#Wild teaches Wind about mascara and lipstick

[libr-0-cubicularist]

Doodles I did on an airplane

[isitgintimeyet]

Just A Friend

Hope you are all having a good weekend. I’m the only one awake, the sun is shining and I’m enjoying my coffee in peace and quiet. Bliss!

Thank you for the continuing support for this story. it’s lovely reading (and re-reading) all the comments.

Hope you enjoy this next chapter.

Thanks to @wickedgoodbooks for the beta.

AO3

Previous Chapter

Chapter 3: From Relationship To Release

You know, I’m a great believer in relationships. Relationships come in all shapes and sizes — take my relationship with Geillis, for example.

I met Geillis on my first day of postgraduate training at Glasgow Royal Infirmary. I was spending three months in orthopaedic surgery and she was just finishing her training as a theatre nurse. We somehow kept bumping into each other at social gatherings and found we had many things in common — a childish sense of humour, an intolerance of pomposity and snobbishness, and a love of cheesy rom-com movies.

From there, our friendship snowballed, and for many years now, I’ve called her my best friend. Even the arrival of a fiancé and her forthcoming nuptials haven’t lessened our relationship in any way. Our careers have developed in parallel too. So when a vacancy came up for a senior theatre sister at the Children’s hospital, I didn’t hesitate to recommend her for the post. We work well together. For all her joking around and flippant comments she is damn good at her job. And I love her.

I don’t think I love many people. I’m very fond of a lot of people, mainly my friends. But love? No. And certainly not the romantic, live-our-life-together type of love.

I see how it can work. I look at Robbie’s parents, for example. The way they are there for each other, supporting through all the worries with their son, their comforting touches and reassuring glances.They are a solid unit and I admire that.

I also see the way that Geillis’ face lights up when she talks about her fiancé, Dougal, and the way he watches her when we are all together in the pub. And I think it’s great, I really do.

But it’s not something that I’m seeking out for myself. I don’t think I’m cut out for that type of relationship. I don’t think there is someone out there, my soulmate, to spend the rest of my life with. And I definitely don’t think that I need someone else to complete me, make me whole.

That doesn’t mean that I’m a hermit. Far from it, in fact. I do date and enjoy it, but try to steer clear of any where-is-this-relationship-going type discussions.

It may well be to do with my childhood. I’ll admit, I’ve not had the most normal upbringing and that could have coloured my view of happily-ever-after love.

I’ve never been part of a conventional family unit. Well, I mean, I was for the first four years of my life —until my parents died in a car accident. And, at that age, how much can you remember? I do have some vague memories — rough tweed fabric against my cheek as my father’s strong arms lift me up, the smell of ‘Miss Dior’ perfume as my mother’s soft hands caress my cheek, the sound of laughter as we dance around the living room to Michael Jackson. But these are only fleeting recollections, ephemeral, gone in an instant.

All my real childhood memories are centred around one man — my uncle, Lambert Beauchamp. He, unhesitatingly, took me in when my parents died and became my guardian, my parent, my rock. He and I were a team, and I miss him every single day.

He was a confirmed bachelor, and I don’t mean that in a euphemistic way. He lived his life by his own rules and if he had been gay, he would have seen no reason to hide it. No, he had no need for romantic entanglements, no complicated relationships, no messy sexual encounters. He had two loves in his life — me and his work. He was a professor at the University, teaching archaeology and could, quite happily, get lost for hours in the bowels of the archives, studying ancient Somarian drinking vessels.

Growing up he was my role model, my yardstick against which to measure boys.

And over time, I've come to realise that I've always found myself attracted to the type of men which have certain ‘Lambert-esque’ qualities. Which leads me, I suppose, to Frank.

Just like my uncle, he’s a professor at the university. In history — more recent than Lamb’s studies only three hundred years ago, not three thousand.  He’s single minded about his research, like my uncle, and he cares deeply about me, which makes me feel bad because I don’t feel the same way. Of course, I care about him, just not enough for a serious relationship that’s going somewhere.

