Her Guilty Secret

by Clare Connelly

  ‘I assure you, I didn’t.’ I bat my eyelids at him. ‘What did you grade the assignment?’

  ‘I’m giving you a high mark,’ he says. ‘But I’m severing you from your group. They’ll fail unless they can show me detailed research notes proving their involvement.’

  All amusement drops from my face. ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No, Olivia. This is your final year. They can’t skate by on your hard work. I can’t let them.’

  ‘No one’s... Oh, God, Connor, please don’t do that.’ I move around to his side of the bench with urgency. ‘It was my idea for me to do the damned thing. Our schedules were so chaotic and we could barely get together. It was a topic I was comfortable with—so similar to a research piece I did last year. You can’t fail them. Please.’

  I hover in front of him, my arms lifting around his neck of their own volition.

  ‘Are you actually standing between my legs, asking me to change grades for you?’

  ‘Not my grade,’ I mutter, knowing that I’ve moved into ethically questionable territory. ‘Theirs.’ My cheeks drain of colour. ‘Or fail me, too. Don’t sever me. Say you suspect it wasn’t a proper group effort and fail us all—let us resubmit in a month. Please.’

  ‘Jesus, Olivia, it doesn’t work like that. How many group assignments have you done at the LLS?’

  ‘I don’t know. Ten, maybe eleven.’

  ‘Enough to know that the approach is in the name. Nothing’s easy about group assignments. Everyone knows that. It’s preparation for the real world. Do you think I liked having to rely on other people? People who didn’t have my understanding of the law or motivation to work my arse off? It’s the worst. You suck it up. That’s as important as the content of the assignment.’

  His lecture is striking every chord in my body and, absurdly, tears fill my eyes. Tears which catch us both off guard. ‘Let’s talk about it at school on Monday,’ he says gently.

  ‘No.’ My heart is twisting painfully. ‘I can’t... I can’t... This is not good.’ I move away from him, back into the kitchen. I sip my wine and then turn away from him, staring out of the window at the view I have of a brick wall, sprayed liberally with bright graffiti. It is a fascinating contrast—jagged and sharp, somehow beautiful, too.

  There is loveliness in the defacement. Hope in the ruins.

  * * *

  Olivia’s shoulders shift gently. Her back is to me but I know she’s fighting tears and my organs squeeze up, tightening in my body, hard.

  There is a reason these relationships are prohibited. There’s the inherent power mismatch that comes from sleeping with someone over whom you hold a position of strength. There’s a loss of perspective that makes it impossible to carry out your normal functioning.

  And this is a perfect example of that.

  Would I have even noticed that the group assignment was all Olivia’s handiwork if her words hadn’t drifted into my brain and filled it with her voice? If I hadn’t learned, intimately, how she views life and crime, and how she expresses those views?

  And if I hadn’t learned how her beautiful brain works, I wouldn’t have picked this up. And even if I had somehow miraculously guessed that this assignment reflected only Olivia’s work, would I have cared if we weren’t sleeping together?

  Would I have bothered to bring it up?

  Or would I have laughed at the predicament she found herself in—so much brighter and more motivated than the classmates she’d been grouped with?

  Relationships like this, teachers and students, are banned on so many levels. They are problematic in myriad ways. Could someone in my role offer better grades in exchange for sex? Teachers have done it in the past. There was a famous case at another prestigious law school about ten years ago where a professor did just that. She slept with around a dozen students—that went public—male and female. She upped their grades in the initial infatuation period and then burned them once they broke up.

  There is an imbalance of power between us. I’m ten years older than she is and in terms of life experience it may as well be twenty. I have accumulated a fat fortune, garnered professional success, and I’m her teacher. And now I’m bringing grades into the equation.

  Her shoulders move and I know now she is actually crying. I’m frozen to the spot, my gut twisting painfully.

