by Ashe Barker
“Don’t even think about it.” I growl the words at her, annoyed, despite knowing she wouldn’t make a move on my husband, even if she were straight. And as far as I know, Josh hasn’t been with anyone else since we split, though of course I never asked him.
I should have.
I should have got his mobile number, too, and found out where he was living these days. So many things I should have asked him.
But it’s too late now. Much too late, in lots of ways.
I shift in my seat, the sting of Josh’s spanking still heating the delicate skin of my bottom. It was a wonderful experience, unexpected and precious, since it will have to last me a lifetime. I lift my cup of coffee and drain it. “So, are we off then?”
The next day I return to the shopping centre in a cab to pick up my car. It’s Sunday today, but even so I wonder if Josh is on duty, working in his office, filling in forms about other shoppers who somehow managed to fall foul of the law. I now know just how easily that can happen.
I could find my way through the staff-only section to his private domain, I’m sure of it, even though I was in something of a daze when I made the journey yesterday. Maybe I could go and knock, see if he’s there. I could demand to know why the hell he never bothered to tell me he was a civilian now, doing a nice, safe job dealing with nothing more deadly than shoplifters and lost children.
But there again, what difference would it make after all this time?
I bury the urge to dig up the past. I was over Josh, years ago. That’s how it needs to stay.
Instead, I take the lift to the third floor in the multi-storey car park and march across the tarmac to where my modest little Mini waits patiently for me. I get in, start the engine, and set off for home.
Josh Novak is history.
Chapter 5
Josh
Sunday is my day off. I spend the morning at home, reading the Sunday papers, and the afternoon playing five-a-side football with some mates from the army. A few of us order pizza later, and we end up spending the evening round at my apartment, downing a few beers and watching European football on Sky TV. It’s my usual weekend ritual, and normally I enjoy it a lot more than I do today.
Today, I’m distracted. My mind is elsewhere. Pru’s words keep coming back, her remarks about unfinished business and conversation-starters rattling relentlessly around in my head.
And, whether I like it or not — and I don’t like it one bit — I know she’s right.
Libby and I need to talk. We need to resolve this unfinished business once and for all. It’s high time that decree was made absolute, then we can both move on.
Back in my office on Monday morning, I dig out the paperwork from Saturday, Libby’s details. Her new address is there, a leafy suburb in Cheshire, along with her phone number.
I decide against phoning her, especially not during the day. She’ll be at work, and it could be awkward. I know her job was always important to her. She has a responsible position in a prestigious legal practice, and she takes her work seriously. No, if I want a decent conversation with Libby I’d be better doing it in person, and out of office hours.
I could text her, I suppose, let her know I mean to call by her house later. But I don’t. I don’t intend to give her a chance to tell me not to bother.
The day drags. It seems to me that the population of Manchester has apparently experienced some sort of epiphany. No shoplifting. No teenagers causing mayhem. No faulty fire alarms going off. The most exciting part of the day is a lost car park ticket.
I take advantage and get some paperwork out of the way, but I’m still watching the clock until six. The stores are open until eight or nine, but my relief manager has the late shift, so I hand over to him and head back to my apartment block.
I take a shower, change into jeans and a button-up shirt, blast a ready meal in the microwave, and eat it on my feet in the kitchen.
Should I take flowers?
I decide against it. I’m seeking closure, not reconciliation. Still, Libby always loved roses.
I descend into the underground parking area and key Libby’s postcode into the satnav. Apparently, it will take me forty minutes to reach her new address in Knutsford. I put the Audi in reverse and pull out of the parking bay.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m cruising slowly along the street she named when she gave me her new address, looking for number five. I pull up outside and do a double-take. Libby said she had only moved here a short while ago, a few months I seem to recall, but there’s a ‘for sale’ sign attached to the gate post. Maybe it’s been left behind from when she bought the house.
From the kerb, I can see why Libby would have liked this place. The property is stone built, detached, though not large. Three bedrooms, I’d guess. The front garden is sort of cottagey, messy and bursting with bright colours but not overgrown. A vivid orange Mini is parked in the drive, and a grey cat with a distinctly superior air is seated on the windowsill. He licks his paws and eyes me calmly.
I grab the bunch of roses hastily purchased at a petrol station a couple of miles away, get out of my car, and make my way up the drive to the front door.
I’ve always liked cats. They exude a sort of sleek, self-assured beauty, like a well-trained submissive. I pause to pass the time of day with this feline, then I lift my hand to knock.
“Just coming…” Libby’s voice reaches me, and moments later the door is thrown open. “I wasn’t expecting you just yet. I—” She stops. Her features blanch. Wide-eyed, she stares at me, the apparition from her past, large as life on her doorstep. “Oh. It’s you.”
A flicker of something not especially pleasant curls in my belly. “You were expecting someone else?”
Who the fuck visits my wife on an evening?
“Josh? What are you doing here?” She makes no move to invite me in. “Is there a problem? About the perfume…?”
“I came to see you,” I reply. “And to give you these.” I thrust the roses at her, conscious that the gesture conveys all the wrong messages, somehow.
