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"Tom. What are you doing here?," I ask, surprised, after I open the front door. "I needed to see you!," he states, slightly out of breath, his hair and clothes sticking to his skin, drenched after the short walk through the rain from the car to the house. “And why is that?” I look at him, coldly, still blocking the entrance to the house, leaving him outside in the cold and rain. “Because I want to talk. I...I want to apologise,” he mumbles, carefully and remorsefully.
“May I come in?” His steel-blue eyes rest on my face, shimmering in the light of the little lamp hanging over the doorway. ”I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, I’m tired and I need to be up early tomorrow,” I reply, quietly, attempting to close the door again. His foot stops it, prevents me from shutting him out and I sigh, loud enough for him to hear. “Tom! Go! Leave me alone!,” I huff upon opening the door again. “No. Please,...let me come in. Let me explain. Please, Abby,” he breathes with pleading eyes and hanging shoulders.
Annoyed, I roll my eyes before I step out of the way, making room for him to walk past me into the house. Shedding his wet coat and shoes, he looks at me, expectantly, waiting for me to lead the way which I do as I pad back into the living room where I had been reading in front of the fireplace. Insecurely, he remains in the doorway, wiping his wet hair out of his face with erratic movements. His fiddling makes me nervous.
“Either sit down or stand still. You’re driving me nuts with all that fidgeting,” I mumble while I place the bookmark between the pages and leave the book on the side table next to the burgundy, comfy sofa. “Yes, sorry,” he nods and sits down on the edge of the armchair closest to him, hands nervously gliding along his thighs while he lets his eyes roam around the room.
“You wanted to talk,” I remind him, coldly, wanting to get this over and done with in as little time as possible but knowing Tom, this might take a lot longer than just a mere five minutes. He clears his throat, looking down at his socks before his eyes find mine. “Abby, I’m sorry. I have no idea why I did that and I know you deserve more than the “I was drunk” excuse but...that’s the way it was. I was drunk, terribly so, and I can’t remember a thing. I can’t remember meeting her, I can’t remember driving here. Nothing. I don’t have a clue who she is and I don’t care. Because I love you. You and no one else.”
There’s desperation in his voice, frustration and anger at himself. For a moment, I simply look at him, desperately wanting to believe him, his words, his excuses. But I can’t. I still have the image burned into my mind of him and her upstairs in our bed.
Exhausted, I open the front door, glad to be home after a long week away. Everything had gone wrong during this business trip but especially today. First the plane was delayed, then my coffee spilled over a bunch of important documents, and last but not least the heel of my shoe had broken off as I left the tube station. Can’t get worse, I suppose.
A little irritated, I look at Tom’s shoes lying in the middle of the hallway, knowing that he normally leaves them neatly on the shoe rack next to the cupboard in the hall. What irritates me even more, are the high heels lying at the bottom of the stairs as they are definitely not mine. With a sick feeling in my stomach, I leave my bag, coat, and shoes by the door before slowly walking up the stairs.
Tears of anger fill my eyes, as I arrive on the landing, hearing alternate grunts and groans from Tom and another woman. With wobbly legs, I cover the remaining metres to our bedroom door, which is half-way open, allowing me a good look at the naked, shagging couple on the bed. On our bed to be more precise. With a bang, I push the door open, not caring about the marks the door handle will leave on the wall.
With a jolt, they drive apart, looking at me with wide eyes, though not caring about covering up yet. “Abby!” I can hear the disbelief in Tom’s voice, his eyes full of shock and somewhat cloudy after his presumably massive intake of alcoholic beverages given the way the room smells of alcohol. Slowly, the woman gets up, collecting her clothes which are strayed across the room. I don’t look at her as she walks past me, smelling of cheap perfume and Tom, before the sound of her naked feet on the steps can be heard and soon after the closing of the front door.
Meanwhile, Tom struggles to get up from the bed, almost falling over as he tries to pick up his boxers from the floor. I don’t feel sorry, not even remotely. I am angry. I am hurt. How could he?
“Abby, I..I can explain,” he mumbles, trying to get up from the bed with his boxers in place, and staggering towards me. “Don’t you dare touch me,” I warn him and he stops in his tracks shakily. “Abby, love. Please,” he begs, his normally shining eyes now shimmering with tears and remorse.
“Get out,” I hiss, pointing towards the door. “Take whatever clothes you need and GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE!,” I shout at him, tears of anger and hurt clouding my vision. He opens his mouth in an attempt to speak but obviously realising he is too drunk for a proper argument, he lets his shoulders sag before getting dressed, grabbing a bunch of clothes from the wardrobe, and leaving the house like a dog with his tail between his legs.
"I can tell you exactly who she is, Tom," I sigh, letting my hand run over my face. He looks at me, questioningly, and I add, quietly, "Her name is Lucie. She's my stepsister."