A/N:
[1] Rated T, for intense conversations and rushing hearts.
Enjoy :)!
vii.
.
.
You give me that look that's like laughing with liquid in your mouth, like you're choosing between choking and spitting it all out, like you're trying to fight gravity on a planet that insists that love is like falling, and falling is like this.
Falling Is Like This - Ani DiFranco
.
.
On Thursday nights, the kids that hang about the street by her mum's house throw beer bottles to the ground. They shatter against the concrete, a distant sound that slips past the neighbourhood's windows, shakes Martha out of her nightmares.
.
She hates them, the nightmares. There's Clive and there's Harriet, and Billy, and Sean, and her parents, and nothing ever makes sense. She's never been good at remembering them, wakes up in cold sweat with her heart hammering against her chest and seldom understands why. Nothing in that world is ever as she remembers it to be.
The memories, she likes them better. They're haunting, keep her awake; she lays in her childhood bedroom staring up at the ceiling but at least, they're real. Martha's in bed, looking at her mobile when the numbers change to midnight, the date moving forward in front of her eyes. She remembers Billy, last year, and all the years before, the way she'd come into Chambers to find flowers on her desk, lilies and gerberas in orange and red tones like a ritual, a quick note in his messy handwriting.
'You shouldn't have,' she'd tell him, walk into the clerks' room. It would always be early, quiet, still.
'The love that I feel for you, Miss,' he'd start, smile; she'd cross the distance to pull him into a tight hug, hear him whisper words in her ear. 'It grows every minute of every year –'
It's Friday morning, the 5th of September, when the clock hits midnight and make a wish, Martha thinks.
It's on days like this that she'll always miss him.
.
If mornings were Billy's, nights were always more of Clive's area of expertise. He even had a name for it, used to call it his back to school project; Martha would roll her eyes at him but sometimes, he'd succeed and charm her into dancing with him – or for him, she's not quite sure – taking her hand in his.
She'd like to say that this year is no different, but this year is so different. This year is a posh restaurant and romantic candles, and white tablecloths, very expensive wine. It fits her dress, his suit. There are multiple kinds of forks and knives by the side of her plate – it's not that she doesn't know what's the use of each, per se, it's more that it's the kind of thing she has to remember rather than wait to naturally come to her. They're in Manchester – her city, of sorts – and yet, it feels more like his comfort zone than hers. On the one hand, she likes this; it feels elaborate, official, but on the other, well –
"You look nervous," he says, smiling, clinking his wine glass against hers. Clive surprised her, today. It was supposed to be her last couple of days in Bolton, August crossing into September (Summer into Autumn) and she was supposed to drive back to London on Sunday evening. Instead, Clive came to get her from her mum's place, hooted the horn of his car bloody havoc in front of her house, a scene that will most likely feed the neighbourhood's gossip for years to come. It's a bit odd, talking to him now when they haven't really talked in almost four weeks; it makes her remember how much she's missed him.
Martha takes a sip – the wine's good, she'll give him that - lies. "I'm not."
"Yes, you are," Clive smirks, holds her gaze. "Like when you're about to stand up defending a client who looks very, very guilty."
Martha's fingers hover, toying with her glass. "All my clients look guilty," she pauses. "That's why they're on trial."
"Do I look guilty to you?"
Yeah, she thinks, or maybe I am. On nights like this, back in the day, he'd take her to the pub and get her drunk on red wine and laughter, sometimes buying her chips on the way home. She kissed him, once, only meant for it to be a quick peck on his lips to shut him up. Instead, she felt herself responding to his touch, her body close to his at the back of the pub, shielded from casual onlookers. Her phone went off in her pocket, loud shrills of that one Blackberry ringtone; the mobiles that could barely take any pictures.
'This is a bad idea,' he said, parting, but didn't move.
Martha pressed a key and her phone began vibrating instead; she felt it against her leg. 'Yes,' she agreed.
.
Clive drinks, now; she watches as the liquid travels down his throat, his neck slightly moving as he swallows. "If I was guilty of something, I'd kill to see Martha Costello fight my corner," he says, lets out a short breath. "Not literally, I mean –"
"Can we please not go there?"
She speaks fast, without thinking, and it lasts a millisecond but there's a flash of hurt clouding his eyes. He's trying to give her space. This wasn't what she meant, she wants to explain, it's just that –
She was seventeen the last time someone she cared about made a similar joke. His arm was around her shoulder and the covers were drawn over them to avoid having to turn on the heat (they were in his room, at home, his mum's council estate flat; there wasn't any money to pay for, well, anything, really). The bed was small; they had to squeeze in – proper grown-ups, now - his skin against hers. 'So, law, uh?' he said, smiled, close to her face.
Martha nodded, somewhat shyly, didn't know for sure, didn't know if she'd get in, didn't think –
'So, you want to be a lawyer?'
She laughed, her hand in his hair. 'Maybe?' she admitted, glanced away. 'I don't know, I mean –'
Sean's mouth found hers; he tasted like beer and the crisps they'd had for lunch. 'Nah, I like it,' he said against her lips, pulling her on top of him. She beamed at him, like people in love in the movies. 'You can defend me.'
.
Martha doesn't say that, now, of course, doesn't think bringing that up with Clive will get either of them anywhere. "I just feel like with the great food and fancy restaurant, you're expecting us to talk," she concedes, instead, glancing away again. "Me to give you answers I don't have."
Her hand rests on the table and she feels his fingers dance over hers until he takes them back, just long enough to make the blood rush in her throat. "That's not why I'm here."
"No?"
It's funny, really, because he hasn't said it, yet. She knows why he's here – they both know why he's here (because he's a good person and he never forgets) - but when she went down to meet him on the street in front of her mum's house this afternoon, he said he was 'passing,' and had a conference to attend on 'the notion of substance in tax law' in Manchester, tomorrow at 8am. She's not sure if such a thing really exists or if he just made it up but she's got to admit she laughed, just a bit. Clive leans in, now, whispers: "I'm hoping for a similar conclusion to both first and second dates."
"Oh," Martha laughs, bites her lip. "Is this a second date?"
Clive looks around him. The restaurant is showy, high-end, it's almost exactly what she had in mind when she mocked the idea of them going on a date, last time around. "I don't know, what do you think?"
Martha pretends to consider it, frowns, pouting. "See?" she says, fake hesitation in her voice. "I'm not sure I really like the guy."
Clive laughs, holds her gaze; she barely dares to move. "You forget I can tell when you're lying, Martha Costello," he says, finally breaking eye contact, stealing a sip of his wine.
