TODAY WE HAVE OUR TEAM MEMBER AND AUTHOR, EVA BIELBY, WHO IS SHARING CHAPTER 17 FROM 'THE HEALING' - SECOND BOOK IN 'THE HURT' TRILOGY #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat

CHAPTER 17

I was sickened, disgusted with myself. Once again, I took the cowardly way out. I rolled over in bed, for the umpteenth time. I’d been tossing and turning, running scenarios through my head; a short story being dramatised in so many different ways, so many different places, some of the best Hollywood actors playing the role of André. The ending was always the same though; he was used, cast aside, hurt. No matter how, where, and why it was happening, Helen Rushforth always played the starring role… the bitch!

The idea came to me during the flight. You’ve got to avoid him like the plague. I hadn’t even left CDG airport after my flight landed. It was after ten on Sunday night and he would no doubt have heard the door to my apartment if I returned there. I walked out of the terminal building and got a cab to drive me further round the airport to one of the hotels in the vicinity. My plan was to travel back into Paris on Monday morning and check into another hotel. During the day, whilst he was at work, I would be able to go into my apartment without him knowing.

Had André been the sort of arrogant, selfish, womanising guy that I so despised, it would have been easy. I pondered on how come I let myself be sucked so deep into a friendship, a relationship like ours, without figuring out sooner the way it would come to an end. He did nothing wrong to deserve what I knew had to be done. How do you say to a guy so lovely, ‘Sorry, you’ve been an amazing friend to me, helped me, cared for me and fucked me, but I got it all wrong? The fucking was on my terms, when I wanted, but I’ve never really been attracted to you.’

I cried again. Not for myself. I cried for André, for the hurt that he was going to feel. After all, I’d been there myself, quite a few times.

I checked into the Paris Rivoli Hotel next morning, just a five minute walk from the apartment. Each day I visited the apartment for a few hours to do what needed to be done. Simon called me during the Monday afternoon.

“Helen, please tell me you haven’t sorted out a rental property yet? I think I’ve sorted something for you.”

“Where…and how come?” I asked eagerly, hoping to hell I could return to London that very night.

“It’s a friend’s flat near Hyde Park. Actually, the guy was one of your…clients…”

“What the fuck? Simon, how the fuck could you do that to me? He’ll be coming round thinking…”

I was bloody furious with him, jumping in like that.

“Helen, credit me with some fucking sense, will you? He doesn’t even know it’s you. He’s going abroad for three months, so he won’t be around to ever find out. By the time he’s back, you’ll be nicely ensconced in Maida Vale. What do you think?”

Although I felt a tad suspicious that everything seemed to be going too smoothly, I still couldn’t control the excited lurch in my stomach or the smile that threatened to remain on my face for all eternity.

“Well it sounds good to me. How soon could I move in?”

Please let it be tomorrow! 

“Ah, that’s where there’s a slight downside. He doesn’t leave for another week or so. You’ll probably have to slum it in a hotel for a couple of nights, but you’re used to that anyway.”

He’d been so good to me. I couldn’t let him hear the disappointment that I was feeling, my chagrin that the flat wasn’t available yet. Putting on the most animated and cheery voice I could muster, I ended the call.

“Simon, that is fantastic. Thank you so much. How did I ever cope without you in my life?”

I could visualise him with a big grin at the other end when his reply came.

 “You didn’t!”

Two days later I heard from Bill and the estate agents, both calls within a few minutes of each other. The completion was expected to take place in four to five weeks. I thudded around my apartment punching the air and singing and dancing in the process. I started to empty my wardrobes of the best of my clothes. I filled two large suitcases and then set to work on emptying the fridge of the ‘out of date’ dairy items and threw out a loaf of bread, green with penicillin. I pulled dust sheets (always used by my parents between their visits) out of the hall cupboard and covered all the furniture in readiness. I shouldn’t need to visit the flat again, until it was time to return to England…and finally do the dirty deed; break my news to André.

Back at the hotel, I was lost. Overcome with boredom, I tried to read a book. I couldn’t settle though, so I painted my nails and took the varnish off again, unsatisfied with the colour. I showered until I got sick of showering. I gave myself a manicure and painted my nails yet again. Devoid of company, I even got dressed in my finest and went downstairs to the restaurant to eat. Afterwards, I sat at the bar in the cocktail lounge and made conversation with the young, English barman, Ian, working in France to improve his language skills. He was charming and polite and…way too young. I watched in fascination as he skilfully mixed the odd cocktail or two for the rather sparse clientele.

As my pleasant and impromptu evening came to an end, he hit me with a bolt out of the blue.

“Helen? I hope you don’t mind me asking. What is the difference between waiting it out in this hotel and waiting it out in a hotel back in London? If that is what you’re desperate to do, if that is where you want to be, then I know what I’d do. You say you have nothing to keep you here.”

I stared at him as if he was totally crazy. My head felt so befuddled I couldn’t quite grasp the logic. He had a grin plastered all over his face, so pleased with himself, and waiting…waiting for his suggestion to hit home. Finally, it got there and I still stared at him incredulous. I held my arms out and he came from behind the bar and allowed me to hug him.

“Ian, you are a bloody genius. I’ve been waiting about, putting off the inevitable, stalling with something that could be over and done with tomorrow.”

