Part One Hundred And Twelve
When John arrived at George's on the Sunday afternoon, she was out in the garden. It was really quite hot for early May, the sun seeming to infuse life into everything it touched.t, closing it as quietly as possible. He didn't want to disturb her just yet, because he could hear that she was happy. She wasn't singing anything remotely classical, but the sort of mildly country thing she might have done in the early days of their marriage. He walked stealthily along the wall at the side of the house, passing the open kitchen door, and reaching the garden. Here he stood, just watching her, waiting for her to notice that she wasn't alone. George was filthy, but he still thought she was beautiful. She was happy. She wasn't singing anything remotely classical, but the sort of mildly country thing she might have done in the early days of their marriage. He walked stealthily along the wall at the side of the house, passing the open kitchen door, and reaching the garden. Here he stood, just watching her, waiting for her to notice that she wasn't alone. George was filthy, but he still thought she was beautiful. She was clad in an almost indecent pair of shorts and an old T-shirt, obviously taking advantage of the brief heat wave. She had leaves in her hair, smudges of dust in places he wouldn't have thought possible, and was clearly boiling. She was standing on the garden bench in her bare feet, trying to prune the roses that had grown almost to the top of her very high fence. The lawn had already been cut, leaving the fragrant tang of freshly mown grass in the air, and there was a rubbish bag on the patio that clearly contained any amount of weeds, and plants that had outlived their usefulness. The pruning of the roses was obviously the last job she had to do. Standing as she was, stretching up to reach the tops of the roses, she was giving him a delightful display of her extremely pretty legs. The T-shirt had risen up slightly, to show him a glimpse of her elegant back. She had the French windows open, and was singing along to a CD that appeared to be fairly familiar. That was it, he realised, it was one of Karen's.
"I'm so scared that the way that I feel, is written all over my face. When you walk in to the room, I want to find a hiding place. We used to laugh, we used to hug, the way that old friends do, But now a smile and a touch of your hand, just makes me come unglued."
George seemed to be putting such feeling into the words, that John briefly wondered if they really meant something to her, rather than simply being the lyrics of a favourite song.
"I want to hold you close, I want to push you away, I want to make you go, I want to make you stay."
She sounded so in love as she sang these words, that if he hadn't known better, he might have wondered if she was having feelings for someone else that he didn't know about. But she couldn't be. George had him, and she had Karen. She didn't need anyone else.
"Just when I think I'm under control, I think I've finally got a grip, Another friend tells me that my name is always on your lips. They say I'm more than just a friend, they say I must be blind. Oh, I'll admit that I've seen you watch me from the corner of your eye."
When she'd moved to the end of the bench, trying to lean at a slightly odd angle to reach the roses that weren't quite in line with her, John thought it was time to make his presence known. "Would you like me to do that?" He said, walking up to her. "Jesus Christ," She said in shock, wheeling round to face him, the sheers poised for any necessary action. "Where did you spring from?" "Well, if you had anything resembling awareness," He said, removing the sheers from her hand. "And weren't singing your heart out, you'd know that I've been here for a while." "Yes, well, I didn't exactly expect to be disturbed in my own back garden, now did I, especially as both my neighbours are away." When she'd stepped down from the bench, he put his arms round her and kissed her cheek, feeling her taut hot body against him. "Karen not with you today?" He asked, finally letting her go. "No, she's working. Quite where she gets the dedication from is beyond me. So I thought I'd make use of the weather." Picking up the sheers, John finished pruning the roses for her, the simple task reminding him, of when he'd done this years ago when he'd actually lived here. "Would you like some lemonade?" She asked him. "It's home made." "I haven't had your lemonade for years," He said, glancing at her over his shoulder.
When George returned, she was carrying two glasses of the ice cold, still lemonade that she'd made that morning. They sat on the bench, both wondering how to begin a conversation that they instinctively knew would be difficult. "You look beautiful like that," John found himself saying as he gazed at her. "No, I don't," George scoffed. "But then, you even managed to tell me that after I'd just given birth to Charlie, so god knows why I ever believe you when you say it." "You were," He protested, remembering every moment of that day as if it had only happened a week or so ago. "John, no one is remotely beautiful after giving birth, least of all me." "You were beautiful to me," He said quietly. "How could I be?" She asked, without the slightest hint of flippancy in her tone, and he realised that this was one question she'd probably wondered about, ever since Charlie was born. "You were utterly exhausted, red in the face, and calling me more names than I could have learnt at the local comprehensive," He said with a smile. "But you were still beautiful, because I loved everything about you, and because you were giving me Charlie. No matter what came later, I won't ever forget how much I loved you that day." "I think I just feel, that I can never quite live up to what you want me to be," She said quietly. "You either want me to be something I can't, such as a normal, loving mother, or you want me to stop being something I am, such as being in love with Karen. I love you more than I could ever love anyone else, but I can't be who you want me to be." As he put out his arms to her, she held up a hand. "No, John, please don't touch me, because if you do, I probably won't say half the things I need to say, and I'll almost certainly give into anything you ask of me. I can't give up Karen, no matter how much you might want me to, because she makes me feel good about myself. She doesn't expect anything of me, and she doesn't ask me to change who I am. She can even accept my not eating as a part of me, just as one of my little quirks. I don't have to fit into any particular category for her, because she doesn't make any direct or indirect demands for me to be something I'm not. Even when I'm not entirely honest with her, telling her I've eaten when I blatantly haven't, she isn't remotely cross with me. I know that sounds a very minor thing to appreciate, but it's