3. Wren

I"m hiding.I"m sitting at the lat pull-down machine, Fletcher blasting in my headphones and a thin layer of sweat covering my whole body. I"m breathing heavily but I can"t say if it's because of the set I just finished or because of what"s supposed to be happening in less than half an hour.

I know it"s cowardly, and I know it means I"m going to be late for our dinner, but I don"t want to see Amara. Not yet. Not when I know what she's doing.

I know why she"s organised tonight. I know the real reason we have a private chef coming to our penthouse apartment and a six-hundred-pound bottle of vintage champagne chilling in our fridge.

She wants to talk.

And she"s well within her rights. It would be strange if she didn"t want to talk after the way we"ve been for the last half a year; ships passing in the night and early morning. Her working away more often, and me spending more hours than ever in my home office or the building"s communal gym. Amara is a doer and a fixer - two reasons I love her dearly - and it"s surprised me she"s waited this long to have an intervention. I mean, dinner.

But her wanting to talk is less than ideal for me.

Because it means I will have to talk too.

Fuck.Just the thought of it has me pulling the pin out of the weights and adding another five kilograms to my next set of reps which I set about doing with a small grunt. I"m halfway through when I grunt again, this time louder and harder, leaving my throat feeling a little raw, which feels like the perfect metaphor.

Because I"m not ready to talk. I"m not ready to say the things I so desperately want to say but can"t. I just can"t.

I want to, but I can"t.

Because what I want to tell her, will break her heart.

My therapist has helped me see why I should tell Amara. And she has helped me understand why I'm allowed to want what I want, and why it's not that strange either. In one fifty-minute session she was able to connect the dots that I have struggled to join for nearly twenty years. I scoff at the memory as I continue my reps. At least that session was worth the ridiculous price tag.

My last session with her felt less valuable, especially the part where she told me if I didn"t talk to Amara about this, I would lose her.

Because I can"t lose her. I can"t. She"s my world. She"s my everything.

But that"s exactly why I can"t tell her. Because if I do, I"m almost certain I"ll lose her.

Bang. The weights drop down and the loud clanging noise fills the room. I"m the only person in the gym, which is no big surprise considering it"s a Saturday night, and I"m grateful for the solitude. I had hoped it would help get my head clearer and unearth some confidence from somewhere, but I feel just as unprepared as I did when I arrived an hour ago, and now time really is running out.

A short, sharp beep in my ear tells me I"ve got a new message and I pull my phone out of my pocket and see it"s from Amara.

Amara

Are you okay? The chef will be here soon.

My stomach falls. I"m typing out a quick reply when another message from Amara comes through, this time it"s a photo of her side profile.

Amara

Wearing my bronze earrings. I love them. I love you.

My eyes glide over the angle of Amara"s jawline and the long, elegant column of her throat. How I used to love nestling my nose against the soft skin there and inhaling her sharp citrus scent. How I used to love kissing her there as she would come on my fingers. How I long to fall asleep with my cheek pressed up to hers.

How did we get so far from that?

Wren

In the gym. Will come up in 15.

I type back, and then I pocket my phone.

I start another set of twelve reps but I get to seven and stop, slamming the weights down. Standing up, I let the bar above me travel back to its starting point.

"Fuck," I grunt out. Guilt is swimming in my gut, heavy and viscose. And toxic. I have carried too many toxic feelings about myself in my lifetime. I'm not going to start again now.

My therapist is right. I need to talk to her. I need to be honest. I need to be brave enough to deal with the consequences, however catastrophic they may be.

I have no idea where this new resolve has come from - maybe it"s the photo she sent and my shitty, shitty response - but I"m going to grab hold of it and run with it. And that"s practically what I do as I get up, quickly wipe down the machine with my towel, then rush out of the gym.

