Coming Down (5 page)

“
You don’t usually drink this much. Not recently, anyway.”

“
I don’t usually have to sit next to Niall Joseph.” I regret the words as soon as they escape from my lips. Lara angles her head to the left, scrutinising me through sober eyes. I fidget beneath her gaze.

“
What’s going on, Beth?”

I glance across at Niall. He
’s talking to a friend of Alex’s. He looks so comfortable, so easy-going. He has this aura about him that draws you in. Luckily, he’s far enough away from me to talk about him without him overhearing.

“
I’m fucked,” I admit, resting my head in my palms.

“
What’s going on between you two?”

“
Nothing.” I laugh harshly. “Not now.”

Her eyes widen.
“When? Did something happen at the clinic?”

I shake my head. I
’m not trying to be enigmatic, I’m just finding it hard to get the right words. “Before. At university.”

Lara
knows my history. She knows me. “Niall? He’s the one who...” Her voice trails off. She doesn’t need to say anything else, we both know the rest of her sentence. I nod my head vigorously. She lifts up her glass and downs the remains of her Coke. “Oh shit.”

I follow suit and finish my fourth bottle of Peroni.
The beer’s grown warm where it’s been standing for a while, but I swallow it anyway. I like the buzzed feeling it gives me; it’s so much better than panic and nervousness.

“
Why didn’t you say something before?” Lara hisses. “You should have told me.”

“
I thought I could handle it.”

“
But you can’t. Not on your own. That whole situation, the memories, the feelings. Oh, Beth...” She trails off again as Alex walks over and kisses her, biting her lip as if she’s afraid to say anything. From the way the rest of the guys are laughing with Niall, they have no clue what’s happening here. I’d like to keep it that way.

“
Later.” I promise. The way she looks at me tells me she’s going to hold me to that.

The party car
ries on into the night. We’re thrown out of the bar at one in the morning, and find ourselves walking back to Lara and Alex’s flat. Even in the early hours the city seems alive, the streets pumped with energy and expectation. Alex and Lara have gone ahead in the van carrying the band’s instruments, leaving me with a few of their friends... and Niall Joseph. He’s wearing a slate-grey hoodie, zipped to the neck, along with faded jeans and Nike Airs. It seems strange to look at him and know that I was once in love with this guy, that I spent hours beneath him and on top of him and beside him. Sometimes we were so high we couldn’t work out which body part belonged to whom.

“
How did you end up working at the clinic?” he asks.

“
I started as a volunteer. Then I was lucky enough to be offered a job. It doesn’t pay much but I love it.” I shrug. I can’t even be bothered to pretend I don’t know him anymore. I’m too drunk for that.

“
I guess you don’t need the money—with a rich husband and all.” His word sting. I look up at him in confusion. He’s staring down at me with those narrow eyes again.

“
I didn’t marry him for his money,” I reply.

“
So why did you?”

The others have moved farther ahead. We are lagging behind. I find myself shrinking away from him.
“Because Simon takes care of me. He’ll never hurt me, he loves me.” I don’t need to add anything else; the implication is there. He’s everything that Niall wasn’t. Back when I needed him the most.

When he needed me.

“You’ve just told me why he married you. Not why you married him.” His voice is almost too soft. I have to strain to hear it. “That summer, God, Beth. Everything changed. I hoped you’d gone off on an adventure, followed your passions. Not once did I think you’d just go and settle.”

I whip my head around.
“You don’t know anything about me and Simon.
Nothing
.” My voice is thick with fury. “Somebody died, Niall. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t get over it that easily.” I’m finding it hard to breathe. Memories of those summer days, nine long years ago, assault my thoughts. The aching, the longing, the stupid choices I made. The shock, the fear and the ambulance. All of it was our fault. I lost everything that summer. Including myself. “I noticed you never called me. You just disappeared.”

“
I didn’t disappear. They sent me away, just like they did to you. It fucked me up, all of it; I couldn’t even think properly. I wanted to call you, to talk to you, to check you were okay. But after you pretended you didn’t know me…”

I feel sick. Nausea starts to clutch at my stomach with a vice-like grip.
“I didn’t know what to do. My dad was so angry. Everything was fucked up. And you just showed up with a bloody joint in your mouth.” We’ve stopped walking altogether. Standing in the middle of a lamp-lit London street, we stare at each other accusingly. I wrap my arms around my waist as if to ward him off.

“
You broke my heart when you said you didn’t know me. I spent the first few weeks in a drunken fucking stupor.” Niall averts his gaze. His expression changes. Suddenly, he looks like a young boy; lost, afraid, alone. “And then I ended up in hospital, too. Whenever I think of that time, about Digby, it messes me up all over again.”

Tears sting at my eyelids. My throat is so tight I can barely get the words out, but somehow I manage.
“Me, too.”

