All characters are the property of Glenn Chandler, ITV and SMG Productions. No copyright infringement intended. Title is from Rimbaud and summaries are courtesy of The Indigo Girls. Please send feedback.

A Season In Hell

Isabelle Kennedy

I.

The evil ego and the vice of pride

Is there ever anything else that makes us take our different sides?

Idly, you watch the leaves on the trees fade into autumn, all intense colours and blurred edges. >From green to gold to rust in the space of a fortnight. When you were little, you try to stop them from changing - gathering the fallen leaves up in great bundles and bringing them inside, as if the warmth of the house could prevent nature from taking its course. Your mother never said anything, not even when the dampness sunk into the floorboards and the leaves died, turned mouldy.

You have been fighting with him for a long time now. Too long, really, for you to remember what triggered the argument. Just that it has been almost constant from the day you met, nearly five years ago. The realisation that it has been so long frightens you, as if time is suddenly rushing past, even though it’s well over thirty years since you were that child, gathering leaves in the Govanhill streets. Sometimes it feels like you’ve known him forever and, at other times, as if you hardly know him at all. But you’ve been fighting with him long enough for others to tire of the games that you, consciously or unconsciously, play with each other. Circling, seeing how far you can push and then stepping back before you tumble into some kind of resolution.

Because you don’t hate him, not in the way that you’ve hated others: there’s no real disgust or loathing in your words. You hate him for being right, for never doing things by the book, for making you feel like you’re less good at your job because you don’t take the same risks. You hate him for moving on and forgetting about Michael, about tango halls in Gourock and nights that you could have, should have crossed that line. You hate him for not forgetting that you’re married, however empty those words may seem now.

And, in your mind, you know that you should stop fighting. But, after all this time, you aren’t sure that you know how.

*

During the Budge Kirwell case, the tension between you is tangible. You are sitting at your computer, eyes shielded against the sharp winter sun, typing out witness statements when he storms out of Burke’s office.

“Nice one, Jackie,” he snaps, face contorted into an ugly scowl. “Thanks a bunch.”

You turn to face him, eyes narrow, pretending that you haven’t been listening to their argument.

“Don’t blame me for this.”

“No, you never slip up, do you?”

“We all make mistakes, but that’s not the issue here,” you say, standing up, hands clenched into fists.

He crosses the room so fast that you restrain yourself from taking an instinctive step backwards.

“Let’s have the benefit of your wisdom, then. What is the issue here?”

You look at him with barely disguised contempt for his personal attack, for his attempt to intimidate you.

“Not dealing with your mistake. Trying to pretend that it doesn’t matter, that you can charm your way around it.”

He looks around the room, everywhere but your face.

“Robbie, you can’t do your job if you think that the rules apply to everyone but you.”

“Oh, save the speeches for the promotion board, will you?”

Burke exits his office, face clouded with anger and you choke off your reply, instead wondering when you became such an anathema to him.

“Tell Mr Campbell he’s free to go. The Fiscal thinks he might get away with it, but he’s not going to take the risk of another public bollocking from the bench. And that’s a direct quote, by the way.”

Robbie’s eyes are dark. “I’ll tell you something about rules, Jackie. Some people think that they’re for the guidance of wise men and the obedience of fools.”

You watch him walk away.

“And that’s a direct quote, by the way.”

Burke returns to his office, slamming the door hard enough to make the blinds shake. You are glad that you triumphed over Robbie. But you feel too much pleasure at that small success: more than professional pride, this thing between you has become a battle of wills, the victory of ego over rational judgement. It is less about the natural give and take of a partnership than the desperate struggle for approval. And you think that maybe Burke has noticed, is using it to his own advantage. Because it makes you work harder, certainly, even though it is neither healthy nor the way that you do your job.

*

Yet, that evening, you join Robbie and Stuart when they go for their drink. It’s not that they didn’t invite you, but inexplicably, you feel like the third wheel, like an unwanted extra. If you are truthful, then this is how Stuart must feel at times: an audience to the complex, intimate drama between you and Robbie. The bar is small, not exactly a gay bar, but people turn and watch as you enter. Their eyes rake the two men appreciatively and you realise that you’re unused to this little male attention. But Stuart is only aware of Robbie; you suppose that he’s always had a slight crush on him, has perhaps hero-worshipped him. You don’t think that Robbie realises this, you aren’t even sure if Stuart does, but know that he’d probably be slightly horrified if he did.