I tap my foot impatiently as I wait for the elevator and pass the time by looking at that photo of Amara"s neck and ear again. A strikingly beautiful woman, Amara has only grown more attractive with age. I love the laughter lines that have gathered in the corners of her eyes and how she has these creases in her cheeks from how much she smiles, and talks. Amara is a talker. But that"s another thing I like about Amara. She likes to talk, and I like to listen. Not that Amara"s not a good listener - I know only too well how much she wants to listen to me now - but she fills the silences that need to be filled, the ones that I find awkward and yet don"t know what to say or how to fill them.

But this is not her silence to fill. This is mine.

Finally, I"m in the lift and in no time, I"m walking out of it into the private lobby that gives us access to our penthouse. I open the door and pick up my pace after dumping my things on the kitchen counter. Taking the stairs two at a time, the open spiral staircase shakes a little under my weight like it always does, and then I"m hurrying down the corridor to our master suite. I pause just before the door and realise I"m sweaty, unwashed and not even in my best gym clothes – namely a well-worn pair of tight black leggings paired with an old Tegan and Sara band T-shirt that I cut the sleeves off. Amara once said she found it sexy to smell me after I"d worked out, so I guess I"ll test that theory now.

When I push the bedroom door open, I find the room empty.

The scent of Amara"s perfume lingers in the air so I know she was just here, and that"s when I see the bathroom door is closed. I start walking towards it but stop when I hear a noise. It"s Amara. Amara"s voice.

"Fuck, Wren," she says, and the words are full of air and gravel.

I know that voice. I know the tension in it. I"ve heard it one hundred times before, if not very recently.

"Yes, Wren," it comes again and I know exactly what Amara is doing. I"ve caught her with her hands in her knickers more than a few times in our relationship, and in the past, I"ve ordered her to masturbate in front of me, so I know how vocal she likes to be. I wasn"t lying when I said Amara was a talker.

She"s touching herself, and she"s imagining I"m there with her. I take more steps towards the closed door.

"Hmm," Amara"s voice is a little louder. "Yes, like that. Just like that."

My chest feels suddenly heavy and tight in my sports binder, the hard points of my nipples pressing against the Lycra. I"m aware of how form fitting my leggings are, clinging to my thighs, my backside, the mound of my cunt. God, Amara turns me on. I slide a hand in the front of my leggings.

"Tell me what to do," Amara says and that stops my hand. "Make me your fuck toy."

I pull my hand out.

"Oh, Wren," she pants. "I love it when you order me around."

I close my eyes and drop my head.

"Yes, Wren, squeeze my throat," she gasps and I wouldn"t be surprised if she has one hand squeezing her neck as her other fingers are knuckle deep inside her.

The image turns me on so much I"m seeing stars behind my closed lids, but I need to walk away.

"Fuck, Wren, more. Harder."

I don"t know if she"s talking about the hand at her throat or the finger rubbing her clit, but I can"t listen to another word or another breathless moan.

I turn and walk away, heading for the guest bathroom where I will stand under a shower so hot it turns my white skin pink, and hopefully by then I"ll have found some confidence again to do what I need to, or maybe a plan to get out of tonight"s dinner.

I"m halfway down the corridor when the doorbell rings. Pausing, I glance back at our bedroom but I don"t hear any sound and Amara doesn"t emerge, so I go to the intercom near the top of the stairs and look into the screen. There"s a woman with bright red hair standing at the entrance to our building. Half of her face is obstructed by a stack of crates or boxes, the top one overloaded with pots and pans.

"Hello?"

"Oh, hallo, hi, it"s Katja, your private chef. For your dinner this evening," she says, looking like she"s struggling under the weight of her load. "I"m a bit early, which never happens by the way, but I hope it"s okay."

Fuck. This is really happening.

"Okay, come in," I mutter as I push the button to release the lock on the front door.

"Could you let her in?" Amara calls out from the bedroom and her voice is wobbly and hoarse. Like she"s crying. Oh God, please don"t let her be crying. I know only too well how capable Amara is of having these extreme mood swings, but I also know it's usually a sign that something is really, really upsetting her.

"Okay," I call back and then head downstairs.

I"m standing in the open doorway when the chef emerges from the lift, and she wobbles towards me carrying the crates.

