Stewart had never been one for apologies. It was funny how all the things she had never thought about before suddenly all now came to the forefront of her mind. He had never liked admitting he was wrong, and, in the past fourteen years, she had just accepted that that was part of his makeup. She had learned to accept the grudging crumbs he would offer her and force them both to move on without dwelling on it. So, as she waited for him to return home from the station, her expectations weren't high. She busied herself around the house, clearing up, putting on some washing and hoovering the carpets until she heard the front door open and close behind him.
She was in the kitchen and, taking a deep breath, made her way into the hallway to find him standing by the door, his expression somewhat sheepish.
"Hello darling," he said, and she found herself struck by his tone. "I reckon I owe you an apology, don't I?"
"Umm…well…" she floundered slightly as he moved towards her, "I suppose you do."
He sighed heavily and shook his head. "It was the drink, the bastard drink that did it. I should never have fought with you the way I did. Oh, I know you gave as good as you got but it was me who started it, me who prolonged it, me who punched your mate…God, how humiliating!" he hung his head. "I don't know what I was thinking, really I don't. Can you forgive me?"
Part of her wanted to say no, she wouldn't forgive him and that he had humiliated her as much as he had humiliated himself. But the part of her that was desperate to try and make things work between them and make amends for whatever part she might have played, won out, "Yes."
"Oh, thank goodness!" he exhaled sharply and then pulled her into his arms. "I wouldn't be able to get through any of this without you Chris, you know that don't you?" She didn't say anything, and he pulled back to meet her gaze. "I know you must be pretty angry with me and I honestly don't blame you. I've really screwed things up, haven't I?"
"Yes, you have."
For a second, there was a flash of something in his eyes, as though he hadn't expected her to agree with him but rather to placate him. "Well…I need to start making it up to you, don't I?"
"Forget about me. You need to start thinking about yourself, Stewart. You need to start thinking about your future and whether you've got one in the job."
He moved away from her over to the living room door and leaned against it. "I've probably screwed that up too. No doubt I'll have to go before a disciplinary board because of this." He shook his head. "What a mess."
His look of dejection pierced her, and she moved forward towards him again, "You need to stop drinking."
"I know.
"I can help you."
"How?"
"Well, we can make sure we don't have any in the house and…and if we go somewhere, you'll just need to try and stick to soft drinks and…" she paused, wondering how he would receive her next comment, "maybe you should think about AA."
"You think I'm an alcoholic?" he asked, his tone somewhere between derision and disbelief.
"Don't you?"
He turned away from her and wandered into the kitchen over to the window overlooking the garden. "No, I don't think I am. I could stop at any time. I've stopped now, in fact. I won't touch another drop, not because I've got a problem, but because it's the right thing to do."
She hovered behind him, torn between wanting to tell him that she didn't believe that was enough and supporting him in his decision. "Maybe you should speak to your senior officer."
"DI Evans?"
"If that's who it is." The two days he had lasted at Hoxton hadn't really given her much of an opportunity to find out who the personnel were and though she had been tempted to ask Frank if he knew anyone there, she had so far restrained herself. "You should maybe give him a heads up about what happened last night."
"Sanctimonious git," he muttered. "He's going to love this given how much he hates me already."
"I'm sure that's not true."
"It is, and all because he can't stand the fact that I used to be on the squad when he's been stuck on division all his days. Bit like your Burnside, I would imagine."
She didn't miss the dig, but she chose not to take him up on it, mainly because arguing over the fact that Frank had previously been on the Robbery Squad, and therefore knew was it was like to be 'off division' seemed pretty petty in the grand scheme of things.
"Maybe I will call him," he said on her silence. "I suppose it can't hurt."
"No, it can't."
He moved towards her and pulled her into his arms again. "I love you, Chris. I've loved you since we were sixteen years old, and I'll love you when we're sixty. And you love me too, don't you?"
"Of course I do," she replied, squeezing him tightly, as if the very physical action could push away all the doubtful thoughts in her mind. "Why don't you go and get some kip? I can't imagine the cells are that comfortable, even at Sun Hill."
He pulled back and kissed her gently. "I reckon I'll do that. Do you think you could see yourself to bringing me up a cuppa?"
