Take My Breath Away by Ali Ryecart

Chapter Thirty-Nine

PERRY

“James? I’m home.”

The weather’s turned very cold overnight, but the house is lovely and warm and I shrug off my coat and hang it up in the hallway cupboard.

I call out for James again but there’s no answer and as I walk through to the kitchen I instinctively know the house is empty.

Nothing’s out of place in the kitchen, except for a mug that contains the last dregs of coffee. I can do with a hot drink. The journey across London, south to north, from Greenwich to Highgate, has been long and difficult, but I’m home now and that’s what matters. I glance up at the clock; it’s lunchtime and I wondering where James is, on a cold and blustery Saturday.

Work, I guess. He must have been called in. He seems to be on call pretty much 24/7, and late evening or weekend calls or meetings aren’t that uncommon. I check my phone to see if there’s a text, but there’s nothing.

I can’t be bothered to fire up the coffee machine. Flipping the kettle on, I hear the slam of the front door. He’s back and that fills me with a warmth that’s hotter than the central heating pumping out. Seconds later he’s standing on the threshold of the kitchen, his running gear soaking wet and splashed with mud. He normally runs early in the morning but it’s getting on for one o’clock. And then I remember. Of course, he’d have been out late last night. He looks tired, with dark shadows under his eyes, the tell-tale sign of too little sleep and too much booze.

“Hey.” I stride over to him.

He’s not smiling and I can only assume his hangover’s really, really bad, so bad it hurts to even smile. I’ve got a cure that doesn’t include raw egg yolks or paracetamol. I sling my arms around his neck, not caring about the dampness seeping into my clothing. I kiss him on the lips but his own barely respond.

Boy, but this is one monster of a hangover.

“How was your evening last night? Or maybe I shouldn’t ask,” I say, going back to making coffee.

“It was okay.” He doesn’t offer more, and I look over at him.

“It was okay? Is that all? Didn’t you go on somewhere, after the official do? You must have had a good time.” I laugh as I fill two mugs with boiling water.

“Why do you say that?”

There’s something in his words, in the tone, which makes me jerk and I spill some of the water on the counter. I put the kettle down carefully.

It’s his monster hangover, that’s all. He’s not up for lots of questions.

“Well, it was a party you went to afterwards, wasn’t it? The temptation of lots of free booze, which you took full advantage of, from the look of you.” I laugh and shake my head when James grimaces.

There, I’m right. All he needs is a gallon of water, painkillers, and to spend the rest of the day in bed — I’d suggest with me, but somehow I don’t think he’s quite up to that.

“Have you eaten?” I ask, when he slumps down at the table. He shakes his head, and mumbles that he doesn’t want anything.

“It looks like I had a much more sedate evening.” I sit down opposite him. “We had a few beers and ate pizza and then worked our way through a whole box of fudge that’s been sitting in the back of one of his cupboards for God knows how long, and then we bunked down together. Oh.”

I glance at James, expecting to see a frown or an arched brow, but his face is sort of blank.

“I can promise you it was all very innocent.” The words rush from me. “The bed in his spare room’s broken and I wouldn’t sleep on his sofa because I’d probably catch something from it. It was like having a sleepover with an old mate, which I guess is what it was. I suppose. We were talking until well into the small hours. It was really nice, catching up and putting the world to rights. Scouts honour there was no impropriety on either part.”

I start to laugh and expect James to join in even if he is hung over. He doesn’t, and I take a closer look at him.

His skin’s pasty and his mouth’s slightly twisted and stiff, but it’s not just his face. His whole body’s stiff, except where it’s fun to be stiff. Oh God, I really hope he doesn’t think… I lean forward across the table.

“James, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, about me and Alfie. We’ve never been involved in any way. We’ve shared a bed millions of times and there’s never been any suggestion of—”

“I’m going to have a shower, and then I’ve got some work to do.”

“Work? Are you sure you’re up to it? You look more like you should get your head down for the rest of the day. Is there anything I can do, anything I can get you?” He doesn’t just look washed out, he looks ill and concern grips at my stomach. “James, are you okay? You don’t seem yourself in all kinds of ways.”

He smiles, but there’s no humour or lightness to it. It’s all effort, and he doesn’t meet my gaze.

“I’m… Fine. Really.”

I don’t miss the tiny hesitation and as for him being fine, I certainly don’t believe him, but I’m not going to push. If he’s feeling like shit because he got plastered and he doesn’t want to admit it, that’s okay.

“You do what you need to do. Although I reckon sleeping it off rather than working is what’ll really do you good. I’ll cook later, something easy on the stomach.”

I want to go to him and wrap him in my arms and give him lots of kisses before he goes for his shower and starts his journey back towards the James I know, leaving behind this man who feels strange and unknown. But something stops me, something keeps me riveted to my seat.

James gets up and looks down at me, his eyes flat and blank in a way I’ve not seen before. I coil my arms around myself as a shiver runs through me.

A couple of steps brings him around to me. He reaches out, almost hesitantly, and lightly touches my cheek before his hand falls away.

“I’m glad you had a good time last night.”

I don’t know what to say and so I say nothing. Instead, I watch as he turns and walks out the kitchen, quietly closing the door behind him.