Robbie slides your wine across the glass table, sits opposite you, knees brushing yours in the enclosed space. You didn’t ask him for a drink and part of you feels annoyed at his presumption, but you know that this is a clumsy attempt at an apology. You are aware that you were, in the main, a receptive target for his frustration, for his anger at the misjudgement, but you can’t pretend that his words didn’t hurt. And, although you’ve forgiven him, you won’t apologise for your response. You’ll apologise for saying it in anger, in front of others, but you won’t pretend that you didn’t mean it.

Later, Stuart leans against the bar, talking to a stranger in a suit, who is waving his hands around, animatedly, drunkenly. It is unnerving to see him like this, poised and controlled – you are too used to seeing him as a colleague. Someone has switched on the jukebox, its garish neon plastic incongruous with the sleek glass of the bar and loud music fills the air. Robbie taps his fingers on the table in time with the beat and you lean over, try to speak over the noise, exaggerating the words on your lips.

“Stuart seems to be enjoying himself.”

“Well, I’m glad someone is,” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear. “Because I’m not.”

You arch an eyebrow, speaking with slow deliberation, alcohol making you bolder. “I never would’ve guessed.”

He scowls slightly and you look back over in Stuart’s direction, the colours blending, blurring into a psychedelic haze. The drumming of Robbie’s fingers on the glass sharpens your vision, your entire consciousness now focused on the slow tapping. You try to ignore the sound, but you’re too aware of him for that. Eventually, you reach across the table and fold his fingers in your hand, stilling his movements.

He looks up in surprise. You can feel the power of his grip, the muscles shifting beneath the surface, the skin rough, calloused in places and undeniably, overwhelmingly masculine. You freeze, paralysed by the foolishness of your actions. Then his thumb gently strokes your hand, drawing small circles on your heated skin and you attempt to jerk your arm away. But he is too strong; his nails graze sensuously over your palm, fingers threading through yours and holding you tightly.

You are flushed, aware that the conflict between you is as much about sexual attraction as ego and pride. It is evident in the glares, the angry words and the lingering glances between: something that you don’t talk about and never act upon. Except that you aren’t sure how much longer you can continue this stalemate, how much longer you can circle the issue without tumbling wildly out of control. You are positive that it has been too long, certain that something must give.

With a supreme effort, you wrench your hand free and push back your stool. Then you walk away, out of the bar and never look back.

*

You go home to your husband. He is sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee under the strip lighting, pretending that he isn’t waiting for you. You don’t tell him where you were, instead tell yourself that it’s nothing to do with him, but you don’t believe that, not really. You aren’t sure that he does, either. He isn’t stupid. You stand behind him, arms draped over his shoulders and look out at the tiny garden, shrouded in darkness.

“Good day?” he asks, kissing the inside of your elbow through the cloth.

“Not really.”

He doesn’t press you to elaborate and you remember why you married him. He never forced the issue, never pushed too far, never wanted to complicate things further. And you do love him. Just not in the way that you’d imagined it would be. He doesn’t make you angry, doesn’t frustrate or exasperate you. He doesn’t provoke those feelings, which are, for you, the contrary side of lust, passion and desire. You do love him, but you aren’t sure whether it is enough anymore.

*

That one moment with Robbie has coalesced all your confusion and anger and frustration into an undeniable conclusion. But you aren’t ready to admit it yet, not willing to act upon it and so you avoid him. Even fighting is too dangerous, your emotions too volatile for any sort of rational judgement. Instead, you take your frustration out on others – snapping at Sheila and even Stuart, when you know he is perfectly capable of doing his job.

You are sure that Robbie is doing the same. The interview with Elaine Walker, you are fairly certain, was one of flirtatious glances and innuendo on his part, the kind that he used to employ on female suspects. Nothing ever happens; you’d like to think he’s not that foolish, but you imagine that it’s more down to the judgement of the women. You are used to this, aware of his weaknesses. And, like Michael, you see them for what they really are and dismiss them with a wry smile, but Burke is more suspicious and, despite yourself, you want to warn Robbie to be more careful.

