This is the third and final chapter in a series. Please read the first two parts if you have not already done so. Otherwise, this will not make much sense.
All the characters engaged in sexual activities are over eighteen, this is of course a work of fiction, and the copyright is reserved by me, N. S. Carter, and I forbid its use, in whole or in part, without my explicit permission.
When he left Greta's office on that Saturday, Jake had at first wandered aimlessly. Then, as had been his habit of old, his steps took him down to the Thames embankment. For some reason he had always found peace in watching the river slowly flow past, and now it helped him to put his thoughts in order.
He remembered how in those terrible days after Katie had been attacked and he had at first been tempted to suicide, his thoughts had turned to revenge. Katie had talked him out of it. He still recalled her words.
"If that scumbag is killed, the police won't rest until they get the perpetrator, and you will be the obvious suspect. If you go to prison I don't think I could cope on my own, so he would have succeeded in destroying what is left of our family."
Jake had had to accept that she was right. To have any chance of succeeding he would have to involve others, at the least to have them lie for him, and so risking their freedom as well as his.
Why had he not intervened when he had discovered that Julie had been appointed as PA to Henry Urquhart-Drago? It was as if he believed that his relationships were fated to end this way, as though there was a script, and it was not possible to deviate from it.
It was not as if he were the only victim. Julie was his wife and he had left her in harm's way. How could he have done that to the woman he loved? And he loved her. That he knew without a doubt. He saw her faults, her occasional unthinking selfishness, her willingness to trust men in suits, but still he loved her.
Jake had failed her. Not just in this last couple of weeks, but even earlier. He had asked so little of her, let alone demanding anything, and had kept hidden away from her both the best and the worst in him.
Why? Fear that any conflict would lead to him losing her? He recalled something Greta had once told him, back when he first went to her, about how we train the people close to us. He had surely trained Julie to receive and not to give, because she had not been like that when they first met.
Jake suddenly remembered how when they had only been going out for a few weeks he had caught the flu, and Julie had skipped her lectures and insisted on coming to his flat and feeding him tea, cleaning up his room and generally looking after him. And in a hundred small ways he had discouraged that quality in her.
It was now getting dark, and Jake had wandered along the river to a part he did not even recognise, but a decision had solidified as he went.
He would catch a train first thing in the morning and head back to Wolfsden. He still did not know how to answer the many messages Julie had sent. This needed to be done face to face. Jake had no idea if it would work out, but he knew that he wanted it to. And at the same time, he sensed it could only work if they both started to be the people they really were.
The day after her return from London, Julie got out of bed with a sense of purpose for the first time since the night her world had come crashing down. After a coffee and a slice of toast she that she had deliberately burned given that the bread had a slightly mouldy look, she went in search of her camera. It had once been her pride and joy, always close to hand in case there was a chance to make another prize-winning photo, but it had now lain at the bottom of her wardrobe untouched for more than a year.
She set the battery to charge while she showered and dressed, and then headed out into the woods, camera in hand, leaving a house that she had thoroughly cleaned the evening before to remove the evidence of her week spent in despair. Julie also left her phone behind, unwilling to deal with any more phone calls from her office and no longer believing that Jake would contact her, since he had not answered any of her messages.
Julie was aware of the irony that it had taken this disaster to get her to leave the house earlier than she would normally have even been awake, and on a Sunday of all days. Although the sun was already up, the forest was still wreathed in traces of the mist that had risen from the nearby chasm, giving it the ideal atmosphere for her style of photography.
She spotted an iridescent beetle making its way up a mossy tree stump and she crouched patiently to wait for it to reach the top, to give her the ideal shot of the beetle sharply defined against the backdrop of the murky depths of the woods behind it.
While she waited, Julie was able to think a little more clearly of her situation. The threat to her marriage was not just from the events of the last few days. On some level she had known that Jake was a huge success. After all he was the one who paid the mortgage. But she had closed her eyes to it.
Why?
She realised that it was in part to validate her life choices. Instead of studying in the area where she had a talent, in the arts and particularly photography, she had stubbornly insisted on taking a business course. She had justified it by saying to herself that she had to be practical, to be a grown up, but maybe it was from fear that she might not be good enough to succeed.
For this to work she had had to build a picture in her mind of Jake as the unrealistic dreamer, needing Julie to keep his feet on the ground. That was perhaps why she had resisted listening to his playing; it would have made it harder to persist in the idea that he needed to become a grown up, to get a job in an office, wearing a suit and tie.
The more she realised on some level the pointlessness of what she did as a job, and with it the creeping awareness that this was not who she was, the more she had doubled down on her false worldview.
The beetle reached the top and she took the photo at the one perfect moment. She did not even need to examine the result. Julie knew because this was what she did. This was the real Julie, not the woman forever trying to gain the favour of the men who were her bosses by unquestioningly carrying out pointless tasks, seeking a promotion that most likely would never come but which if it did would not make her any happier.
She walked on until she reached a clearing. A somnolent brimstone butterfly was perched on a solitary orchid in the centre, for all the world seeming to beg for a photo. Julie obliged.
She began to wonder why Jake had let her behave the way she had. Why had he not asked for the things he wanted from her?
The butterfly remained on the flower even as she approached, and she realised that the photo she thought was a lucky opportunity was nothing of the sort. She could have taken her time since it was injured and probably could not even fly.
Then it struck her.
Jake was also damaged. How could he not be with all those horrific events in his past? He had shut it all away in a box inside, but it was still there, and it meant he could not ask for what he wanted, maybe believing himself not worthy of being served by another, even if she was his wife.
If she had been the proverbial fly on the wall Julie might have taken a certain bleak pleasure from a meeting that was being held in the boardroom of her workplace at the same time she was taking photos in the woods. It had been called on a Sunday, much to Henry Urquhart-Drago's displeasure, to avoid undue attention.
Urquhart-Drago had been waiting impatiently for a week to see some results from his little manoeuvre with Julie Greville. At first it had seemed promising, with Julie's absence from work, but things had gone quiet after that and despite not being the most perceptive of men he could not help but see that people seemed to be avoiding him there.
