OUR TEAM MEMBER AND AUTHOR, EVA BIELBY IS SHARING AN EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 6 OF 'THE HEALING' - SECOND BOOK OF 'THE HURT TRILOGY'

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 6 

It was clear that André must have enjoyed our dinner date as much as I had. We hadn’t yet made any further dates but he had taken to popping in to see me every other night, usually just after he arrived home from work. I was delighted. Much as I enjoyed his company and found him breathtakingly hot, I did not want to be seen as the one giving chase. I wasn’t one hundred percent comfortable with the situation, but more than happy that if things did develop any further, it would be at a pace that I felt right with.

On some occasions he would only stay long enough to have a coffee or a glass of wine and tell me amusing stories and gossip about some of the characters who worked for him. The more I watched him and listened to his tales, the more I thought how appropriate the message on his tee-shirt had been. He was indeed ‘a fucking idiot’, but an intelligent, interesting, caring, handsome and fuckable one at that. His sense of humour was typically British and, in his case, the sarcasm that could spill from his mouth was not the lowest form of wit. It was clever, off the cuff and highly entertaining. I loved his presence, but I spent many hours pondering whether it could ever be more than that, as much as I wanted it to be.

Some of his visits were longer; frequently reaching midnight or after before he left my apartment. I assumed he’d already eaten on these occasions as it was usually later than eight o’clock when he knocked on my door. Whether he’d eaten or not, I never felt the inclination to offer to cook. It hadn’t reached that stage. At best, I brought out snacks and nibbles; crisps, nuts, chocolate and as a one-off - fresh strawberries and ice-cream. André always seemed to have more conversation to offer than I did. He had a life, a business, and plenty of news. With no job, therefore no colleagues, no family, hence no news, the only topic I could offer was that of my past. He hadn’t clicked just how skilled I was at discreetly side-stepping painful discussions about ex partners and my parents. My career (the unsavoury one) was something that obviously escaped a mention, too.

We both had similar tastes in music, films and books, and as far as I was concerned it was much safer ground. We watched a few recent box office successes, mostly of his choosing, but nevertheless, enjoyable. What I enjoyed the most was when we decided to have a wander down by the riverside. Maybe this was down to my months of self-inflicted confinement, or that I enjoyed being out and about during Catherine and Ruby’s recent visit. My newly born craving to be out in the open air was such that if André and I didn’t venture out for a walk at some point during his visit, I would make a big thing of going out the following morning for a lonesome stroll. I found it to be therapeutic and it gave me other things to focus on, something I hadn’t allowed myself to do for a long time; the healing process.

Wearily climbing the stairs one night after a walk that took us further off our regular route, André affectionately squeezed the left side of my waist and asked,

“Helen, would you let me cook for you at the weekend, please? My apartment? I’ve wanted to ask you for the last few days but never got around to it. I always come to see you, but I feel it’s time I had you as my guest.”

Although he’d already taken me out for a meal, I was still taken aback by his request. Up to that point, he pecked me on the cheek just once or twice, and I presumed that he was happy to go along with our ‘friends’ arrangement for the time being and take things slowly, if indeed there was anything there to be taken slowly.

“Oh! I…” I started.

“Don’t worry. I won’t try to poison you, Helen.” He laughed. “I’m a decent enough chef.”

“I’m sure you are. I…It’s just that your invitation has surprised me. Anyway, I would love to come for a meal. I’d like to see your apartment as well, since you never asked me round before now.”

I could tell by his expression that he was pleased with my acceptance. His eyes shone with evident delight though he was trying to cover it by suppressing a wide grin, such was his transparency at times.

We said our goodbyes at the front door to my apartment. He told me he was planning the meal for Saturday night at six thirty and he’d stressed the word ‘informal’. I couldn’t fathom whether he was jesting or deadly serious when he told me he would need two or three nights off to plan and prepare. He’d also thrown in some comment about needing to spring clean from top to bottom. He was always so immaculate that I somehow doubted his flat would be kept to anything other than a high standard.

I lay in bed that night with my head in total turmoil, unsure as to what dinner at André’s place would mean for me and what it meant to him. Did he see the prospects of a romantic meal for two and cosying up afterwards on the sofa? Or perhaps he was thinking if he provided the main course the dessert would somehow involve two naked bodies and oodles of scorching hot sex. He was everything that most women would dream of, and yet I didn’t know how I would feel if he tried to give me a full on kiss and if the matter of sex cropped up, heaven forbid. I wanted to move on and live a normal life, possibly even to have a relationship, but until the situation came smacking me on the nose end I wouldn’t know if it was too soon.

I didn’t sleep too well and woke up with a head that felt like it was ready to split in two. Foregoing my day-to-day morning routine of two cups of coffee and a croissant, I poured a large glass of fresh orange juice and washed down the couple of paracetamol I felt were necessary. I showered and dressed, determined to get out into the fresh air and walk off the damned headache. I paused at the door wondering what I’d forgotten and then dashed back to the kitchen to grab the bottle of water I left on the worktop.

