaten the eggs and drunk the champagne he cleared the dishes. I sat on the kitchen counter and watched him as he slowly dried his hands, not taking his eyes off me. He was looking at me in that way that made me feel as though I was the only person in the world. And then he walked over to me and kissed me.
It wasn’t our first kiss. That had been in his car the previous Wednesday. Since the Christmas party we’d taken to going out for dinner on Wednesdays. I don’t know why it was always Wednesdays; I don’t know why he never asked to see me at the weekend. When he kissed me the first time I pulled away before it turned into anything. I didn’t want to be that person. I didn’t want to be the secretary who sleeps with her boss and then afterwards, when everything gets awkward, has to leave.
I saw the fleeting look of disappointment cross his face as I pulled away, before he composed his features again. He had no idea how much willpower it had taken for me to do that. Neither of us had known where to look since it happened, our eyes sliding quickly over each other at work, not sure whether to say anything, not sure what to do.
But that Sunday morning in my kitchen when Will’s lips found mine, my willpower deserted me. I knew I couldn’t pull away again. I let him kiss me; I let him slide his hands down my back, finding the gap between my jeans and my top. I ran my fingers through his hair, wrapped my legs around his waist, pulled him closer.
‘I want you so much,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘Can I take you to bed?’
Afterwards we lay together, our foreheads against each other, limbs entwined, breathing each other in. I didn’t know what this was; I didn’t know where this was going. He was my boss. He was eight years older than me. This had disaster written all over it.
I moved away from him a little so I could see him properly. He lay with his eyes closed, those impossibly long eyelashes brushing his cheeks. Those eyelashes were wasted on a man.
‘Will,’ I said quietly. He blinked his eyes open and I watched his lips curve into a smile. His hand traced the bones of my spine.
‘I can’t do this,’ I said.
‘I think you already have,’ he replied. He was still smiling.
‘I can’t be the secretary who sleeps with her boss. I can’t afford to lose my job. I’m so sorry, Will – I should have stopped this before now. We need to stop this.’
He propped himself up on his elbow. ‘I can’t stop,’ he said. ‘I’m falling in love with you.’
I hadn’t been expecting that. I stared at him. I’d been trying to stop myself falling in love with him since the Christmas party.
‘I thought this was just—’ I began.
‘This isn’t just anything,’ he interrupted. ‘Well, not for me it isn’t. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to feel like this again. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to trust anyone else after my wife left me.’
‘But—’ I hadn’t known his wife had left him. I’d always assumed he left her. I was surprised to realise that during all those lunches, all those dinners, he’d never talked about his wife.
‘I know you’re my secretary,’ he interrupted. ‘I know that makes this a bit … complicated, but I wondered if you’d be my girlfriend?’ He smiled, pulled me a little closer. ‘Sorry that sounded really corny. But will you?’
‘I thought you just wanted …’
‘Just wanted what? To shag my secretary?’ He shook his head. ‘No, not my style.’
‘So why was it always Wednesdays? Why did you never ask to see me at the weekends before now?’
He laughed then, gently. ‘Because I thought you’d have better things to do at the weekends than be with me. Until last week I didn’t think I had a chance with you in a million years.’
‘Even after what I said at Christmas?’
‘I thought that was just the wine talking,’ he said quietly. ‘I didn’t want to take advantage.’
I