It
’s dark in here—shady and damp, loud and alive. Sweat hangs in the air like mist. We dance wildly, our hair whipping across our faces in wet, ropy tendrils, beads of perspiration peppering our foreheads and upper lips. Bodies press in on me from all sides as we raise our hands in the air, laughing and screaming and dancing to the hypnotic beats.

I love them. I love everybody in here. I can
’t understand how wars ever happen, how hatred exists, because these people are perfect, beautiful, amazing. I don’t know most of them, but when we catch each other’s eyes we grin with bared teeth and a surge of emotion rushes through me. My heart is so full I think it might burst.

I feel arms encircle my waist, a hard body pressing against my back. I melt into
him, reaching behind me, pushing my fingers into short, wet hair. I can smell him so clearly. His soft, musky skin is mixed with the faint aroma of aftershave. He runs his hands up from my waist, brushing fingers up my sternum, then cups my breasts, pressing his thumbs into my already hard nipples. When I arch my back in gasped response, I can feel his erection digging into the side of my hip. He starts to kiss the sensitive skin of my neck, and I think I’m about to explode.

I love him
.

That
’s all I can think of as he grinds himself into me, and I twist my head until my lips meet his. They’re soft and gentle and move slowly against my mouth until I’m practically begging him to slide his tongue inside. He takes his time, breathing into me, tasting my skin, murmuring words against my lips that I can’t understand.

Suddenly, he spins me round until our bodies are meshed together, pushed into one
mass by the people surrounding us on all sides. He laces his fingers through my damp hair, angling my head until it fits his like a glove. Then we kiss and we touch and we roll for long minutes or hours or days until we are both breathless and needy. We both know we should leave or we’ll have sex right here, in this club, and he curls his hands around mine and pulls me through the crowd. It’s similar to walking through thick mud; we’re fighting against the tide and more than a few times we have to stop and make out again. Each time we do I feel my heart race a little faster as Niall’s fingers push into places that throb and undulate and beg him for more. Every time we kiss, colours explode in my mind, and I feel them burn me from my scalp to the tips of my toes.

Somehow we make it back to his room. He switches
on the lights and I blink rapidly, the brightness hurting my brain. I stumble across the floor, my path impeded by a myriad of half-painted canvasses propped against walls and chests of drawers and even the bedstead. The riot of colours assault my senses and make me want to cry.

Then he
’s touching me again. Pulling me onto his half-made bed, kicking the crumpled covers down until there’s only us and the mattress and peace and love. He spends hours undressing me, kissing and licking each newly exposed inch of skin. When his eyes meet mine I can see the concentration behind his glassy expression, as if he’s determined not to miss a single piece of my body. His lips are slow, smooth, gentle, and they feel like heaven.

When we
’re both naked, he presses his body against mine. It feels as though we are liquid flesh, melting into each other, and the concept of us seems a foreign thing. We are we, me, him, Niall and Beth, one person, one body, one heart, one breath.

As he pushes inside I can feel every inch of him sliding into me. I cling to him tightly, my mouth pressed against his, kissing him, feeling him, taking him. When he grinds against me, his cries rough and breathless, I know it
’s going to feel better than any drug.

Then we
’re coming and coming, with liquid bodies and aching muscles. His breath is mine as our mouths move together, and the pleasure is so intense it almost hurts. Then, as the fireworks exploding inside my closed eyes fade into the shadows, I feel his lips pressed to my cheek, soft and gentle. Warm moans wafting against my skin.

“
Beth.”

The way he says it makes my eyes sting. Reverent. Amazed.

We are all arms and legs, tangled together; bound by crazy, sticky-sweet love. And a hundred tiny jolts pulse through me as he pulls out, my body still buzzing with pleasure. We fall asleep, a mess of hot flesh and deep sighs, our bodies drenched with sweat. When we wake in the morning, the pale light of dawn piercing through the half-shut curtains, we are still twisted together as one.

Even as we come down, I can feel everything has changed. I
’m no longer the girl I used to be.

Because now, I
’m
his
girl.

5

I spend the next morning bent over the toilet i
n Lara’s cramped, old-fashioned bathroom, vomiting in the bowl as she scoops my damp hair away from my face. She holds it in a ponytail so it won’t get splashed. In between heaves I tell her I’m never going to drink again, that beer is the work of the devil, and she’s a terrible influence on me.

She just laughs and passes me a damp facecloth. I press it
to my skin, feeling it cool my overheated flesh.

By lunchtime I
’m almost passing for normal. My head is pretty fuzzy, but at least I can walk without bending over in two. I don’t remember hangovers being this bad when I was younger. Even coming down from an E is a walk in the park compared with this nausea.

