by Alam, Donna
‘You’re so brazen,’ she says on the breath of a laugh. A stunned laugh. She’s definitely still processing, but now is the time; I strike quick.
‘Guilty as charged. But my guess would be . . . this truth stretching? I don’t think I’m alone.’
As she levels her gaze on mine, she no longer looks stunned, but eerily calm, her expression as blank as any mask. And as unnerving as all fuck.
‘Trust me,’ she says ominously. ‘You really don’t want to know.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ I squeeze her hand a little tighter. Hopefully, it conveys reassurance, rather than a kind of I’m-gonna-break-your-hand-if-you-don’t-spit-it-out-now. ‘But I can wait. When you’re ready, I’ll be here.’
Thirty-Six
Fin
Rich, handsome and solvent.
There has to be a catch knowing my luck. Rich, that’s the catch, according to my experiences.
Why the hell didn’t I ask him his surname? Because I was too busy trying to convince myself this was nothing but sex.
Hella successful, Fin.
I should be angry—should be pissy—but I know my secrets are bigger than his. As we walk along the damp sidewalk, I make a mental note to google the shit out of him. Shit. He could do the same—how long will using my maiden name hide me then?
Dating and widow. Two words that shouldn’t be said together aloud.
I am going to tell him. Probably not today, but soon, I promise myself. I’ll tell him I’m not newly divorced, but rather he’s boning a woman whose husband isn’t yet cold in the ground. That is, if he’d been available for burial.
Oh, please shut up, I tell my brain. I’m not ready to say those words.
I’ll also have to tell him that he’s the reason I married at all. Or rather, he was the catalyst used by a very naive and inexperienced girl. Maybe I should mention I had blue hair; see if that rings any bells. I’ll also have to tell him that it looks like I’ll be moving to London in a few weeks, if yesterday’s call from the event company is any indication.
He lives in London. Yes, I know. It’s a big place.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Rory says, pulling on my hand. Holding hands. Out in the daylight for all to see.
I try to pull it back, to make a show of putting it in my pocket while complaining of the cold, but it seems that idea’s a no-go.
‘Gimme it back,’ I say, sort of whiney. ‘It is cold.’
With a cryptic smile, he feeds my hand, still in his, into the pocket of his jacket. ‘Better?’ The real answer is both yes and no. ‘So, we’re going to the hair salon and then we’re heading where?’
‘Work, I suppose.’
‘Nah. I’m done over there. My vote would be a pub, or better still, a hotel. One with a huge bath. Yeah,’ he adds, sliding his heated glaze my way. ‘Hotel fucking would definitely warm you up.’
‘You might be done, but I’m not.’ The rest? I’m not touching that.
‘You said it yourself, you make your own hours. But if you’re insistent, it’ll be a night in a cold stable block and an even colder shower later. I can’t be letting you have the hot water two mornings in a row.’
‘When are you heading back? To London, I mean.’ Change the subject. Away from sex.
‘Salon first. Then hotel fucking.’ Okay, I tried. ‘Then maybe a spot of lunch, because you ate only enough dried bread to feed a wee sparrow this morning. Then later, logistical planning. You know, future stuff.’
Logistics. Planning. Future stuff. Big scary words. I’m not ready—oh, shit. I think I’m having a panic attack. The lump of fear in my stomach expands until it’s filling my throat. I can feel myself shaking, my feet getting slower, shuffling against the pavement until I grind to a halt.
I’m suddenly spun around, Rory’s hands on my shoulders. ‘Breathe,’ he says gently. ‘We don’t need to rush. When you’re ready, we’ll talk.’
Folding me into his arms, he kisses my head when a door nearby opens, a familiar tinkling preceded by June’s excited tone.
‘Away inside a’fore the heavens open. The sky’s as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat!’ The door chimes again as it closes.
‘We’ve been busted,’ Rory says, laughing softly into my hair.
‘Are they still watching?’ I so don’t want to look.
‘Well,’ he says, tilting his head. ‘It looks like your blonde friend, the one with the big rack, is doing a sort of ceilidh through the shop.’
‘That’s her victory dance.’
‘It’s a very nice dance. Ow, watch my ribs!’
‘Then don’t watch my friend’s rack.’
