Stealing Cassie Pt. 01: Taken

It's all been so sudden. Josh and I hadn't even kissed until last Friday evening, which seems ages ago now. But even before our wonderful kiss, I knew we were connecting, sensed something special happening between us. So many clues, more and more each time we are together.

I never expected any of what happened. Could never have dreamt it, not in a million years.

I was standing at the bus stop after work when Josh pulled up in his white sports car. I hadn't a clue about cars, just knew it looked sensational. And what a shock when the window went down, Josh at the wheel.

"Hi, Cassie. Use a lift?" he said, a big smile beaming across his face. I must have looked doubtful because he said, "Promise I won't bite."

My surprise was not just because of how fabulous his motor was — a Mclaren 570S, I now know — but also because of the unexpectedness of seeing him in that place at that time. After all, he is Becky's partner, who I thought worked in London.

I watched as if in a dream as the door nearest me went up in the air, like the wing of a bird about to take flight. I peered into the interior while he patted the cream leather seat to encourage me.

I eased myself under the raised door and slid in beside him, conscious of my skirt riding high as I manoeuvred myself. Once I was settled, the door glided back into place. I looked through the side window at the faces of the people left to queue, saw their resentment, their envy.

Even though he'd been in a relationship with Becky for ages, when I sat there looking at Josh I realised I hardly knew him at all. Until the lifts began, I had met him only a few times. He was one of those people who are a name in your life but not really part of your life.

Oh, did I not say? Becky is my oldest and dearest friend.

I still thought of Becky as my best friend even though we hadn't actually met up in the real world for over a year — which is the last time I saw Josh. I still checked her out on Facebook, but whenever she texted to say we should get together, I would make an excuse.

You see I got unbelievable envious of her when she started going with Josh. God, is it really three years ago she first introduced me to him? Another lifetime now. Something twisted deep inside me the very first I saw them together.

She'd brought him round ours to meet Ian and me. I remember that day so clearly, the impression he made, his looks and charm. It got me thinking how unfair life is, that she had landed someone like Josh when I was stuck with Ian. I can still picture them sat side by side on our sofa looking the perfect couple, she sipping Prosecco with that oh-so-pleased look on her face. I thought, you've only brought him round ours to show him off.

I couldn't stand to think of them after their visit. All the next day I brooded on how she'd landed the most perfect specimen of man I'd ever laid eyes on. Eventually, I stopped seeing her, couldn't stomach her smug happiness. Seeing her with him irked so much. Even when I had her to myself, I had to listen to her go on about him. That self-satisfied smile of hers, her off-the-scale, selfish utter fucking happiness.

Yes, he is that good looking. Absolutely to fucking-die-for good looking.

And now he sometimes drives me home, listens intently while I go on about my crap life and how pathetic Ian is. Such a good listener, he should have been a therapist instead of . . .? Now I come to think about it, I'm not sure what Josh does; something in the city. Hedge funds. Merchant banks . . . . Stuff like that.

Each time I got a lift from him, more and more stuff about Ian and me came out — personal things, things I shouldn't really be telling anyone, let alone my best friend's bloke. I just start babbling and, hey-presto I have his full attention. I can't stop myself. You're so pathetic, Cassie. But he makes me feel as if I'm saying the most important thing ever. It's been ages since a man has paid attention to what I have to say.

Yeah, he is always fully there for me, in the moment, as they say. I sensed it immediately that first time in his car. Him at the wheel, that indefinable something, always there in his eyes when he turned to me, the way he nodded thoughtfully as I went on and on about myself. It was as if he was genuinely listening to me, you know, actually thinking about what I was saying and not just being polite or thinking about what he was going to say next. He'd turn to me and smile and then I'd go all quiet and lose my chain of thought. But still, I really liked it when he looked at me in that intense way he has, his ice-blue eyes electric with secret schemes. When a man looks at a girl like that her life can change in an instant.

In tea-time traffic it usually took us thirty minutes to cover the four miles to the house I share with Ian. When I told Ian that Josh sometimes giving me a lift home, he just grunted and said if he tried anything on he would kill him. That's Ian for you.

Don't get me wrong, I love Ian, love him to bits. But my god! The man has no ambition, is still only a salesman after five gruelling years with Hawkshead and Marlow. He should be an area manager after all the hours he puts in. I try to encourage him but it just turns into a row, and then I have to tip-toe around him. He's become so sensitive lately. I'm only trying to help, encourage him.