“
I’m too old for this,” I moan as Lara bundles me up in a jacket and drags me to the nearest cafe. “I shouldn’t have drunk that last glass of Baileys.”

“
Oh, you remember that, do you?”

I close
my eyes, and wish I could shut my nose off, too. The cafe smells of bacon and greasy chips and I feel my stomach churn again. Lara orders us both a full English breakfast and I’m too exhausted even to refuse.

O
f course, when it arrives, I gobble up the lot. As always, bacon is the ultimate hangover cure.

“
So...” Lara pours us both a second mug of tea. “…Niall Joseph.”

I take a sip. It
’s liquid heaven. “What about him?”

She tips her head to the side and gives me an are-you-kidding-me look.
“He’s the guy?”

Placing
my mug back on the scratched wooden table, I rest my chin on my hands. “Yup.”

“
How do you feel about seeing him again?”

“
Is this a counselling session? Should I be expecting a bill for fifty pounds an hour?” The waitress takes away our plates and I sigh with relief. No matter how good the breakfast tastes, seeing the remains congealing on the white plate is doing nothing for my lingering nausea.

“
I’m not your counsellor, I’m your friend. But I do think you should talk to somebody, a professional. You haven’t been yourself for weeks.”

“
I’m not going to fall into depression just because Niall Joseph has waltzed back into my life. I got over that years ago. It means nothing. I worked through all that crap when it happened.”

I
’m a different person to the girl who could barely bring herself to breathe. Stronger, more together.

“
Why did you drink so much last night?”

Her question makes me
bristle. “I haven’t been on a night out like that in ages. I misjudged. It’s a lot easier to be circumspect when you’re drinking hundred-pound bottles of wine.” I sound flippant, because I want to stop remembering it all. Niall, Digby, that hot, humid night when everything changed. If I don’t think about it, I can cope.

Just about.

Lara looks at me and her lips start to twitch. The corners of my mouth rise up in response. A moment later we both collapse into a fit of giggles. I sound like such a loser. Sometimes I think I’m two different people: the Beth who wears jeans and sweaters, who drinks beer and spends her days with addicts, versus the Beth who eats elegant dinners and sips fine wine and listens silently to much older men putting the world to rights. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to decide which person I am; which me I prefer.

Th
e thought is still on my mind when Simon finally arrives home on Sunday evening. By that time I’m fully recovered from my hangover and feeling more like my old self. Any thoughts of depression and angst and Niall Joseph are squashed firmly down, and the smile which lights my face when my husband walks through the door is almost genuine.

“
How was your weekend?” I pull his coat from his shoulders and place it on a wooden hanger. “You look tired, darling.”

“
I am. We had a good time. Took a few shots, drank a few whiskies. Turns out that Andrew’s had the whole lodge renovated.” Simon puts his case at the bottom of the stairs. “How was your weekend?”

We walk into the kitchen and I try to banish the memory of Niall
’s angry face. Deep breaths. Equilibrium.

“
Mostly quiet. I managed to catch up on some paperwork today. I’ve realised it’s only three months until the gala; I really need to get working on that.” I’m not as daunted by this as I once was. I’ve been in charge of the gala for four years now. I pretty much know what I’m doing. Not that it’s any easier, though. Even if I don’t have that constant feeling of dread as I did that first year.

After a small supper
we head upstairs for bed. It’s only nine thirty, but we’re both exhausted, and have to be up for work in the morning. I take a shower—letting the hot water wash away any remnants of the weekend from my skin—and by the time I’ve dried my hair, Simon is in bed, his wire-framed reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He’s making notes on some briefs he has brought home from work. His chest is bare; his body is well maintained in spite of his age. There is a smattering of grey hair from his neck to his stomach and a tiny paunch that even exercise can’t erase. I like the softness of it, even though I know it makes him self-conscious.

When I climb under the covers, he lays the briefs on the bedside table
and takes his glasses off. Switching off the bedside lamp, he shuffles down the mattress, turning on his side so he’s facing away from me. In the darkness, I feel the familiar gloom wash over me again. I can kid myself all I want to that I’m okay, that the events of Friday haven’t affected me, but alone in the dark, I start to feel like that nineteen-year-old girl again—full of emotions and unease. I don’t like these raw sensations that seem to be turning me inside out. I prefer the certainty, the almost-numbness I’ve managed to achieve since marrying Simon.

So I snuggle up to his body, spooning him from behind, curling my arm around his chest. My palm splays against his torso, and he reaches up, placing his hand on top of my own. I push myself against him, letting the tip of my thumb brush against his nipple. A
moment later he gently pulls it away.

“
I’m really tired.” He sounds apologetic. “I need to get some sleep.”

I know he doesn
’t mean for it to come across as a rejection, but that’s how I take it, anyway.

