Always Mr. Wrong Read online

I buried my head in his chest, “Guy, I’m so scared, so scared that if I say I don’t want to I will lose you.”

  His grip tightened around me, making me feel safe. “Clare, I have spent my whole life looking for that special someone to share my life with, and she’s right here, laying in my arms. If it means keeping you here, I suppose I will have to accept that is what you want. I suppose I can live without the whole package.”

  I pulled myself away, sat up in bed and looked down at the love of my life. “No, Guy, if you have to suppose and accept, this marriage won’t work. I’ve been that person. I don’t want you looking at me with resentment.” He took a breath to speak, but I placed my finger on his lips to stop him. “I know what you are going to say, and trust me, you will. I know because after having, Olivia, I wanted another child. Phil didn’t. I felt that resentment every day. I never want to be in another relationship like that again.” I could see the tears welling in his eyes. “Guy, what are we going to do?”

  He pulled me back down, my head in the crook of his neck, his hands softly rubbing my arms. “For now we will just hold each other.”

  * * * *

  Three weeks passed. For the first week after Guy left I never moved off the sofa. It sounds silly, I know. After all, it was me that had ended it. Even so, the feelings of loss seemed to overwhelm me.

  I rang in sick to work, claiming a bad bout of the flu. By my hoarse voice I was more than convincing. I lay there crying, wearing a sweater of Guy’s that he had left in the cupboard, a blanket of Kleenex covering me.

  Olivia couldn’t understand Guy’s departure, and to be honest, neither could I. I’d thrown away the best thing that had happened in my life. But no matter how hard I tried to assure myself I’d done the right thing in asking him to leave, I felt as though my whole life had fallen apart.

  Eleanor had not spoken to me for a week. She said I was clearly out of my head. Jess seemed even more upset than me if it was truly possible. I had written the completely wrong ending to her love story. Mum called around every day with chicken soup that I never ate, her not once, saying, “I told you so.”

  Dad would do the evening shift, never commenting, until the end of the first week. “I popped in to see Guy today. He’s really cut up about all of this, Clare. He’s taking a week off. He says he has to get away and clear his head.” I rolled over on the sofa, wondering how he could possibly be that cut up if he was planning to go on holiday. He hadn’t even tried to call.

  The second week I went back to work. It was hard, but knowing that Guy would not be there made it a damn sight easier. Come the third week, it started with an awful shift at the hospital. Four nurses had genuinely called in sick with the flu that had passed through the hospital staff like the plague. One other also rang in sick, but we all knew she had been trying to change her shift. She wanted to see one of her many grandchildren say one word at some charity show. The agency we used, due to the epidemic, could not offer us any temporary staff which didn't ease the tension. That tonight of all nights every pregnant woman in London seemed to be going into labour and being admitted to our hospital. If all this was not bad enough, my period was two weeks late.

  * * * *

  Walking across the parking lot to my car, I began reading a host of texts and emails from an elated Jess and concerned Eleanor that I may be with child. Speaking out loud over coffee the other day with Jess, Eleanor curled up on the sofa with period cramps, complaining she hated being a woman. In a moment of weakness, I said, “You should be so lucky. I’m two weeks late.”

  Strangely the last two texts said the same thing.

  Have u told Guy yet?

  Whom should I walk straight into? Guy.

  After the initial claims of, “Sorry, I was not looking where I was going,” then realising whom we had bumped into, there was an uncomfortable silence.

  For someone who had just been on holiday I could not help but notice how tired and drained he looked. In fact, I would go as far to say he looked worse than I did. Awkwardly we gave each other a hug.

  Guy cupped my cheek in his hand. “You look tired.” Despite the fact that it was the middle of February and snowing, his un-gloved hand felt warm and comforting. Like drinking a hot milky chocolate on a cold winter’s day.

  No, don’t even start to think about that feeling, Clare. Keep your mind free of any of those types of thoughts. You see, when I’d had a hard day at work or Eleanor playing me up, and on the odd occasion Olivia, Guy would take me in his arms and say, “I know what would make you feel better, some hot chocolate inside of you. And I don’t mean the drink.”

