The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Twenty Two

The sound of Oliver's overnight bag hitting the floor echoes loudly around the room.

I can't breathe. Christ, he looks angry. Of course, he does. Why wouldn't he? I'm dressed in nothing but another man's clothes who also happens to be standing topless next to me. Aidan's scent is still in my nose and in my hair and coating my body and suddenly and finally upon all of these things coming together the guilt comes. A tsunami of it. Drowning me.

"Oliver, I..."

"Answer him," Oliver says.

"What?" My voice sounds frightened and weak. I feel weak.

He jerks his head toward Aidan but doesn't look at him. "His question. Answer it."

Instantly, my mind dries up along with my mouth. It feels like old newspaper, yellowed and useless, containing things which used to be true but were now out of date and no longer relevant. All of my thoughts prior to the moment I'd heard Oliver's voice had seemed loud and finally clear, but now that a light was shining on them they'd scuttled away behind things and were afraid to come out.

Answer his question. Do you love him? Oh, Oliver, it's the wrong bloody question. Oliver always asks the wrong bloody questions. Which of these overpriced French restaurants do you prefer? I don't like French food, Oliver. Which of these patterned ties do you prefer? I like plain ties, Oliver. Will you marry me?

It's Aidan's question though, isn't it? It was Aidan who'd asked the wrong question. I'd been about to tell him it was the wrong question when I'd heard Oliver's voice.

Since this thing had begun, Aidan had always acted and spoken as though it had in some way been about Oliver. But it had never been about Oliver. It had always been about Aidan. Aidan and I. Why hadn't he realised that yet? Now it was too late.

I let out a deep breath before speaking.

"Yes. Of course, I love you," I say finally.

As I speak the words aloud to my husband I see Aidan twist his head to look at me. I can feel the chill from his eyes, but at the same time, the heat from his body still bounces off the bare skin of my arms and legs. Why hadn't either of them asked me the right question?

Why is it that men never saw what was right in front of them? Some women say men are hard to dissect. Not me. I've always found them simplistic unbarred creatures. All except one.

I turn my head to Aidan and feel my legs wobble slightly. His eyes echo the look they had in the film image of him as a young boy. There's accusation and betrayal in his stare, but mainly he looks lost and confused. I want to go to him and hold him but how can I? How, in front of my husband who I'd betrayed and lied to, could I comfort the only man who's arms I'd ever felt at home in?

Oh, Aidan, why couldn't you have just asked the right question? Things would have been easier if you had. When I glance back at Oliver he is now looking at Aidan. The look on his face is dark and violent.

"Well you've got a remarkably funny way of showing it,," Oliver says, dragging his eyes back to me.

"Oh, like you can fucking talk," Aidan snaps, his head whipping round to stare Oliver down.

Oliver narrows his eyes. "Excuse me?"

Beside me I feel Aidan tense, cursing under his breath before pulling his shoulders back to stand a little taller. "You fucking heard me."

"I heard you, Foley. I'm just wondering what the fuck you're talking about."

"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about, Alford," he says quietly.