She grins behind the rim of her glass, raising an eyebrow at him. "Can you?"
.
(The truth is: she does, though. Like him, that is. She's liked him for a while, really, ever since they were twenty-two and he laughed at her as she precariously stood on a chair trying to grab one of the books on the top shelf, refusing to ask him for help.
Martha likes him, but also, in the past few months, she hasn't liked him all that much. It's what she told her mum, really. It's complicated.)
.
Over dinner, over time, Martha relaxes. Doesn't know if it's the wine or Clive's company but the vibe changes, little by little; it reminds her more and more of their first date, the one they had before she ran up to Bolton, reminds her of the fact that they don't always have to be so goddamn serious all the time.
She asks their waitress for a glass of water and he teases her about her accent (which he claims has gotten stronger over the last few weeks she spent here). "Thank God you're coming home Sunday," he says, as his foot accidentally brushes against her leg under their table for the third time. "Another week of this and I wouldn't be able to understand you at all. I swear, it's even worse than when you're very, very drunk," he laughs, sitting back in his chair when she shifts out of reach.
Martha doesn't want to laugh at all his jokes, not really, but still, somehow, she does, mostly because to be fully honest, she knows it's kind of true. "That's what I really sound like, Clive," she tells him and he throws her a curious look, pouring the both of them more wine. They've had their starters, now, are waiting for the mains and she's finally beginning to fully breathe.
"What do you mean?" he asks, setting the bottle back on the table.
Martha smiles, explains. The story is one of when she was twenty-two and moved to London, when people told her that she'd be taken more seriously if she got rid of it, as though she was ever going to fit in. 'Posh it up a bit,' Tom Evershed had advised in the few days leading up to her interview and it sort of became second nature after a while, slowing down the pace of her speech. The thing is, though – the thing that Clive has of course repeatedly pointed out to her before - is that it tends to come back, whenever she stays at home a bit too long or drinks a bit too much. She remembers one Christmas party at Shoe Lane – they were younger, a couple of years at the bar at most - she drunkenly ranted at him about a case she was working on and he just looked at her and teased: 'Can you repeat that, please?'
She thought she was going to punch him in the face.
Clive looks at Martha as she speaks, now, their waitress looming into her field of vision. More food is served – salmon and potatoes for her, some sort of vegetable lasagne she's really not interested in for him - and they're silent for a minute until the girl goes away to tend to another table.
"I didn't know that," Clive says, catching Martha's look.
Martha laughs, cuts into her salmon and tries a bit – okay, the food is very good, she thinks, she'll also give him that. "Didn't know I wanted to punch you in the face? You'd think that was the reason you said that in the first place –"
"Nah," he smirks, shakes his head, cuts into his own dish. "That you tried to, er, posh yourself up, let's say."
Ah, that, Martha thinks. She smiles, holds his gaze. "You don't know everything about me, Clive Reader." Her voice is lower than usual; she throws him an enigmatic look, biting her lip for effect.
His eyes stay fixed on her for as long as he possibly can before he finally blinks, quickly glances away. She doesn't think she'll ever get over the effect she seems to have on him. "Fuck, Marth," he swears, under his breath.
.
Yes, she had agreed, back when their mobiles couldn't take pictures, it was a bad idea, so she walked back into Chambers, alone. Clive followed (of course), cornered her into having a conversation while she collected her stuff from their room. She'd only had one glass, at the pub, and at that point she felt completely sober, decided right there and then that she fucking hated his guts. 'You can't just do that and leave, Marth,' he argued then, voice already raised. It was late, Chambers long deserted.
'Oh yeah? You think?'
They shouted. She only vaguely remembers what was said; he called her a hypocrite and she called him a coward, and they were at each other's throats until his lips found hers and he pushed her against the door, back slamming against the wood; she had bruises on her arms, a couple days later. He pulled away for a second, still, look charged with need and anger, gave her an opportunity to leave and go home, Martha remembers, but she failed to take it. Pulled him back towards her instead, made his lips bleed with everything that she couldn't tell him.
They were rough, the both of them. Taking and giving at equal rates, had the best sex they'd ever had, the best sex she'd ever had, to tell the truth. She came in his arms and he followed right after; her legs shook when he tried to lower her down to her feet, a while later. And just like that, though, it was over, and she became a cheat and a liar, stone-cold sober.
'Marth,' he said. His voice was kind, devoid of the anger that it had held before; she buried her face in his neck, let him hold her, didn't say a thing. 'Marth, we can talk about it.'
Jerôme said the same thing, the following morning, when he found her in tears on the sofa of their living room. I cheated on you with my best friend and it felt a lot more like love than a one-night-stand, and you want to talk about it? she remembers thinking to herself, out of anger and exhaustion, looking at her feet. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about it.
Instead, that night, she told Clive to go home. 'Or go get drunk, really, whatever you want,' she recalls, refused to cross his gaze. Later, she stood outside Chambers' building and leaned against the railing for a smoke; Martha was pondering over her life choices when she saw Billy on his way back from the pub, walking up the road. He looked tipsy, she remembers, like he'd had a few. She wished she'd had had a few, too. 'Waiting for your ride, Miss?' he asked, standing next to her. She smiled, puffed out into the night.
'No.'
Billy shifted closer, her left arm touching his right. 'Any special plans with young Jerôme? Any sweet loving weekend away in paradise?'
Billy broke her heart without knowing it, that night, and Martha faked a smile anyway, breathing in another drag. She remembered the way Jerôme had charmed everyone after she'd introduced him to them - of course, he had, with his fancy suit and smart ways - Alan couldn't stop talking about him for days. Clive had actually joked that their Head of Chambers might just have a crush on her boyfriend.
'You're not even in a real relationship,' Clive hadn't failed to point out the following Monday, bugging her as she tried to get some reading done before court. 'You just like him for his French glamour and fancy accent.'
Martha had laughed, shaken her head at him. 'First, he's not French, he's Belgian,' she'd said and Clive had shrugged in a way that said: same difference. 'Second, what do you know about relationships, anyway, Clive?'
He'd ignored her, leaned in, looked into her eyes and declared: 'Ay luve you, Maarta,' in a frankly pretty terrible rendition of Jerôme's accent. She'd rolled her eyes at him, pretended to focus on the papers in front of her. Her pen had felt heavy in her hand; she'd kept turning the top back and forth between her fingers, the tip going in and out.
'Get off, Clive.'
