Once he’s removed my arms, he gently tugs me up, and I continue to imitate a dead fish. ‘And I don’t know why Gramps and Dorothy love you so much.’ He grunts a few times as he fights to manipulate my floppy body, holding me to his front while lifting my jumper up over my head. When he’s done, he just holds me to his chest for a long while, breathing deeply. ‘Or maybe I do,’ he whispers, dropping a gentle kiss into my hair. The smell of him, the hardness of him as he squeezes me against him, those words. It overwhelms me, and I swallow repeatedly to clear my throat of the emotion that’s sprung up on me.
I’ve already fallen in love with him.
His charm, his maverick ways, his passion for everything he does. He’s pushed me way past my boundaries and normal behaviour. And I’m starting to see that perhaps he pushes because he believes in me to handle whatever is thrown at me. And I can almost take comfort in that. Becker found me, injected me with an unrelenting zest for life, and at the same time he’s crept into my heart and taken a solid hold. I love him. I love everything there is to love about him, and there’s a lot.
Oh, God, how did this even happen?
I remain still in Becker’s arms, praying he releases me soon so I can commence my panic attack. My body is feeling heavy in his hold, and I’m certain he must feel my shallow breathing.
When he finally lets me go, he lowers me to the bed, tucking me in tightly. He rests his lips on my cheek and holds them there for the longest time, gently caressing my head. ‘Don’t fall in love with me, Eleanor,’ Becker murmurs. ‘Please.’ He gets up and leaves the room.
I hear the door close, and I lie in the dark for an age, trying to come to terms with my situation. I heard nothing but pain in his words just then. I’m not completely naïve. I believe I’ll always hold Becker’s attention, but I am more aware that his love of his art could be our undoing. And yes, I can see the irony that one of the things I most admire about him, that we share, could be the thing that causes the sharpest wedge.
He’s a lone ranger, sweetheart. You’d be silly to think you can change that.
I can ponder the hurt he can inflict, imagine and evaluate the consequences, but I’ll never truly grasp the damage he can cause until I experience it for myself. Am I going to hang around and wait for that to happen? Will it happen?
I’m stumbling willingly into the unknown, and although every scrap of sense I have is warning me against it, I have no desire to stop myself. I rewind a few paces. No, this isn’t the unknown. What I’m actually doing is walking into the known. I know exactly where I’m headed. I now know what he’s capable of in business, but more daunting than that, I know he’s capable of breaking my heart. Heartbreak is devastating. It’s agony. But you need to be able to feel your heart for it to hurt. You need to know it’s there, beating in your chest. My heart is currently thundering, smashing against my ribcage like a monster trying to escape. My problem is, I have no idea if that is because it’s desperately trying to escape the pain I’m willing to inflict on it, or whether it’s just so happy to be feeling again after being dead for so long.
Looking up to the ceiling, like the thin air might offer me the answer, I fold my arms around my body and hug myself. It’s a lame effort to try and physically hold myself together. I get out of bed and go in search of my phone. I need to call Lucy back. I hope she can give me some advice on my sorry situation.
She answers after two rings. ‘I love him, Lucy,’ I confess. ‘And now I’m scared because I’m not sure he’s capable of loving me.’
‘The King’s Head? Half an hour?’
I smile. ‘I’m on my way.’ I hang up and quickly get myself dressed before rushing down the stone steps from Becker’s apartment. Space. I need some space away from here, if only for a few hours with my friend to talk, to spill my heart out. To try and get some perspective. To feel like me again.
Pausing at the bottom, I wonder whether I should at least tell him I’m going out. Not why, but I should tell him I’m going to see Lucy. I don’t want him to worry.
My feet take me towards his office, but my pace slows when I hear him talking. ‘I don’t know, Paula.’ Becker’s words are frustrated, strained. He’s talking to his therapist? ‘Part of me desperately doesn’t want to fuck this up,’ he goes on, now sounding despondent. ‘But the other part knows I will.’