She takes them, clearly bewildered. “I don’t understand. Why would you…?”
“We should talk,” I announce. “Can I come in?”
“Yes. I mean, no. It…it isn’t convenient. Not now. Maybe we could—”
“Who are you expecting, Libby?” I ask, my tone deceptively gentle.
“Mr and Mrs Dangerfield,” she answers. “A house-viewing.”
Ah, right. The sale board.
“I’m sure we can manage them as well. So, can I come in?” I glance past her into the hallway.
At last, she steps to the side to allow me into her house. “We’ll talk in the kitchen. First on the left. I don’t have long, though.”
I offer her a curt nod. This shouldn’t take more than few minutes, then the Dangerfields can have her all to themselves.
It’s a large kitchen, with an oak dining table and four chairs at one end and a television on the wall. A rocking chair is positioned by a window, looking out over the rear garden which is bigger than the plot at the front though no more manicured. The cupboards are a tasteful, modern light grey with the appliances in a darker shade to match. It’s all very pleasant, efficient without seeming overly severe. Three or four magazines are neatly stacked on the tabletop, and the worktops are clear but for the electric kettle and matching toaster. I get the impression she’s tidied up especially, for the Dangerfields.
“Do you want a coffee?” she asks. “Or tea?”
“Coffee would be good.” I take a seat at the table, though she hasn’t yet invited me to.
“Milk and no sugar.” A statement, not a question.
I nod, pleased that she remembered. Libby always preferred hers black.
“When are your house viewers due to arrive?” I ask.
“Eight thirty.”
I glance at my watch. It’s only just after eight. Plenty of time.
Libby grabs a plain glass vase from a cupboard and dumps my r
oses in it. “Thanks for these. They’re lovely.” She fills the vase direct from the tap, then does the same with the kettle. The next few moments are spent in silence as she fiddles with cups and instant coffee. “I suppose I should brew fresh,” she says over her shoulder. “I gather the aroma is good for selling houses.”
“Instant is fine for me,” I reply. “I take it Cheshire isn’t to your liking, after all, then.”
“What do you mean. I love it here. It’s very quiet but close enough to town for me to be able to get to work.”
“Didn’t you say you only moved here a few months ago?”
“Yes. Just after Christmas.” She pours boiling water over the coffee.
“So, why are you selling up so soon, then?”
She hesitates but offers nothing in the way of an explanation. Instead, she dumps my coffee in front of me. “Do you want a biscuit?”
I shake my head. “Why are you moving, Libby?”
She tips up her chin. “More to the point, why are you here? I thought we dealt with…everything on Saturday.”
I manage a wry smile. “We’ll come back to the reasons why you want to sell your lovely new house. But, since you clearly prefer to discuss what happened on Saturday, how is your bottom today?”
I love the flush that creeps up from her neck.
“Fine, thanks,” she says tightly.
“Care to show me? You know how much I enjoy viewing my handiwork.”
“With the Dangerfields due any moment? I think not.”
“No. You’re right.” I take a tentative sip, but the coffee is still too hot to drink. “We’ll wait until after they’ve gone, then. Which brings us nicely back to the matter of why are you selling?”
She sits opposite me and gazes around her homely kitchen. I recognise the regret in her pretty hazel eyes.
“If you must know, I can’t afford it.”
Now, this I hadn’t expected. Libby earns a decent salary and can easily afford a nice house. What’s more, she’s better with money than almost anyone I know, and I can’t even start to imagine her signing up for a mortgage without doing her calculations at least a dozen times. “How come?” I watch her reactions with care. “Something wrong at work?”
“You could say that.” She sighs, then meets my gaze. “There’s been a restructure, and a lot of the corporate team have relocated to London. I could have gone, too, but I’d just bought this place when it all happened, so…”
“So?” I prompt her.
“So, I opted to stay in Manchester, but a month after the reshuffle my hours were reduced. It’s a much smaller department, so I’m half-time now, with half the salary to match. I can just about cover the mortgage, but I’d have nothing left over. It’s either sell up, downsize and stay in Manchester, or sell up and go to London. The problem is, even if I got back on a full-time salary, what I can earn would just about cover a shared cupboard in London. I have to lower my expectations, at least for now, so I need to find something smaller, but still in this area.”
I’m somewhat surprised at the defeatist attitude. Again, this isn’t like the Libby I remember.
“What about looking around for another part-time job? Or a lodger to help with the costs. Or even both?”
“Have you seen the job market recently? There’s not much at my level that’s part-time, or even full-time for that matter. And there’s no way I’m sharing my house with a stranger. No, I need to get this sorted, and soon, before debts begin to build up. A quick sale is the best solution.” She glances at the clock on the wall. It’s obvious I’m outstaying my welcome.
Tough. I settle in.
“So, what was it you needed to talk about?” she prompts me.
“Apart from the pretty stripes on your arse?”
She blushes again.
I consider my chances of getting to inspect those marks is around fifty-fifty. “We need to talk about us.”
Her jaw tightens. “There is no ‘us’. Not anymore.”
“I might have agreed with you. Before Saturday.”