really quite a big thing for me." "I know," He said, thinking that he hadn't heard her be this open about her problem with food for a long time. "How do you know?" She asked, looking him straight in the eye. "I had dinner with Karen last night," He told her. "And she gave me a very thought provoking verbal treatise, on the cause and effect of anorexia and addictions in general." George couldn't help smiling. "Oh, dear," She said, taking a sip of her lemonade to hide her laughter. "I hope it didn't shatter too many of your illusions." "Enough," He said seriously, bringing her gaze back on him again. "What she said, made me realise that I need to approach the relationship that exists between you and me, in an entirely different way. I know that I love you, but I somehow need to convince you of that, but I don't know how. When it comes to showing you that I love you, I'm used to doing that more by actions than by words, yet that doesn't seem to be good enough any more. I understand why it isn't, at least I think I do, but I'm not sure how to go about it in any other way." George was incredibly touched at his openness, because John hated admitting he didn't know how to do something, especially something as fundamental as telegraphing his feelings to her. "Darling, it's not that I need you to tell me in some other way," She said, a slight tremor in her voice. "Because sometimes I can't believe it, no matter how much you're saying it to me. Some days, I can't believe anything good about myself, which means that I can't accept anyone else's positive feelings for me. Making love always has, and always will be your primary way of telling anyone you love them, and I wouldn't ask you to change that because I know how difficult that would be. But occasionally, as on Monday for example, I can't get past the fact that you might just love sleeping with me. I can't usually understand that I may have given you a reason to love me, except for Charlie. That's why, when I say things like I did when we had that row, they hurt me more than they do anyone else. When I compared you to Fenner, I saw your urge to slap me." "I'm no Neil Haughton, George," He said firmly. "I wouldn't have done it." "No, but you wanted to do it," She said seriously. "And if I'm honest with you, part of me wishes you had." "Why?" He asked, staring at her in aghast amazement. "Because I knew I deserved it. I haven't said something quite so despicable since the Diana Hulsey trial. I really wouldn't have blamed you if you had slapped me. I felt so guilty for saying that to you, but like you, I didn't really know how to put it right." "Is that why you stopped eating again?" He asked, feeling that they were finally getting to the heart of the matter. "Partly," She admitted, steadily avoiding his gaze. "But it's never that clear cut. I think I stopped eating, because it hit me that I couldn't ever give you what you wanted from me. I loathe having to admit that you are what makes my life worth living, but you are, and after that argument, I thought I'd probably lost you for good." "Is that why you felt like dying?" He asked gently, making her look at him. Her eyes widening, George stared at him in shock. Her expression was one of pure humiliation. "Did you really expect Jo not to tell me?" He said, seeing that she had hoped exactly that. "No, not really," She said resignedly. "But I wish she hadn't. I didn't want you to know about that. I feel so stupid, and no doubt Jo thinks I am as well. But at the time, it seemed like the only sensible thing to do." "Don't ever, ever, see that as a sensible solution to a problem," He said vehemently but hoarsely, pulling her to him, almost as if to keep her safe for the rest of her life. "Even when we were barely speaking, you were a constant part of my life, and no, not just because of Charlie. You would always irritate me to distraction, every time you appeared before me in court, but I would never have had it any other way. Unless your sparring with Jo became particularly bitchy, which you are both quite capable of, it always amused me. My life wouldn't feel complete without you, ever. It crucifies me to think that I could have been the cause of you feeling so desperate. I don't know how I can possibly convince you of how much I love you, but I will do it, no matter what it takes. You probably won't believe you're hearing me say this, but it was extremely wrong of me to expect you to give up Karen, though I'm not sure that's the right way to put it. It just hurt me that I couldn't give you everything you wanted. But I really shouldn't have said the things I did, and I'm sorry, more sorry than you could ever imagine for making you feel like that." "Shh," She said, gently touching his cheek. "I know." They both had brief tears in their eyes, not having exchanged such emotional words in far too long.
They sat like this for some time, just holding each other close. No more words were necessary, all their hurt having been torn out and disposed of. He didn't attempt to kiss her, but her nearness was making him want to show her that he loved her. Burying his face in her hair, he breathed in a long, slow breath, his nostrils twitching at the combination of grass, sweat and perfume that was present in her hair. "John, I'm hardly a bitch on heat," She said with a laugh, detaching herself from him. "I wish I could make love to you," He said, the words escaping him before he could stop them. "Right here and now." "Well, you can't," She said as he drew her back into his arms. "If your neighbours are away, why not?" He said mischievously. "Because Mother Nature said so," She told him, knowing that even he couldn't argue with this. "I thought that was last week," He said, inwardly cursing the creator of the female body. "Well, not eating for a few days, tends to jerk things like that around a bit. So I'm sorry, but you'll have to keep your lust in check for now." Lust or no lust, he thought, he still needed to be close to her. She fitted so snugly against him. When he kissed her, they could both taste the sharpness of the lemonade on each other's lips. "I know we can't actually..." She began, always unable to find quite the right words to describe their lovemaking. "...But, please will you stay?" "Yes, of course, He said, feeling an immense feeling of love and protectiveness towards her, for the way she had so tentatively asked him. She still felt unsure of needing his company when she couldn't provide his usual avenue of pleasure for him. It wasn't that she thought him fickle, it was just that she didn't believe enough in herself, to think that he might want to be with her no matter what they did or didn't do. As she went upstairs for a shower a little while later, John put the bag of rubbish in the garage, thinking that spending a normal, Sunday evening together, without the possibility of making love, wouldn't do either of them any harm.