‘How can I not? It’s just so . . . Aye, come on,’ he adds, taking my hand as a large drop of rain hits me in the centre of the forehead. ‘Let’s go face the firing squad.’
‘Ha!’ Nat calls out. ‘Wait ‘till I tell her. I knew there was something else keeping you over at that hoose!’
‘Leave Ivy alone,’ I counter. ‘At least until she’s home.’
‘We won’t have long to wait, hen,’ adds June, patting my arm kindly as she passes. ‘She’s flying home at the end of the week.’ Tipping her head, she gives Rory a kindly look.
‘Already?’ I ask, spinning on my heel, my questioning gaze seeking Nat.
‘Aye, apparently, she’s come to some arrangement with her old boss. She says the problem’s all taken care of and she’s coming home.’
‘And I’m that glad,’ says June.
‘I can’t say I am,’ adds another voice.
‘Fin, this is Ted, the new stylist.’ I note Nat’s lack of enthusiasm, which is strange given that Ted looks just her type. And by that, I mean he has some kind of small furry creature attached to his face.
‘And I’m Rory,’ says the man himself. ‘Excuse Fin’s lack of manners, but she had a hard night.’
I turn on him, agog, just as the door chimes again.
‘Hello again!’ Just what I need; damned Malady. I can’t catch a break. ‘Just in time,’ she says, shaking the drops from her umbrella, her inane chatter continuing as she turns. ‘As I left the house, I thought, I’d better go back and get my brolly. Turns out I was right—just look at it coming down now! Oh, hello! Natasha said a new stylist would be here this week, but I didn’t expect you to be so—so . . .’
‘She seems to have developed a bit of a twitch,’ whispers Nat.
‘Mmmmmasculine,’ she almost sings, Shirley Bassey style, as she sidles up to Rory, eyeing him like he’s the cake boss of all cream cakes.
‘I’d get in his chair,’ mumbles Ted and Rory begins to laugh. ‘He can shag me anytime. What?’ he adds. ‘It’s a haircut.’
And now I realise why Nat isn’t so impressed, though he’s so inappropriate, I expect they’ll end up the best of friends.
‘Well, Mal—Melody, my wax pot is a-heatin’,’ Nat says. ‘What say we go take care of that bad boy?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Your bush isnae gonna tidy itself.’
Malady flushes, beginning to stammer some protestation of only needing her nails painted while still following Nat to the treatment room.
‘Now, Ted,’ says June. ‘Your eleven o’clock will be in any time soon. But can I ask you to try not to cover the place in hair. I know we’re a salon, but it takes naught but a couple o’ seconds to clean up with the broom.’ She shoots him a tight smile before grabbing my arm. ‘Give them an inch,’ she whispers delightedly. ‘Now he’s a braw looking one.’ She squeezes, her papery hands deceptively strong.
‘Everything’s good?’ My question’s a formality; I know with June at the helm everything will run ship shape. Or else.
‘Oh, yes, dear. Busy as ever and so pleased to hear herself will be back for the weekend.’
‘She’s really coming back? Ivy’s coming home?’
‘Contract’s all sorted, so she said.’
‘Horseshit,’ I whisper. ‘I want to know what’s going on.’
; ‘My thoughts exactly,’ June replies. ‘But there’ll be time enough to press her when she gets here. Why don’t you go put the kettle on? I’ve brought scones.’
I don’t even have the time to come up with a polite excuse before Rory’s voice carries from the waiting area, where I notice he’s made himself fully at home.
‘Homemade ones, I hope.’
‘Cheeky monkey!’ June exclaims. ‘Do I look the type to settle for shop bought?’
As I enter the kitchen, a slight thrill runs down my spine at the sound of Rory’s footsteps. I might’ve guessed he wouldn’t be content to wait.
‘I still think we should hit up the hotel bar before the room. After scones, of course.’
‘Why?’ I ask over my shoulder. ‘So you can get me drunk and wheedle out all my secrets?’
‘I was thinking more along the lines of getting you drunk enough to wheedle you out of your knickers. Drunk enough to take advantage of.’ In the tiny white kitchen, he steps closer, pulling the back of my hips into him. ‘But sober enough to enjoy it.’