  That is not going to happen, however much my body was yearning for it.

  Instinctively I placed my hand on top of his, our fingers naturally interlaced.

  “You’re not looking so good yourself. You may be going down with the flu.”

  “The only thing that is wrong with me is a broken heart.

  “I know,” I mumbled

  “How’s Olivia?”

  Please do not guilt me with the Olivia card. “Well, apparently I suck at reading The Famous Five.” We both managed a smile.

  “Come and have breakfast. It’s Monday...your favourite in the consultants restaurant. Bacon, beans and egg waffles.”

  “Guy, please don’t make this harder than it is.” I pulled our hands away from my cheek, but we still held onto to each other.

  “It’s just breakfast.”

  “I’m sorry. Phil is taking Olivia away for the half-term break. I need to get home and say goodbye.” It was more of a white lie. Phil had taken Olivia away on Saturday. “Another time?”

  We kissed each other on the cheek. I am sure we both left hoping there would be another time.

  In my car I watched Guy walking away, shoulders hunched, almost dragging his feet. All of a sudden, a weird feeling emerged in the pit of my stomach. Grabbing my bag, I jumped out of the car and raced across the parking lot. Two weeks of anxiety, knowing that at some point I would have to come face to face with Guy, must have been released. I’m not saying I felt better, far from it, yet somehow the tension had gone. Locking myself inside the toilet cubicle, my period had started. I dropped my head in my hands and sobbed.

  * * * *

  “I’d know that cute backside anywhere. Clare Coleman, I can’t believe it really is you.”

  I straightened up from my shopping trolley. From behind a floppy sun-bleached blond haired fringe, I saw a pair of piercing blue eyes. His face was tanned, not from a two-week beach holiday...a deep tan that said he’d spent a long time somewhere hot.

  My thoughts went straight to Guy. We had planned to take a last minute flight to somewhere warm during Olivia’s half-term. Funny he never mentioned that or where he had been after we...

  “Timmy? Timothy Knowles.” I fumbled with two large boxes of super plus Tampax that I’d cried over as I’d placed them in my shopping trolley earlier. Part of me hoped I’d not have to buy them. Promptly dropping one box on the floor, Timothy unashamed bent down to pick it up, but took his time to stand as he scrutinised every inch of my body, finally giving a nod of his approval.

  “You look fantastic, Coleman.”

  In a weird way, I knew I did, wearing Eleanor’s hipster jeans, a tight fitting sweater, and her cool embroidered denim jacket. Since the break-up with Guy, I’d lost some weight, two dress sizes to be accurate. I seriously needed a new wardrobe of clothes.

  “Not as good as you. Look at you all bronzed and toned.” For the first time in three weeks I became conscious of how much I was smiling and actually not only liking myself but what I saw in front of me. Boy, he’s hot. Even the old woman standing behind him is checking out his tight, firm, jean clad butt. And look at those pecks. Jeepers creepers, he’s sexy with a capital S.

  It was true. Timothy Knowles had gone from a skinny not-bad-looking teenager to a hottie. I still saw a few of my male school friends, but age was not on their side. Receding hairlines, flabby love handles and all h
ad that same grey look of exhaustion that life had treated them badly.

  “Whatever you have been up to certainly agrees with you.”

  “Freelance photographer actually. I’ve just got back after six months travelling. Australia, Fiji, New Zealand...”

  “Stop, stop, you’re making me green with jealousy. The furthest I’ve been in years was a weekend to Paris last month with Guy, my...” My voice began to crack, and tears began to well up in my eyes. Would I ever again be able to mention his name without crying? “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Clare.” His hand reached out and softly patted my arm. “I’m sorry. I totally understand. That was the whole reason I went away. My ex and I broke up last year. It’s hard.”

  “Scuse me, I’m sorry that you’ve both been dumped,” said the genuine voice of the cashier, “but I have a queue here.”

  I looked over Timothy’s shoulder through blurred vision. Sure enough there was a queue weaving its way down past the frozen veg.

