The image in the mirror isn't pretty. Her nose is red and looks bigger. Her eyes are watery. Anna doesn't need to use a thermometer to know she has a temperature. When she hears the door, she sighs relieved.
"Jonah! Jane's here!"
"Jaaane!" Jonah runs to the door and, standing on tiptoes, he opens it.
"Hi, little man. Where's your Mum?"
"Mum sick." Anna can hear concern in her son's voice.
"She'll get better in no time, don't worry." Jane replies softly.
"I can't thank you enough for doing this." Anna says, coming out of the bathroom and scrubbing her nose rather harshly with a Kleenex.
"Don't be silly. I'm glad I didn't have to see any clients today."
"Are you sure you'll be able to pick him up-?"
"Don't worry." Jane interrupts her. "I'll pick him up, he'll sleep over at my flat and that's that. You take as many drugs as you can and have some sleep yourself. Have you called the university?"
Anna nods, in the middle of a fit of cough.
"Good. Just rest, all right?"
"You're an angel Jane, really," Anna says, as she picks up Jonah's bag. She just rolls her eyes. "Ready to go to the nursery with Jane, little fellow?" Anna crouches to be levelled with Jonah. The toddler just nods. "Be good, then, and have fun." Jonah gives her a hug and heads to the door.
Jane is at the door. "Call me if you need anything."
"Will do. Thanks."
And the door is closed and she is alone in her flat, surrounded by ringing silence.
It doesn't last much, as she starts sneezing. With unsure steps she goes to the kitchen and makes herself a cup of tea with lemon and honey, and dissolves some medicine in it. It tastes terrible, but she knows it'll do her good.
Taking a roll of toilet paper with her, she goes back to bed and is asleep as soon as her head touches the pillow.
An insistent noise gets into a strange dream she's having. Something about lemon and Jonah and… there it is, that piercing sound. She sits up straight in bed. It's a sound she's very familiar with. Her front door. Who could…?
She grabs her phone, resting screen down on her night stand. Two missed calls. Four texts. She stands up and walks down the hall to the door, eyes fixed on the screen. It's past mid-day. And those calls are from one John Bates.
She looks through the peephole and she has to make a double take, both at the name on her phone and at the man standing outside her door, for they are the same.
Fumbling a little, she opens the door.
He was frowning, but now he smiles. "Oh… hello." He says, looking a little flustered.
"Hello." She is suddenly aware she's wearing very old flannel pyjamas and even though she hasn't looked at herself in the mirror since that morning, she bets at least her hair could use some brushing.
"I thought… sorry I just came. Only… you didn't come to the coffee house, and you wouldn't answer your phone," he shuffles a little and she thinks it's rather endearing. "I was a little worried."
"I'm sorry, I just have this cold and- do you want to come in?"
"I do," he says with a more confident smile.
She takes a seat on the armchair and motions him to take the couch. "I've got the flu… as it's probably obvious." Just then she sneezes and curses the fact there is no kleenex or toilet paper nearby. "And I felt asleep. I just saw your calls." She looks at the screen of her phone. She forgot all about the messages. "Give me a minute?"
He just nods and she looks at them, a little worried they could be from Jane or the nursery.
All four of them are from him and she smiles. For a moment she doesn't know if she should read them in front of him or wait, but as the thought is forming, her fingers are already tapping.
Running late today? Is the first, at 10 am.
And then. Are you all right? Want me to get you a coffee?
The next one came much later. Ok, maybe I'm crazy, but I'm a little worried. Is everything all right?
The last one is from twenty minutes before. If I don't hear from you in ten, I'm coming over.
She chuckles "I just read your messages. Sorry you were worried. There was no need, really."
He chuckles too, and is it her imagination or is he blushing. "Well… looking at the situation it appears there was a need to worry after all. You are not looking your best, honestly."
"How flattering, John. You surely know how to cheer up a girl."