All of this is a long winded way of saying what I’ve actually known for a while now... I need to break up with Frank.

*************

I’m just contemplating whether to brave the canteen or grab a sandwich from the hospital shop, when there’s a knock at my office door and a hand appears brandishing a couple of distinctive Gregg’s paper bags. This hand is closely followed by the rest of Geillis, who plonks herself down on one of my visitor chairs. A wonderful aroma of freshly baked goods wafts across the desk. My stomach rumbles in anticipation.

“Steak bake or sausage roll?” she asks as she places both bags on my desk, although she knows my preference.

“Ooh, how did you know I was just thinking about lunch?” I pick up one of the bags, the oozing gravy on its surface being a clear giveaway.

“We’ve been friends fer long enough,” Geillis smiles. “I ken what ye’re thinking. In fact, ye’ve something on yer mind right now. No’ a work thing. C’mon, spill.”

I swear, it’s uncanny. In the Middle Ages Geillis would undoubtedly have been tried as a witch. Her powers of deduction are that good.

I say nothing for a moment and focus on my lunch, blowing ineffectually on the hot meat filling.

“Weel? I’m waiting and ye ken I’m no’ a patient woman, Claire. This is tae do wi’ Frank, is it no’? Are ye planning on dumping him?”

See what I mean? Witchcraft.

“You make it sound so harsh. But I can’t carry on with Frank, he’s investing more into this… this—“

“Ye can say the word, Claire. Relationship… R… E…—“

“I know, I know. But I have to do something. I know Frank wants more than I want  to give in this ‘relationship’.” I  enunciate clearly just to make the point to Geillis. I’m not afraid of the word… I can say it.

“Anyway,” I add casually as I dab at the pastry crumbs with my finger. “I thought you’d be pleased. I know you’ve never liked him.”

Geillis tuts. “‘Tis no’ a matter of like. We jes’ havena got anything in common. He’s awfa serious and ye dampen yer personality down when ye’re with him. I’ve seen ye, ye canna deny it.”

I try to interject, but Geillis ignores my sounds of protest and carries on talking. “But it’s no’ jes’ Frank. Ye do this all the time, Claire. Whenever anyone tries tae get serious, ye run. What is wrong wi’ wanting a relationship anyway?”

“I have my work, I have my friends. I date, I go out with men, I have a good, if sporadic, sex life… and a trusty dual speed vibrator. What’s wrong with me wanting my life the way I want it?”

Geillis crams the end of her sausage roll into her mouth and chews vigorously for a minute. I pass her a paper serviette for her greasy hands. She gathers up the flaky pastry crumbs that have settled on her chest, wraps them in the serviette and pops it neatly in the bin.

“Ok, I get it. I’ll back off. But all I’m saying is dinna close yerself off tae the possibility of a real relationship, aye?”

Knowing she's gone as far as she can with this topic, she gets up and heads for the door. “Nae rest fer the wicked. Oh, and Claire, jes’ one thing…”

She pauses dramatically. “Dinna forget… ye’ve gravy on yer chin.”

And with that she disappears, leaving me with a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach caused by more than the calorie ridden pasty.

I am just settling down to dictate some patient letters when Frank texts to suggest dinner at my favourite Italian restaurant. This isn’t good. It’s a lovely restaurant, the kind of restaurant where special occasions are celebrated— birthdays, anniversaries, declarations…

So I have to lie… no, not lie, fib. I text back pleading a heavy day in theatre — aching feet, headache and so on.

His concerned response makes me feel bad. No need for fibbing, I do feel pretty shitty now. However, it also makes me more resolved to do what I have to do. I can’t drag this out, causing him more and more hurt. So, I invite him to my flat this evening instead.

*******

I have a final glance in the mirror in my bedroom. I do actually look a bit worn out. I haven’t really put any makeup on, just a touch of mascara and a slick of lipstick, which I have already managed to chew off.