You avoid him, but you know that you’re merely treading water, head above the waves while you try not to drown.

II.

After the battle and we’re still around

Everything once up in the air has settled down

Christmas arrives suddenly, with a layer of snow and the air is biting cold, the sky an endless horizon of steel grey. You know that you should feel festive, but you can’t summon up any enthusiasm for the occasion. This Christmas will be very different from the last. And you’re aware that Robbie feels the same, understand that this isn’t a holiday he likes to celebrate. But you’ve never asked him why; there are still some boundaries that neither of you are ready to cross yet.

On New Year’s Eve, your house is full of people you don’t know and others that you’re trying to avoid. The party was Brian’s idea and, although you’d rather not be reminded of your limited social life, you couldn’t think of a good enough reason to refuse. Someone has moved your furniture aside in order to create an impromptu stage and you wince at the music playing, even as others dance. There are glasses, both empty and half-full, scattered around the room and decorations hang precariously from the ceiling.

Even though you should be acting as the hostess, you lean back against the wall and drink your wine. Hiding in the shadows, you watch Robbie and wonder why he came. He looks over, watches you watching him and smiles. A temporary truce, erected for the season of goodwill. And then he approaches you slowly, but still with a purpose.

“Do you want to dance?” he asks quietly, moving onto dangerous territory.

You shake your head.

“Not really.”

He laughs then, surprised. “Neither do I.”

And so you stand in silence, aware of his presence, close enough to hear his breathing, despite the noise. The television is on and, against the backdrop of the screen, the countdown starts. When it reaches zero, the noise inside the house is almost deafening. Robbie shifts beside you, turns and you look up. His hand brushes your cheek and then he kisses you softly, for an instant. It is so gentle that you think you might have imagined it, until you look into his eyes. You’re sure that it went unnoticed in the midst of celebration, know that it’s too much of a cliché.

But you weren’t kissing your husband at midnight and you aren’t sure what that means.

*

The New Year has made you more comfortable with each other; you’re able to work together without engaging in petty personal arguments. And you remember what it was like to be his friend, to be someone with whom he could relax, rather than continually guard his behaviour. Yet it was never entirely artless, never really that careless, because the sexual attraction has always been there. He has always treated you differently; whether that is a product of his sense of chivalry, you’re not sure, but he has never pretended, as others do, that you aren’t female. Not that he treats you as an inferior or uses his charm as a weapon, but instead you know that his idle flirtations are for you only.

Indeed, the almost palpable tension between the entire team seems to have dissipated. You can’t remember the last time that the four of you had a drink together. You remember that it was a part of Burke’s early command, when he was trying to gain the understanding and trust of his officers, but it soon waned. Occasionally, you and Robbie go out with Stuart, but those are becoming rarer now since Stuart tends not to live for his job in the way that you both do.

You think that Burke might suspect the true nature of the tension between you and Robbie. Although he isn’t aware of the full details, you think he knows enough to realise that your relationship is more complex than you present it to be. But he is not the type of boss to condemn it outright or question the morality of your personal decisions. Yet you don’t want to be like Tara Fisher, whose success in the field of scientific research will always be haunted by the spectre of involvement with her boss. You don’t want to be known as a woman who screwed her inspector in order to gain a promotion. And that’s what people would say, even if he means more to you than that, even if you’re actually capable of having an intelligent opinion without it being fucked into you.

And you aren’t sure how much longer this temporary truce can last; there’s too much history, too much passion, too much left unsaid for you to just paper over the cracks and continue.

III.

Sweep the ashes let the silence find us

A moment of peace is worth every war behind us

It is the middle of January now, the middle of winter. The ground is frozen beneath your feet and your breath is like smoke in the morning air. It is twelve months now since Michael died. Yet the distance of a year hasn’t helped any; you still think about him, about what happened, every day. Not with affection or nostalgia, though, not yet. You are still angry with him for dying, angry with a God in whom you don’t believe, angry with your husband for his inability to understand.

