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“And did she?”
“Yes. I asked him if he wanted to break up. He said no. But he asked if I’d be prepared to do some of the things she did to him.”
She looks away. Her face is scarlet. She looks embarrassed and humiliated. Clearly, she doesn’t want to talk about what he asked her to do in detail.
“I’m guessing you said yes,” I reply.
She nods tightly. “I didn’t want to lose him. I wanted to help. So I made him go into detail. I wanted to know why he’d visited this woman, and what he wanted—what he needed. He told me everything. We talked for hours and hours. It was the most open conversation we’d ever had. He explained how, when I was in control, it helped him because being out of control was then his choice. Does that make sense?”
“Kinda.”
“And it worked… for a while.” Her gaze comes back to me then, though, and she looks utterly miserable. “But it’s just gotten worse and worse. He can’t get an erection at all now unless he’s being…” She hesitates, unsure how to phrase it.
“Dominated?” I suggest.
She nods. “On my birthday we had this big argument because he asked me to do something, and I did, and he got so turned on he sort of got carried away, and he ended up finishing inside me without a condom even though I was asking him to stop, and I was really angry with him.” She blushes scarlet—she doesn’t want to tell me, but she can’t stop herself. “Then, last night, he asked me to…” She trails off again. “Do something I didn’t want to do,” she says lamely. “I said no, and it blew up into another major argument. He ended up sleeping on the sofa. And this morning, when I attempted to talk about it, he was embarrassed and angry, and he said I obviously didn’t love him, or I’d help him more. He called me names, said things that hurt me. But the thing is, it’s all about him now. What he wants, what he needs. He never talks about what I want. What I need.”
“Ah, Juliette…”
She’s crying again now, tears running down her beautiful face. “And I don’t know why but he’s angry with me now, all the time, as if he’s upset that I know his secret. And I have to do all these things I don’t want to do, and in return he’s resentful and cross with me all the time.”
I sigh.
“He’s so broken and inwardly focused that there’s nothing left for me. I can’t remember the last time he touched me lovingly.” She dashes tears from her face. “His therapist told him that if I loved him I’d be understanding, and I do love him, or I did, anyway, but I can’t cope anymore. I’m just not good enough for him. I’m not a big enough person.”
“Stop it.” I lean forward, slide a hand beneath her chin, and lift it so she has to look into my eyes. “It’s not you. It’s not your fault.”
“But—”
I lower my hand, but I keep my gaze fixed on hers. “I’m not going to talk about Cam. What he requires in bed is his own business. I understand the therapist saying that a loving partner might wish to try things to help. But you shouldn’t have to change yourself to please him, or do things you don’t want to do. That’s not fair.”
“I’ve tried.”
“I know.”
“I really have.” She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. “But I don’t want to do those things anymore.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I just want to have ordinary sex without worrying. Does that make sense?”
“Of course it does. I understand, because I’m the same.”
She lowers her hands and wipes her face. “What do you mean?”
“Sex with Shaz became all about making a baby. For two years we had charts marked with fertile periods and ovulation days and temperatures… And all the fun went out of it. There was no question of doing anything that didn’t result in… ah… fluid ending up where it shouldn’t, if you get my drift. It got to where I wanted to refuse to perform on the necessary days out of spite. And that’s not me. It made me into a person I didn’t want to be.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly.” Her big brown eyes stare up into mine, pleased I understand.
We study each other for a long moment.
Eventually, she looks at her glass on the table, picks it up, and drains it. “I’m tipsy,” she says. I think it’s an understatement—we’re both quite drunk.
“Yeah, me too.”
She puts the glass down and wipes her face. Then she looks up at me again. Her gaze lingers on my mouth. “I used to think of you,” she whispers. “I used to think that Henry wouldn’t ask me to… do those things.” She swallows hard.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