"I'm sure I could manage that," she replied, watching as he loped away from her and slowly climbed the stairs towards their bedroom. Flicking on the kettle, she leaned back against the counter and sighed. It had gone better than she had expected and yet, she couldn't help but wonder if a different outcome might have been better. If he had come home, full of righteous indignation with no intention of changing his ways, it might have made it easier for her to make the decision she knew she had been on the cusp of making. As things stood however, it was obvious that she had to support him in his quest for sobriety.
Anything else would be tantamount to betrayal.
XXXX
The day passed slowly, the rain and wind battering against the windows making the thought of doing anything other than staying indoors fairly unpalatable. After she had taken Stewart his brew, she had left him to sleep and tried to keep her mind occupied. She found herself thinking through what would need to happen in the immediate future; him speaking to his superior officer, him being prepared to accept the possible consequences of what had happened, him stopping drinking. She wondered if she could persuade him to apologise personally to Tony and if the other man might be gracious enough to accept it. It wouldn't change what had happened, but it might go some way to mitigate matters, if the CPS decided to take it further.
As the sun began to set and darkness descended, she climbed the stairs to the bedroom to see how Stewart was and what he fancied eating that evening. She had heard him moving around a few times, but he hadn't ventured back downstairs, and she could only hope that the rest had helped clear his head.
To her surprise, the bed was empty, the covers thrown back, and she could only assume he was in the bathroom. His clothes lay strewn on the floor, and she lifted them up, ostensibly to put them away, only to find herself suddenly being grabbed from behind and turned sharply. She cried out in surprise as Stewart pushed her back against the wall, his body pressing against hers, his naked arousal abundantly evident. There was a look in his eyes, a look she knew well and yet hadn't seen for quite some time, and she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about it. His lips brushed against hers, gently at first then more insistently, finally forcing hers to part so that his tongue could slide inside. His hands went to her hair, and he held her there as he continued to kiss her, almost to the point of her not being able to breathe.
"I've missed you," he said, drawing back and pressing his forehead against hers. "I know I haven't paid you much attention lately, but it's going to be different now, I promise. I'm going to make things right between us. You believe me, don't you?"
She knew it wasn't a question of what she really believed, or even whether she wanted to believe him. He was seeking a specific answer from her and, rightly or wrongly, she knew she had to give it. "Yes, I believe you."
"Good." He kissed her again, hungrily, his hands moving under her sweater, pulling it upwards over her head, before sharply pulling her bra down so that his mouth could caress her breasts. She gasped at the sensation, a throbbing starting between her thighs that she almost ventured he could hear and understand as he crouched in front of her and pulled her jeans and knickers roughly to the floor before dipping his head between her thighs and curling one leg around his shoulder.
She could count on one hand the number of times he had gone down on her during the course of their entire relationship and yet, given how little she enjoyed going down on him, she felt in no position to complain. She could have thought of a number of reasons why he would do it now, none of which related to him particularly enjoying it, but as sensations of pleasure began to course through her, she elected to ignore the possible motivation behind the act and focus instead on the enjoyment. His tongue was firm, exerting just the right amount of pleasure to make her cry out and grip onto him, wanting him to go harder and faster, delighting in the prospect of orgasming in a way that had evaded her for so long.
Stewart didn't seem all that keen about continuing to the bitter end, however. Just as she was starting to feel the heat build within her, he removed himself from her, took hold of her wrist and pushed her roughly over towards the bed. "I know we should make love…" he said, "but I just need you right now. I really need you…"
He was on top of her before she could respond, before she could suggest taking it slowly and enjoying the moment. He pushed her legs apart and sank down, driving quickly inside her, causing her to cry out with both surprise and a little bit of discomfort. Had he bothered to minister to her to her own end, he would have found his passage inside her to be smoother. As it was, residual dryness made it uncomfortable for her, but tight and pleasurable for him.
"Oh…yessss…" he hissed, pushing deep inside her and then pulling out again. "Yes…so fucking tight…." He slammed into her again, then again and again, his pace quickening with each stroke. She closed her eyes and tried to enjoy it, tried to conjure up all the good memories she had of their time together, all of the positive things she loved about him and yet… "Oh…fuck…" the sound of his voice, coupled with the seemingly unending pounding only caused her to open them again and fix her gaze on the ceiling above. How many times in their marriage had she lain there and just waited for it to be over?