Eight months later, she was fucking him against the door of their room while Jerôme waited for her at home with champagne and roses, and love, and that night Billy drunkenly whispered in her ear: 'You can't help who you fall in love with, Miss.'
.
Flashforward to: Clive and Martha's second date, now, halfway through. She looks at him and finally musters the courage to ask how things are in Chambers. Martha's not sure she wants to know, to tell the truth, because from the dark circles under his eyes and the tension that seems to be forever knotted in his shoulders, she can't imagine it's going great but she wants to be a good person, a good friend, so.
"Things are good," Clive says, looking down at his plate. Chews on a piece of lasagne, quickly swallows it. "Busy."
"Clive -"
"Can we just not –" he starts, trails off; she can't help but scoff a little.
(Guess she's not the only one who doesn't want to talk, after all.)
"It's just –" he starts (again), fiddling with his fork. Dents face up, dents face down, a few times, then: "I don't want to argue with you and with work it's what we always do. Now, there's us, and there's work, and to tell you the truth, I kind of like them separate."
Martha immediately looks up from her plate. "Us?"
And behind his smile, Clive looks like he's only just realising what he said, chooses not to utter another word. Martha can't blame him. Doesn't know if he spoke a bit too fast or if he doesn't think she's ready to hear what he has to say but in a way, she's thankful, because truthfully, if that is the case, he's probably right. She likes this, likes watching him, likes eye-fucking him, and genuinely fucking him, but doesn't know if –
Billy used to call them 'the kids,' used to talk about 'them' like an item, like they only came in pairs, playing rock, paper, scissors - children on a playground. She tells Clive about it, asks him if he remembers – he does - pushes food around her plate. Sometimes, she wishes Billy were still here. Sometimes, she catches herself wondering if he's still watching over them and it's stupid, really, because she can't even think of a time where she ever believed in that kind of bollocks but -
Clive's hand gently finds her forearm; it makes her look back at him. He smiles, something sad and torn in his glance, fingers gentle against her skin. "Hey," he says, calling her attention back to him. "I'm here."
She smiles, too, shakes her head. Yeah, she thinks, she guesses that he is.
.
They have fun, the rest of the evening. Oddly, they talk about things that couples do. She learns stuff that she didn't know about him and, she guesses, he learns stuff that he didn't know about her, either. They talk about the two months she spent sleeping on his couch after she got dumped by Jerôme (or really, after she de facto dumped him, Martha's not quite sure) and: "Oh my God, you couldn't wait for me to leave, Clive," she tells him. "Don't pretend otherwise."
"Two words," he laughs, counting on his fingers. "Crumpet. Crumbs. Everywhere."
That's three words, she thinks, rolls her eyes at him.
.
When Clive claims he's never cheated on anyone before, Martha scoffs, almost chokes on her wine with laughter.
His argument, as she understands it, is that you can't cheat when you're never really in a relationship to begin with. She guesses that's a valid point but: "I'm not sure the girls in question would agree." Martha learns about Penelope Cooper, too, when she asks: "First?" with a telling smile on her face.
"First what?" he counters, because of course, he does, and she shakes her head, laughs for a bit.
"There's only one context in which the word first is enough of a question, Clive. Answer it, don't stall."
And to his credit, he does. So, yeah: "Penelope Cooper," he says, whom he apparently met on a summer field trip to Brighton when he was seventeen. With a name like that, Martha feels a sudden urge to Google her and figure out what kind of housewife she's become. Clive throws the question back before she has a chance to, though - of course, he does - and Martha wonders if she should lie or not say anything for a bit, in light of recent events more than anything else, but then what the hell, she thinks, he's probably got it figured out already.
"Sean," she says and granted: it may not have been the best decision she's ever made, all things considered, but Clive nods, expected. "Fourteen."
And, at that, though, he almost chokes on his wine. "Shit. Bit young, no?" he says and Martha rolls her eyes, grins, daring.
"Bit judgmental, no?"
They play that game for the rest of their meal, until their waitress comes to take their orders for desserts, quick questions and answers fired back and forth but it's funny, really, how Martha finds that everything is tinted by genuine curiosity rather than animosity. She finishes her wine a couple of minutes later and finally decides that a trip to the ladies is way overdue, grabs her lipstick from her bag to reapply it in front of the mirror. When it touches her lips, she smiles to herself and realises that she looks good, happy. Make a wish, she thinks, again, blowing air that fogs up the mirror.
.
When she gets back to her seat, Clive is fiddling with something inside the pocket of his coat. "What's that?" she asks.
But: "Nothing," he simply answers, poker face immediately put back on.
She frowns but doesn't push the issue (not now, anyway). It's weird: he already gave her a present, today. It was lying on the backseat of his car when she got in; she changed into it in the bathroom of his hotel room.
"Hot damn," Clive just laughed when she came out.
Black, silk, high neckline and open back – a cut on the side up the higher end of her thigh. A dress. The dress, maybe.
They get back to his hotel, now, and the place is fancy, a high tower with a view. Martha feels mildly out of place pretending that she isn't, the kind of old habits that die hard. The room is nice, spacious, one of the higher floors; she watches out the window as she lays her bag down by the couch.
Clive sits on the bed, tugging at her hand. She stands between his legs, waits. "I wasn't sure you'd come," he admits, fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of her dress.
She smiles, hand on his shoulder. "I didn't know you would."
He smirks and his fingers get more purposeful now, trailing up the skin of her thigh. "That's kind of the point of surprises, Marth."
"Yeah, and you had to surprise the whole neighbourhood in the process."
"Hmhm." One of his hands leaves her hip to curl at the back of her neck, thumb drawing circles against her cheek. "Come here," Clive whispers, pulling Martha's face down towards him. Before their lips can touch, though, he leans back slowly towards the mattress until she loses her balance and laughs, toppling on top of him.
She missed him, in Bolton, she realises. Missed the touch of his skin, his voice, the way he teases her, both in and out of bed, how comfortable his chest feels when she leans against it. That night, he finally – finally – unties the knot of her dress and she smiles against his skin, wonders out loud if he has any other surprises planned for the rest of the evening.
He hums in her ear as his hand travels up and down her bare back, the dress dangerously loose between them. "I don't know, I'm not quite sure you like them anymore."
His mouth travels under her ear down to her neck, hand pressing her closer to him. She kicks off her heels and kneels on top of him; Clive holds Martha in place and when a moan escapes her mouth, she feels him smile against her skin. "Depends what kind of surprise…" she whispers. He laughs under her.