  Why do I even care about the damned group assignment? I’m only lecturing for the summer term. I’m not invested in the school; I’m not really a part of the faculty. Surely I can let this slide? Olivia deserves a distinction. Any other teacher would have awarded the group the mark without questioning it.

  So aren’t I the one in the wrong? Because I’m applying knowledge I’ve gained only by virtue of the fact that we have a completely prohibited sexual relationship?

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ I hear the words come from my mouth gruffly. ‘Let’s just...ignore it.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  I CAN’T IGNORE IT, THOUGH. Connor’s words hang between us and I continue to stare out of the window, looking at the bridge, biting my lip, hating that tears are running down my cheeks.

  I don’t want to cry.

  But this is everything I should have known to be afraid of when we started this. The muddying of the academic waters we both swim in.

  Waters that I desperately need to remain clear for the rest of the term, before I graduate.

  But now that Connor has brought this up, I am uncertain. He can’t change his behaviour because we’ve fucked. And I can’t ask him to.

  I lift a hand and subtly wipe my cheeks, pull in a deep breath and then turn to face him. He’s staring at me hard, so that I’m almost knocked off balance when our eyes meet. I swallow.

  ‘I can’t ask you to change your mind. You have to do whatever you’d do regardless of the fact we’ve...been intimate.’

  His lips twist at my turn of phrase. ‘It’s impossible to know what I’d do if we weren’t sleeping together, Olivia. I probably wouldn’t give much of a toss about who wrote the assignment.’ He grimaces. ‘I don’t like the idea of anyone taking advantage of the fact you’re smart and hardworking. That’s going to happen to you a lot if you’re not careful.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘I told you—I wanted to do this.’

  ‘Because you cared more than they did.’

  ‘Because I knew I could do it easily,’ I correct. ‘But we shouldn’t talk about school here. If you want to discuss this, then organise for my group to come to your office and involve the others. You can’t let what we are affect how you teach.’

  His eyes narrow and he stands, stalking around the bench and into the kitchen. He lifts me easily, parking my butt on the countertop, and he stands between my legs, as I was his a moment ago. ‘This...’ he drops his mouth to mine and kisses me gently; my breath speeds up ‘...affects everything.’

  I nod, knowing he’s right. Knowing we are in a perfect conundrum. We can’t act as if our relationship doesn’t make this impossible.

  It’s like the reality of this is something I can’t ever get to grips with. Every time I think I have a handle on it, some new realisation detonates. ‘I’ve worked so hard since I’ve been at university. Even getting in. I’m not... I’m not as naturally academic as my sisters and brother.’ I don’t meet his eyes. ‘It’s never been...easy for me.’

  He frowns. ‘You’re incredibly bright.’

  ‘Thinking laterally and having a clear perspective is different to being academic. I have to work hard to get the grades I do. I have studied overtime, I have read and reread every text, I have met with lecturers for additional support.’ My eyes meet his. ‘And if anyone finds out about this, people are going to assume you’re not the first. People are going to wonder if maybe I didn’t sleep with my teachers pro-forma, to get ahead. Aren’t they?’

  His eyes pierce me with their intensity and then he jerks
his head. ‘There is a risk of that.’

  ‘God.’ I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘We have got to be so careful, Connor.’

  He nods again.

  ‘I would never do that.’

  ‘I know.’ He braces my body with his strong hands on either side. ‘I know that.’

  ‘This is different. I didn’t want to want you...’

  ‘Believe me, that’s mutual.’ He strokes my hair. ‘I came to London to clear my head and you are definitely not helping.’

  My heart turns over and I hear the vulnerabilities deep beneath his confession. ‘Why did you need to clear your head?’

  He visibly retracts, withdrawing from me. ‘Forget the assignment,’ he says instead. ‘Forget I mentioned it. I shouldn’t be using what I know of you to colour my assessment of your work.’

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ I dismiss. ‘Connor? It’s Donovan, isn’t it?’

  His eyes show me truths his mind isn’t willing to share. ‘It’s a milestone case.’ He shrugs. ‘You’re meant to be cooking.’

