'Maybe if I write...'

She dreaded facing him after this. Foolish girl! When they at last were able to meet he was indeed still very hurt and angry with her, he had alwaystrusted her not to ring the house, and told her how H had suffered an agina attack on leaving Midnight Mass Christmas Eve. He had had to work hard to reassure H that it must indeed have been a wrong number. Coppelia's call had really shaken H, he was concerned at her lack of self-control and couldn't imagine why on earth she'd behaved that way. He had come close to leaving her, he said. He had felt that he perhaps did not really know Coppelia, after all, if she could act that way. How could she take such a risk?

The few times they met after this, she could see how he had been affected by her actions, and she made a firm decision to pull herself together. He had come so close to ending the relationship, concerned that if Coppelia was finding it so hard to cope, he must end it now for both their sakes. What if she felt driven to act in a similarly rash way again?

She HAD to find a way to cope. So it was that one dark night early in January 2009 Coppelia made the decision to write. To tell their story from the beginning.

Christmas Eve

Weeks passed. A five day trip to Washington DC for Coppelia, late in September, lifted her spirits more than anything else had done that year. A kind of fire came to life in her again, and on her return continued burning for a while. Soon it would be a whole year since they had been able to spend a night together. A whole year since Bordeaux. It had proved impossible to find an opportunity for him to stay away.

They seldom talked of how difficult things were. What was the point? All they could do was love one another, love the time they had. She would sometimes notice a shadow pass behind his eyes, and know he was feeling uneasy about what he would call 'holding her back.' He tried to hide it but she felt the difference in him.

Nowadays, any guilt he experienced was less likely to be about deceiving H, than about causing Coppelia to suffer through such prolonged separation. So she chose not to reveal how hard it really was. She would tell him she was coping well, that seeing him made her so happy, she could bear the time apart. She would not add to the burden he already bore. She had chosen to stay with him, so she must deal with the consequences of this somehow.

Her third Christmas without him. Coppelia tried to concentrate on her family, her friends, her work, all her interests and activities; but she sank low, low down. He and H were spending a week with his daughter, there was no mobile signal from her home. No contact at all from early Christmas Day for a whole week. Right then something in her hated him for putting her through this. Or did she hate herself, for wanting him so?

On Christmas Eve, full of self-pity, she called him at home very late. Some silly thing had upset her and, feeling wounded and rejected she needed to speak to him. On finding his mobile turned off - why? it was only 10pm - she did the most foolish thing. She rang the house. Why did she do this? Despair? A deep longing to connect with him somehow? A firm condition of their relationship, was that she would never, ever ring the house. When she heard H answer the call, she put the phone down. Of course Coppelia knew - in her rational mind - that her call may cause great trouble, but her rational mind was not making the decisions then. H would have immediately suspected it was Coppelia. But Coppelia felt herself swept along by some passion outside herself.

She rang again, and he replied, obviously angry. She blurted out her hurts, that she needed to speak to him. Whispering 'how dare you' he then loudly told her she had the wrong number. A text early on Christmas Day made it clear just how angry he was. There were no x's.

Why do we do such things? Why do we cast caution to the wind in this way?

Who knows. Does hurt so distort our judgement, does need so overtake us, that for one moment we scream out, wildly brandishing the knife, and in so doing find we have pierced our very self with its blade?

On waking Christmas Day she felt sick in her heart, and chilled to the core. Her actions the night before shocked her into realising this relationship was causing her more strain than she had wanted to admit. This was by far the very worse Christmas she had ever known, and all her own silly fault - but harder she tried to get through it, the lonelier and more desolate she felt.

Two years

Their second anniversary was spent in London, a long special meal at Bentley's, a fine fish restaurant near Piccadilly. She wore a beautiful hand-painted silk dress that he had bought her the previous year, a gift posted to her during those agonising weeks of separation following H's heart attack. He had seen it in a catalogue and told her he could just imagine her in it, it was 'made for you.' Yet this special day was bittersweet. The doubt that began back in July had settled over him like a mantle. He was pensive, serious.

'I do worry about you darling, and when I say this it's because I love you so much you must understand that. If you could find someone else I would be devastated for myself, but I believe it may make you happier. I want you to be happy, and I fear I cannot now ever make you happy.'

Late on that anniversary day, holding one another on a park bench in a leafy London square, they talked, they listened to one another. Each showed understanding of the other's position. Each was sick at heart. In a way they agreed they felt trapped. Unable to let go but struggling to carry on as they were. He told her he was selfish to cling to her, not leaving her to love another, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her. However, if she herself left him for someone else...and so the talk went around in circles, until they ended up laughing at themselves.

How could Coppelia fall in love with another, when she was already so in love with him?

A different life

If they were not to have the life they so wanted, then she would work hard at making a different life for herself. Coppelia tried to remotivate herself to work harder on new projects and activities. She stayed with her sister in Suffolk, with her daughter in Birmingham, and later took a short holiday with her daughter by the sea. She stayed with her friends in Lincolnshire, devoted love and energy to friends and to church pastoral work. She took up every social invitation offered.

Working at the pub was a lifeline for Coppelia. In those early months almost every Saturday had been spent together. But since the events of summer 2007 weekends were never theirs. During this part of the week when so many others enjoyed time with those they loved, Coppelia felt his absence most acutely.

So, how glad she was to be very busily occupied from Friday night until Sunday night, often working under pressure, focussed on so many other people. Week by week, this helped so much to carry her through empty, lonely days. The memories haunting her were forced under for a while.

What she found hard to cope with were the lovers, the happy couples. Wrapped in one another, gazing across the table, laughing, holding hands. Hiding in corners far away from the bar, exchanging those looks, those gestures she understood so well. At these times Coppelia drew on all her resolve, turned, hurried, worked even harder, but distraction seldom held.

At these times, the full force of memory fully overtook the task in hand and she had to escape to release the tears. They had spent blissful hours, just like those couples. They may do again. But missing him so badly, aching for him so painfully, the sight of them would strike at Coppelia's heart like a knife.