“You had your say then. And you gave me a spanking, so you should be feeling better now. I know I am.” She tips up her chin, a defiant gesture I vividly remember. No one does ‘brat’ quite like Libby.
“I’m glad to hear it. If ever you need a top-up, please feel free to contact me. But I still have questions that need answers. I’m here to get those answers, Libby.” I lean back in my chair and sip my coffee, watching her under lowered brows.
“You have questions? You?” She gets to her feet, glaring at me and bristling with indignation. “What about my questions?”
I shrug. “Fair enough. We both have leftover baggage. I simply want us to stop dragging it around, deal with whatever issues there are, and move on.”
“I thought we had moved on,” she snaps. “I haven’t seen you for three years.”
“Saturday says different. You still need me, Libby. You were desperate for that spanking. And despite how much you hurt me, I find myself drawn to you in ways I hadn’t expected. I’m not about to leave it at that.”
“I hurt you?” She makes no attempt to disguise the scorn in her voice.
“Yes. You did.” My pride takes something of a hit when I admit that out loud, but I’m here to clear the air, so honesty is needed.
“Well, for what it’s worth, you hurt me, too,” she hurls back at me. “And you may just have to leave it at that, Sir. Saturday was a one-off. We’re done, now. I… I want you to go.”
“Not yet, Libby. Not until we’ve talked. And certainly not when you’re in tears.”
“I’m not. I…”
I get to my feet and wrap my arms about her before she has time to protest. She makes a brief, feeble effort to wriggle free but soon gives in to the fit of weeping that has been brewing since she opened her door to find me standing there. She curls her fingers in the fabric of my shirt and surrenders to whatever pent-up emotion she has been holding back.
And as if they bloody planned it, the fucking Dangerfields choose that precise moment to knock on the door.
“Oh God.“ Libby gulps, swiping at her puffy eyes. “Look at the state of me. I can’t afford to lose this sale.”
It goes against my better instincts as a Dom, but I let her go. “You shoot upstairs, freshen up. I’ll take care of them.”
“You?”
“Yes. Me.” I turn her around and point her towards the door. Out in the hallway again, we pause when the Dangerfields knock for a second time, louder now. “Coming,” I call, at the same time bundling Libby in the direction of the stairs.
Left with no real choice, she trots up onto the landing above. I wait until she’s out of sight, then I go to open the door.
Despite Libby’s high hopes, I can’t really convince myself that the Dangerfields are serious prospective buyers. They insist that the kitchen is too ‘cosy’ and can’t seem to accept that there really is no separate dining room. They agree with me that the lounge is spacious, and light, with windows on two walls and French doors leading into a conservatory. But they take issue with the log-burning stove and the lack of fitted bookcases.
“My husband teaches history at the university,” Mrs Dangerfield explains.
Apparently, this entitles him to expect bookcases. I’m just suggesting to him that he could buy some IKEA flatpacks and install them in the conservatory when Libby joins us. She’s clearly splashed water on her face, though a careful inspection would probably spot the telltale blotches.
“Shall I show you the bedrooms?“ she offers quickly. “The back one would make a perfect study…”
Nice save. We all troop up the stairs, pausing to admire the stained-glass decoration in the landing window.
By the time the Dangerfields leave, they are still whittering about the lack of bookcases, but have also found cause for concern in the fact that the master bedroom doesn’t appear to have an en suite, and there is no utility room either.
“Still, I daresay we coul
d come to some agreement, if the price is reasonable,” is Mrs Dangerfield’s parting shot as she disappears into the passenger seat of their Ford Fiesta.
We both wave them off, then return to the kitchen where our coffee has gone cold.
“Don’t you dare drop the price for those two,” I growl. “This is a lovely house.”
“I need a quick sale. Maybe I could shave off five thousand…”
“Only if you want to earn another spanking,” I warn her.
Libby freshens up both our coffees, then sits opposite me again. “You said you came here to talk.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, but I get to go first.”
“If you like.” I cradle my coffee mug between my hands. “Go on.”
“You left the Paras…”
I incline my head. “I did.”
“Why? And more to the point, why did I only find out two days ago?”
That’s easy enough to answer. I harden my tone. “You left. You dumped me without a backward glance. Why would I discuss my plans with you after that?”
She ignores my question. “Why did you leave?”
“Because it was what you wanted. You made that clear enough.”
Tears threaten again, but she doesn’t back down. “So, why the hell didn’t you tell me? It was everything I wanted. You knew that.”
“You left,” I repeat. “You weren’t there to tell.”
“You had my number. You could have phoned me. I’d have been back like a shot.”
“Yeah, I suppose you would. Once you knew you’d won, that you’d got your own way.”
“It was never like that, and you know it. It was never about winning.”
“What was it about, then?”
She pauses, chews on her lower lip for several moments, then, “It was about living.”
“Living?” I parrot. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Living, and dying. Every day you were there, in Afghanistan, you could have died. You could have been wiped out by a sniper or a homemade bomb. You could have come home in a coffin draped in a flag. I imagined it, lived and relived it every day. It was killing me…”