"Oh, thank you," she says, barely managing not to drop everything. "I really need to get a trolley. But you know, I"ve been saying that for the last year and for some reason I still haven"t gotten around to getting one. I mean, this is the only exercise I ever do." She leans to the side and looks me up and down. "You look like you work out a lot."

"I do," I say, a little bemused by the words pouring out of her mouth. I notice she has an accent that clips her words short and shifts the intonation onto words where a native speaker wouldn"t put it. It"s endearing and I wonder where it"s from.

"Sorry, I talk a lot when I"m nervous and I"m really nervous," she says. "Can I come in?"

Her honesty is startling. "Of course." I move out of the way but then follow her closely. "Here, give me one of them." I reach for the top crate and carry it easily, leading us both into the kitchen.

"Thank you," she says, a little breathless as she offloads her crate onto the island next to the one I placed down. "Wow, you have a beautiful home. This is…" She turns to admire our open plan living area with its double-storey high ceiling and the wall of windows on one side of the room, offering a view of the Thames, Vauxhall Bridge and Grosvenor Road on the other side of the river. "This is incredible."

"Thanks," I mumble. It"s not often we socialise with people who are truly taken aback by the size and location of our apartment seeing as Amara"s clients have even grander homes, but it still floors me every day that I live somewhere like this. It"s so far from what I grew up with on a council estate in a suburb of South London, nor is it how I imagined I would live my life, and I can tell immediately that Katja is the same. She"s almost overwhelmed by the luxury and opulence on display here what with Amara"s designer choices for furniture, accessories, and decor.

As if she"s suddenly conscious that she"s gawping at my home, Katja shakes her head. "Where are my manners?" She moves towards me with her hand held out. "Katja Meyer. A pleasure to meet you, Amara."

She grips my hand enthusiastically and I"m surprised by the warmth and softness of her palm. Now she"s closer I also catch a hint of her scent. It"s floral and earthy, like wild roses opening on an early summer"s day, droplets of dew on their petals.

"Nice to meet you," I say, eventually, my throat suddenly a little dry. "But I"m Wren, not Amara."

"Oh, I"m sorry, Wren. I"m such an idiot."

I huff out a quick laugh. "No, you"re not. Not at all."

"So, am I okay to just make myself at home?" she asks, looking around her. I realise then why I"m feeling a little dizzy, my thoughts bumping into one another. She reminds me of Amara, or rather the first time I met Amara.

It was at a mutual friend"s dinner party and Amara was the last guest to arrive. She walked in carrying an almost obscenely large bouquet of flowers and a magnum of champagne. A magnum. It was a miracle her skinny frame could carry both things. Once divested of her gifts, she circled the room introducing herself to everyone, shaking hands and complimenting outfits. When she"d come to stand in front of me, I"d opened my mouth to say hello but when I saw her up close, I became speechless.

She was stunning.

Oblivious to my tongue-tied state, Amara had explained how excited she was to meet me because our mutual friend had told her I was a web developer and she needed a website being built for a new business and could we possibly sit together at dinner.

Now here was another woman who seemingly liked to talk and was comfortable navigating any kind of social situation.

"Of course," I say then cough to clear my throat.

"Are you okay?" Katja asks and I"m speechless all over again because it"s clear she"s asking because I apparently don"t look or sound alright. Fuck my social anxiety.

"Yeah, fine, it"s just—" I say. Why did I say that? Why didn"t I just leave it as fine.

Katja stops unloading her crate and looks at me expectantly.

I glance quickly at the spiral staircase. Still no sign of Amara.

"This dinner tonight… It"s sort of important," I say and I feel the weight of the words on my tongue.

Katja watches me for a few seconds, not blinking, and it seems like she"s fully absorbing what I just said. "I understand. Leave it with me. I will make it a dinner to remember." She ends the sentence with a firm nod and a kind smile.

And then she goes back to unloading. Just as I turn and head upstairs to shower and get ready, I find myself feeling the last thing I expected from her words. Comforted.