He rolls his eyes at her. "You know what I mean. Have you have anything to eat? Do you want me to get you something?"
Amongst the drowsiness and her head feeling heavy, she is touched. Except for Jane, she can't remember anybody ever worrying for her like this.
"I was planning on having some soup…" she says weakly.
"Can I give you a hand with it?"
"Aren't you afraid to get sick as well."
"What's life without a little risk?"
She chuckles and stands up. "Come on then."
It's just instant soup and she knows she's more than capable to make it, but he won't let her. Once he knows where the pots are, he tells her to sit at the table while he busies at the stove. There isn't much to do anyway.
They chat, and at some point she goes to the bathroom to check on her appearance. She doesn't look as bad as she feels, really, but still she ties her hair in a bun and changes the top of her pyjamas for something less warm. When she comes back to the kitchen, he's serving the soup in two plates, having sliced some bread he found.
"I've invited myself to lunch, if that's all right."
"It's perfect," she says with a wide smile. "I was counting on it."
"How are you managing with Jonah?" He says, as they both start eating.
"Jane took him to the nursery and then he'll stay at her flat. I just hope he won't get sick. It's bad enough when I have it but he… he just doesn't understand it."
John nods sympathetically. "Let's hope he won't catch it, then." He stares at her and she suddenly feels warm, exposed somehow. It's not the first time this happens. His eyes fixed on hers, and she never knows what to do.
"I hope you won't catch it." She says to escape that feeling. She's not finished, but at a lack of something to do, she goes to her coffee machine and pours herself a cup. "Want one? Even if it's not fresh?"
He nods. "Yes please. I won't catch it," he waves a hand, dismissively. "I'm tougher than that."
"Which makes me what? Weak?" She says teasingly, with a mock frown.
"Delicate?"
She snorts, sitting in front of him again. "I don't know if I like the sound of that."
"It was intended as a compliment."
"Oh well, in that case…" Both laugh and she is glad that strange atmosphere she feels around whenever their eyes meet has somewhat dissipated. They eat in silence for a while and she indulges herself in her less-than-perfect cup of coffee.
"I missed you," he says softly, and there he is, looking at her again, and that warmth creeps over her and she can't tell if it is unpleasant or not. "At the coffee house. I missed you not being there."
She smiles, her hand playing with a piece of bread. "Thanks. I suppose I would've missed you too, if I had been awake." Anna tries to lighten up the atmosphere with a chuckle, but his eyes stay on hers.
"I'm glad," he says, and slowly he takes her hand with his. It's softer and warmer than what Anna would have expected.
And it feels like electricity.
Maybe it's the fact that all those dates without kissing have built up desire in her, a need to have him nearby. Maybe it's just that it's been a long time since she was last touched by a man like this. Maybe it's him. John. Witty, and clever, and fun, and caring.
"Thanks for coming," she manages to mutter.
"I woke you up," he says, his thumb now tracing slow paths on hers.
"Was it so obvious?"
He chuckles. "Only a little. You look adorable, though."
She blushes, and looks down at her almost empty plate. She feels she has to say something, but she is too overwhelmed to make coherent thoughts, let alone sentences.
"I've grown used to see you there, at the coffee house," he speaks again, and she just has to look at him. "Actually… It's the best part of my week. Those mornings reading next to you. The only thing that's better than that is going out with you."
Perhaps she's dreaming. Something marvellous induced by the medicine she took some hours ago.
"I like our mornings too," she hears herself whisper. "I like how we always manage to sit together."
"Oh well, that's us being great at doing accidentally-on-purpose stuff." The laughter makes his eyes crinkle and she feels like melting under his gaze.
"We could just do it on purpose."
He stands up and for a moment she misses his touch, until he takes a seat next to her. "That we can do."
Slowly, carefully he cups her face and she knows what's about to happen although she can't believe it will. But his lips are nearer and she just feels them because her eyes have closed on their own accord. Like everything he does, the kiss is gentle. Slowly he bushes her lips, once and again, and then those lips are no longer there and Anna opens her eyes.
