Next Saturday. Hotel?
The ping was right back.
My place? I’ll send you the address… safe in the middle of nowhere…
But I couldn’t get to a place in the middle of nowhere. My heart dropped at yet another example of the damn condition screwing me over and taking my transport with it.
I can’t drive anymore. Train station?
Another ping. No driving? How come?
A flash of memory of him teaching me to drive around country roads rose up behind my eyes, and I banished it. Like I’d always banished every memory of us when it rose up to bite me.
I pulled the phone under the table as I typed the reply.
I have epilepsy. Can’t drive. Not until I’m twelve months clear of seizures which hasn’t happened yet.
I really didn’t want to tell him this. Didn’t want to show him even the barest hint of personality or weakness or anything even vaguely related to anything other than getting me off.
Shit. I’m sorry. When did you last have one?
I hated typing out my response.
Five days ago. It’s been an intense few months. They are upping my meds at the moment.
If he even dared back out of the fuck fest now, I’d storm around to him myself and tell him all over again what I thought of him. I’d pile through the epic security at GCHQ – Government Communications Headquarters, where I’d heard he’d been rising up in the ranks, so people said – and give him the middle finger right up in his face. But he didn’t back out.
I could pick you up from yours, or you could get the train to Lydney? I’ll get you from the station?
There was no way I wanted to risk being seen with him anywhere near my place. The train was the safer option by a clear mile.
Train works. I’ll look up the times.
I was back at the apartment that evening, listening to Vicky gossip about one of her annoying workmates when I called up the Lydney train times for Saturday afternoon. I’d scrolled back through to the morning timetable once I weighed up just how likely we were to take the whole day up with our filth fest.
11:32, I told him.
I’ll get the prosecco in, he replied.
It was a bitch that he couldn’t get the prosecco in. Not on my account.
No drink for me, I said. Not allowed on my meds.
Bummer, he said back. I’ll make sure you don’t miss it, don’t worry.
And there we had it. The date and time set and confirmed. I felt guilty as I focused back on Vicky’s chatter – guilty at myself and the loads of people who would hate me doing this crap. Guilty at how I was betraying my own self-worth. Guilty at how I’d sacked off Seb just to end up in a splurge with the man who’d ripped my heart into pieces and left me a wreck for months.
He really had left me a wreck for months. I’d been besotted with him. In love with him. Dedicated to a future with him and his delicious mind and delicious lifestyle and delicious cock to match.
Jesus Christ, I’d been in love with that man.
Jesus Christ, I’d paid for it.
My fingers really did hover over a half-formed message to him. Scrap it, this is crazy – it began, but I couldn’t send it. I couldn’t force myself to fire those words in his direction.
So I aimed the sense-making words in another direction. I spat them out and hoped to hell Vicky could talk some sense into me. She’d known me long enough to know this was a shitstorm waiting to happen.
My words came quick and fast.
“I’m meeting Lucas at his next Saturday. We’re going to have an afternoon of fucking, and it’s going to be a one off. Just a one off. Definitely.”
She stopped talking mid-flow, her face an absolute picture of horror as she digested my outburst.
“Lucas Pierce? You’re going to fuck Lucas Pierce? Are you fucking serious?”
My shrug didn’t match up with just how serious I really was.
She shook her head as she gathered her words. “Hell, Anna. What the fuck? Does Nicola know?! Please tell me you’ve told her...”
The shake of mine was a whole load more frantic. “No! She doesn’t. Not yet. Please don’t tell her.”
I felt easily as dumbstruck by my own dumbness as she did.
“You broke up with Seb, and are going to fuck Lucas? Have you lost your mind? Lucas Pierce was an absolute prick to you, and he’s allegedly been an absolute prick to his wife, too. Just ask anyone who knows shit about him. He’s still a complete bloody asshole. He’s probably screwed her brain up nearly as bad as he screwed yours.”
I had no doubt about any of that. Another shrug, and I confirmed I had lost my mind. I’d most definitely lost my mind.