The Girl Who Lied(60)

‘Nasty.’

‘That’s a good word for her. I can remember the feeling of total humiliation. I went home. Said I didn’t feel well. I remember looking at myself in the mirror in my bedroom and that gorgeous emerald-green dress that made me feel beautiful now made me feel worthless and ugly. Stupid, I know, but I was fourteen and that sort of thing was pretty crushing.’

Kerry takes the cup from me and places it on the coffee table alongside his own. He holds my hands. I look at him as he moves his head closer to mine. I feel transfixed, as if under a spell. ‘I don’t believe for one minute that you looked anything other than beautiful.’ He kisses me on the lips and then moves away, but only millimetres. I can feel his breath on my skin.

‘What was that for?’ My voice a mere whisper.

‘What do you want it to be for?’

‘I don’t like all these riddles,’ I say, still unmoving. I want more of him. Another small, teasing taste is too much to bear. I’ve been supressing all sorts of feelings for Kerry for some time now. I like the closeness of him, the intimacy. I don’t want to break the moment.

‘Let’s do some straight talking, then,’ says Kerry. He kisses me again, this time for longer, his lips encouraging mine to open and join in the rhythm. I relax, giving myself permission to respond, not just with my mind but with my body as well. The lure of the double bed through the open doorway isn’t an option, the softness of the sofa envelops my body as I lie back, my arms around Kerry’s neck, pulling him down into the nest of pillows and multi-coloured throws.

I let out a small moan as his lips travel down my neck and meet with his fingers, which are unbuttoning my blouse. His hand scoops around my side and underneath me. I lift my body enough to allow him to release the catch on my bra. His fingertips are rough, hardworking manual hands, little rips of skin graze over my own soft flesh. The roughness is a contrast to those that usually grace my skin, but even so, there is more tenderness, more delicacy, more sensuality in those sandpaper fingers than there has ever been in the smooth, moisturised and manicured hands that have roamed my body in the past.

The past. Such a loaded word, which holds so many dark secrets. Ed is now in the past. I am living in the here and now. The future – a dot on the horizon. All I know is I want Kerry with every part of my body and right at this very moment, with all my mind. The past banished; Ed tips into the abyss of my memory.

Afterwards, Kerry pulls the throw around us, we squash alongside each other on the sagging cushions, holding onto each other with what I suspect is more than just physical reasons for both of us. There is an emotional dependency and unspoken understanding. We both have past demons, which are hot on our heels.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, lifting my head from under his chin. He looks down at me.

‘Is that a serious question?’ The smile on his mouth and the look in his eyes tells me what I want to know.

‘Just checking,’ I say, snuggling back down.

The tugging of the throw and whining of Skip breaks the moment.

‘Hello, boy,’ says Kerry, draping his arm over me to give the dog a pat on the head. Skip hops up on his hind legs, resting his front paws on my back. He whines with a sense of urgency. ‘I think he wants to go out,’ says Kerry. ‘Sorry.’

We manage to untangle our limbs and Kerry hops over onto the floor. He pulls on his trousers and tugs his black t-shirt over his head. ‘I’ll take him out for a minute. Are you okay there?’

I sit up, pulling my blouse front together and fastening the buttons. ‘I’ll make us a drink. I should give Fiona a call too at some point to see how my dad is today.’

‘How are things generally?’

‘Not great.’ I flick my hair out from the collar of my blouse. ‘I’ll just use the bathroom quickly to freshen up.’

‘Yeah, sure. It’s through there,’ says Kerry, pointing in the direction of the bedroom. ‘I won’t be long.’

Padding through to the bedroom, I can see that the eclectic mix of old and new is a theme throughout. A striped duvet cover sprawls across the unmade double bed and a pair of red faded velvet curtains are pulled across the window. I wonder when they were last opened. Maybe when he had called out to me from the window that time I was jogging by. There is one bedside table, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe, all from different bedroom sets and eras. I smile. There’s something warming about it. Charming. Male shabby-chic. Totally the opposite to anything I have been used to in Ed’s sterile apartment.

Coming out of the bathroom a few minutes later, I catch sight of a mirror propped up against the wall that I hadn’t noticed before. There are two photographs stuck to the glass. I bend down for a closer look. One is of a young couple crouching down with a toddler in front of them. The little boy has a shock of blond hair and is wearing denim dungarees. The man has the same colour hair, a beard and is wearing a cut-off black-leather jacket with jeans torn at the knees. The woman is smiling, her fair hair hangs loose on her shoulders. Her steel-blue-grey eyes shine with happiness. I’ve seen those eyes before. I know who the little family is.