Tudor turned to us, trying to catch my sleeve with his hand. "Tash, please, I have to go but–."
I put up a hand. "But let me guess, you can't tell me why?"
He opened his mouth several times like he was trying to explain, but no words popped out.
I nodded once. "Thought so. Let's just go, Tink."
"Mmm… hmm. Let's split like a banana, Toots!"
By the time I had got to the car, I was shaking with anger, literally bouncing in the passenger seat with fury. I turned to Tink. "What the hell was all that about? I told you the phone calls seemed dodgy. Has Tate said anything lately about what's going on? Even just a hint?"
He shook his head. "No, not a peep! But I agree, how weird was that? Who d’you think called him? ‘Cos whoever it was has royally pissed him off."
I shrugged. "I don't know. You know, over the last week he's been getting these phone calls at all hours, and every time I ask who it is he just tells me not to worry and to just 'trust him'.”
Tink pulled out of the parking lot. "And do you? Trust him, I mean?"
We watched as Tate and Tudor got into the Jeep and sped away in the opposite direction.
"I think I do, but what can be so bad that he can't talk about it?"
Tink hunched his shoulders, and silence filled the car for several blocks.
"Tink, did you hear him say 'No-one, nothing special'…you... you don't think he was referring to me, do you?"He dismissed my comment with the wave of his hand. "Are you kidding? You’ve hardly been apart for the last few weeks. You’ve spent more time with him lately than most couples do in months. I think we can safely say that you definitely are someone special to him."
I sighed in relief.
Look, let me just put in my two cents worth so you know where I stand. I am not a needy girlfriend; I do not need to know every aspect of my boyfriend’s life. I do however feel that I should at least gain some insight when something weird starts going on. At this point, I would have even been happy to just know how he was feeling in himself, but Tudor was keeping me at arm’s length, pushing me back like the pose on the friggin’ Heisman Trophy.
I’m an independent woman (‘throw your hands up at me…’) and like having my own space. Equally, I thought Tudor should have his, but I was nearing my breaking point. I thought he would’ve confided something by now, but in between the ridiculous amounts of sex and the shower-storms of affection he had been throwing my way, he had been cold and distant, leaving no room for discussion and certainly not acting like the man I had come to know.
Tink put a hand on my knee and squeezed it gently. "Look, my greasy Bacon Buttie, you have two choices: you trust him like he has asked, or you decide you don't like the secrets and make your mind up from there. Sorry to be brutal, Wil, but dems the breaks!"
I hit my head back against the head rest. "I know, I guess I'll have to trust him then, won't I? I don't want to give him up over something that may be nothing in the end, right?"
He nodded in agreement. "Right, and I don't blame you for keeping your claws into that hunk of prime cut beef... I'd like to carve me off a slice of that if he was eating on the same side of the table!"
I cracked a smile, and Tink tapped my thigh. "There you go, I hate to see you doubting what you have, sausage."
Tudor didn't come over that night. I received a brief text message to say he was staying at home – the first time apart in weeks. I had never been to his place; I knew it was in an affluent area near Aspen but I had never visited, and he had never invited me either. I had always put that down to wanting to keep our relationship secret from Boleyn, and that I understood, but I was beginning to wonder…was I being kept on the sidelines? I tried to not read too much into it and just went straight to bed, not sleeping, and trying not to obsess over the ever-growing mountain of secrets.
The next morning, I went about my usual Sunday routine, planning to stay at home and get the last of my pupils’ work marked before the Christmas break. I was halfway through a mammoth stack of essays on the causes of the Russian Revolution when I heard the doorbell. I headed to the door and opened it slowly to Tudor, who I noticed looked slightly, shall we say, stressed.
"Hey," I greeted, my brows pinched in concern at his sad demeanour and unkempt look. His clothes were heavily creased and his eyes looked tired and dull.
"Hey," he sounded morose.
I let him in and led him to the kitchen. "Coffee?"