Lips find hers then, nothing chaste or slow about that kiss, hands in her hair and body against hers. The thing is: it really feels like falling, now, doesn't it?
.
She almost fell, once. Lost her balance, off the pavement, onto the road. Walked fast down a busy street, cars, and buses, and bikes speeding by. The night was dark, illuminated by lampposts; she could hear Sean running after her, rambling behind as he followed suit. Martha was wearing her favourite backpack, back then; it was black, with colourful pins and symbols on it, the kind of things you discreetly lift off the merch shop after gigs. She held the straps tight on each side of her chest; Manchester was cold, windy, her fingers numb and red against the chill - it felt comforting to hold onto something. Truth was: she didn't want to run, just wanted him to leave her alone, wanted to get back to her books and the math test she hadn't studied for the day after tomorrow. 'Mar, listen to me,' Sean said, grabbing her wrist, making her stop in her tracks.
She kept silent, looked to the floor. The concrete was dark, chewing gums stuck and coming off slightly lighter than the ground. She didn't want to get angry, just -
'She's lying, all right? She's mental, and lying – for fuck's sake, you know this, Mar. I wouldn't –'
'You know what? I really don't, actually –'
'Mar,' he said, stepped forward. She kept her eyes trained down, could see his shoes inches from her trainers, the edge of the pavement and the zebra crossing next to them – 'Mar, look at me,' he spoke, lower, pleaded. His hand stroked her cheek; she felt his thumb against her chin. 'Look me in the eye.'
She didn't want to but he made her anyway, gently tugging her face up; they were close, so close his eyes were the only thing Martha could see. Dark, lit by streetlights and the buildings a few meters out, the headlights of the cars driving past. Her heart was racing, she remembers, like it was about to stop.
'I didn't do this.'
The thing was: there were a lot of things that Sean didn't do. Couldn't do, wouldn't do, could never do. She believed most of them. Believed him the same way she'd believed her mum when a promise was made that Dad was going to be all right, like it would do more harm than good if Martha didn't at least pretend to buy a little bit into it. It never felt like it mattered anyway. Had he? Had he not? wasn't the million-pound question Sean seemed to think it was, as if the fact that he could be telling the truth was suddenly going to solve everything. Martha needed to go, walk away, get the train back to Bolton, see her father, she needed to – 'I've got to get home,' she said, shaking her head, shaking him off her, stepping onto the road. He followed, dark shoes contrasting with the white strips of the crossing. His hand found her lower back and she stood still, shut her eyes not to look at him, thinking you've got to do this, thinking I can't, thinking –
She felt his lips against hers, suddenly, rough and unapologetic, familiar and comfortable like they always were. They'd been doing this for years (four of them felt like a lifetime, back then, like she hadn't ever been without him). Snogging in the back of pubs they weren't supposed to be in and on the rooftop of her neighbours' house, in his bed at his place when his mum went to rehab and they had the flat to themselves for weeks –
Martha responded instinctively, her hands in his hair, desperately wishing Sean to come with her, to get out of this place. She'd tried so hard, though, she needed to go off on her own, she needed to –
She heard the hoot of the bus before she felt the wind in her hair, loud, the kind of sound you only hear in genuine emergencies. Before Martha knew it, she felt herself getting pulled onto the pavement, her feet tripping a bit over the edge, the side of the double decker only missing her shoulder by an inch. The air rushed around them in the bus's wake; Martha's heart pounded in her chest. She felt Sean's breath in her ear when he spoke; he was holding one of her hands, the other still on the side of her hip.
'Shit,' he whispered and smiled, chuckled softly against her. 'I think I've died and gone to heaven.'
He stepped back to look at her and she felt herself responding to his smile, the corners of her mouth curving up against the tears that were crowding at the back of her eyes.
'I love you, Mar,' he said. It rang loud and real, in her ears.
'I –' she started. Her voice shook, eyes glistening. 'I can't.' The light turned green, finally, and: 'I can't do this anymore,' she told him, stepped away and back onto the road.
Martha didn't even cry and when she left, he forgot to run after her.
That also felt like falling, she thinks.
.
With Clive, years later, it's easy, easier. Easier to fall into his arms and harder to leave them. When Martha pads back from the bathroom around two in the morning, Clive's sitting up against the headrest of his hotel bed, a soft, reading light casting low shadows over his face. She's wearing his shirt; it covers her skin down to her thighs. There's something in his eyes that she can't quite identify, standing there in the middle of the room with her hair loose and almost no make-up on. "What?" she asks, frowns when he still doesn't look away.
"You're beautiful."
And when he speaks, it's in sharp contrast with his hot damn from earlier. Not only the words but the tone in his voice is different, too. Back then, it told her he wanted to fuck her, now it tells her that –
She rolls her eyes, crosses the distance to the bed.
"Are you having a laugh?" Martha jokes; she sits on her ankles with her legs folded under her, smooth, tangled sheets caressing her calves. Clive smiles, shaking his head at her.
"You really can't take a compliment, can you?"
She moves again and lies down next to him, grabs her mobile from the bedside table. She's aimlessly scrolling Twitter when she says: "I don't know, Clive, they always seem to come about right before you ask me something."
And to his credit (maybe because she's pointing out the ropes behind his tricks so obviously), Clive doesn't ask anything – right away, that is. Instead he turns the light off on his side, lets the room bask in the moonlight and the glow of Martha's phone. He seems to ponder over something, it's a long while before he speaks. "Did you really want to be Head of Chambers?"
She puts the phone down, bites her lip. He can't see the specifics of her face, in the dark, the way she frowns when she considers the question, wonders if she should just tell him the truth. She was honest with him when she said she felt flattered, back then, and now –
"I'm scared of ending up like Alan, you know?" he volunteers after she fails to speak for a while, voice low like an articulate whisper. "Getting so caught up in office politics and paperwork that I won't even have time to practice anymore."
And it's weak of her, maybe, but in that instant, Martha wishes she could go back, just five minutes, before they both stomped over every promise they'd ever made. She wishes she could forget, go back to London and walk into Chambers, play pretend like nothing ever happened.
"You won't," she says, instead, after a while, because it feels like the truth, like what she thinks, at least. "You were meant to do this. You'll pull through. You always do."