In her minds eye, she saw him above her, looking down at her. Imagined his hands on her body, his cock inside her, his words of praise and pleasure pouring into the crevice of her neck. She wondered what he was like in bed. He'd had enough women to surely be pretty practiced at it, if rumours were to be believed. Was he like Stewart, out for his own satisfaction, or was he the kind of man who took pleasure in seeing his partner's? She imagined the two of them, in his office, tearing the clothes from each other's bodies, sweeping papers from his desk. She could feel the hard surface beneath her buttocks as he sat her on top of it…or maybe he would prefer to take her from behind. Maybe she would find herself face down looking into a pile of crime figures while he drove into her. Or maybe he would sit in his chair, and she would sit astride him…
Or maybe, they would make love, in a bed.
"Oh…" Stewart lifted himself up and she watched as he screwed his eyes shut as his climax approached. He thudded against her, again and again, harder and harder. "Oh…yessss…. oh yessss…yessss….!" He bucked wildly against her as he came, writhing and moaning and shouting…and all she could do was lie there looking up at him, imagining he was someone else. "Holy shit…" he gasped, collapsing on top of her. "Holy shit that was good. Oh…shit…" he lay, almost suffocating her and though she wanted to tell him to get off, she instead found herself putting her arms around him and stroking his back as if he were a child.
Why did women do that, she found herself contemplating. Why, after sex that had been of little benefit to them, did they comfort the men who had provided it?
He pulled out of her roughly and rolled away onto his back, his chest rising and falling with the exertion of his efforts. "Oh, that was good darling…so good…was it good for you?"
"Yes, great," she lied.
"You know…I don't think it's changed since we were teenagers. I think the sex has always been the same, don't you?"
"Yes, I do," she replied, knowing full well that, although they agreed, it was for entirely different reasons.
XXXX
The evening wasn't quite going as he had intended.
"Back again?" Fiona had commented when he had rung her doorbell earlier that night with a bottle of wine and some flowers. "Two nights in a row?" It wasn't the most dazzling of welcomes, but she had let him in and poured him a glass before sitting next to him on the couch, her leg pressing against his. He had wondered why he had found himself at her door again. She was right; it wasn't like him to return to the scene so soon. That implied some kind of familiarity, some kind of relationship and that wasn't what he was about, hadn't been since his divorce, and he liked it that way.
At least, he thought he did.
A few more glasses, a bit of flirtatious banter and then, the inevitable.
"What's the matter?" she asked as he rolled off of her onto his back. Needless to say, the inevitable hadn't happened.
"Nothing."
"Nothing? You don't usually take this long. I mean, not that I'm saying you're usually too quick or anything…"
"A lot of women might like a bloke to take his time," he countered.
"Well, yeah, but not when the bloke just keeps banging away at her with nothing happening," she replied. "I don't mind that if a bloke's on the brink, but you seem miles away, if you know what I mean."
He knew what she meant. He was miles away and he also knew it wasn't fair to her. She was a decent girl, someone who had always been willing to accommodate him whenever he needed her to, and to admit that he was using her because he was thinking about someone else didn't sit well with him. Not that he was about to tell her that. "It's been a busy week, that's all. I've got a lot on my mind."
She rolled over and propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him with concerned eyes. "Tell me about it. I might be able to help."
Quite aside from the fact that she knew nothing about police work and was therefore in no position to help, he found himself unwilling to open up to her. That in and of itself would suggest some kind of relationship between them, and it was nothing like that, nothing at all. "I wouldn't want to bore you."
"Suit yourself," she flopped back down onto her back. "Maybe you're just getting old."
"Shut up, I'm only forty-four." Saying the very words made him wince slightly. Forty-four. When had that happened? At forty, he and Julie had still been married, barely, and now here he was, the years creeping up on him.
"You could be my dad."
"You what?" he looked over at her. "I thought you were thirty-five?"
"Twenty-five," she said, "and I did tell you that when we met, though I think you were too busy looking down my top to hear what I said."