He coloured up as I kissed his cheek and wished him well with his ongoing studies.

“Good luck with the André thing!” He shouted after me as I left the bar. It was my turn to colour up, guiltily, as I nodded in his direction.

Feeling uncomfortable with my guilt and the deceit of what I was about to do, I returned to the apartment for eleven o’clock the next morning, Friday. I was collecting the two large suitcases I left ready, intent on getting out of Paris without a word to André. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t bear to look him in the eye and have to endure the hurt; witness the hurt in his eyes and watch him crumble before me…cowardly though it was.

I conducted a last check around the apartment, remembering to switch off the fridge and leave the door open. Without a backwards glance, I turned my key in the door. I knew I would come back one day but it would take a while. In two punishing journeys, I hauled my heavy suitcases down the staircase into the entrance hall. Such was my urgency to get away, I trembled with nerves. I called a cab company and was told someone would be with me within ten minutes. I moved my cases to the kerbside and, shifting from one foot to the other, I wrung my hands together, anxiety taking over. I looked up and down the road in desperation, not knowing from which direction the taxi would approach.

My body sagged with relief when the cab finally pulled up alongside me. The driver, obviously having seen the size of my suitcases, climbed out of the driver’s side and walked around to open up the boot. I already pulled the rear passenger door open when I noticed a blue car about to pull up behind us…André’s blue Citroën. My bloody heart skipped a beat as he shot out of the car towards me. Suddenly frightened, I didn’t know whether to get in the cab or stay where I was. What the fuck was he doing here? He was meant to be at work!

“Helen! You’re ba…ck!”

His eyes left me and fixed instead on the cab driver who stood with one hand gripping the handle, ready to heave the first heavy case into the boot. I watched in horror as the truth registered in his eyes, mouth agape, he staggered backwards a few steps.

 “You’re not…you’re fucking leaving, aren’t you?”

I couldn’t answer. The words wouldn’t come. I nodded, shame seeping through my head and swamping in the pit of my stomach.

“You’re a coward, Helen! You didn’t have the fucking decency to be able to tell me. No! I came back to collect some paperwork, for God’s sake…to find you getting ready to fuck off to…wherever you’re fucking off to…”

He paused, seemed to be thinking for a second, then,

“…or is it…who you’re fucking off to be with, Helen? I bet that’s it.”

The driver looked from one to the other of us and looked at his watch, clearly agitated. His mouth started moving, hurling sentence after sentence of rapidly spoken French, which I couldn’t translate fast enough, but by the look of his steadily building anger, it was directed at me in particular. I got the picture. He had other fares waiting and was not at all happy to be kept waiting. Desperate as I was to get away, I didn’t want him to drive off leaving me stranded with André and my heavy suitcases, which still sat on the pavement. I looked at André and appealed to his better nature, hoping to hell he wasn’t planning on keeping me for half an hour, wanting an inquest into what went wrong.

“André, get him to wait…please!” I begged.

I fished my purse out of my shoulder bag and quickly snatched 100 euros and thrust it into the driver’s hand. André did as I asked and as the driver seemed appeased, I gestured for him to carry on loading the cases into the car.

“Why, Helen? Answer me that!”

I searched my mind for the words, thinking of a way out…to soften the blow…but they didn’t surface.

“Because I…I didn’t want to see the hurt in your eyes. I know! I know hurt, it’s been a best friend throughout my life, André. It’s accompanied me everywhere. I have loved you though…but as a friend. I’m sorry! The rest didn’t follow suit as I expected it to. It would have been wrong of me…it was wrong of me to get involved and let it continue.”

Then I suddenly remembered his accusation as I stepped into the cab.

“I’m going back to England; back to my career in accountancy. That is all! There is no-one else in my life. I’ve not cheated on you, André.”

I moved to pull the car door closed and had to snatch my arm quickly back into the car. André slammed the door shut with a resounding thud and turned on his heel, shoulders slumped. I turned my face away from the window, shedding a silent tear. I didn’t dare look back as the driver pulled away from the kerb. I’d seen enough…I felt like the biggest dollop of shit ever. It would be a long time before I could ever get the image of his face out of my mind.

I hadn’t even booked a flight, but I was prepared to sit around at Charles de Gaulle until a seat became available. It wasn’t too long before a staff member of British Airways walked urgently across to where I was sitting.

“Miss Rushforth? We’ve just had a last minute cancellation on the next flight, business class. It leaves in twenty five minutes. Could you come over to the desk now, please, if you wish to take the seat? Check-in is about to close as they have just commenced boarding.”

By the time my bags had been checked in and my credit card charged with the cost of the flight plus the great chunk of excess baggage fee, I really had to fly. Fortunately, with most of the scheduled flights boarding or shortly due to take off, passport control was quiet and my hand luggage was screened successfully. I ran the last four hundred yards or so to the gate. They were waiting only for me. Everyone was already seated when I boarded the plane…and all eyes were on me, all curious to see who had been the guilty party causing the five minute delay to the expected flight time.

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COMING SOON: On Sunday, 21st September, we introduce guest author, Marcia Clayton, who is sharing her novel, 'Betsey', prequel to the much-loved 'Hartford Manor' series.