The persistence of the telephone was almost enough to pick it up.

As it rang off the hook, Peter sat perfectly still at his kitchen table, studying the knots in the wood with his thumb.

An untouched University of Salford mug sat beside him alongside a slice of toast – equally intact. Peter knew that today was Sunday but it still pained him to do anything more than go through the motions of his routine.

Assumpta had left with Enda – she'd left with him. But why? And to where? Well, Peter was no fool. It was 9pm on a Saturday night by the time he'd called an end to their rehearsal, so that part was painfully obvious – but why?

Why?

The curate cast his mind back to the last time they'd been alone – had he somehow sanctioned this? Had he encouraged it?

No, he quickly recalled – he'd been resolute in his plea to Assumpta to discontinue things with Enda. There was no way she could have misunderstood.

Another thought immediately followed. Was she doing this to spite him?

Their last encounter, that encounter, could have meant so many things – did Assumpta somehow misinterpret something he'd done. Was she annoyed at him?

Peter's mind raced. He'd torn her dress but surely this was not a proportional response – in fact, at the time, she seemed almost amused by it... by their fumblings –

Oh, no….

Peter's stomach lurched. Had he somehow repulsed her under the kitchen table? Did his inexperience show?

Perhaps Assumpta couldn't make do with mere fumblings – maybe she wanted a real man. An experienced man – a man who was able to touch her without threatening to lose the plot completely.

As if on cue, the phone began to ring again.

It was Assumpta, of that he was certain. It was Assumpta at past midnight on her first attempt and again at 6.40am upon her second. Peter hadn't answered either call or the half-a-dozen that followed. He knew why she was calling. But he wasn't ready to hear it. He wasn't ready to let go.

After three rings, the phone stopped and didn't ring again. The temporary respite it brought was soon replaced by the deafening silence of the room. At least when the phone rang, Peter had something of hers to hold on to. Now he had nothing.

This wasn't the case for long. Another bell soon followed, this time from the front door. Peter's mind fell to the neighbours who would be curious to know why the town heretic would be calling on the Priest so early, and he realised that this ringer could not so readily be ignored.

"What are you trying to do to me?"

Peter cast an eye over the publican's shoulder before he motioned for her to come in. "Assumpta, please…"

"Oh, so it's the neighbours your worried about now, is it?"

Like some kind of tempest, Assumpta made her way to the curate's lounge, removing her gloves and coat as she did so.

He attempted a joke. "Make yourself at home…"

"Why are you ignoring me?"

The denunciation in her manner immediately jarred with Peter. "Ignoring… Assumpta, I saw you leave with him. With Enda!"

The publican took a breath, perhaps her first since she'd entered. "It's not what you think."

"What do I think?"

Assumpta drew another welcome breath. "We're not involved – not how you believe."

Peter rolled his eyes in an attempt to keep his mind from racing to conclusions. "We had an agreement, Assumpta – we made an agreement. You told me that he was out of the picture."

"He was never in the picture!"

"Well, he is now."

Assumpta moved to speak but her mind drew a blank for a response. "He's not." she answered finally. "If you'd just let me explain – "

"Explain."

She searched her mind for the rehearsed explanation she'd so carefully prepared the day before. Any mention of Father Mac's ultimatum was strictly prohibited but the spirit of it… that was what Assumpta would go with.

"It's beginning to show."

A flash of confusion crossed the curate's face – soon to be replaced by sheer panic. "What do you mean?" he croaked.

"Us. This. First the play, then the rehearsals… people are beginning to notice."

"Who?"

"People!" she snapped. "Everyone! Don't tell me you haven't caught their sideways glances. They know. Or if they don't now, they soon will…"

Peter leaned his arm uncertainly against the bannister. "So, Enda…"

" – is a diversion."

"A diversion?" Peter stared at her with incredulity. "And does he – does he know?"

Assumpta looked down at her feet. "He knows enough."

"What does that mean?"

Feeing her temper rise, the publican's attempts to keep her voice level were futile. "It means… trust me. I need for you to trust me. "

"How far are you going to take this?"

Every millisecond that passed following this question increasingly unnerved Peter. When she eventually said nothing, he whispered desperately, "How far have you already taken it?"

"Peter!" she snapped defensively. "I'm not going to sleep with him."

"Then what?" he responded. "Why are you being so defensive?"

"I'm not… look, Peter – " Assumpta searched for what to say next… the words that would make this all go away. "I did what I had to do."

The very fact that she had mimicked the line spoken from their Great Scene was entirely lost on them. All that lingered was the penetrating unease that they both felt.

