True Colours:The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2(19)

Muted by shock, I watch as he approaches me. Dipping his head, he looks into my eyes.

'Say something, Maya.'

The wind catches at the dress, and I catch hold of the hem  …  just in time. The movement seems to jolt my mouth into action.

'I've only just agreed to move in with you.'

'And?'

'And?' Another gust of wind skitters up the hill. The dress billows and  rises. 'Oh for fuck's sake.' I push it back down. I'm not sure whether  it's the wind/dress/lack of knickers situation or the bulldozer of a man  I'm dealing with, but suddenly I seem to be teetering on the edge of  full-blown irritation. 'We've hardly known each other for five minutes  and you want to build me a studio? It's mad. And so is the decorating,  for that matter.' Risking a few seconds of one-handed dress control, I  wave a hand towards the house.

'I'm having the bedrooms decorated. What's mad about that?'

At this point, I'd very much like to bring up the pitter-patter of tiny  feet, making it perfectly clear that even though it's a nice idea  –  and  I've certainly thought about it before now  –  I'm nowhere near ready for  taking the plunge. But then again, it's probably best to keep schtum for  now. After all, Betty might just be talking bollocks, and I could end  up looking like a prat. I settle for something a little less  problematic.

'This is too quick.'

'We're moving at our own speed.'

'As far as I can see, we're moving at your speed. This is the maddest  sodding roller-coaster ride I've ever been on. It's like standing in  front of a freight train. It's like you've only got one gear.'

He grins again.

'Are we finished with the clichés?'

'Yes, thank you.'

'Good.' He moves a strand of hair behind my ear. 'Then, I'll slow down. Or at least, I'll try.'

'And you'll hang fire on the studio?'

'Of course.'

There's a flash of something in his eyes, and I wouldn't be at all  surprised to find his fingers crossed. I'm on the verge of checking when  he tugs me in for another kiss, more demanding than before, as if he's  reminding me of who's in charge. When I'm finally released, I gasp for  breath.

'Don't be mad at me, Maya. I'm on a learning curve.'

He slips a hand under my dress and cups my clitoris, setting off a spasm of warmth in my vagina.

'Are we about to have al-fresco sex?' I ask, battling off the impulse to  drag him down onto the wet grass before he's had a chance to reply.

'Certainly not. You get ramblers in those woods. I'm not performing for  some sicko in walking boots.' He pauses, brushing his lips against mine.  'Can we stay here tonight?'

'Of course.'

He fixes me with a good long gaze.

'You and me are for keeps. I just want you to feel like this is your  home. That's why I want you to choose the colours. That's why I want a  studio here.'

I smile, defeated by his kisses, his touch, his words.

'All I need right now is a few pairs of knickers.'

'Then I'll pick some up in town.' Taking my hand, he begins to lead me back towards the house.

'I'm not coming with you?'

'No. I need to do this on my own.'

I struggle against his grip, annoyed by his pronouncement and deciding  that if he's determined to go around making executive decisions, I'm  going to make him pay for it in the worst way known to a man.

'Well then, you're going to have to go to the chemists as well.'

He comes to a halt, turns and cocks his head to one side.

'Chemists?'

'I need some tampons. I took my last pill yesterday and I'm due on.'

He winces. And oh yes, my weapon of choice has hit the mark, head on.

'Fair enough.' He mutters, managing to suppress a grimace. 'Women's things. I forgot I'd have to deal with all that.'         

     



 



When we get back to the house, I'm halted in my tracks by the sight of an accountant at the kitchen table.

'What are you doing here?' I demand.

'I heard about the dog.' Leaning back in his chair, Clive rests a hand  on the newspaper spread out in front of him, and smiles at me. 'I just  wanted to see if Norman and Betty are alright.'

If that really was the intention, he's making a pretty bad job of it, seeing as Norman and Betty are nowhere to be seen.

'Where are they?' Dan asks.

'Gone back to the cottage. Betty got a bit emotional. Norman's taking the day off.'

'So he should. Right, I'm off then.' I'm ushered to a chair and pressed  down onto it. 'I won't be long. Clive can keep you company.'

'But  … '

He kisses the top of my head, straightens up and points a finger at me.

'No arguments. And don't give him grief.'

I could try complaining, but I'm pretty sure it wouldn't get me very  far. I'm just going to have to go along with Dan's agenda. And besides,  while the boyfriend's dealing with the vets and getting thoroughly  embarrassed in a chemists, I can drill the side-kick for information.