"Christ…I've got shirts older than you. You don't look twenty-five."
"Thanks very much," she reached for a cigarette beside the bed and lit it up. "You saying I look old?"
"Course not," he back-pedalled.
"Good, because I don't need you in my bed, Frank Burnside. There's plenty of blokes nearer my own age who'd be gagging to have some of this, and they wouldn't be taking half an hour to orgasm neither." Wounded male pride struck him and he got up from the bed, lifting his clothes from where they had been discarded on the floor. "There's no need to take the hump. I didn't mean anything by it."
"No, I'm sure you didn't." Things had clearly changed between them. The first time they had met, she had been flattered by his advances and somewhat in awe of the position he held. But familiarity clearly bred contempt and was one of the reasons why he had never really subscribed to relationships after his divorce; no opportunity for things to get stale or for his partner, whoever that might be, to lose the frisson of excitement she got when he was around. It was obviously gone as far as Fiona was concerned, and so it only followed that that should be that.
"You don't have to go," she sat up as he got to his feet to put on his trousers. "We can have another go if you like."
"No, you're all right," he glanced at the perkiness of her breasts. They probably had been the reason he hadn't clocked her age before now, and suddenly he felt slightly like a dirty old man. "I couldn't really be your dad, could I?"
She shrugged, "He's forty-eight so as good as."
"Lovely." He lifted his keys from the nightstand. "Well, I'd better be going."
"That's a shame."
"Yeah, I suppose it is."
"You fancy her, don't you?"
He paused at the bedroom door and turned back to look at her, "Who?"
"That ginger one that was in the pub that night." She blew smoke in his direction. "It was written all over your face."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, come on," she climbed out of the bed and followed him into the hallway. "You were more concerned about what state she was in than what state I was in, and I was meant to be your date. Or did you just take me there to make her jealous?"
"Now you're just talking nonsense," he said, lifting his coat from the stand and putting it on. "She's a friend and a colleague, not to mention the fact she's married."
"Yeah, to a bastard. I remember her saying that." She leaned back against the wall. "I reckon she fancies you too."
He paused, curiosity piqued and yet reluctant to give anyone any sense of how he might feel. "Oh yeah? What makes you say that?"
"I saw the look on her face when I walked in and she kept looking at me funny, as though she wished I wasn't there." She took another drag on her cigarette. "I reckon she'd had been well up for it if you'd shown her any interest, husband or no husband."
"Well, thank you for that scintillating insight," he replied, injecting a note of sarcasm into his tone for her benefit. "I'll be sure and tell her what your opinion is."
"Frank," she caught his arm as he made to leave. "You're a pretty decent bloke you know. I mean, ok, you couldn't keep it up tonight but, apart from that, you're all right."
The vagaries of youth, he couldn't help but think as he politely thanked her for her kind compliment and hurried out into the inclement weather. Thankfully, his car wasn't parked too far away and, once inside, he turned the engine and the heating up full blast and waited for his windscreen to clear. A pretty decent bloke. He wasn't sure if he should feel complimented or offended by her analysis of him. Twenty-five…Jesus…he could only hope no-one else had clocked her age. It was one thing to pull a younger bird but quite another for it to be one he could have fathered himself.
When he got home, he checked the answering machine, but there were no messages. Stewart would have been released hours ago and the bloke was arrogant enough to assume that he'd be welcome back at home again. Maybe Christina had opened her arms to him, or maybe she had locked the door. He itched to call, to find out what was going on, but if Stewart were to answer he knew it would only make things worse. Truth be told, he wanted her to call him, wanted to hear her say that she had had enough, that she was leaving him, that her marriage was over.
If that happened, then he would make a move. Despite all the misgivings he might have about their respective positions, not to mention how she would feel at the death of a relationship that had started in her teens, if she found herself free, then he would make a move. He had to. He had to know if she felt anything like what he felt for her, had to know if there was any possibility of…well…anything.
Despite what had happened with Fiona, when he eventually fell into bed, he felt primed, and it took mere moments to reach that which had seemed unobtainable hours earlier. In the sweaty aftermath he lay there and thought about her; thought about what he would say and what he would do.
If she was free. Only if she was free.