And maybe, she's the one who doesn't (pull through, that is). Maybe, after all, Martha's the one who runs and gives up. "You think that?" Clive asks, genuine, seeking her approbation and she's honest, thinks: yes. Thinks of him at twenty-three trying to get tenancy, a few years back, trying to get silk, thinks of Jody Farr and Sarah Stevens, and Sean, and –
"It was never Caroline or me, Clive," Martha says, then, shaking her head, eyes closed, listening to the sound of her own voice, and the sound of his breaths in her ear. She's not stupid, knows what her strengths are. Passion, dedication, a strong sense of justice, not fitting in. But he does: fit in. And that's a good thing, too. He's funny and caring and is a good diplomat, and wants to do things right, knows how to make people like him. (And again, she really does, like him.) "I wish you could have done it without hurting Billy or forcing me out," she tells him, still, because she wants him to know that, wants him to know that he did wrong, there. "But you needed Harriet on your side and she never really gave you a choice, did she?"
Clive is silent for a while, to the point that she actually wonders if he's fallen asleep, after all, looks up at him to cross his gaze. "I missed you," he finally says and she's got to admit it warms her heart a bit. She smiles, chuckles softly and teases him.
"You missed the sex," she argues and feels his laughter shake his body under hers.
"Yeah, maybe that, too," she feels him whisper, then, against her lips.
.
Now, she's at the pub for this one.
It's The Crown. She recognises it immediately, with the booths and the tables, and the bar in the middle, but honestly, it might just be because this one pub is the pub she knows best, in London. The place comes to mind uninvited like memories of Billy and summer days, dropping the butt of her cigarette to the floor, shoving her wig into a plastic bag.
The music is loud – so, it's not really The Crown - the beat of the drums blaring on base speakers. She feels like she's falling, tumbling down.
It's a different song, not the right one.
The other one was repetitive, had a rhythm to it. This one's wilder, scarier, unrecognisable. Martha tries to shift, shake her head, tries to –
Sad to see you go, was sort of hoping that you'd stay – well, hell, it doesn't feel like she really has a choice, anyway. She hears a man's voice, feels someone holding her hand.
It's pitch darkness. It's often pitch darkness, in her head, these days, but they don't tell her why she can't see. Martha doesn't see him, doesn't see what he looks like, but she feels the wall against her back, smells beer, urine, body odour - public toilets. Tequila.
She can't move. Limbs are lumps and she can't breathe. His hands are around her neck; Martha chokes, tries to scream but the sounds are trapped, aren't leaving her mouth. His body is against hers, bare skin against her palms –
She tries to fight back, hit, push him away but he's holding her wrists and –
"Marth!" she hears, loud in her ears. Her eyes open with a start.
The room is dark around her, unfamiliar. She can tell because now, she can see.
Her heart pounds in her chest. This isn't her bed, or her sheets, or her room, or her walls, or –"Shhh, you're all right."
That voice, she knows, recognises. The grasp on her wrists loosens; a soft hand finds her cheek. It's familiar, soothing, draws circles on her skin as the voice keeps softly shushing in her ear.
"Shhh, you're okay," it says. "It's okay," sometimes. "It's just a nightmare."
And: fuck, she thinks. Says so, too, as soon as the memories from the night before come back to her: she's in a hotel room with Clive, she's –
Her fists relax against Clive's skin, unclenched, flat on his chest. "Shit," she adds. Looks up. There's a worried smile on his lips; she can tell he wants her to think it's reassuring. "Did I hit you?"
Clive lets out a soft chuckle, then, something quiet and smooth, drops a kiss to her forehead. "Yeah, well, let's say that just because you were right to slap me in the face once doesn't mean we should make a habit out of this," he jokes.
Martha doesn't laugh, though. Only shows a slight, tense smile, breathes in and out and finally dares to close her eyes again, for a second. Her heart still races. "Sorry," she whispers, shifts against Clive and lays her head back against his shoulder, hand settling over his chest. His fingers smooth her hair; it helps her calm down.
Clive waits, unsure whether to speak; Martha can feel his uncertainty in the air. For better or for worse though, Clive always speaks, in the end. "You okay?" he asks, quietly.
She doesn't answer - doesn't know how - hears him swallow.
"You were saying 'no.'"
Martha feels herself freeze, then, hand stilling against his skin. More embarrassing than waking up from a nightmare and trying to hit him in her sleep, is probably him knowing exactly what she was dreaming about. Fucking stupid. She shouldn't have gotten drunk, called Billy and, well, everything, really.
So, she shuts her eyes. Maybe, if she pretends to fall back asleep, Clive might believe her. Martha wishes that she would, actually (fall back asleep, that is) and not wake up in the middle of the night anymore, wishes Clive didn't have to know this about her, either.
It doesn't happen every night. Sometimes, she's so tired that –
It shouldn't have happened tonight.
"Hey," he whispers. His mouth is so close to her skin that she feels his words brushing against her hair. "Look at me."
She doesn't. Not now, not when she feels like she could cry, just thinking about it. Her jaw clenches; she's pretty sure he feels her tense against him. Clive doesn't seem to mind, though, just keeps talking to her and drawing slow, smooth patterns over her skin.
"I wish I knew what was going on in your head," he confesses and: you don't, she thinks. You really, really don't but: "Marth," he says, repeats words that she doesn't think he's ever stopped thinking. "It's not your –"
Oh, this again, she thinks. Rolls her eyes, quick, rolls over, away from him. "I know," she sighs, lies, with her back turned to him, hoping that he won't see through it, force her to see reality for what it is. "Just leave it, okay?"
He doesn't. Of course, he doesn't. "Marth, have you tried talking to some -"
Oh, for fuck's sake, she thinks. Says so, too. He's going to start telling her she needs fucking therapy, now, or that she needs his fucking help, and anger (fear) boils down at the pit of her stomach - how many times will she have to tell him that she's fine. That she doesn't want to talk, have conversations, listen to her own sense of self-pity. Listen to him trying to help her, maybe, when he doesn't owe her anything, really. With her back turned to him, she sits up and flings her legs over the edge of the bed, grabs the dress he gave her from off the floor and starts to unbutton his shirt to put it on. "If you're going to be like that," she says. "I'm going back to Bolton -"
It's the middle of the night and when she throws a quick glance over her shoulder, Clive's looking at her like she's fucking insane - the bed moves on his end; she feels him sit up as well. "Fucking hell, Marth –" he starts; she casts a murderous glare a him. She's managed to get the shirt off, now, is sliding the dress back on, tying its silk knot behind her neck. When she put it on, in this very hotel room, just hours before, he was the one who tied it up; she shivered with the touch of his fingers on her skin. "What?" he says, now, and she'd wondered if he might consider dropping it, but clearly, he won't. "I can't talk to you anymore," he accuses, case in hand, she guesses. "You don't want conversations, don't want to talk about work, about us, about this. Marth, I –"
She stands up, turns around. Handbag hanging off her arm, she checks that there's enough cash in her purse for a taxi; Martha's glare is hard on him when she speaks. "I almost fucking got raped, Clive," she tells him, and the words, really, are out of her mouth before she can think them through. They hurt with the magnitude of them - she's never, ever, used that word before, not even in her head. It's a fact, though, isn't it? And she feels her heart hammering in her chest, tears welling up at the back of her eyes. "What the fuck is there to talk about?"