And the sex has stopped.

Why does Josh have to be so good looking? Shit! Trust the most handsome man I have ever-ever met to be picking me up after work three or four times a week. And there's me so frustrated these days, what with Ian losing his sex drive and being so moody all the time.

It's so hard for me when I slide my legs into Josh's car and have to just sit there and pretend like he's my brother or something. I saw him looking that first time. I hope he appreciates my legs now I've stopped wearing tights. I wonder if he thinks my skirt is too short.

Last Tuesday. God! I went and did something idiotic. It was so disloyal of me to tell Josh I was thinking of leaving Ian. Even though I said it out loud, I wasn't thinking of leaving Ian at all — not then that is. Well, I may have thought it once or twice, you know, just imagining what it would be like if I ever did, wondering how things might pan-out for me. But then I went and said it to out loud to Josh. How stupid was that, Cassie?

At the time, deep down, I was sure I would never leave Ian. I said those things to Josh just to let off steam, get it all off my chest, tell someone how shit my life was. Josh seemed genuinely shocked when I said it, asked if I was winding him up. Was I serious?

I said I'd be gone already if I had a place to go to. Josh was thoughtful for a moment, then he said I could come and stay with him and Becky for a few days if I ever needed to. Until I got my head straight, he said,

Now that really shocked me, him saying he and Becky could put me up. I tried to imagine how that would go down with Becky. So I asked him:

"What about Becky?"

"Cassie! Do you even have to ask? You know Becks loves-you-to-bits."

Then I felt a complete idiot because he'd tell Becky I was thinking of leaving Ian . . . When I wasn't — not really. What would she think? That I'm pathetic, that I've made a mess of yet another relationship, just like every other failure she's held my hand through over the years. That's what she'd think.

Friday night in the car. Rain in sheets against the windscreen. The traffic an angry snarl. Painted metal boxes on wheels bumper to bumper. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Wash-wipe, wash-wipe. Fogged windows, me wiping with the sleeve of my coat.

That journey was perfection. Me and Josh with all the time in the world to talk to each other. Just him and me, only us two cocooned against the world. An hour together in the sumptuous interior of his fabulous motor. That was when he told me he'd spoken to Becky and said she'd said it was okay for me to stay at theirs. Just until I found somewhere, he said.

When we pulled up outside my house, I leant forward him to kiss him on his cheek — just to say thanks for him being there for me, for them both being so kind in offering to put me up. But at the exact moment I moved my head towards him he turned to me unexpectedly and I ended up kissing his lips.

Immediately I felt like a complete fool and quickly pulled away, babbling, "Sorry, sorry, oh god, I-am-so-sorry!"

His shushing finger on my lips, his other hand reaching for me and his warm palm cupping the back of my head and easing my face into his. Our lips meeting again, this time kissing like a pair of desperate lovers out of some heartbreaking movie. I could tell he felt the same as me, was as mad for me as I was for him. You don't get kissed like that if it's just a casual thing. That kiss shouted out loud how much he wanted me.

When the kissing stopped, he looked into my eyes and said, "Listen, Cassie, you should do it this weekend. Leave him. Start afresh."

Was he asking me to leave Ian for him alone? Did he plan to leave Becky? No, Cassie, that was such a stupid idea.

"It's not that easy," I said.

"It's as easy as packing your bag and calling Becks and me. We'd come straight for you."

"But what about Becky?" I asked.

"Didn't I say already? didn't I tell you, when you're ready we'll come for you."

"I meant the kiss?" I said.

"Leave Becky to me."

A new game had begun, life dealing me a new hand. This time Becky didn't hold all the aces.

Then I saw Ian's car pull up further down our street. Finding a parking place was murder round our way.

"I can't talk now," I said, already hurrying to get out of the car. "He'll expect his tea to be ready."

"Take my number."

"I can't."

"Why on earth not?"

"Ian checks my phone."

"Jeez, Cassie, you should kick the loser into touch."

"I have to stand by him. He needs me."

"You only have one life."

