Broken Chords (Love in London 2)
“Kind of 'physician, heal thyself'?” He grins. “There's a reason why the mechanics always have the worst cars, and why TV chefs eat TV dinners. Just because you do something as a job doesn't mean you can help yourself. Perhaps you should give yourself a break.”
He's right, I know he is. It's not as if Alex has been helping, either. The breakdown in communication is both our faults, though I'm not sure he'd agree.
My mouth pulls open into a yawn, one that starts in my jaw and works downwards, tightening the muscles in my chest. “I can't help feeling it would be easier if I wasn't so tired all the time.”
“Now that I can help with,” David says. “If you bring in the buggy, I can look after this little guy while you take a nap.” He inclines his head in the direction of a door, leading, I assume, to his bedroom. “It's okay, there’re fresh sheets, and I've hidden the porn.”
“Do men even have offline porn anymore?” I wonder aloud, remembering the dog-eared magazines boys used to smuggle into school. “I mean the pictures don't even move.”
David gets to his feet, laughing. “Of course. What if there's a power cut? Or the internet gets sabotaged?”
“What's the apocalypse without a wank stash?” I solemnly get to my feet as well, even though I’m almost grinning from my question. “As long as you've hidden it from view I'll be fine. And thank you.”
“You're welcome,” he says. “Oh, and Lara?”
“Yes?”
“Things will get better. I promise.”
Maybe he's right. But I can't help feeling they're going to get a hell of a lot worse first.
* * *
I'm basking in the lull that comes right after waking, when I'm all relaxed and cosy, the soft duvet keeping me warm. I might even be drooling a bit. Shuffling down the mattress, I curl my legs beneath me, letting my mind drift, until I'm slowly floating back.
Then I hear voices. Not loud ones, though they're clear enough for me to make out the words. David's first, instantly recognisable, his vowels rounded out with an antipodean twang.
“She's sleeping, so I said I'd look after Max.”
“In your bedroom?” Brasher, shorter vowels.
Alex.
“Alone in my bedroom, yes. She's exhausted. The baby kept her awake all night.”
I like that response. It's a shame David doesn't add “as you'd know if you'd actually been here.”
“So why's she not sleeping in our flat?”
“Because I said I'd keep an eye on Max while I work. And knowing Lara, if she slept in your place she'd feel guilty about leaving Max here and wouldn't get any rest at all.”
“Yeah,” I want to add. “Because unlike you, it kills me to leave him.”
“Well, I'm home now. I'll take them back upstairs with me.”
“She's still asleep. How about I send her up when she wakes up?” David's suggestion sounds so sensible and non-negotiable, but I can imagine Alex's expression right now. I suppose I should get up, go and be the buffer between them. But I'm too tired to move. The mattress is so soft it's as if I'm wrapped in a cloud.
“I don't think so.”
Though I squeeze my eyes shut, there's no way I'm going back to sleep. Silently I beg Alex not to make a scene. Not in front of our lovely, sweet neighbour who managed to stop me from cracking up completely. He’s given me four hours of delicious, mind numbing sleep.
David's voice comes next. Lower, deeper; a throaty shout-whisper. “I don't know what your problem is with me, but your wife is in a fucking state. I heard her
crying all night, then when she came home at lunchtime she looked like death warmed up.”
Charming.
“Now she may be a lovely woman, but I'm not a fucking necrophile. Nor am I interested in her like that. But I am her friend, and I want to help her, and the best way to do that was to let her sleep.”