Least Said (46 page)

Will
clasped
his
hands
together
and
beamed.
‘I
loved
,
loved
,
loved
it,’
he
said
and
when
he
came
to
tuck
himself
between
us
we
had
a
lovely
family
cuddle
until
it
was
time
for
him
to
go
to
bed.

‘I’ve
been
sitting
here
wondering
what
bedtime
story
he
chose.
Which
one
was
it?’
Jon
asked
when
I
came
down
and
then
we
answered
in
unison,
‘
The Lion King
,’
and
burst
out
laughing.

The
thought
of
what
we’d
been
through
in
those
long
minutes
before
Will
was
found
soon
wiped
the
smiles
from
our
faces,
though.
I
knew
it
wasn’t
an
experience
we
would
ever
wish
to
repeat.

‘God,
it
was
just
dreadful,
wasn’t
it?’
I
shuddered,
and
Jon
drew
me
down
on
the
couch
next
to
him
and
into
his
arms.

‘I
felt
so
helpless,’
he
admitted,
stroking
my
hair
and
planting
little
kisses
along
my
jaw-bone
until
I
turned
my
face
to
meet
his
lips
with
my
own.

I
understood
completely
that
this
wasn’t
about
passion,
desire,
or
about
making
a
baby
-
this
was
looking
for
comfort
–
looking
for
a
way
to
block
out
those
awful,
endless
moments
when
we
actually
believed
that
we
might
have
lost
our
son
forever.

We
made
love,
quickly,
urgently
right
there
on
the
couch.
It
was
something
we
never
did,
mindful
as
we
were
that
William
could
appear
in
the
doorway
without
making
a
sound
to
announce
his
arrival,
and
catch
us
right
in
the
throes
of
an
adult
passion
that
he
wouldn’t
understand.
Our
need
at
that
moment
was
just
too
great
to
be
denied,
or
for
us
to
recognise
the
need
for
caution.

Perhaps
it
was
that
sense
of
danger,
the
urgent
need
for
the
comfort
of
a
mutual
orgasm
that
brought
us
to
a
satisfactory
conclusion
in
no
time
at
all.
Out
of
breath,
but
very
satisfied,
we
straightened
clothing
that
had
barely
been
disturbed
and
settled
with
a
sigh
into
one
another’s
arms.

I
wished
I
could
dismiss
the
thought
from
my
mind
that,
if
I
had
gone
through
with
the
confession
–
a
confession
that
was
so
close
to
being
made
–
there
would
have
been
no
welcome
for
me
in
Jon’s
arms
and
no
forgiveness
in
his
heart.
I
had
absolutely
no
doubt
in
my
mind
that
my
marriage
and
the
family
life
that
I
treasured
would
be
over.

I
should
never
have
done
what
I
did
seven
years
ago.
There
was
no
possible
excuse.
Making
Jon
responsible
for
behaviour
that
he
couldn’t
help
was
pointless
and
–
if
I
was
being
honest
-
I
had
actually
let
him
get
away
with
it
for
far
too
long,
when
I
should
have
been
challenging
that
behaviour.

I
fully
understood
that
he’d
tried
to
blame
my
non-existent
weight
problem
for
the
fact
we
were
failing
to
conceive
a
child
because,
admitting
the
problem
was
really
his
low
sperm
count
–
which
it
actually
was
–
in
his
mind
was
giving
me
the
perfect
reason
to
leave
him.
He
was
scared,
it
really
was
as
simple
as
that,
but
I
should
have
been
reassuring
about
something
he
needed
to
come
to
terms
with,
rather
than
allowing
myself
to
become
the
victim
in
order
for
him
to
feel
better
about
himself.

In
all
honesty,
neither
could
I
use
the
feeble
excuse
that
I’d
thought
he
was
having
an
affair,
as
if
that
made
everything
I
did
all
right.
In
fact,
I
had
to
admit
that
I’d
actually
given
the
matter
very
little
real
thought
–
just
immediately
jumping
to
the
conclusion
that
he
was
-
and
on
the
flimsiest
of
evidence.

It
was
a
text
that
I
shouldn’t
even
have
been
reading
no
less,
that’s
what
it
all
came
down
to.
A
misconstrued
message
with
a
friendly
kiss
at
the
end
and
I’d
had
Jon
tried
and
found
guilty
and
–
furiously
angry
and
out
for
revenge
–
I
immediately
set
out
to
have
an
affair
of
my
own
with
two
goals
in
mind.
The
first
was
to
get
my
own
back
and
the
second
was
to
get
pregnant.
There,
I
had
always
known
it,
and
now
I
finally
admitted
it
to
myself
without
making
any
further
excuses
for
my
shocking
behaviour.