His words touched something inside me. At that moment I realised I did not even have a life. As I stood next to Josh's car and watched Ian down the street as he rummaged in the back of his estate, I thought of my night ahead: our meat feast pizza, his four cans. Him up in the back room on some stupid game while I'm downstairs with my soaps. Him coming down for the ten-thirty news.

A desperate panic began to rise.

"I really have to go," I said.

I looked at Josh and smiled at him through the front passenger window. Such a pathetic, needy smile.

Ian and I rowed that night. He started going on about how I'd changed lately, said it was since Josh had been giving me lifts home. Was something going on?

That night in bed, as Ian snored, I thought about my marriage. I decided I really would have to leave him.

Things looked different Saturday morning with Ian spooned against me, his cock hot and hard against my buttocks. Later I phoned Becky. She did not seem surprised it was me, even though it had been ages since we'd spoken. Usually we texted. As I listened to her voice, I tried to imagine how she'd react if I told her Josh had kissed me. Too complicated to even imagine. We spent half an hour catching up, but she never mentioned me leaving Ian.

On Monday, as soon as I slipped into his car, Josh handed me a phone.

"What's this for?"

"It's so you can call me — if ever you need to."

"Ian will find it. He goes through my stuff."

"He won't if you're careful."

I slipped the phone into my bag, but already I was thinking about Ian's slyness, his snooping. The scene there would be if ever he were to find it.

All week at work I thought of nothing else but the phone, which I kept deep in my bag. It was even worse at night, I was worried sick about Ian discovering it. Over our Friday meal, he asked me what was wrong, said I'd been off with him all week. I tried to sound casual, but I knew he could sense my unease. I had to say something:

"Charles Meridith wants me in his office first thing," I lied, " He needs to go over the Stanfield report with me."

"So what's the problem? You're good at you job, Cassie. Your attention to detail is stupefying."

I did not let his sarcasm derail me: "I have a bad feeling. Some of the girls are saying there are going to be redundancies. That's they start looking for reasons . . . Remember when I worked at KVC?"

"Shit! That's all we need."

"I know."

He stood up and went into the hall and called out, "I'm going down the pub. You coming?"

I went through to him and said, "Think I'll just go over it all again while it's fresh in my mind." I kissed him, then said, "Don't mind, do you?"

Before he went, he said: "you're a fool, Cassie. You should stand up for yourself more."

He'd got that right.

When he'd gone, I got out the phone and put in on the coffee table in in front of where I sat on the sofa, just sat there and stared at it for nearly ten minutes. I considered going to the garage and taking a hammer to it, or I could go for a walk and throw it into the cut — but that would be stupid, it was a lifeline to Josh. I picked it up. It hummed with his presence.

I turned it on and texted Josh:

"I love you,"

Then I turned it off and carried it upstairs. In our bedroom, I bandaged it in a pair of opaque tights and pushed it to the back of my undies drawer.

Later that evening, I lay in bed imagining Ian coming home drunk and paranoid, him searching for something he was sure would prove I was having an affair.

Saturday morning, I wake early, thoughts of the phone on loop in my head. The idea of it being in the house over the entire weekend terrifies me. Over breakfast, I tell Ian I have errands to do. I take the phone to the post office where I purchase packaging and send it to myself at work.

Later that day, I decided to cook a meal for when Ian when gets back from the match. Yes, a romantic evening meal: I'll put on my new summer frock and sexy undies, become the Stepford Wife he's always wanted me to be, all floral pattern and waft.

I take care applying y makeup, take straighteners to my wayward hair. Perhaps if I can tempt him if I can make myself as gorgeous as I ever can ever be. Maybe sex will get us back on track. Afterwards, we can talk.

Eight O'clock and he's still not home. Bastard! He's gone to the pub with his mates. He'll roll in drunk at midnight.

I telephone Becky. I start to cry.

"We're coming for you now," she says. "Pack some things."

After talking to Becky, I feel like a proper shit for kissing Josh. I think of all the times I've envied her; her glamour model looks, her perfect face and silk-fine blonde hair, how tall and sleekly agile she is. I've always wished I was Becky. Fuck! I really do envy her so much: envy her for not having to go out to work; envy her fabulous house in the countryside; envy her for having four exotic holidays a year. Worst of all, she has the most perfect husband any woman could ask for.

Fuck!