  I’m frustrated by his unwillingness to open up to me, but I have learned a thing or two from Connor. The way he dips and dives through conversations, extracting little nuggets of information that he seeks without my realising that he’s excavating my brain.

  I nod, as though I’m accepting he’s closed the conversation down.

  ‘So,’ he says, his tone noticeably brighter, ‘did you say sisters? Brother? How many Amorellis are there out there, fighting to save the world?’

  I smile, relaxed by the thought of my family. ‘Only one other—my dad. He’s a superintendent with the Met police.’

  ‘Ah.’ Connor’s eyes narrow. Damn it. I’ve done it again, handing him crumbs about myself when I want to learn about him.

  ‘My two sisters are both surgeons. One vascular, one paediatric. My brother’s a pilot and Mum’s a teacher.’ My cheeks flash with colour as I imagine just what she’d say about this little debacle.

  ‘Your parents must be very proud,’ he says with a smile. He’s trying to put me at ease. And because I know Connor now, and I know how he is so not the kind of person to care about relaxing people, this knowledge does something funny to my stomach, my heart, my blood, my brain.

  I smile back at him, the tension that coiled through me just before dissipating completely. ‘As yours must be,’ I prompt, my basket out, ready to collect crumbs of my own.

  His eyes meet mine. There’s a battle on his face and he weighs his words with care.

  ‘My parents are dead.’ His smile is tight. Again, I feel it’s to offer reassurance, but it doesn’t work this time. Guilt rushes over me.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

  He reaches for my wine and sips it.

  ‘When...?’ My curiosity is natural and I hope he doesn’t resent me for it. He watches me thoughtfully for a moment before speaking.

  ‘I was twelve. It was an IRA attack. They were away for their wedding anniversary, in London. A bomb went off outside a bank. They died. My mother instantly, my father in hospital a week later.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ I forget about the cannelloni. I forget about everything except the twelve-year-old boy Connor was. I move around to him and put my arms around his shoulders. ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘Yeah. The shit people do,’ he says with a lift of his shoulders that would dislodge my arms if I were less determined to hold on. He clears his throat, his eyes contemplative. ‘I think about that often. The act of violence and madness. I think about the people who perpetrate these crimes, and I try to see that there is more to them than just that one act.’ He shakes his head, frustrated by words he can’t find. ‘There are bad people out there, but few people who are wholly bad.’

  I nod, understanding this, agreeing with him, but needing to fix him as well.

  I press a kiss to his temple, and I wonder if he was afraid. What was he like? Questions trip through me, questions that I want to ask and don’t know if he’ll welcome. So I cup his face in my hands and kiss him lightly on the lips, hoping I can convey sympathy with the feel of my mouth.

  His hands wrap around my back, warm through the flimsy cotton of my dress. It is a moment of sadness and awakening—of realisation and acceptance.

  It is a moment of perfection.

  I reject the idea as overly sentimental, almost definitely coloured by his surprising admission, and make an effort to put some distance between us. At least, emotionally.

  And I ask the first of many questions I have. ‘You were twelve. What happened? Where did you go?’

  He seems contemplative. Thoughtful, like his mind is reaching back to that time in his life. ‘My priest took me in. Father O’Sullivan.’

  ‘Your priest.’ It’s a murmur, and I reach for his wrist on autopilot, lifting it to my lips. There is a small, dark green cross tattooed to his tanned flesh. ‘You’re Catholic?’

  ‘No.’ His lips twist. ‘He is. My parents were.’

  I nod. ‘Do you still see him?’

  ‘Yeah. Once a month or so.’

  Another question is heavy inside me but I don’t know how to phrase it, so I hold it tight for now. There will be time later.

  ‘Will you stay for dinner?’

  His eyes hold mine and then he nods slowly. ‘Yeah.’

