Chapter 8

Cedric:My unexpected visitor

As I see who's at the door, I'm shocked. I didn't know whom to expect (for a moment I thought it would be Geraldine, but then I didn't, as she has called a time-out after our last conversation) but certainly not Ian. God, I'm not ready for this confrontation.

I consider not letting him in, but then I decide I'm not that much of a coward. It's best to get it over with as soon as possible, anyway.

'Hello, Ian,' I manage.

'Cedric. Can we talk?'

No! I want to scream. Let's forever hold our peace. But I say, as is expected, 'Certainly.'

He enters and takes off his coat. It's a very common thing to do, of course, nothing indecent, but to me – being in the state I have been in for the last two weeks – it resembles stripping. And it makes me feel very nervous.

I offer him a cognac – mostly because I need one myself – which he accepts.

We sit for a while, on opposite sides of the coffee table. I'm awaiting verbal assault (not the vulgar sort, but the more sophisticated and really hurtful kind, the kind I know he masters so well).

I'm bracing myself, but when he finally speaks, he says, 'God, Cedric, I'm so sorry.'

I don't understand. What is he sorry about? I'm the one who should apologise, for I beat him up. Traces of this are still visible on his face, although it is as beautiful as it ever was.

'I should apologise to you, I believe,' I say.

'Yes, I imagine you do,' he replies, putting his fingers to his mouth, were my first punch hit him. 'Don't be bothered by it too much, however. It probably was the only way to get the message through.'

'What message?'

God, I should have asked any question but this one. I don't want him to focus on the meaning of our fight. It's dangerous.

'You tell me,' he says.

No. No, I won't. I don't know why he's here. I don't know why he isn't (or doesn't appear to be) angry. I would prefer it if he were mad. It would make sense; I battered him. But if he intends to play a game with me, I won't let him. I know he can't be trusted. I learnt that the hard way.

'What are you here for, Ian?' I say in a harsh tone.

'To see if we could bury the hatchet,' he replies plainly. 'And perhaps be more than just erstwhile enemies.'

He looks at me with his pale blue eyes. ('Pale blue' shouldn't be adequate to describe the beauty of someone's eyes. But it is for his. Maybe it's the contrast with his tan skin and dark hair.) I look away. No. Don't go there. Don't pretend that the door is open to … I will not be hurt again.

'I don't think that would be wise,' I say. 'Too much has happened.'

'Like what?' he asks.

Oh yes, he's playing a game, all right; it's called 'acting clueless'.

'You know what,' I snarl.

'I slept with your wife.'

'Yes, indeed you did,' I say angrily. 'So don't pretend you want to be 'friends' again all of a sudden.'

'I hurt you more than she did, didn't I?' he remarks.

It sounds innocent enough, but I'm instantly alarmed. I know he's hinting at my … feelings for him.

I have hardly thought about anything else the previous two weeks. The fight and especially my conversation with Geraldine afterwards forced me to.

Walking back to the house, we were all shocked about the event. Rhonda, Matt and Denise started to make excuses why they shouldn't come in, so Geraldine and I went upstairs together. I was glad she didn't seem afraid of me.

She made tea, which we drank in silence, and I felt the urge to apologise.

'I'm sorry you saw me losing control that like,' I said. 'It has never happened before, and I'll make sure it'll never happen again.'

'It's okay,' she responded. 'I know it wasn't because of me. It wasn't because of me, was it?'

'No.' It was because of Henrietta. Maybe.

'Was it about your ex-wife?'

'I don't know. I think I snapped when I realised that he was … that he was once again trying to steal a woman from me.'

'Then it wasn't about me or your ex-wife, in fact.'

What did she mean by that? She looked at me as though she was referring to something significant.

'Cedric, what does Ian mean to you?'

'Nothing,' I said vehemently.

'That's rubbish,' she declared quietly. 'You wouldn't have hated him for nine years if he meant nothing to you.'

'He meant something to me, all right.' I was angry. I didn't like this interrogation. 'Past tense. He was my best friend, and he cheated on me with my wife.'

'You sound as though her part in this wasn't all that important.'

What? Why did she have to be so cryptic?

In the back of my mind I knew very well why; she was about to break some news to me that I wouldn't like to hear. About Ian. Oh, god.

'Listen,' she said. 'If it turns out that we're not meant to be it's a shame because I thought I had finally mastered the skill of being attracted to someone nice and decent. But I won't be devastated, for it has only been two weeks. And I don't want to be in a relationship with somebody who's actually in love with somebody else.'

'I'm not in love with Ian!' I yelled indignantly. 'My god, Geraldine, I'm not gay!'

I knew I was not, but she wasn't convinced. 'Well, you haven't been interested in women in nine years.'

'I haven't been interested in men either,' I retorted.

'Only in Ian,' she pointed out.

Oh, Jesus. 'I have hated him, not wanted him!' I snapped.

Finally, she nodded. But then she said, 'You have hated him with a passion for almost a decade, I know. You couldn't let him go, apparently. If he wasn't so important to you, I think you would have forgotten about him years ago, if not forgiven him.'

Oh, god, no. She was wrong. I didn't want to hear this.

She knelt by my chair, taking my hands in hers, looking a little sad. 'This is my theory. I'm not sure if it's correct, I truly hope it isn't, but I want you to think about it. And call me when you have come to a conclusion.'

I haven't called her yet, but I did arrive on a conclusion. I fought it, but it was inevitable in the end. I don't like it, though, and I intend to change it. I don't want to be homosexual, and I certainly don't want to suffer from eternal heartache over a prick like Ian Lovelace. Who is as straight as they come, and can't be trusted.

'Cedric?'

Hearing him calling my name snaps me out of it.

'I think you'd better go now,' I say, while I stand to stress my point.

He stands too, holding my glare. I avert my eyes and move towards the door. I'm serious about him leaving. As I walk passed him, he catches my wrist.

'Cedric.' A velvet voice.

'What do you want?' I snarl nervously.

He's so close. He looks at me. He smiles. It's not a smirk; it's a genuine smile. It's beautiful.

What is he doing? Trying to seduce me? I'm not going to let him; I know he can't be trusted.

'I want to try something,' he says gently. And then he kisses me softly on the lips.