True Colours:The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2(13)

Silence washes over us. As we gaze at each other, I ponder over the fact  that he 'just carried on' for fifteen years, and then I worry over the  distinct possibility that when you just carry on with anything for  fifteen years, you're going to have withdrawal symptoms.

'So what we have?' I venture. 'Does that suit you?'

'Of course.'

'But the things you used to do ...'

'Are in the past. You know that. I quit way before I met you.'

Because he went too far, I remind myself. Because of a mysterious  visitor who sent him over the edge: the twisted Roman landlady, perhaps.

'But do you miss it?'

He runs a hand through his hair and seems to wince. It's obvious that  I'm pushing him too far, right into the realms of exasperation. Any  minute now and I'll drop the interrogation  …  just as soon as he's  answered my question.

'Do I miss what?' he demands curtly.

'You know  …  the hard core stuff.'

'Do you even know what the hard core stuff is?'

'No. Would you like to tell me?'

'No. Look it up on the internet.'

'I don't have a laptop.'

He stares at me, as if I'm some sort of anomaly.

'We'll have to put that right.' Tapping an index finger against the  counter, he watches me, clearly waiting for the next question to arrive.  When it doesn't show up, his face softens into a smile. 'Listen,' he  says, his voice gentle now. 'What we have is enough. I still get my  kink, you enjoy the kink and we don't go too far. What I did in the past  and how I behaved, it's all irrelevant. You need to understand that.  What suited me back then doesn't suit me now. I'm not that man any  more.'

'So what sort of man are you?'

'I have no idea.' The smile broadens. 'I'm a work in progress.' He pushes his plate away. 'But I'll tell you one thing.'

'What's that?'

'I'm the sort of man who needs to nip upstairs for a few minutes.' He shrugs, apologetically. 'After all, I'm only human.'

He gives me a cheeky grin, and I just can't help myself: I giggle.

'You'd better go then.'

Rising from the stool, he collects his mobile and takes to the stairs.  Although I'm sorely tempted to sneak up after him and indulge in a spot  of snooping, a little trust is in order. Instead of spying I'll get all  domestic on his backside: I'll clear away the aftermath of dinner.

Gathering up the plates, I dump them onto the draining board and set  about locating the bin, opening one sleek grey cupboard door after  another until I finally find it, right next to the fridge. Grabbing a  plate and flipping open the lid, I'm about the scrape the remnants of  the puttanesca into the rubbish when I catch sight of a piece of card. I  come to a halt, registering the fact that it's torn, that there's  writing on it: the words 'I hope' in a distinctly female hand.         

     



 

With my heart thudding against my ribs, I glance back at the staircase,  leave the plate on the counter top and reach into the rubbish. I shove  aside a handful of onion peel, pick out the fragment, and notice that  there's another beneath it  …  and then another  …  and another  …

Moving quickly, I collect them all and lay them on the granite top. I  check the staircase again, move the pieces and realise that I'm  re-constructing a birthday card. I catch a name. Layla. An address. My  heart thuds again. My thoughts begin to race. Who the hell is Layla?  Some ex sub? Another woman from another arrangement? In a fluster, and  with no idea what I'm planning to do, I scoop the pieces together and  hide them away in the side pocket of my handbag.

And now I need to cover my tracks.

Noticing a silver panel in the wall, I make the quick decision that it  has to be a rubbish chute. After all, what sort of millionaire in his  right mind is going to lug his rubbish bags down the stairs? After  scraping the last of the dinner into the bin, I heave out the bag, tie  it together at the top and with a breath of relief, send it down the  chute.

The slam of a door heralds his return. Listening to the soft padding of  footsteps on the stairs, I will myself to calm down, go back to the sink  and switch on a tap.

'You're cleaning up?'

'I'm a domestic goddess.'

'I very much doubt that,' he laughs. 'I have got a dishwasher, you know.'

'Oh.'

I feel a hand on my shoulder. He swivels me round to face him full on.

'I didn't see it.' I feign a smile. 'But I did manage to find the bin. I emptied it.'

The laughter stops.

'It was nearly full. I used the chute. Did I do right?'

'Yes. You did.'

And now the mask descends.

Mr Mean and Hot and Moody is back.