And that does shut him up, after all. Clive looks at her like they've reached the end of a time when he knew exactly what to say, when protecting her from her nightmares was something he still thought he could do. There is stunned silence, on his end. I almost got raped, she thinks, again, and it's true, and she doesn't want it to be true, doesn't want to be that girl, never wanted to think she was a victim. She didn't want him to know about the nightmares because if he did (he does, now), then it would become real, the fact that she relives that night again and again in her head.
Clive doesn't stop staring, though, as she checks the floor for forgotten items (her bra, a pair of pants); she'd had such a good day, didn't need itto end like this.
Her hand is on the handle of the door, her back to him, when she hears his voice rising from behind her. It's quiet, stops her movements, and stills her in her place. "That, for instance," he just says. Martha's eyes shut. "We can talk about that. Or anything else you want. I'm not going anywhere and I'm not letting you go. Not again."
Her hand drops from the handle. Martha keeps her back to him, eyes closed; if she opens them now, tears will begin to stream down her cheeks and she won't be able to hold them in. Just like that, the anger, the frustration, they melt within her, clogging her throat. It's a long time before she moves again, turns around and faces him, fingers shaking in the dark. Their gazes cross; she's honest – just really, really honest. "I'm scared," she says. Her handbag falls to the floor. Martha feels like he can see right through her when she repeats:"I'm scared, Clive. All the fucking time."
And, it's not only what happened that night, to tell the truth. It's Billy; it's Sean; it's everything that's changed lately and everything that hasn't, everything that means she's not quite sure how to trust the world, anymore. Clive knows that, Martha thinks, so he just stays silent. Looks at her from where he's sitting, against the back of the bed and a sigh comes out of his mouth; she sees fear in his eyes, too. "Please, don't go," he just says. Pleads.
So, she doesn't go. The anger and resentment have evaporated in the air as quickly as they rose up within her; she's tired, now, just so fucking tired. Martha just wants someone to hold her and tell her that everything will be okay. She wants him to do what he always does best, find the solutions to the things that clog her brain, be it with laughter or a hug blown her way. Years ago, she remembers struggling, following the break up with Jerôme. Her stuff took over Clive's living room and apart from going to work, she barely moved from his couch, her look always cast in the general direction of the telly – she became well acquainted with mid-afternoon weekend programmes, developed an unhealthy obsession with true crime documentaries and the royal family, and – yes – ate a lot of frozen crumpets.
It took three weeks for Clive to decide an intervention was necessary. Woke her up at seven in the morning on a Sunday, drew the curtains wide open, loud music on the speakers. 'Get up,' he said.
Martha mumbled something unintelligible at him, threw the covers over her head to keep the sunlight from intruding.
'Come on, we're going in half an hour.'
More grumbling ensued; it took a while for Martha to fully emerge (not before he'd presented her with considerable amounts of coffee) and even then, she wasn't particularly agreeable. 'What the fuck, Clive?' she asked, still refusing to leave the couch. He smelled of fresh, clean soap and his aftershave, was wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt with an old jumper thrown over it. She was – well. She doesn't think she'd showered since before work on Friday.
Clive failed to listen to her protestations, simply rummaged through her open suitcase on the floor, fished out an outfit. 'Go on, get showered, wear this. We're leaving soon.'
Martha's got to admit, she wasn't much nicer to him in the car. Part of it was simply down to the fact that she'd never been a morning person (seven on a Sunday? What the hell?) and part of it was that, well, she generally is quite stubborn. The ride was silent and, for the most part, she had the nasty feeling that Clive was just silently laughing to himself, mocking her state of discontent, which did nothing to appease Martha's particular sense of annoyance. She was thirty-five years old, for fuck's sake, didn't need him to tell her how to live her life.
They arrived about two hours later. The place was deserted, in the middle of fucking fields; Clive stopped at the entrance of a rundown, gravel road to look at his phone. Martha took one glance at the sign in front of them and said: 'Nope,' opened the door and stepped out of the car. He laughed, looked around.
'And, where do you think you're going?'
To her further annoyance, Martha noted that yes, he was unfortunately correct: apart from a few isolated farms and cattle, there wasn't really anywhere to go. It occurred to her that she hadn't seen a car drive past them in a good while, come to think of it. She got back into the passenger seat next to him, closed the door. 'You're fucking insane,' she said.
'Oh, go on. I've done it before. Lots of fun.'
She glared at him. 'Jumping out of a plane is fun?'
Yes, because the thing to note, here (the important thing to note), was that: Skydiving London, London's Parachute School, was written on the sign at the entrance of the narrow, gravel road in front of them. Clive put his phone back in the pocket of his jacket, left hand shifting the gears back into first. 'More fun than sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself,' he argued, pointed. Martha rolled her eyes. 'Call it my belated birthday present to you, then,' he said.
.
The thing is, though: it's not much of a birthday present when you're being forced into it.
So: in prep, she hated his guts. On the plane, she hated his guts. But: 'You're smiling,' he said, a few minutes after they'd touched the ground, walking towards her. She'd landed a good while before he did but Martha's hands still shook, brain infused with adrenaline.
'Oh, fuck off, Clive,' she laughed, happy and genuine. He pulled her into a tight hug.
'I fucking love you, Martha Costello,' he said in her ear, loud and buzzing, and she's not quite sure why but the phrase why d'you only call me when you're high came into her brain, then, because they were definitely high on something, that day. Martha smiled but still rolled her eyes at him when he pulled her towards him and lifted her feet off the ground, twirling them around.
'Okay, okay, you're great too, please put me down!' she laughed before he settled them back on the ground, doesn't know if even back then, he'd meant the words in a way that she didn't, or didn't understand them, didn't want to understand them. Martha thinks about what Jo asked, a couple of weeks ago, and: 'we've been best friends for the last fifteen years, of course, I love him,' she'd said, true, but then maybe not.