  “Sorry,” he shouted down the queue, “Not seen this sexy, gorgeous woman in years.” His electrifying smile caused the women to smile, no doubt craving themselves a handsome man from their past to appear in their mundane lives from nowhere, bringing a glimmer of excitement and the chance to once again feel sexy and adored.

  “Here, let me help you, Clare. I’ll unload, and you pack.” He placed a large bunch of flowers, a bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates in the child seat of my trolley.

  My mind wandered for a moment. I wondered if Guy on that infamous Sunday had used the same checkout as me. If he had chatted to the woman in front of him?

  “Your new girlfriend?” I inquired, nodding to the items in the baby seat that I knew would, from now on in my cart, be a place only for my handbag. Stop, stop, it. Stop thinking of Guy. It’s over.

  “No, my Mum. Humble offerings for forgetting to buy her a toy kangaroo and not sending postcards.”

  “You could have gone to ten items or less,” I said, pointing over to the next cashier twiddling her thumbs.

  “Yes but then I would not have chatted to you and be able to ask you out on Saturday night. Sorry, babe, you’re still as hot as Vindaloo, but I can see what you really need is a night out.”

  “Put your damn items on my bill. We’ve held these people up long enough.” Was he serious about asking me out? I took a sneaky look at him as I packed the last of my bags. He gave me the notorious Knowles wink, the wink that at school had always sent me crazy. And I knew he was about to lead me astray. And quite possibly will do again.

  * * * *

  Timothy had been so right. A night in London’s West End was just what I needed. Drinks in Leicester Square, dinner in the Haymarket, finishing the night off dancing at a Spanish bar in Crompton Street. Loving the buzz, meeting new people, I completely forgot about Guy. On the cab ride home, I was not sure if I was intoxicated from the amount of alcohol I’d consumed or on an adrenaline rush from the whole night that led to the kissing and light petting in the back seat and not protesting when it pulled up outside Timothy’s apartment building.

  When Timothy had told me earlier he liked minimalistic living space, he was not joking. The large spacious open plan apartment held the biggest bed I’d ever seen and a TV the size of IMAX. It did occur to me, as I looked around, that maybe his ex had taken the rest of the furniture.

  As I looked around for somewhere to put my coat and bag—the whole floor space was littered with open suitcases, photography equipment, clothes strewed all over the floor, pizza boxes and take away cartons—Timothy must have read my mind. “Sorry about the mess,” he called from the bathroom. “I’m in between cleaners,” he laughed.

  And decorators, too, I thought, folding up my D&G jacket and putting it carefully onto a stack of magazines.

  “Still got your kit on? Come on, babe, I’m like a ram rod here.”

  Turning swiftly I gasped. Timothy in nothing but his shirt and poking out beneath a stonking aluminous green erection. It took all my efforts not to laugh out, the green condom making his penis look like a light-saber. Well, the shear sight of it was certainly not what I expected a Princess Liar fantasy to be like.

  Before I could catch my breath, I found myself being propelled onto the bed. My head fell into a mound of duvet which smelt like sweaty feet and pizza. One of his hands fumbled with my skirt, the other seemed to be rummaging around in the duvet above my head. His technique had not changed since college as he groped around the crouch of my panties. Not that I’d ever been all the way with Timothy, but some heavy petting had taken place.

  “Got it.” He shouted jubilantly. The room filled with the sound of heavy moaning coming from the television. As he lifted himself slightly to pull down my panties I could just see over his shoulder. Two women and a man in what looked like a very uncomfortable position.

  “Bloody hell, is that porn?”

  “I love it. Don’t you, babe? This will get the old juices flowing.”

  “No, it sodding well won’t,” I denied, squirming under him to get up.

  “Baby, what’s the problem? All I need is two thrusts.”

  “I bet you do.” Kneeing him in the groin, he rolled over, moaning in agony. “Sorry, Timothy, this was a big mistake.” I readjusted my underwear and grabbed my coat and bag.

  “You always were a frigid bitch,” he yelled as I slammed the door.

  * * * *

  “Where to, love?” asked the kind looking cab driver.