I pack a suitcase, mainly undies and clothes for work. Choosing which shoes to take is agonising. My never worn Jimmy Choos are first, still boxed. I open the lid and peel back tissue and interlace my fingers among their straps. Tears flow down my cheeks.

I pull myself together and stuff four pairs of day to day flats into a Tesco bag-for-life.

When I have everything I imagine I will need to see me through the coming weeks, I take down to the hall and then go through to the lounge and on into the kitchen where I pour myself something with a kick. I sit at the breakfast bar drinking from a tumbler loaded with ice, mango juice and lashings of gin. I want Becky and Josh to hurry, to come and take me from this horrid dump. I wish and wish that when they do come and magic me away that it will be forever.

The doorbell rings and I jump up on bare feet and go quickly into the hall. I am dreading letting them in. I imagine how my eyes look, raw from tears. All that time spent doing my makeup wasted. I open the door, and they bustle me back into the hall.

Becky is on a mission to save me. Her arm around my shoulder, saying, "Now, Cassie . . . have you packed everything you need?" It is as if she is talking to a person I don't know. A vulnerable adult — that's what they call them, isn't it, when someone can no longer cope, is unable to make rational decisions or fend for themselves.

But I can cope, can make decisions, but it's nice they are so concerned, that they want to take care of me.

I nod in the direction of the red suitcase next to the coat stand, but as I do, I hear the distant scratching of Ian's key in the back door latch. He must have come down the back alley. Becky and Josh have not heard him yet. Becky is still berating me.

I start to usher them back to the front door, saying, "Thanks for coming over so quickly but I've changed my mind. I'm going to stay, try to work things out." Then I hear the bang of the door. I become emphatic, "You both have to go. Now! This minute!"

Josh stands his ground and then his demeanour alters when he too hears sounds from the kitchen. I imagine Ian is in the cupboard looking for the rarely used chip-pan. God, he's drunk and cooking. He only ever cooks for himself when he gets home after a binge with his mates. Always chips. That bloody old frying pan, like how his mother used to do them. I fucking hate his mother, Jean. He will not eat oven chips. I picture all that lard gone hard in the pan. My stomach flips. Serve him tight if it gives him a fucking coronary, but more likely one day he'll burn the house down.

And he hasn't even called through to say, Hi darling, I'm Home.

Becky is saying, "If you don't come now, Cassie, you never will." Then turning to Josh, she says, "Tell her, Josh. Tell her she has to leave the creep."

Josh decides words are not what is required. In one swift movement, he scoops me into his arms and tips me smartly over his shoulder, fireman style. A whoop of surprise escapes my lips. I kick my legs in a show of girlish protest. My skirt has ridden up, and I imagine the sight of my buttocks cut by my thong.

Deep down I love how Josh man-handles me. It sends a thrill to my core. His strength and determination overwhelm me, and I abandon any pretence of resistance. But it is a dangerous moment. If Ian has heard my squeal and comes through to investigate and sees the suitcase and me draped over Josh's shoulder . . . Well! God only knows what?

But he hasn't heard. Even if he has he couldn't give a damn. I might have fallen down the stairs and be lying there all twisted and unconscious, but he doesn't even bother to come see.

Becky picks up the suitcase and makes for the door. Josh follows her out into the street with me still draped over his shoulder. I imagine curtains twitching, the disbelieving gapes of our neighbours.

As he walks up the street to their car, he's telling me this is all for my own good, that I'll thank them for it later.

They're in Becky's Range Rover. I hear the click of locks, and then Becky lifts the rear hatch and dumps my suitcase inside, along with my other bits. She goes to the driver's side and gets inside and starts the engine. Josh quickly opens the rear door and bundles me onto the back seat and jumps in too, wrapping his arms around me to secure me tightly. I suppose he wants to prevent me scurrying across the back seat and alighting through the opposite door.

I sink into plush leather, feel myself dissolve into the crook of flesh formed in his muscular upper arm, which he has tightly about me to keep me firmly in place. It enfolds me, and I smell his fragrance; his shower goods, his aftershave. His body heat radiates through his short sleeved shirt. His muscular right arm encircles my shoulders, his left-hand grips both my wrists so tightly it hurts. I realise how large his hands are. The hem of my dress has ridden up, and his knuckles press into my bare thighs as he grips both my wrists. The backs of my warm, moist legs stick to the chilled leather.