'Why would I do that?' I ask, smiling innocently. 'Go and do what you need to do. I'll be perfectly nice to Clive.'

With a last glance, he picks up the car keys and leaves us. As soon as  the door closes, Clive goes back to reading the newspaper, or at least  pretending to, and I wait until the crunch of tyres against gravel fades  into the distance before I make a start. I'm about to give Clive a good  dollop of grief.

'How was the party at the Tate?'

He flicks over a page of the newspaper. His top lip twitches, ever so slightly. 'Fine.'

'Are you sure?'

Turning another page, he takes in a deep breath, blows it out and looks up.

'Okay.' He scratches the edge of his mouth. 'There wasn't a party at the Tate. We made it up.'

'You lied to me.'

'I know.' He smiles triumphantly. 'It worked though.'

'Of course it did. Just don't make a habit of it.'

The smile mutates slightly, an edge of discomfort creeping into his eyes.

'So, why are you really here, Clive?' I ask.

Looking down at the paper, he sucks at his bottom lip. 'Like I said, I  was worried about Norman and Betty.' He's being shifty now and I know  it. He flips to another page and takes a pen out of his jacket pocket.  'Sudoku,' he mutters. Avoiding all eye contact, he leans forwards and  inspects the puzzle. 'I should be better at these things, but  … ' He  clicks the pen, holds the nib above the page, and finally fills in the  first number.

'Cup of tea?' I ask.

'Super.'

I'm not exactly sure why I'm making a cup of tea. Maybe it's just the  process of making the bloody stuff that I need. After all, it's what I  seem to do whenever I'm in a flap. Getting up, I locate the kettle, turn  it round and try to find a switch.

'It's not electric,' Clive explains. 'It works on the Aga. Left hand plate. Mind yourself. It's hot.'

With a sigh, I fill up the kettle and slam it down onto the hot plate.  Good God, if this is going to be my new home, then Mr Foster can rectify  this little situation. I'm just not prepared to live in the nineteenth  century. An electric kettle is a necessity.

'So, how's it going with you and Lucy?' I lean back against the counter.

'Very well.' He eyes me, warily. 'I like her. She's a bit scatty but a lot of fun.'

Deciding that I really don't want to know about the fun aspect of their  relationship, I open a cupboard door. Sugar. Flour. Baking soda. A  cake-making cupboard. And what the hell are you supposed to do with one  of those? Knowing that I'm never going to venture into it again, I open  another. Salt. Pepper. Herbs and spices. A variety of sauces, but no  ketchup. I'm about to go for a third door when Clive puts me right.

'The cupboard to the left of the sink.'

Tugging open the correct door, I'm relieved to find a packet of teabags  and a jar of instant coffee. Pulling out a couple of teabags, I retrieve  two mugs from a mug tree and set about tapping Clive for information.

'Clive?'

'Uh huh?'

'Can I ask you a question?'

'Of course.'

'When's Dan's birthday?' Keeping my back to him, I chuck the teabags into the mugs.

'Why do you ask?'

'Just wondering.' The kettle's beginning to simmer now. 'Shouldn't you know when it's your boyfriend's birthday?'         

     



 

'I suppose so.' I turn to find him eyeing me suspiciously. 'It's this  Friday. But he doesn't celebrate it. I wouldn't mention it if I were  you. And I certainly wouldn't get him a card.'

So that's why there was a ripped up card in the bin? Simply because he  doesn't celebrate his birthday? Not because of some huge rift with his  sister? A screeching whistle jolts me out of my thoughts. Bloody hell,  that Aga's quick. Making the tea, I take it over to the table and seat  myself opposite Clive. I'm going to have to tackle this head-on, and  while I'm at it, I'll need to feign a little ignorance.

'Does he ever see his sisters?'

Clive takes hold of his mug. 'Not that I know of.'

'Does he ever talk about them?'

He shakes his head and takes a sip.

'But he's talked to you about his childhood?'

'I know the bare bones, and it's taken me twenty years to get that far. You probably know more about him than I do by now.'

I stew on matters a little.

'I just can't understand why he wouldn't be in touch with them.'

'Neither can I, but I wouldn't push him on it.'

'But what if we ever  … '

I stumble to a halt, realising that I'm about to take a step too far,  and look up to find Clive's mouth open. He's trying his damnedest to  suppress a laugh.