You’ve only visited Michael’s grave once, just after he had been buried. The earth was raw, almost scarred and it didn’t feel like him at all. You’d rather remember him when he was alive; remember the memories instead of his decaying flesh in the cold earth. But you can’t allow yourself, can’t afford to remember him properly, either at home or at work, so you bury your feelings in your job instead and pretend that it doesn’t matter.

And you can see that Robbie is doing the same; at work, he is abrupt and short-tempered, but rather than providing some sort of comfort, you push him until he snaps. You aren’t sure why; you’re aware that picking those old scars isn’t healthy, but you can’t help it, even though you certainly don’t want to force him into revealing truths that you’d rather keep hidden.

*

The night is so dark that the windows are like mirrors, reflecting the room back on itself and you’re the only people left in the office. He sits motionless at his desk and you can’t help but gaze at the shadow of stubble on his chin. You can tell that he is tense, his nerves stretched so taut that you feel like you’re walking on a tightrope of emotion. One false move and you’ll both come crashing into the crowds below.

“You still working?”

He shrugs, shoulder blades sharp through the lines of his suit.

“I’ve nothing better to do.”

“The boss told us to go home an hour ago,” you say, reaching for your coat.

“And, of course, you always listen to him.”

His voice is bitter, acidic and you recall how much you dislike him when he’s like this.

“What do you mean?” you ask, your chest tightening with apprehension.

His face is set and his words calculated to hurt. “You’re so far up his arse that I’m surprised you even remember Mike existed.”

You realise how far apart you’ve actually grown, that he wants to hurt you like this. How close you still are, that he’s the only one who can.

“Fuck you, Robbie.”

*

You meant to go home. You’d walked out on him, intended to go home to your husband, but somehow you find yourself walking down his street an hour later. You know that, one way or another, this thing between you will be resolved tonight. You watch the streetlight, flickering in time with your racing heartbeat and then knock on his door. He answers, drink in hand, not drunk exactly but enough to dull his reactions slightly.

You speak before he can, the words tripping over themselves in your haste to be heard. “I can’t go on feeling like this.”

His face is inscrutable. “I’m not making you.”

And he isn’t because this delay, this prevarication, has been all about you. You’ve never asked him what he wants, there’s never been a time when you haven’t known. So you kiss him hard, sliding your tongue over the roof of his mouth. This is nothing like New Year; this is raw and real and delicious. He tastes of whisky, faintly and of sex, of seduction.

He sets his drink aside, a little of the liquid spilling onto the windowsill. The hallway is dark, faint moonlight visible through the window, casting shadows over the floor. He pushes your coat from your shoulders, fingers grazing your breasts through the fabric, making you hiss with impatience. He is no longer wearing a tie and the collar of his shirt is open; your hands tremble ever so slightly as you undo the remaining buttons. Then he pulls off your jumper and the static lifts your hair, but you’re too aroused to care. His hands feel like ice on your exposed skin and you shiver, only partly because of the temperature. You undo the buckle of his belt, unzipping his trousers, before you can change your mind and realise what a monumentally stupid idea this is.

Then you gasp as he lifts you onto the stairs, high enough so that you’re facing him. He drops to his knees, parting your bare thighs with cold fingers. The tip of his tongue traces words and phrases and your hands are in his hair, legs resting on his shoulders, ankles crossed against his neck. When you come, it is with a sharp shudder and a small sigh, which convey nothing of what you really feel. He stands, kisses you softly and you can taste yourself on his lips. Then he presses you back until you’re lying against the stairs, elbows tucked into the groove and calves locked around his waist as he slides inside you.

You aren’t exactly comfortable; your back scrapes painfully on the rough fabric, but that soon begins to matter less as his hand glides between your bodies. You circle his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, flattening your breasts against his chest, pushing yourself deeper into him. You are both flushed and sweaty, legs cramped in the awkward position, but he moves faster, his face pressed into the curve of your throat. Then you inhale harshly, arching your back and clutching his shoulders as your muscles spasm uncontrollably. He thrusts erratically several times, his breathing shallow, before doing the same.

Then your hands stroke his back absently as he whispers sweet nothings that, in the darkness, sound like everything.