Chapter Seven


In silence, I watch as he takes the bottle of wine and glasses over to  the living area, settles himself onto a sofa and pats the space next to  him. Rooted to the spot by doubt and confusion, I stay exactly where I  am. All I know is this: he's not about to get a quick cuddle and a dash  of sweet talk, not while my brain's still beating itself up over an  Italian landlady and a ripped-up birthday card. When all's said and  done, there are just too many shadows in the room.

I need him to open up. I just have no idea how to do it. Silently  resolving not to let him touch me until I'm done, I pick up my mobile  and wander over to the sofa. I may not get to the bottom of things  tonight, but at least I can make a start. When I'm right in front of  him, I stop and survey the room, taking in the seascapes and the  landscapes, and finally my own painting.

'I'm sorry I dragged you to Limmingham. It can't have been easy.'

'You weren't to know.'

'Was it the first time you'd been back?'

He shakes his head, making no eye contact. 'One other time. A few years ago.'

To do what? To see who? I land on the obvious answer.

'Are you in touch with your sisters?'

'No.'

He's deep in thought now, gazing at the wine bottle, scratching his  right palm over and over again. While raindrops patter gently against  the windows and the shadows shift around me, a strange atmosphere  settles over the apartment. There's a charge in the air, an edge of  awkwardness between us. At last, he rouses himself. Reaching out, he  fills the glasses and takes a sip of wine.

'Dan?'

He looks up.

'I want you to tell me more.' I falter, noting the gloom in his eyes,  wondering if I'm taking this too far too quickly. 'About Limmingham.'

The gloom deepens.

'You've already had the basics.'

'And now I need more.'

He shakes his head again. 'Not tonight.'

'But you wanted to fast-track.'

'Not this.'

'Yes, this.'

Raising my mobile, I open up the contact list and begin to scroll  through it, launching into an elaborate ruse of my own. I can only hope  it works.

'What are you doing?'

'Wondering who to call. I can get out of here now.'

He watches me, obviously weighing up the situation.

'You really want to go?'

No, I don't. Even now, Skinny Lily's words are playing on my mind,  reminding me of the twelve-year-old boy who fetched up in her life: very  sweet, very kind  …  a little lost. So, in spite of all my reservations,  I'm going to see this through: twenty-three years might have transformed  the boy into the man, but maybe at heart he's not so far removed from  where he began. Doing my best to keep up the mask, I fix him with a  long, hard stare. I'm not about to let him know the truth.         

     



 

'Is it because of what I told you?' he asks.

'No.' Strangely enough, I think I can deal with the fact that he went on  a grand shag tour of Europe and shacked up with a spaghetti-loving  submissive. I shake my head, reminding myself that I really shouldn't be  judgemental about these people. After all, I'm slowly turning into one  myself. 'It's because you hold things back.'

He raises a hand, palm upwards.

'What am I holding back?'

'How should I know? You've got a pretty strange idea of what I should be privy to.'

He lets out a sigh, drops the hand.

'Don't go,' he whispers. Suddenly, he sounds exhausted, desperate. 'Please don't go.'

'Then talk to me.'

Occasionally blinking away a ruffle of darkness, he holds my gaze.  Clearly, he's not in the mood for my agenda, and perhaps it's time to  give him a little nudge.

'I'm not too good with trust,' I begin, my voice trembling. 'There are things that have happened to me  … '

'You don't need to explain. I understand.'

'Do you?' While the silence spreads around us, he gives no answer.  'You've already tested my trust to the limit. You need to let me in.' I  pause, wondering if this is making any sense. 'I need to know everything  about you, Dan. I don't want you holding anything back.' I take in a  breath. 'And I want you to start with your childhood.'

Without a word, he leans forwards. Resting his elbows on his knees, he  interlocks his fingers, fixing his attention on his hands. This isn't  going to be easy. Short of tying him to a chair, I'm not entirely sure  how I'm going to drag anything out of him tonight. Desperate for a way  ahead, I scan the room, catching sight of a chess set on a shelf by the  fireplace. And suddenly, I have an idea, a full-on bonkers idea  …

Laying the mobile on the coffee table, I make my way over to the shelf  and touch the pieces, one by one, rotating them, inspecting the faces.  They're carved in wood, obviously expensive. And while the pawns seem to  be nothing more than gravestones, embellished with knot work, the other  wide-eyed figures are all miserable, or anxious, or both.