It was uncomfortably muggy outside and large, heavy black clouds threatened a torrential downpour as I took a leisurely saunter along the side of the river. Although I felt refreshed and wide awake after my shower, there was a feeling of weariness gradually taking over which could have been due to the headache that was proving reluctant to disappear. Along the walkway I noticed I was approaching a bench and decided I would make use of it until my fatigued body recovered. I sat back and watched the world go by; hordes of people on their way to work, shopping, walking their family pets or visiting the sights and attractions that Paris had on offer. Later in the morning the couples would appear; loving twosomes on romantic breaks, possibly getting engaged or sometimes there were even honeymooners. Paris had a reputation, after all, for being the most romantic city in Europe.

With the troubles my mind unwillingly encountered, I started searching the faces of the passers-by, for once ignoring the physical things like clothes, shoes, handbags or whether they were walking with a particular gait. I was oblivious to the size of their noses or whether they sported the latest designer specs that the opticians had on a half price offer if you signed up for a monthly plan with contact lenses. The physical didn’t matter to me anymore. Minds and lives were more important. Picking out random people as they passed me by, I scanned each face, looking deep past their eyes and into their souls. What were they feeling? Were they happy in their lives? Had they been hurt by anybody? I abandoned that one quickly. Everyone had been hurt by somebody at some heart-breaking period in their lives, hadn’t they? I found jealousy lurking in my bones as I looked at those my age and younger who I imagined would still have loving parents to offer their help and guidance with life’s traumas.

Of the souls I searched, I wondered if any had lost both parents in such tragic circumstances as I had. I probed the eyes of the men who strode confidently past, some of whom would loiter too long and mentally undress me before going about their business. Would they cheat on their wife or girlfriend, the one they were supposed to love? Would I trust them with a best friend? Then the question changed as I tried to pick out the ones who would stoop so low as to visit a prostitute or use the services of a call-girl. Like somebody had just thrown a switch, I found myself despising the clients who I’d entertained and allowed to use and abuse me and my body. I was no better than they were. I was engulfed in my shame and guilt at being party to their dirty, unforgivable adultery.

My mind game with the pedestrians suddenly cast aside, I scoured the depths of my own soul, damaged as it was. I hated myself for the sordid way in which I’d sought sexual gratification and accepted money for it. It occurred to me though, that had I not sunk to those murky depths, and swam in that sea of secrets and lies, I would never have met David, the love of my life. He was the exception to the rule; there had been no lady in his life, though I initially went ahead with our first few ‘business’ transactions unaware of the fact that he was single. Not even for one second could I have regrets about David, even though I since wished I’d met him at another time and in a different set of circumstances. I sighed heavily and jerked myself back to the present.

A distant rumble increased in volume and intensity and, glancing up at the sky, I noticed how black the morning had become and the aggression and intimidation the low-lying clouds now held. Heavy spots of rain hit the footpath and a tall, slim bespectacled gentleman shouted an unnecessary warning as he rushed past in the process of opening his black golfing brolly.

“Hurry home, Madame! The Heavens are about to open! You will get drenched!”

“Oui, Monsieur. Merci beaucoup!”

With an effort, I pushed myself up from the bench. A beautiful streak of forked lightning lit up the blackness of the sky for a second, a very resounding boom of thunder dramatically drowning the sound of the ever hooting traffic. I’d lost track of time and my watch was where I left it on the bathroom shelf. The early morning rush hour was long since over and it seemed that with the threat of an imminent heavy downpour, most people were deserting the streets. Those few that remained outdoors held their umbrellas aloft and hurried onwards to their various destinations. Finding the rain invigorating, I felt no such urgency.

More frequent bolts of white hot lightning continued to flash with their electrostatic discharge, lighting the world with a blinding incandescence. It possessed a vivid, jagged, electrical beauty that bore life and also the threat of death to anyone falling victim to its powerful and lethal tendrils. I was afraid and yet I found a thrill and excitement in the spectacle. The spots on the pavement were soon gone as the shroud of dark grey cloud finally spilt its burden and the pavements and road were instantly awash with much heavier rain. In seconds I was drenched. My hair was heavy with the rat tails that stuck to my face, and the shorts and tee-shirt I wore clung icily to my body; my weariness finally left me, as had the headache that greeted me as I woke. People stared as they passed me, aghast at my casual indifference to the noisy display and my piss-wet-through body and clothes. I smiled cheerily at their faces, defiant and feeling refreshed, alive and amazingly positive.

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COMING SOON: On Monday, 19th May, our valuable team member and fabulous author, Lorraine Carey shares with us her Flash Fiction story 'The Perfect Specimen'.