*

You wake just before dawn, when the pale morning light is barely over the horizon and the sun has not yet emerged. You’re lying in his bed, the covers pulled haphazardly over your naked body and your clothes are still strewn across his hallway. His hand rests, almost proprietarily, on the curve of your hip and his chest is warm against your back. You listen to his breathing, which is slightly irregular, feeling his upper body rise and fall.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough,” he whispers.

You move, the mattress creaking softly under your weight. “I should leave.”

He kisses your neck, hands spread across your stomach. “Aye.”

And you know that you ought to pull away, that you’ve done enough damage already. Instead, you arch your neck and kiss him lazily, mouth half-open and his hands tighten on your waist, drawing you over, pulling your hips into his. Then they glide up across your ribcage, over your breasts and you tangle your legs between his. You’re facing him, mouths only inches apart but not touching. His breath is warm against your cheek and he nudges your thighs apart with his knee. You loop one leg over his waist, not breaking your gaze as he presses into you, inside you.

This is gentle, unhurried, a complete contrast to the night before. He moves slowly, almost languidly, his hips rocking into yours. And you respond in kind, clenching your muscles around him in a rhythmic pattern. Your breathing hitches and you shift until you’re straddling him, knees pressed into his side. His eyes widen in surprise, but he continues to stroke your back tenderly. Moving deliberately, steadily, you watch his face as his hands grasp your thighs and he thrusts up harder. His face contorts in apparent agony and then smoothes out in pure innocent pleasure, his movements stilling entirely. And then you’re coming, not as hard as before, but the feeling still washes over you like waves in the ocean. He closes his eyes for a moment, then tugs you down against his body and you can hear his heart pounding deep inside his chest, in time with your own.

You lay there, cheek pressed against his collarbone and wonder how much things have actually changed. That, just because you’ve ended all this frustration, all this repressed sexual tension, it doesn’t mean that your life will be any simpler or that it was the right course of action. Only that now you have nothing else on which to blame your feelings of anger or exasperation.

*

The roads are busy with early morning traffic on your way home and the air is cold enough to make your eyes sting; tears leaking and dampening your eyelashes. The sharp winter sun bathes your house in a harsh glare and it is quiet, almost too calm. You feel as if you’re waiting for an explosion that you know will never happen.

You open the door, walk down the chilly hallway and fill the kettle, watching the steam rise from the lip.

“Where were you last night?”

And you wonder what you’re going to say to your husband, what you’re going to tell him.

“You scared me,” you say, trying for levity.

His voice is serious. “Jackie.”

Then you wonder if you need to tell him anything.

“You know where I was.”

There is silence and you didn’t realise that it would be so simple, so fast. He doesn’t react with anger; he’s not like that, he never does. And suddenly, you feel the need to provoke him, a cruel desire to hurt him.

“I slept with him. I fucked Robbie.”

His eyes reflect both sorrow and disappointment, but you know he is not that surprised.

“I see.”

And you don’t know where you’re going to go from here.

IV.

A bed to be made and a bed to lie in

A hand in the darker side and our sights set on Zion

It is February now and the winter snow is just a faint memory; the only reminders are the greying slush and a constant, penetrating drizzle. You’re aware that your marriage is disintegrating. You’re stuck in limbo; too scared to leave your husband, because you don’t know for whom you’ll be leaving him and he is still pretending that, if he can forget about what happened with Robbie, then you should too. And you admire him for his commitment to your marriage, admire his love for you and only wish that he were right. But you aren’t convinced, mainly because you don’t know if you’re prepared for Robbie to be simply an aberration.

And although it’s not your decision to make, you do know that in order to work out what you want, you need some distance, especially from him. Because, instead of ending all the frustration and anger and sexual tension, you realise that it has just only begun.

The situation between you and Robbie is strained, in part, because you’re too scared to face the consequences of your actions. While part of you thinks that he expects something you can’t give, the other is worried that he doesn’t. And it never occurred to you that you’d forget how to act around him. You didn’t realise that you would look at him and not remember how close you usually stand, what your body language is like, what tone of voice you normally use. You certainly didn’t consider that, in your overwhelming desire to hide your emotions, you would manage to destroy any form of real communication between the two of you.

