Forgetting the Past

        Just as I settled into my chair with a fag, enjoying the grinding sound of my film projector as it warmed, there was a gentle knock on the door. Flipping the light switch and extinguishing my cigarette, I stood and walked to the front entrance. I opened the door to find an exquisite woman standing before me. She was average in height, but her giant blue irises appeared to be outlined in lavender, and her hair was long, visibly soft, and a very natural blonde. She was dressed modestly in a checked skirt and jumper but showed off her defined legs by standing delicately on her black pumps. Single.  Divorced.  From a copper.  Two cats.  One dog.  Financially strapped.  No children.  Sleeping with a physical education teacher and a solicitor.  Most notably, I'd never seen her before.
        "Good evening. May I help you?" I greeted, already keenly aware of who she was.
        She extended her tiny hand to me. "I'm Diana Lestrade."
        My breeding triggered me to immediately accept her hand, though my knees buckled as I did. She was Greg's ex-wife. "Greg isn't in," I explained. He had gone out with Dr. Watson - maybe. The truth was that I hadn't effectively listened when he told me. I had no reason to care anymore.
        "Good," she said, smiling at me. "I'm here to see you, Mr. Holmes."
        "I'm sorry?"
        "I'm hoping we can have a chat." She rubbed her forearm, suggesting she was cold.
        "My apologies," I said instinctively. "Please do come in." I stepped aside, opening the door fully as I gestured toward the parlour. "May I interest you in a bit of tea or a glass of sherry?"
        "Sherry would be lovely. Thank you," she said as her eyes gazed at the gallery above.
        I poured two glasses of sherry from my bar cart and sat down in the parlour. "Please have a seat," I offered, handing her the drink.
        "You certainly do have an impressive house, Mr. Holmes."  She ran her hand across the ornate woodwork of the chair as she sat.  
        "Thank you." I could have struck up a conversation about its history and architecture, but that would prolong the situation that was already causing me to perspire through my bottom layer of clothing.
        "Mr. Holmes, I'm sure you're well aware that Greg is a very unique man."
        After the events of the week, I was in less of a mood to accommodate small talk than usual.  "Ms. Les-," attaching Greg's last name to her didn't sit well in my mouth. "Diana, I must admit to you that I'm not particularly accustomed to fireside chats. Is there a specific purpose for your visit?"
        "Yes," she said bluntly, sipping her sherry. "I'm here to convince you to take Greg back."
        I stared into her face as she looked at me. There was genuine concern in her eyes.  Her intentions were not at all self-serving.  She still cared for Greg.  "I understand that you've learned more than you'd like to know about our past together."
        "Together?" I said quietly. She wasn't the girlfriend Greg had accompanied to that club for the first time.  I knew that for certain.  
        "He didn't tell you everything," she said, almost as if she was speaking to herself. She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. "Mr. Holmes, Greg, and I met at the club you were at a few nights ago."
        Just like that, I found myself lightheaded again as I imagined their first meeting. Looking at her now, I could read her history.  Greg, however, had told me he didn't know any of their names. Another lie to add to the quickly growing list.
        "Mr. Holmes, Greg is a good man."
        "I'm beginning to wonder," I said frankly.
        "He is. I knew when we met that he wasn't meant to be with me. Of course, I have eyes, so he was difficult to resist. He's a beautiful man."  She winked, suggestively.  
        "That," I said, "I can't argue."
        Diana smiled at me, moving her neck around, trying to coax me into maintaining eye contact. "He belongs with a man. I've always known that. And, that man seems to be you."
        "Well, I'm sorry, but you are mistaken."
        "Mr. Holmes, let's set congeniality aside, shall we? Greg went there with a girlfriend. He had an intriguing experience with a man and went back to explore that. From there, he got caught up in the lifestyle. He got mixed up with men and women. I was one of the women. When we were alone together in the playrooms, he'd talk to me about the men. I listened to him. That's what drew him to me. He was confused, and I became a stabilising force."
        "A stabilising force that was eventually unfaithful to him?" I heard the chide in my voice and squinted into her eyes. "You did suggest we set congeniality aside."
        She sighed and nodded in agreement. "Yes. I was unfaithful because I wasn't satisfied. I loved him. I did - in my own way. But, Mr. Holmes, he's not particularly skilled at pleasing a woman, if you understand my meaning."
        I was lost for words. That was certainly difficult to believe.  Part of me wanted to hear her likely ludicrous argument in favor of me taking Greg back. The other half of me, though, just wanted her to stop talking and be gone.
        "It's my understanding that he's been quite good at pleasing you for at least six years or so now," she continued.
        I stood immediately from my chair. "Ms. Lestrade," I said, still feeling a sour taste in my mouth at the words, "this conversation began on thin ice but has now reached a topic that is completely inappropriate. May I ask how you are even aware of Greg's current situation?"  I, of course, already knew the answer.  Why not test her credibility, though?
        "He rang me two days ago asking about a storage building we used to own. He wondered if I still had access to it. When I asked why he needed the space, he said that you'd asked him to move out." She stood and took three steps in my direction. "That's really not what you want, though, is it?"
        "What I do or do not want is none of your concern," I insisted, looking down my nose at her.  Near-sighted.  Recreational smoker.  Cosmetic surgery.  Chronic migraines.  
        "Maybe you're right," she said, "but you should know that all those years he was sneaking around with you - all those years that we were separated, but pretending we wanted to make things work - I always knew when he had been with you."
        Without breaking our eye contact, I swallowed forcefully, trying to push down the feeling of guilt I harboured for being a part of the breakdown of her marriage.
        "I always knew because he spoke differently, walked differently. He was like a giddy little boy on Christmas morning after he'd been with you. There was always a happiness in his eyes that I've never seen at any other time in the eighteen years I've known him."
        Trying to ignore her description, I argued back, "Well, he has made me anything but giddy with these secrets and lies that have arisen." I walked toward the door, turning back toward the parlour once I reached the staircase. "Will there be anything else, Ms. Lestrade?"
        "I guess not, Mr. Holmes." She walked across the room, stopping again to lock eyes with me.  Menopausal alopecia.  Childhood trauma.  Addicted to true crime telly.  
        "Just remember that the heart-wrenching feeling you have when you think about his past," she explained, "is the same heart-wrenching feeling he has worrying that he's going to have to live without you."
        Without a word, I opened the door, inviting her to leave.
        She stepped into the chilled evening, then turned to address me one last time. "It is my understanding that you're a very powerful man. If that's true, maybe you could at least make sure someone keeps an eye on him. I have little doubt that he'll destroy himself if he really does lose you, Mr. Holmes."
        I refused to acknowledge her suggestion, knowing that it was completely accurate. "Good evening, Ms. Lestrade," I said, closing the door quickly behind her.
 