  Relief surges through me. I move back to the cannelloni, which I have laid in neat rows in a deep baking dish, and pour in warm stock and melted cheese, then cover them with aluminium foil and place them in the oven.

  He’s watching me intently when I turn around, and I smile slowly. Everything feels oddly perfect.

  Like the calm before a storm.

  * * *

  He’s waiting in the hotel room when I arrive on Tuesday afternoon, only he’s not really waiting for me. When I push the door in, he doesn’t hear me at first, he’s so caught up in whatever he’s reading on his laptop screen. He’s set up on the table near the window, and the image of Connor Hughes at work is so compelling that I stand perfectly still and simply look at him for as long as I can. I don’t breathe. I don’t speak. I just stare.

  He’s wearing suit pants and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. The tie he wore throughout the day has been discarded on the chair beside him and his top two buttons are undone, revealing the column of his neck and the hint of a tattoo.

  I swallow to moisten my throat but it doesn’t really help.

  The door slides shut behind me with a loud click and he looks up, a frown on his face that gives way to a look of surprise. ‘Is it four?’

  ‘Yeah. Ten past, actually.’

  He stands up, his eyes dark as they hold mine. ‘This dress.’ He closes the distance between us, and I look down at the simple summery dress I donned that morning. It’s pale green with white buttons down the front. He grabs me around the waist and lifts me easily so that I laugh. His mouth comes down on a button and pulls it, his eyes laughing at mine.

  I groan, though—the sight of him fills me with needs I can’t fathom.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Everything.’ He drops me back on the bed so that my hair flies around my face and then his fingers are on the dress, pushing it up my body, his hands worshipping me even as they destroy the dress, ripping at it until it opens down the front.

  ‘Hey!’ I laugh, pushing up on my elbows. ‘That’s one of my favourites! I’ve had it for ever.’

  ‘Trust me, Olivia, the last thing you need is clothes,’ he mutters, dropping his mouth to my breasts, his teeth sliding over my nipples through the fabric of my bra. I drop backwards, surrendering completely to the pleasure of this moment, certain I must have died and gone to heaven.

  But even heaven wouldn’t feel this good.

  * * *

  She is asleep beside me and I find I don’t want to leave her. I
find that I want to stay the night, my body curled around hers, my arms wrapped around her, my lips on her shoulder. I find that I am already imagining the way it would feel to wake up beside her, to take her again. To watch her eat breakfast, read the paper. To see her as she steps out of the shower, all soft and warm, wrapped in just a hotel robe.

  To strip it from her.

  Fuck.

  I was supposed to have lost interest by now, but every time I see her it makes me want more and more.

  I ease myself out of the hotel bed, taking one last look at her, imprinting her on my mind. She shifts a little and I hold my breath.

  If she wakes, I will kiss her. If she wakes and asks me to stay, I will.

  She doesn’t, though. She rolls onto her side, her beautiful back visible to me. I watch the shift of her breathing and then step into the bathroom, softly, quietly dressing myself.

  I’m almost at the door when I hear her.

  ‘Hey.’ A soft, gentle voice that has me turning almost guiltily.

  ‘Hi.’ Her eyes are heavy, her hair is a mess. Knowing I’ve done that to her—exhausted her and tangled her fine blonde hair—appeals to me on a savagely male level that I should probably be ashamed of.

  ‘Going somewhere?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I move back to her, drawn like a magnet, standing over her with my arms crossed.

  She pouts. It’s almost my undoing. ‘Where?’

  ‘Home.’ I hold a hand out and she places her smaller one in my palm. Such an insignificant gesture and yet it signifies everything. Her trust, her faith, her goodness.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have an early start tomorrow. I need some class notes.’ It’s a lie. I’m testing myself again. Telling myself that I can leave her at any time I wish—see? See? I’m not addicted; this isn’t serious.

  Only I can’t. Because I’m sticking to the side of the bed as though my feet are glued. She pushes up to kneel in front of me, her body naked and glorious, her hair falling over her shoulders, all golden and glowing.