*

The hallway is deserted and you’re aware that you should go home, but you know that it won’t be any easier there. The doors open and Robbie walks through, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly when he sees you.

He stops you, hand against the wall and you feel like an animal, trapped in place.

“Do you want to go for a drink tonight?” he asks, face close to yours.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

You see his hand tense, as white as the plaster on the wall. “Look, Jackie, if you want to forget what happened…”

“It’s not that simple,” you say, realising how weak your words sound, but unwilling to give him anymore. “It’s just too difficult at the moment.”

“It always is, isn’t it? It’s always about what you want, never about me.”

Your voice is sharp. “I know what you want, Robbie.”

He looks at you, eyes hard. “I don’t think that you ever did.”

And, this time, you watch as he walks away from you.

*

You start to spend more time at work, surrounded by your casefiles and witness statements and even lonelier than you were before. It is dark when you arrive at the office and dark when you leave. You know that Burke is concerned by your excessive workload, but he is too much of an old-fashioned policeman ever to enquire about your personal life. Although Stuart is naturally less restrained, even he doesn’t pry, but just sends you concerned glances occasionally.

You leave your husband when you realise that you haven’t gone home before ten in the evening for the last five days and you haven’t exchanged words for longer than that. In truth, you know it isn’t that simple, but it is symptomatic of the problems between you. If you can’t talk to him and he can’t trust you, then you have nothing. It isn’t even as simple as suddenly ceasing to love him. You still do, in a way, but instead of that not being enough to sustain your marriage, you aren’t sure whether it was ever the foundation. It is as simple as the discovery that he doesn’t make you happy and you certainly don’t make him happy; that is reason enough to leave him, that you married the wrong person. Not that Robbie would have been the right person; you’re not sure if you can make him happy either.

V.

Everybody loves a melodrama

And the scandal of a lie

It’s early March before you tell anyone; it feels like months have passed, but it has only been a fortnight. The flat that you’re renting is pleasant enough, but the silence is a shock. It’s been two years since you’ve lived alone and you find yourself missing strange things, such as lying in bed, listening to the shower run and the door being unlocked when you return from work. But you don’t regret your decision, not really; it hurts, but not as much as you think it should.

But when it comes to telling Robbie, all your carefully constructed sentences fail and you simply blurt the words out.

“I’ve left Brian.”

To your surprise, he just nods. And you want to say that you left Brian for him, but that’s too melodramatic and not even the truth.

“Are you sure?”

You look at him. “I never do things that I’m not sure about.”

He starts to reply, but then Stuart walks over.

“What’s happened?”

You take a deep breath. “Brian and I have decided to separate.”

“Jackie, I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time coming.”

“But still…”

“I know,” you say, aware that he’s truly upset.

*

It is not until much later that you approach Robbie again. You feel your stomach churn and then chastise yourself for acting like the fifteen year old that you never were.

“What?” he asks, not unkindly.

“Will you come home with me tonight?”

He knows what you’re asking, knows how much it took for you to ask it.

“Yes.”

And it’s a beginning. You don’t know if you can make him happy, but you know that you want to try.

VI.

I wanted everything to feed me

About as full as I got was of myself

And the upper echelons of mediocrity

And yet it’s always a beginning, no matter how many months pass. You realise that this thing between you has become a habit; you’re repeating a pattern rather than conducting a relationship. It’s not real, not permanent because you’re both too insecure and too scared of rejection to admit to anything more than lust.

Not that it was necessarily so bad at first. The passion that Robbie invoked in you was a revelation after two years of your comfortable marriage and, at the beginning, you were more than happy to explore it. Yet, you soon realised that you were talking less than you ever did before. Indeed, the only place that you communicated was in bed; there you could read his thoughts, mirror his movements and understand his actions.

And you’re too old to believe that sexual compatibility is a secure basis for a relationship.

You wonder if the reluctance that you feel is residual guilt from the way you treated Brian. You’re aware that he didn’t deserve it and that you didn’t deserve him; you know that he is a good man, a kind man. You married him, really, because he was gentle and thoughtful and you were scared of being alone. And Robbie is none of these things and you wonder if you are either.