In his hotel room in Manchester, five years later, Martha still doesn't want to tell him what's in her head and yet, she does climb back into bed with him, toes off her shoes and lies on top of the covers at his side, head resting against his shoulder. They're silent for a while; she remembers how he made her feel better, that day, about herself and about her breakup, made it easier to function, somehow. He holds her close, now, his thumb softly caressing the bare skin of her arm; she feels his chest rise and fall against her ear.
He must feel her smile at the memory of the both of them because she feels him smile, too, ask: "Penny for your thoughts."
"'Let's get rich and buy our parents homes, in the South of France,'" she recites, jokes, remembers how they'd screamed the song off the top of their lungs on the way back from the skydiving school, still elated with the jump and the rush of adrenaline. Clive smiles, under her, nods.
"Oh yeah, that was a good day," he says. Holds her close to him in the dark until she feels him shift, reach for something under the bed. She leans back on her arm, head supported by her palm, intrigued. "Close your eyes," he says, and Martha frowns just a bit. She can't see any reason not to comply, though, so her eyelids shut in the dark. Clive moves, drops something against the sheets. "Okay, open up."
The moon casts a light glow over their bed from the window behind her. There is a box, now, laid down on the sheets.
It's quite a decent-sized box, wrapped in leftover Christmas paper; Martha bites her lip and smiles. "What's that, Clive?"
"Couldn't find the right time to give it to you all day," he responds, enigmatic, pretending to ignore her question. He's good, she thinks, smiling. Almost even got her to forget her own - "Come on," Clive whispers. "Open it."
She rolls her eyes and takes the box in her hands; the thing is quite big, rectangular, twenty centimetres long, at least, but when she picks it up, there's something loose inside, like whatever it is, it's actually smaller. Clive, of course, could turn on the lights to help her in this enterprise but instead he doesn't, just watches her struggle as she tears the wrapping paper off the box and finds cardboard underneath, rolls her eyes – "Is this just entertainment for you to watch me open this?" she jokes and he laughs, just egging her on.
Eventually, Martha manages to peel off the tape that holds the cardboard closed, opens the flaps on top of the box, and –
There is another box, inside the box. A much smaller box, a little square, black box, covered in velvet and suddenly, Martha understands the purpose of the bigger box, because if she'd seen the smaller box first, she'd probably have run out the door by now. She's seen little black boxes like these in the movies, takes a wild guess as to what is in there and even if she's got to admit she hates it when a book mentions that someone's heart stopped beating and then goes on without mentioning their death, Martha thinks right this minute, that's exactly what happens to hers. It stops her words, her movements, the air coming in and out of her lungs.
She looks up at Clive, looks down at box and maybe, this is a mistake, she thinks, but it doesn't look like it. "Open it," he says.
Obviously, she's not capable of rational thought, right this minute, which is why Martha does as she's told, almost automatically, like a kid saying "thanks" and "please" just because their parents said so. There's a part of her that hopes she's got it wrong, that it's not what she thinks it is. She looks down, but then, it's exactly what she thinks it is. It's a black box with a ring in it, with a diamond mounted on it, with –
She opens her mouth to say – well, she doesn't know what to say, actually.
It probably shows on her face because: "Before you say anything," Clive interrupts, his hand shortly touching her knee. "It's – It was my grandmother's." Martha can tell it's meant to be an explanation, but it doesn't explain anything, as far as she's concerned, other than the look of it, she guesses, how old and lovingly ornate it is. "She said –" Clive starts, looks at her, smiles. "Actually, it doesn't matter what she said. I'm not asking, or proposing, anything, Marth. You can wear it, or keep it locked in a drawer forever if you want. I don't care. It's yours," he adds, shrugs. "She gave it to me over ten years ago and I already knew it was yours," he smiles, finds her glance. "Sorry it took so long to give it you."
Her mouth opens, closes; it's a very long time until she feels like words might even leave it again, one day. She watches her fingers, the way her skin contrasts with the cover of the box, the white sheets of their hotel bed. It occurs to her that Clive may still be speaking, or not, may be waiting for her to say something. She feels dizzy. Dizzy like that day when she dragged him into an empty courtroom and held onto his hand for fear that the ground may collapse under them.
As if reading her mind – or maybe how white her face gets - "Are you going to swoon again?" Clive asks, joking, and it may not be that clever or that funny but at least she does hear his words, then, it gives her brain something to focus on.
"Fuck off," she laughs, shaking her head. A soft chuckle escapes his lips.
Martha doesn't really mean to but slowly, she finds herself picking the box up and bringing it closer to her eyes, watching the moonlight as it dances upon it. Things get less blurry as she focuses, but still, she's careful, takes the ring out of the box, feels the weight of it in her hand.
The part of her brain that is somehow still alive and responsive silently acknowledges that yes: it's beautiful, magnificent in fact, discreet and elegant, definitely the kind of thing she would wear if –
The words get stuck in her throat. The memories, they course through her brain: something happened, that night after they jumped out of the plane. Martha remembers not being able to sleep, padding into his bedroom and lying down next to him.
She thought he was asleep but when she turned onto her side to rest her head on his shoulder, his arm instinctively reached around, hand settling at her side. 'What's up?' he whispered in her hair.
'Can't sleep.'
She remembers wishing that she could say it was the jump, the rush of adrenaline still keeping her awake, but she knew it wasn't. It was a different kind of feeling, heartbreak, maybe; she thought back at the last few weeks she'd spent on Clive's sofa, let out a soft sigh against the cotton of his shirt.
'I miss Jérôme, you know?' she admitted, in the dead of night. She wanted, back then, to explain why she'd been like this, why she'd felt sad, why – 'I didn't love him,' Martha added, a desire to set the record straight, to explain why she hadn't been able to properly get out of bed for days. 'But I miss him. Is that weird?'
Something soft, between a sigh and a smile came out of Clive's mouth. 'No,' he said. She closed her eyes.
'I fucking hate myself for what I did to him.'
And that, she was pretty sure Clive knew as well. She felt it in his breaths, the way he almost opened his mouth to counter with – something, anything, to say that everyone made mistakes, that it wasn't that bad, that –
Martha shook her head, quiet, bit her lip. 'I felt something,' she admitted (because nights are made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day, aren't they?). Clive tensed, as if he knew what she was going to say, do, and in fairness he probably did, probably felt it too. I felt something with you, she thought and felt his heartbeat rush against her ear, the only indication he gave that he was actually listening, his whole body still, as though trying to pretend that this wasn't real. It was real, she thought. And: 'It's not right, Clive,' she told him.
