You Don't Own Me(105)

With a sigh I put my phone back into my purse and start the car. I reach Silver Lee in about 40 minutes. The gates are wide open and I drive through. It is the beginning of spring and there are daffodils all along the road up to the house. It looks beautiful. And somehow that makes me feel sadder. Will I see them next year or the year after? I park my car and walk along the side of the house. One of the French doors is open and I slip in and lock it.

I know Marcel would have taken Jeremy and the house feels silent and totally empty without BJ. My heels are loud on the floor. I go to the kitchen and open the fridge and smile. Marcel made a jar of mojitos before he left. I pour myself a tumbler and go into the vast, open living room. I sit on the long lilac sofa and gaze out into the countryside.

I’m surprised to hear BJ’s car roar up the driveway a few minutes later. I put my drink on a nearby table and go to the front door. He opens it as I get there. The moment is rare. I’ve never opened a door to him before. It’s nice. It makes me feel like we are a normal couple.

‘You got here fast,’ I say softly.

His eyes are dark and searching. ‘I drove fast.’

I take a step towards him. He pulls me hard into his arms and kisses me.

‘Come on. Marcel has made us mojitos,’ I say breathlessly.

He looks down at me and nods.

We go to the kitchen where I pour a glass for him and we walk out together to the sofa. We chink glasses.

‘Here’s to the new aunt,’ he says.

I smile. ‘And the new baby.’

‘And that,’ he adds.

We both take a sip. He eyes me over the rim of his glass. ‘My poor Layla,’ he says quietly.

‘I’m sorry I’m being such a baby, but I can’t bear the thought of disappointing them all, especially Jake.’

‘He has to know, Layla. Sooner or later. We can’t carry on like this.’

‘I know. I know. I will.’ I drop my face into my hands. ‘I just don’t want him to hate me.’

‘He’s not going to hate you. This is your life. Nothing would have stood in the way of him being with Lily. He has no right to stop you from seeing anyone you want to. You’re a grown woman.’

‘It’s just feels as if I have betrayed him.’

‘The longer you leave it, the worse the betrayal will be.’

‘‘Maybe I’ll tell him after Ella’s wedding. You’re going too, aren’t you?’

He grins. ‘Only to look at you.’

I blush. ‘Really?’

‘Abso-fucking-lutely.’

‘Anyway,’ I say, suddenly feeling all shy and awkward. ‘I’ll be staying over at my mother’s that night and I’ll break it to all of them at the same time.’

‘Do you want me to be there?’

‘No.’ I shiver at the thought. ‘Definitely not.’

‘OK.’ For a moment we are both silent. He takes a sip of his drink. ‘Have you heard the story of Layla and Majnun by Nizami?’

I shake my head.

‘It’s about a moon-princess who was married off by her father to someone other than the man who was desperately in love with her. It resulted in his madness.’

I bow my head. It would be all so different if he wasn’t a criminal.





TWENTY-THREE




BJ

‘I know so little about you, BJ,’ Layla complains as she locks her arms around my waist and angles her head back to catch my eyes.

God, she’s so fucking sexy, I just want to fuck her every time she comes near me. She’s got about ten minutes before I fill that honey mouth of hers full of cock.

‘What’d you want to know, Princess?’

‘Tell me why you became a criminal?’ she asks.

I shrug carelessly. ‘Why does anyone?’

She gazes up at me, her beautiful blue eyes narrowed. ‘Is it for all the power and respect you command: men shaking in their boots, women worshiping at your feet?’

‘I followed in my father’s footsteps, Layla,’ I tell her. An early memory of my father floats into my mind. He is sitting on a barstool flexing and unflexing his bulging arm muscles just before a fight. There is loud music in the background and on the table in front of him, two pints of Guinness are lined up.

‘Your father?’ she says softly. ‘He must have been quite a character. Your mother showed me her wedding photograph and he looked very handsome. It was so sweet to hear her describe him as a “rakishly dreamy charmer”.’

I remember Lenny Pilkington differently. The charm was long gone by the time I knew him, and my young self saw only a giant of a man, with a flattened, boxer’s nose, shrewd eyes, and a savage temper. My jaw stiffens unconsciously.