Chapter 2

      ~

      I’m desperate to get out of the house, but it doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to go outside the next morning, either. The rain is still beating down, although, looking out through the bars of our bedroom window, I can see a tiny patch of clear sky over the lake. My mother used to say if there was enough blue to make a pair of trousers for a sailor, the weather would turn out fine. Wishing I’d inherited her optimism as I stare at the sky, I reflect that the seaman in question would have to be fairly small.

      I sigh, and Alex pleads with me to get back into bed. He’s lying on his back, his hands clasped behind his head. He seems to be appraising my bare body. I kneel on the bed next to him.

      ‘Lie on your tummy,’ I order. He doesn’t move for a second or two, but then he turns over. I start to knead his shoulders. He groans – in pleasure, I hope, rather than pain, but just in case, I massage his muscles more softly.

      ‘Is this new?’ I ask, running my fingers over his right shoulder. ‘I haven’t seen it before.’

      ‘Is what new? Oh, the tattoo. Well, I had it done before Justin Bieber if that’s what you mean.’

      ‘You’ve lost me.’

      ‘Bastard has the same tat. It’s Banksy.’

      ‘I know that,’ I say, admiring the artwork inked onto Alex’s skin. The picture is of a girl with her hand stretched out towards a red balloon. ‘My nephew Oscar is a big fan. We’ve taken him to Bristol a couple of times to see Banksy’s street art and some of his works on display at M Shed.’

      ‘Well, Girl with a Balloon appeared on a wall somewhere in London, not Bristol,’ Alex informs me. ‘I still haven’t decided if I want the caption inked on next to it.’

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘There is always hope,’ he says.

      I examine it again. The balloon is heart-shaped. It’s not clear to me if the girl has let go of the balloon or if she’s trying to catch it. Either way, it’s out of her reach. Before I can ask Alex any more about it, he jumps out of bed.

      ‘Breakfast in bed,’ he says. ‘You wait here.’

      I’m left for a while to muse on Alex’s choice of body art design. I would have thought he’d go for something more athletic, but I’m not sure what exactly. I suppose you wouldn’t have the five Olympic rings unless you’d actually competed in an Olympic Games. Or the Nike logo unless they sponsored you. And a slogan like “no pain, no gain” would be a bit trite. But something along those lines. I didn’t even know he had a tattoo. I’m surprised at this, although I’d only seen him naked once before coming here, and on that occasion the lights were dimmed.

      I allow myself to reminisce about that night. It was four months ago. I close my eyes and can feel myself smiling. I remember Alex stripping off his clothes in a few seconds flat and then climbing into bed. He lay on his back, propped up on his elbows, watching me undress as he waited for me to join him. I’d been amused and turned on by how keen he seemed. Thinking about it now, it’s hardly surprising I didn’t see the tattoo on the back of his shoulder.

      I noticed the scars, though. At the time, I didn’t dare ask him about those. Now, I’m burning with curiosity.

      Alex comes back into the bedroom, carrying a tray. Smelling the toast, I’m conscious of how hungry I am. I plump the pillows up behind me and sit up straight as he puts the tray down carefully on my lap and gets into bed next to me.

      ‘Don’t get too used to this,’ he warns, twirling a strand of my red wavy hair between his fingers and then taking a mug from the tray.

      At first I don’t understand what he’s referring to, but then I catch him looking down pointedly at my tummy.

      ‘Lie-ins will soon be nothing more than a distant memory,’ he adds. ‘Or is the plural lies-in?’ He slurps his tea.

      ‘No. You were right first time. Lie-ins.’

      ‘Ask the language expert,’ he says. He puts his mug down on the bedside table, and then he starts to fondle one of my breasts. ‘And is it my imagination, or have these already got a bit bigger?’

      ‘It’s wishful thinking on your part, I’d say,’ I reply, mirroring his grin. ‘Seeing as we’re on the subject of bodies …’ I begin in a more serious voice.

      ‘Ye-es?’

      Gently, I take his arm and stroke his wrists. ‘Can I ask about your scars?’

      ‘OK,’ he says, but then there’s an awkward silence and I regret bringing it up. ‘Well, it’s not a big secret. I was nineteen,’ he says eventually. ‘I’d left school. I was supposedly on a gap year, but I ran out of money very early on, got dumped by my girlfriend when we were in Australia and came home. I started to hang out with the wrong crowd, we were taking drugs, I got depressed …’

      ‘Go on,’ I say when he pauses.

      ‘Long story short, one evening I decided to end it all. I was a stupid, self-absorbed teenager. I ran a hot bath, got in and slit my wrists.’

      I’d only seen scars on his left wrist. I resist the urge to turn over his right arm, particularly as he’s holding his mug and I don’t want to scald him.

      He sees me peering at his other hand, though, and adds, ‘Well, my wrist. I did it wrong. Used my right arm. Apparently if you’re right-handed, like I am, you should start by slitting your right wrist. That way, you can finish the job off better when you need to swap hands. And I managed to cut into a tendon in my left arm. I was in agony even though I hadn’t cut nearly deep enough to kill myself. So, it was a botched job.’

      I can hear my own breathing. It has become shallow. I’m uncomfortable talking about his suicide attempt, so I don’t