Peter, lost in his thoughts, slumped down on the stairwell, his lanky frame dominating its entire girth. Assumpta hovered half a metre or so at his feet, unable to draw any closer even if she'd wanted to.

He looked so hurt – beyond hurt. She'd imagined that this conversation, although difficult, would have provided some kind of solace to the Priest.

When she had caught his eyes on her when she left with Enda last night, Assumpta had willed the ground to swallow her whole. Anything to escape the look – that look – that Peter had given her.

She needed to do better. She had to make this better.

"It's all for you." Assumpta began gently, moving as close to him as she dared. "This – it's all for you. For us."

Peter smirked painfully. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"

Assumpta didn't answer. Instead, she chanced a hand against his head. When he didn't move away, she widened her grasp a little, resting her open palm against the curate's cheek.

At first, Peter did nothing. Immobile, he simply stayed there, as still as a statue – not really returning the gesture but not entirely escaping from it either.

Assumpta took it as a sign. "I missed you – " she began, her voice no louder than a whisper.

Seconds passed. Minutes. By way of a response, Peter leaned imperceptibly into her caress, savouring her warmth on his skin.

Encouraged, she placed her other hand on the side of his face and drew him closer until his forehead pressed against her stomach.

At last the curate's hands found her too, on the small of her back as he breathed her in.

"Why does this have to be so difficult?"

He spoke the question within a sigh, without fully expecting an answer.

A biting panic rose in Assumpta's throat. Was he implying that this was too difficult?

"The best things always are," she told him weakly, only half believing it herself.

The publican felt him smile briefly into the waistband of her jeans before he pulled away.

An agonising moment passed before Peter mumbled quietly. "It will be worth it, though."

It wasn't spoken as a question but his companion saw fit to assure him anyway with a silent nod of her head.

Assumpta wanted to ask him when. She wished she could demand an exit strategy – a series of next steps, but the only syllables she could utter were two, in quick succession.

"It will. It will."

Enda Sullivan did not consider himself to be a jealous man. He never felt the need to. Every one of his ex-something-or anothers were always more into him than the other way around. That's the way he liked it. That's the way it always was.

Until now.

Assumpta Fitzgerald. She was pretty, sure but was she worth all of this?

Hassle. He'd never cared for it. He didn't now. Yet here he was, playing the patsy. Waiting for the publican to emerge for another of their rehearsed encounters. Their phony dates.

"Another ale, Enda?"

The musician covered his pint with one hand. "Driving" he explained to the pretty barmaid.

Niamh smiled from behind the beer taps. "I suppose that means her ladyship will be taking a skin-full this evening then?"

Enda smiled mischievously. "When have you known her to take a skin-full of anything?"

A laugh emanated from the room but it came from neither of them. At once, Enda and Niamh turned towards the source – the village Priest.

Peter smiled despondently into his drink. Bushmills. Entirely out of character for the curate in question, but he nursed it all the same.

Niamh eyed him with incredulity. Did he want to make it anymore obvious?

"Another, Father Clifford?"

He laughed again. "Well, okay then" he responded, enunciating every syllable.

The bar-keep replenished his glass without question but Enda was less gallant.

"On a mission tonight, eh Father?"

The question jarred with Peter. Although anything that man would have said tonight would jar with him.

"Oh, you know."

Enda looked at him shrewdly. "I think I do."

As soon as the words were uttered, Assumpta appeared from behind the bar, dressed far less conservatively than she had been for her previous nights out with the musician.

"Well, look at you." Enda observed, admiringly.

Peter did not respond to the sub-text of observation. Instead, he merely looked up from his drink and starred longingly from across the bar.

Assumpta tried not to return his gaze. Staring fixedly on the musician – the object of her affection – she immediately regretted the knee-high boots and black dress combo she was wearing.

It was all part of the act. The charade.

"Ready?"

Enda held a hand out from across the bar and begrudgingly, she took it, feeling every wince that Peter made as she did.

"I won't be late," she told Niamh, and by extension, the curate.

"I'll not wait up."

Niamh danced happily toward the kitchen allowing Peter the chance to openly watch them leave.

They make a strong pair.

His superior's words rang resolutely in his ear. Peter could not deny it; they made a strong pair. Far stronger than an atheist and the Priest she'd defrocked would ever make.

Trying his best to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Peter took another drink. Then another. And another.

But the pain that he felt was here to stay.

A/N Thanks to all who are keeping with me. A few more pertinent chapters yet but I couldn't resist including one with a jealous Peter! Let me know how you're getting on...