***
 

        Several hours had passed, but I could still smell Diana Lestrade's tawdry perfume. The odour made it nearly impossible to enjoy the film I'd already restarted twice. "Oh, forget it," I grumbled to myself, walking across the room to flip the switch which would turn off my projector. As the room became still and quiet, I lit a table lamp and checked my pocket watch. It was nearly half-past one in the morning, and I was still alone in the house.
        Maybe Greg had found a flatshare and moved his things without telling me. He certainly had every right to do so.  I felt my chest tighten and my heart speed at the thought of him actually having moved everything. Before I realised what I was doing, I was upstairs, opening the door to the guest room where I'd forced him to sleep. The redolence of menthols washed over me, the air from the bedroom meeting the air of the corridor. As I entered, I could see a pile of clothes strewn carelessly atop the dressing table. His sidearm sat on the bedside table along with his badge.
He hadn't moved out, then. Where could he still be at such an hour?
        Perhaps he was back in Lambeth at that club. I closed my eyes at the thought. I could smell the dingy air of that horrible place. Opening my eyes, I sat on the edge of the unmade bed and picked up the cotton top that was lying on the pillow. As my arms moved with the shirt in hand, Greg's cologne tickled my nose. I felt a catch in my throat and bubbling of emotion in my chest. I refused to cry. I wasn't going to sit there like a common fool and cry because I caught a whiff of some lying man's preferred cologne.  I suddenly remembered Diana's suggestion that I was causing Greg as much pain as he was causing me. I can't be sure if it was my reluctant acceptance of her statement's accuracy or if it was sheer exhaustion, but I was suddenly unable to support myself. My arms went limp, and my back began to shake as I lowered myself onto the pillow. That smelled like him too. I covered myself with the blanket that was balled up to the right of my body, feeling one small tear escape.
        I closed my eyes and spoke aloud, "What did I ever do? Why am I not allowed to be happy? Why did I have to be right about him?" By the time the last few words escaped my mouth, I was sobbing. I gathered the excess fabric of the blanket near my chest along with the cotton shirt. Maybe if I closed my eyes and imagined hard enough, I could convince myself that none of this had happened. Perhaps I could make myself believe I was holding my handsome Inspector in my arms.