He is beaming and so is she.
Again, he tips his head and this time it's a little less gentle, a little more intense. When he pulls back again she chuckles.
"Now you're definitely going to catch it."
He chuckles. "Do I seem to care?"
"Not really," she manages to mutter before kissing him again.
"I don't understand. It was supposed to be undefended. We've agreed to that!" He's trying and failing to keep his voice calm and his mind clear. His hand is clutching the phone and his fingers are white.
"The thing is, Mr Bates, your wife-"
"Ex wife."
"Wife." The lawyer insists. "She is still your wife for all legal purposes. Her lawyer just told me she has decided she won't agree ro it. She doesn't want a divorce."
"What?" It feels like lead in his stomach and bile on his mouth. "What do you mean-? Why doesn't she-?"
"I don't really know. Her lawyer says she is not willing anymore, and that she doesn't see there's a good enough reason to not being married to you."
"What does this mean? I won't be able to divorce her?"
His lawyer sighs heavily.
"You could, but now it will be defended. Meaning that you agree to it and she doesn't."
"And what does that imply? I mean, what do we have to do?"
Again, Mr Murray sighs. "It won't be easy. We have to prove there is a good reason for you to want that divorce even if she doesn't want to."
"But… but… what about adultery? Is that a good enough reason?"
"Have you been unfaithful to her? Because in that case you'll lose-"
"No I bloody well haven't! But I bet she can't say the same about herself."
"Well, that's a starting point. Only we need proof of that. Emails, letters, photos, Internet stuff, whatever."
Bates sits heavily on his couch, the phone clutched in his hand. "I can't do that. Internet maybe. But no letters or photos. We haven't lived together in ages!"
"How long?" There's a small amount of interest in the lawyer's voice.
"How long what?"
"How long have you been living apart from one another?"
Bates has to fight his own fury in order to think this through. "Years."
"How many?"
"A lot. Before the Olympics, because I remember watching them on my own."
"2012?"
"No, the ones before those."
"That's great!"
Bates has to confirm he has heard it correctly. "This situation is hardly "great" Mr Murray."
"Of course, I apologise. What I mean is, that makes it more than five years. Which can be another reason for divorce. Too long living apart. Only, again, you have to prove it."
"And how on earth do I do that?"
"Receipts. Tenancy agreements. Mails. Let me look into it and I'll get back to you."
"All right- wait."
He hears shuffling at the other side of the line. Murray was probably just about to hug up on him.
"How long will this take."
The lawyer doesn't sound as optimistic this time. "I don't know, Mr Bates. I'm sorry. It depends on how fast can we get proof of either adultery or of the two of you living apart. And then, it won't necessarily be straightforward."
He is not listening anymore.
He can't.
Without really noticing it he drops the phone and walks into the kitchen. He feels dizzy, walking like an automat, as if this were one of those dreams in which it's difficult to move. He needs air. He needs something to calm himself. Something that would make him forget. That upper cabinet at the right. He dreads it. Hates it, really. And at the same time it's his saviour.
With a decisive movement he wrenches the small door open.
There's just one lonely bottle. His emergency stack, as he calls it with irony.
With trembling hands he snatchs it, and manages to grab a glass. He could just avoid the glass altogether, but that would be going too far too soon. He just needs one small glass. A little something to help his spirits. Just a drop, only a small glass. And then it'll be it. He will feel better. He will know what to do.
He takes the stopper and the smell of whiskey is welcomed.
He's grown too eager though, and when he pours, some of it lands on the table. Just this glass. Just a drop.
And with a large gulp, he drains the glass of whiskey in one.
AN: Thanks to all of you for reading, liking and reviewing. Very special thanks to AnnaMB for the amazing feedback!
(So sorry for the weird update! My mistake!)
