The Accident. C.L. Taylor

He’s got a cleft in his chin like Kirk Douglas but his nose is too large to make him classically good looking and his dirty blond hair continually flops into his eyes but there’s something mercurial about his eyes that reminds me of Ralph Fiennes; one minute they’re cool and detached, the next they’re crinkled at the corners, dancing with excitement.

       I knew something was wrong the second James returned from the bar. He didn’t say anything but, as he set the whisky tumblers down on the table, his eyes flicked towards the cigarette in my hand and I instantly understood.

       ‘You don’t smoke.’

       He shook his head. ‘My father died of lung cancer.’

       He tried to object, to tell me that whether I smoked or not was none of his business, but his frown evaporated the second I put my cigarette out and the atmosphere immediately lightened. The band was so loud it was hard to hear each other over the squeal of the trumpet and the scatting of the lead singer so James moved his chair closer to mine so we could whisper into each other’s ears. Whenever he leaned in, his leg rested against mine and I’d feel his breath against my ear and neck. It was torturous, feeling his body against mine and smelling the warm spiciness of his aftershave and not touching him. When I didn’t think I could bear it a second longer James cupped his hand over mine.

       ‘Let’s go somewhere else. I know the most magical place.’

       I barely had the chance to say ‘okay’ when he bounced out of his seat and crossed the room to the bar. A second later he was back, a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses and a threadbare rug in the other. I raised an eyebrow but he just laughed and said, ‘You’ll see.’

       We walked for what felt like forever, weaving our way through the Camden crowds until we passed Chalk Farm. I kept asking where we were going but James, striding alongside me, only laughed in reply. Finally we stopped walking at an entrance to a park and he laid a hand on my shoulder. I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead he told me to shut my eyes because he had a surprise for me.

       I wasn’t sure what could be quite so astonishing in a dark park at silly o’clock in the morning but I closed my eyes anyway. Then I felt something heavy and woollen being draped over my shoulders and warm spiciness enveloped me. James had noticed I was shivering and lent me his coat. I let him lead me through the entrance and up the hill. It was scary, putting my trust in someone I barely knew, but it was exhilarating too and strangely sensual. When we finally stopped walking he told me to stand still and wait. A couple of seconds later I felt the softness of the worn cotton rug under my fingers as he helped me to sit down.

       ‘Ready?’ I felt him move so he was crouched behind me, then his fingers touched my face, lightly brushing my cheekbones as they moved to cover my eyes. A tingle ran down my spine and I shivered, despite the coat.

       ‘I’m ready,’ I said.

       James removed his fingers and I opened my eyes. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

       I could only nod. At the base of the hill, the park was a chequerboard of black squares of unlit grass and illuminated pools of yellow-green light cast by glowing streetlamps. It was like a magical patchwork of light and dark. Beyond the park stretched the city, windows twinkling and buildings sparkling. The sky above was the darkest navy, shot with dirty orange clouds. It was the most breathtaking vista I’d ever seen.

       ‘Your reaction when you opened your eyes …’ James was staring at me. ‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.’

       ‘Stop it!’ I tried to laugh but it caught in my throat.

       ‘You looked so young Suzy, so enchanted – like a child on Christmas Day.’ He shook his head. ‘How is someone like you single? How is that even possible?’

       I opened my mouth to reply but he wasn’t finished.

       ‘You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met,’ he reached for my hand. ‘You’re funny, kind, intelligent and beautiful. What on earth are you doing here with me?’

       I wanted to make a joke, to ask if he was so drunk he couldn’t remember leading me up the hill, but I found I couldn’t.

       ‘I wanted to be here,’ I said. ‘And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’

       James’s face lit up as though I’d just given him the most wonderful compliment and he cupped my face with his hands. He looked at me for the longest time and then he kissed me.

       I’m not sure how long we kissed for, lying there on a rug on the top of Primrose Hill, our bodies entwined, our hands everywhere, grasping, pulling, clutching. We didn’t remove our clothes and we didn’t have sex, yet it was still the single most erotic moment of my life. I couldn’t let go of James for more than a second without pulling him towards me again.

       It grew darker and colder and I suggested we leave the park and go back to his.

       James shook his head. ‘Let me put you in a taxi home instead.’

       ‘But—’

       He pulled his coat tighter around my shoulders. ‘There’s time for that, Suzy. Plenty of time.’

       Chapter 2

      I wait until Brian leaves for work before I go through his things. It’s nippy in the cloakroom, the tiled floor cold under my bare feet, the windowed walls damp with condensation but I don’t pause to grab a pair of socks from the radiator in the hall. Instead I thrust my hands into the pockets of Brian’s favourite jacket. The coat stand rocks violently as I move from pocket to pocket, pulling out the contents and dropping them to the floor in my haste to find evidence.

      I’ve finished with the jacket and have just plunged both hands into the pockets of a hooded sweatshirt when there’s a loud CRASH from the kitchen.

      I freeze.

      My mind goes blank – turns off – as though a switch has been thrown in my brain and I’m as rigid as the coat stand I’m standing beside, breathing shallowly, listening, waiting. I know I should move. I should take my hands out of Brian’s fleece. I should kick the contents of his wax jacket into the corner of the room and hide the evidence that I am a terrible, mistrusting wife but I can’t.

      My heart is beating so violently the sound seems to fill the room and, in an instant, I’m catapulted twenty years into the past. I’m twenty-three, living in North London and I’m crouching in the wardrobe, a backpack stuffed with clothes in my left hand, a set of keys I stole from someone else’s jacket, in my right. If I don’t breathe he won’t hear me. If I don’t breathe he won’t know that I’m about to …

      ‘Brian?’ The sense of déjà-vu falls away as the faintest scraping sound reaches my ears. ‘Brian, is that you?’

      I frown, straining to make out anything other than the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of my heart, but the house has fallen silent again.

      ‘Brian?’

      I jolt back to life, as though the switch in my brain has been flicked the other way, and I pull my hands out of his sweatshirt.

      The hallway carpet is warm and plush under my feet as I inch forward, pausing every couple of seconds to listen, as I head towards the kitchen. The smell of bleach fills my nose and I realize one hand is covering my mouth, the scent of disinfectant still fresh on my fingers from cleaning the bathroom earlier. I pause again and try to slow my breathing. It is coming in small, sharp gasps, signalling a panic attack, but I am no longer