“
It’s okay.” My voice is muffled by his back. This is a good thing, because I can feel the tears threatening to escape. I’m almost clinging to him, desperate for the connection, needing to hold on to him as if he’s my only port in a storm. Simon’s breathing starts to slow, becoming light and rhythmic as he falls gently asleep. A tear rolls slowly down my cheek as I try to stop the longing, the desperation to feel him inside me, the need for him to reclaim me in the basest way possible.

Instead, I cry
silently, until nothingness takes over.

* * *

Niall and I don’t mention that Friday night again. We’re back to being amicable colleagues, working smoothly and easily together. Trying to keep the kids interested and under control takes up all of our emotional energy; there isn’t enough left over to get into the angst of our past. It’s so much easier to paper over the gaps than try to dig in deeper.

It doesn
’t stop me from looking at him, while he’s preoccupied with something else, and wondering exactly what happened to him that summer. Did he get as low as I did? I find myself wanting to know more about what he’s been doing since graduation. I know from Elise’s brief, breathless description that he spent some time in the States, but how did he end up there? What made him come back?

All these things run through my mind as I watch him demonstrating a layering technique to Cameron Gibb
s, a particularly mouthy twelve-year-old with a penchant for stealing. For some reason Cameron—whose widowed father has a deep and meaningful relationship with prescription drugs—seems to have taken a shine to Niall. He watches intently as Niall’s long, paint-stained fingers pick up the brush and feather watercolour paint onto the paper. Niall says something to him that I can’t hear, and Cameron’s response is equally quiet. Whatever he says, it makes Niall’s usually smooth forehead crinkle, his lips pulling down with a frown.

Then he looks up at
me and beckons me over. My heart beats a little faster as I walk toward them, trying to swallow the memories down as I remember that action so well. The curled fingers, the come-hither stare. I do exactly what I always did—I obey.

Niall starts to talk as soon as I reach the table.
“Cameron says he’s never been to an art gallery.”

I don
’t know why he looks so surprised. These are deprived inner-city kids whose parents’ priorities include finding drugs, taking drugs, stealing money to afford drugs and very occasionally trying to kick the drug habit. Enriching their children’s cultural knowledge doesn’t come high on their agendas.

“
I don’t expect he has.” I glance over at Cameron and smile. He grimaces back. In his world, smiles are for wimps.

“
What about the rest of the kids?”

Without answering,
I glance around the room. Allegra is bent over her paper, splashing colour on with glorious abandon. A couple of the older kids are sitting at the back flicking paint at each other with their brushes. The rest are either chatting or drawing. “I don’t expect so, Niall. They probably haven’t had the opportunity.”

He chews on his lip.
“But they live in London. We’re surrounded by art galleries and museums.”

And also drug dealers and crack dens. I widen my eyes in an attempt to get him to shut up. Cameron watches us interestedly.

“What can I tell you?” I say.

He pauses for a moment, thinking things t
hrough. Then his face lights up and a grin slowly forms on his lips. “We can take them.”

“
What?” I wasn’t expecting that.

“
You and I. We can take them all on an outing. We can go to the Tate Modern. I know some people there.” He looks so young and enthusiastic it makes me smile.

“
You want to take fifteen kids on a day trip to a gallery? How are we going to get there?”

He has an answer for everything.
“I’ll hire a coach. It can pick us up here at four; we can spend a couple of hours in the gallery, and then come back. I’ll even stump up for a McDonald’s for them all.”

I
notice Cameron’s expression out of the corner of my eye. He looks almost excited. It would be amazing to show them real art, to have Niall talk them through the exhibitions, demonstrating how paint can bring a canvas alive. But these aren’t just any kids. They aren’t used to having to behave in an art gallery, and the older ones can be almost impossible to control. It’d be like herding cats.

“
Can we talk over there?” I gesture to the empty desk in the corner of the room and wrap my fingers around his bicep to lure him over. The warmth of his skin leaches through his shirt, the hardness of his biceps through his flesh. He glances down to where my fingers hold him, then looks right into my eyes.

“
Sure.”

When we get there I release him. He absentmindedly rubs the spot where I was touching him.
“Is there a problem?”

“
This isn’t going to work. We can’t take them to a gallery. They’ll end up destroying the place. Cameron will probably try to nick an installation and George will graffiti over some Dali with his spray paint. We’re asking for trouble.”

“
You don’t think these kids deserve to see some real paintings?”

He baits and I bite.
“Of course I do. They deserve everything and most of them don’t get it. But if something goes wrong and it ends up at the door of the clinic we’ll all be in trouble.”

Niall starts to pull at the paint coating his fingers. I notice it
’s oil-based, and as we are only using watercolours he must have come here with them like that. I feel curiosity overtake me, and I’m desperate to know what he was doing, what he was painting.