She felt a move, then, a sign of life; he smiled and looked down at her, crossed her gaze, letting out a breath. 'And why is that, Marth? Why not us?' he shrugged. The question sounded genuine, like he couldn't really see the objections that kept forming in her head, the moment she realised what words came to her when all she wanted was to shout at Jérôme (I cheated on you with my best friend, and it felt more like love than a one-night-stand).
Martha looked away, then, up to the ceiling, avoided Clive's glance. 'Relationships,' she started to explain, tried to explain –
'Love -' Clive amended, cut her off; she rolled her eyes.
'Well, whatever it is,' she said, shrugged. 'It always goes to shit either way.'
And that was that, or so she thought. Five years later, as the conversation replays in her head, her jaw clenches again; she looks up at Clive and wishes she hadn't heard him when he spoke and gave her the ring, earlier. "What did your nan say?" she asks, now. The diamond of the ring shines in the dark; she sits up and turns her body around to face him, legs folded and bare under her. Martha holds the ring between her thumb and forefinger to take a better look at it. "You said it didn't matter. I think it does. What did your nan say about the ring?"
Martha hears his sigh, next to her. Clive finds her gaze; he's trying to gauge her reaction, what she wants or doesn't want to hear. "You're not going to like it," he warns, and Martha supposes that no, she won't.
"That's never stopped you before," though, she points out. And it's true: for better or for worse, Clive's never made a habit of sheltering her from the things she doesn't want to hear.
His jaw clenches; he looks up, hesitates, but settles on the truth, always. "'Give it to the girl you love,'" he quotes, catches her gaze before she can escape it. "And I do. I love you."
It's a while before Martha stops watching the ring, after he speaks, as if she suddenly expects it to grow legs and walk away from her, like Clive did a few months ago. "I –" she starts, trails off, because in truth, if she didn't know what to say to him six months ago in an empty courtroom, she still doesn't know what to say, now. I meant what I said, she remembers him saying – it didn't stop him from putting a knife through her back, now, did it? Martha looks at Clive and despite the calm and healing of the past few days, she still sees the way he betrayed Billy when her eyes set on him, the way he betrayed her, too. She shifts, away from him. Looks down at her knees when she says: "I can't give you what you want."
And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,is the truth, she thinks, the brutal, honest truth. She expects him to fight her but a soft sound escapes his mouth instead, something between a sigh and a laugh. "And what is it that I want, Marth?" he asks, genuine. Clive's not aggressive, in his words, just disbelieving. "What is it that you think I want? And actually, what is it that you want, because you never talk about that, do you?"
And when he said he loved her, after they'd jumped out of a plane and landed safely on the ground, she called it friendship. Of course I love him, she even said to Jo, just a few weeks ago. And when he said it again at his silk party, and insisted he meant what he said, well Martha didn't believe him. For months after that, every one of his transgressions seemed to suggest it: see, you don't really love me, do you? She thought that maybe, Clive didn't fully understand what the words even meant, or what love was, but what occurs to her, now, is that there might not be a difference, as long as he believes it to be true. Her gaze drifts from him to the ring, in her hand, and she remembers the vow she made to him, a long time ago. We tell each other everything and I want you to wake me up, is the first thing that she thinks, now. She doesn't want to tell him the specifics of her nightmares, might never even find the words to explain them, but she wants Clive to be there when she has them, wants him to chase off her fears with his smiles. Yet, also:"I don't want commitments," she starts. "Or –"
"And you think I do?" he throws back, laughing a bit, and Martha thinks he's spoken before thinking, there, he almost looks surprised by his own words, as if it hadn't even occurred to him before this point. Martha stares, genuinely confused, before he goes on. "Just because I love you doesn't mean that I do. It hurts too much when we fall apart, Marth," he admits. His voice breaks a bit but then there's a pragmatic look that makes its way into his eyes; Clive glances down at the both of them in bed, his own clothes still scattered around the room. "But it looks like we can't stop this from happening, so what do we do, now?" he asks her and for once, she can tell he doesn't have the answer to his own question.
So, she realises: it's down her to think. And, maybe he's right. Maybe they've tried and failed at the one-last-time routine too many times to believe that it might actually work, that they might actually cut this thing off, never to return again. Martha argues the one thing that comes to mind, then, the one thing that makes sense to her. "We have rules," she says, looking up at the ceiling. She feels Clive smile next to her, a curious eyebrow raised.
"Rules?"
"Rules." And it's up to her – to them – to define them, she realises. They've never had this conversation before - she'd never have allowed it, back then, preferred to put her head in the sand - so maybe she should be the one to start, now. "We agree on them," she says, as a preamble. "And we don't deviate." Clive smiles, for a bit; it gives her time to think. "We're not together," rule number one, she thinks. "If this," she points between the both of them. "Interferes with work, we're done. If we fall too hard, we're done."
"If we lie to each other, we're done," Clive cuts in, adds. Martha ponders over it for a moment; she doesn't like it, but they both have to make concessions, she guesses. Shifts, extends her right hand between them. Her little finger lifts up; Clive smiles.
"Pinky swear?" she says, like he did back then, when he made her promise to tell him everything.
Clive smiles, locks his finger with hers. "Pinky swear."
Wordlessly, then, she lets go of his hand and picks the ring up from where it fell next to her on the sheets, takes it in her left hand and slides it down the ring finger on her right. It sits well, there, Martha thinks, looking at it and biting her lip as she glances up at him. It's an engagement ring, not an engagement, and it's opposites; she likes it: it's a good thing. Her hand rests between them and he gently takes it in his, steady and oddly certain of something that she can't quite identify. She feels his fingers brush against her skin, feels the cold of the metal as it slides down to base. It fits. She feels like Cinderella with shoes on.
"Happy birthday, Marth," Clive adds, then, softly and she laughs, loud and contagious because he does, too. She's thirty-nine years old, tonight, and her life has been turned upside down but whatever we are, she thinks and it rings true, in her ear, like Billy's words used to when he called them 'the kids' and invented them as an item, as an us bubbling under their skin.
Martha falls asleep, later, and maybe yeah, falling is exactly like this.
.
.
[1] Do I Wanna Know? by Arctic Monkeys
[2] Why D'You Only Call Me When You're High? by Arctic Monkeys
[3] You and I by Ingrid Michaelson