My hair is, as per usual, a bit wild and untamed. I have a bathroom shelf full of products promising smooth and manageable curls, but have yet to find one that actually delivers on their promises. I tuck my hair behind my ears, pinch my cheeks to try to look a little less pale and head to the front door.

Frank is as punctual as ever. Unlike other things in my life, he’s always delivering on his promises. Which makes me feel even worse. I have nothing to accuse him of, no unacceptable behaviour— apart from wanting more than I’m prepared to give. That old cliché, “it’s not you, it’s me”, really is appropriate here. I’m going to try not to actually say those words though. He deserves more than that.

And so I take a deep breath and open the door. He stands there expectantly with two bottles of wine, one red and one white, in his hands.

“I wasn’t sure what we would be eating, so I got both just in case,” he volunteers as he walks in and leans close to me for a kiss.

I give him my cheek and make a fuss of taking the bottles from him to deflect my lack of affection.

He follows me into the lounge. I’m sure he notices that I make no offer to pour the wine. I set the wine on the coffee table and perch on the end of the settee.

Frank takes my hands. “Claire, darling, are you ok? Has it been a rough day?”

I shake my head. “It’s not been the best. Frank… I…”

I can’t even look at him now. I take a deep breath and plunge in. “Frank, I… the thing is… I don’t know how… I think we should stop seeing each other.” The words tumble out of my mouth like a deluge.

I finally look up as Frank releases my hands and walks over to the window. He stands still, his back to me, as if just taking in the view. Then he turns to face me, staring intently at me, scrutinising my face as if looking for a glimmer of hope. The silence is unbearable.

“Frank, it’s not you—“ I try to fill the void, by resorting to stale old clichés after all.

“Spare me that platitude.” He snaps at me. “We’re not fifteen. This was… is… serious to me, Claire.”

Frank now moves to sit next to me. His hand rests on my thigh, his fingers lightly drawing circles on my jeans. I watch for a moment. Am I supposed to move it? Should I remind him he no longer can touch me like this?

His voice softens.  “I lo—“

“No, please, Frank. Don’t say it. Please don’t. You are such a nice man. You don’t deserve this.” Gently, I lift his hand and  place it on his leg.

“Then don’t do it. Tell me, Claire, what do I have to do? What changes do I have to make for us to move forward? I’ll do it, tell me. We can make this work, I know.”

What do I say now? Anything I say will only hurt him more. All I can do is apologise and try to explain.

“I am sorry, really. It’s just, well, you want more than I can give. You think about a future—“

“And what’s wrong with that? That’s what most people want, Claire. Planning for a future together— a home, a family… our family.” Frank’s getting angry now, raising his voice.

“Please, I’m trying to explain. You want a future life together and I can’t give you that. I’m sorry that I’m hurting you.”

“Is there someone else? Is that what this is all about?”

I’ve been trying to remain composed, to give Frank the explanation he deserves. But this question annoys me beyond belief, as if I have to be one half of a couple.

“I can’t believe you asked that. No, it’s not about another man. I can’t be what you want me to be and that’s it.”

He stands up now, right in front of me. His hands are down by his sides, so tightly clenched into fists that his knuckles are white against the slight tan of his skin. For a fleeting nanosecond, I wonder if he is going to hit me. But, of course not, he’s just trying to gain control of himself.

“That’s it, then.” The words are spat out with venom.

“You know I’m sorry.”

He shrugs dismissively. “Of course. Well, goodbye.”

He makes for the door.

“What about the wine?” I indicate the two bottles, still on the table. It’s a pointless trivial comment, I know, but for some reason I don’t want him to think I expect to keep them.

Frank doesn’t even look over his shoulder. “Consider them a parting gift.”

And with that, he's gone.

I remain sitting motionless, processing what I’ve just done. It’s not easy hearing those words, but neither is it easy to have to say them. So many emotions are coursing through my body — sorrow, guilt, regret, self-reproach, worry. And in the midst of this maelstrom, there is one thing I can clearly recognise — a glimmering spark of relief.