Always Something There To Remind Me. Lilian Kendrick

not making excuses for that … that ratbag! I needed sympathy, not common sense, so I went home.

       Chapter 9: Explanations

      Sleep evaded me for a long time and when it eventually arrived it brought the weirdest of dreams. The screech of the alarm clock dragged me kicking and screaming into Friday, accompanied by a raging headache. From the bathroom mirror an old woman glared at me – pale and drawn, with red-rimmed eyes.

       I can’t face work today! Superbitch will have a field day if I screw up.

      I called in sick, knowing that Liz wouldn’t be in the office yet. I left a message on her voicemail, trying to sound as feeble as possible, and crawled back to bed. I didn’t wake up again until noon. The headache had gone and I felt a little stronger. The message light on the answering machine was blinking, but I decided I couldn’t check my messages without a gallon of coffee. There were seven unread text messages on my mobile, four missed calls and two voicemails – all from Des. My first instinct was to delete them all but something stopped me.

       Is Trudi right? Am I overreacting here? Should I at least give him a hearing?

      Eventually, I picked up the phone and listened to the voice messages; both had been left last night.

      ‘Lyd, where are you? I looked around and you were gone. Call me.’ This was ten minutes after I’d left the pub. The second message was timed an hour later.

      ‘OK, so I’m outside your house and you’re not at home. Call me, please?’ He sounded concerned. The text messages were all the same, sent every few hours.

      ‘Lyd, call me!’ He was nothing if not persistent.

       Should I call him? Can we sort this out and go back to the way we were?

      I was surprised to realise just how much I wanted that, especially when I checked the landline and found he’d left two more messages there. I was almost ready to swallow my pride and pick up the phone when the doorbell rang.

      Des was holding an enormous potted plant and I couldn’t quite see his face when I opened the door.

      ‘It’s a Peace Lily,’ he said, thrusting it into my arms. ‘I have a feeling we need to make peace.’

      Without a word I led him into the kitchen and placed the plant on the window sill, before turning to face him.

      ‘You shouldn’t have done it, Des,’ I said.

      ‘You’re not talking about the plant, are you? This is all about the story and what happened last week.’

      ‘Yes. You should have told me you wanted practical research for your writing. We could have found you a prostitute. You didn’t have to use me that way.’

      ‘Ouch! That’s not how it was, Lyd. I didn’t set out to do it deliberately. What we did wasn’t “research”, as you put it, but it did become inspiration. Writers use experience to inform their fiction. I had no idea it was going to upset you or I wouldn’t have done it.’ He was looking into my eyes and I knew he meant it. I felt my anger and hurt slipping away.