You’ve never wanted a traditional life. If you had, then you would never have joined the police force. You don’t want two-point-four children and a white picket fence; that sort of conformity to social expectation fills you with abject horror. You’ve seen too many of your friends trapped in their thankless lives to think that there really is a happy ending somewhere.

You never wanted a traditional life, you just aren’t sure that you want this.

VII.

The heart and mind on a parallel course

Never the two shall meet

It’s nearly spring now, warmer than before and you’ve been watching him all day, hoping that no one else has noticed. You assume that you’ll be going to his flat, although you never leave work together. You wonder if anyone suspects what is happening between you and Robbie and then you wonder if they’ll even care.

He is slightly rough, holding your hands above your head and pushing you against the wall when he kisses you, but you don’t mind. You stumble onto the sofa, shedding your clothes as you go and forgetting to turn on the lights. For a while, you can stop thinking about your problems and pretend that this is the only thing that matters.

His hands skim over your breasts and then he lowers his head, his tongue warm on your skin. You squirm against him, your legs pressed against his and your hands tangled in his hair. And his mouth trails lower, pressing kisses down your navel, but you push him away and slide down his body instead. You fingers fumble with his zip in the awkward position, the metal teeth opening excruciatingly slowly. Then your lips close around him and his hands stroke your cheeks, imprinting the lazy swirls onto your skin. As you move your head, his fingers glide into your hair and pressing almost painfully into your scalp, but you hardly notice.

Soon, his hands grip your shoulders and pull you up, so that you’re lying on your side, facing him. He kisses you slowly, hand sliding across your stomach and inside you, as his tongue darts over your lips. His fingers curve upwards, pressing against your sensitive flesh and you arch up involuntarily. Before long, you’re coming hard against his hand, lifting your body against him. Then he presses into you, shifting until he is lying over you, bracing his weight on the arm of the sofa. He moves, slowly at first and then faster; you fold your legs over his thighs, pulling him deeper inside you. His breathing is harsh against your neck when he comes, but his hands are soft on your skin. Afterwards, you want to tell him that you love him, but it’s too melodramatic and you aren’t sure whether it’s the truth.

And you realise that this is the opposite of your marriage; the ruling passion that you craved, without any stability. You just want to find some middle ground, but you aren’t sure if that’s possible. So, instead, you bury yourself in this all-consuming lust and struggle on.

You know that you want him, you just aren’t sure if you’re really making him happy.

*

You lie in his bed, sheet pooled around your waist, watching the silhouetted shadows dance across the bedroom ceiling. You can hear his breathing, loud in the stillness of the room, but he doesn’t speak. The gap between your bodies is cold and it feels like forever rather than a few feet.

“Robbie?” you ask, half hoping that he won’t reply.

“Yes?”

You sit up against the headboard, pull the covers over your breasts, listen to the sound of traffic.

“This is ridiculous. I’m miserable like this.”

He doesn’t speak for several moments.

“So am I.”

You look away. “I don’t think I can do it anymore.”

And you want him to disagree, to tell you what you want to hear, but you know that he’s waiting for you to do the same.

“I’m not sure it’s worth it,” he says quietly.

But you both know that it is and yet you’re too scared to admit it.

*

Idly, you watch the trees flourish in the spring; the leaves are a startling shade of green against the pure white of the blossom. It seems like many more months than it was since you saw them darken and die with the onset of autumn. When you were a child, spring was your favourite time of year. It was the season of hope, prosperity and the promise of a future in the long, endless summer to come.

You have been fighting the truth for a long time now. Too long, really, for you to remember why you can’t admit it, to yourself and to him. Just that you’ve spent too long cultivating a mask for your vulnerability to simply cast it aside now. It’s so deeply ingrained that you can’t let him see it, even though you think that he probably knows you better and understands you more than anyone else.

Because you don’t really hate him, you never did; there was always too much passion in your words. You hate him for always forcing the issue, always pushing too far, always complicating things further. You hate him for making you angry, for frustrating and exasperating you, for provoking too many conflicting emotions. You hate him because it’s taken too long to realise that in saying it, you really meant the opposite.

And, in your mind, you know that you should tell him. But, after all this time, you aren’t sure that you know how.

Finis.