  I hadn’t a bleeding clue. Where was I going? All my adult life I thought I was heading for the right place, but when I finally got there, it was never what I’d expected.

  Before my ex-husband Phil, I had thought that Garry Vincent was the man. A finical wizard in the city I had met at a friend of a friend’s party. He was tall, dark, and handsome. Body beautiful, not a flaw could you find and the stamina of an Olympic athlete when it came to sex. However, Garry was the kind of guy that would ring me up on a Wednesday, promising to take me to a great romantic restaurant on Friday night. Saturday morning as I still sat dressed and waiting in floods of tears on my sofa, he would call and say, ‘Sorry, the guys thought it would be fun to spend a boozy weekend camping and fishing in Scotland. I’ll call you Monday, babe. We’ll do something really special.’

  For a year, every Saturday morning I would sit on my sofa crying, waiting for that something special to happen. Monday night, full of life, he would arrive at my place. After great sex, he would hold me in his arms and apologize. “It will never happen again,” he would say. But the following Saturday he would call and say, “But what can I do? It’s the guys. They’d think me a prat if I said no because I had to take my girlfriend out.”

  I would say it was fine, hoping and praying that Garry would change. Finally, after another six months of Jess and my other friends telling me he never would change, his so-called Guys were more important than me, I finally began to see the light. However, on the Saturday morning I planned to tell Garry it was over, I waited and waited for him to call. From that day on, I never heard from him again.

  Then Phil my husband...well, you know about him! And then tonight the whole Timothy fiasco. What had I been thinking? He was a thirty-something man still trapped in a seventeen-year-old mind. He hadn’t moved on. Let’s face it, his bloody moves hadn’t even moved on. What was wrong with me? Why was every man I met always Mr. Wrong? Or maybe, this time it was me that had it so wrong?

  * * * *

  “Are you out of your frigging mind, Clare? It’s silly o’clock in the morning, for heaven’s sake. Have you even considered Guy may not be home, or that he may have someone there?” Her screech through the cell rattled in my ear.

  Eleanor might as well have kicked me in the stomach while I was already down. I’d never even thought about Guy having another woman.

  “Clare, you are the sensible one. You’re freaking me out here. Just tell the driver to turn the cab around and go home. Call Guy when you have a clear h
ead.”

  “But we are almost there, and what if I change my mind?” This was not the time for my sister to be acting like bloody Mother Superior despite the fact her whole life had been built on irrational decisions.

  “Go home, Clare.” The line went dead.

  * * * *

  For the umpteenth time I looked at the clock on my kitchen wall. Five-thirty. Five minutes since I’d last looked at it. I walked back into the kitchen and felt the kettle. It was still boiling hot from the coffee I’d had five minutes ago. Any more caffeine and I’d be walking the walls. Suddenly the kitchen door opened.

  My bottom lip began to quiver. “Sorry it’s so early, but I needed to talk. Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for calling. You sounded like you needed a friend.”

  Moments seemed to pass where neither of us knew what to say next. While I’d been waiting I’d told myself to be cool, calm and collected. This was no time to get emotional. It started with the lump in my throat, a tight constriction that made it impossible to swallow. Then came the shaking inside from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.

  “Oh, Guy.” I felt a pathetic mess as I stood there, tears welling in my eyes, now physically shaking.

  He lunged forward, taking me in his arms. “It’s okay. I’m here. Whatever is upsetting you, we can sort it out together.”

  “You don’t understand,” I sobbed into his chest. “I thought you were like all the others. Garry who never took me to that special place, a philandering husband, and a very bad Star wars fantasy that involved porn and a luminous condom.”

  Very softly, Guy pulled away from me. I looked up and knew by the bewilderment in his eyes that right now I sounded like a crazy woman.

  “I understand the husband part and maybe the Garry part, but I’m not sure I want to know about the Star Wars thing, do I?”

  Shit, shit and double shit. Perhaps too much information. How could I explain that the last scenario of my relationships had happened only a few hours ago? That was beyond forgiveness. If I was shaking now it was out of fear I had given out a little too much information.