‘Or we could just go to work. You know, seeing as it’s a work day and all.’ I scoot a little ways away, the sensation of him pressed up against me scrambling my brain. ‘Besides, I don’t do day drunk well.’
This is a complete lie; I do day drunk like a champ. Who the hell doesn’t?
Rory leans back against the opposite counter top and, as I glance over my shoulder while pulling out cups and tea, something snags my gaze. It’s not so much the motion of him sliding his hands into his pockets that has me clutching a mug to my chest; it’s more what the action highlights. My heart beats loudly, just once—ba-dunk—because I can see the outline of things I shouldn’t and find it hard—very? Semi?—to drag my gaze away.
‘D—do you always wear jeans to work?’ He definitely should; he looks so good in them, but it’s a pathetic excuse of a diversion. ‘Seeing as how you’re really a mogul and all.’ A thoroughly pathetic excuse, exposed by the tone of his response.
‘Titch, you might want to stop looking at me like that.’ Holy rumbling sexy tones.
I reach out, flipping the switch on the kettle before turning and mirroring his stance against the opposite countertop, though I do none of this before schooling my expression.
‘Look at you like what?’
‘Like you’re starving and you’ve just got your eye on a juicy steak.’
‘Snake—st—steak?’ Freudian fucking slip much? ‘I—I didn’t realise I was looking at you like anything. Y—you must be imagining things.’
‘Oh, I am,’ he says, inclining his head, leaving me under no illusion exactly what he’s imagining. ‘And so are you. Do you think I don’t know what you’re thinking when you look at me like that?’
The silence stretches out as my cheeks begin to heat; it’s no fun being called out, and it’s not like I can help my reaction when I look at him—especially catching sight of his trouser snake. Eurgh, did I really just think that? I’m going to need to wear dark glasses indoors at this rate.
‘I don’t see how you could,’ I answer, feeling my gaze slide down his chest. Again.
Rory’s shoulders begin to shake, his eyes drifting closed as he tilts back his head, laughing softly.
‘Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not thinking about you.’ Nope, totally not thinking about what would happen if I reached out. With my tongue. While sliding my hand down . . .
‘So, you’re not looking at my junk right now.’ Not fair, universe. Play nice!
‘Stop!’ The words sound strangled, and I clap my hands over my eyes. I’m not sure if this is for his benefit or mine. My hands are moved suddenly as Rory appears in front of me, lifting them away and placing both palms flat against his pecs. His silver-grey gaze dares me as he slides our hands downwards, skimming his rock hard abs. Skimming further before coming to rest flush with his crotch.
‘Thirty minutes,’ he rasps, flexing into me.
That’s not going to be long enough. ‘What?’ I tilt my head and I swear I’m not doing the fluttery lash thing on purpose.
‘Thirty minutes. A scone. Then we’re finding a bed and I’m fucking you senseless all afternoon.’
I open my mouth to speak—probably to say yes please—when a shrill voice pierces the tiny space.
‘What in the name of all that’s holy is going on in here?’
Shocked, my initial reaction is one of guilt as I try to pull back my hands. Try being the operative word, as they are clamped tight by Rory’s.
‘Can I help you, hen?’ He turns his head, quirking a brow in the direction of Melody, his tone one of casual inconsequence. ‘Only, we’re having a moment.’
‘Having a mo—having a moment! Have you no decency?’
‘Well, I’d say that depends entirely on your definition. See, I’m no’ the one screechin’ like a fish wife.’
‘Finola.’ My name sounds like an admonishment. I feel myself physically cringe, though it’s worth mentioning the sound of my name usually makes me cringe. ‘Finola, love,’ she repeats, this time my name more a plea. ‘You’ll not be wanting people to get the wrong idea. You’re in the wrong emotional space to be ‘hooring yourself to the likes of him.’
‘What?’ My head whips around, because if anyone is in the wrong here, it would be me.
‘I have your card marked,’ she says folding her arms and shooting Rory an icy glare. ‘I recognise you now. Your ma was a homewrecker, tempting that poor man away from his sick wife, but you’ll not be messing with my friend!’
‘Malady, I mean, Melody—’
‘It’s true!’ she yells. ‘My granny said so. She was the poor woman’s nurse ‘till she died!’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Rory replies, lifting our hands to his chest, curling his larger ones around mine. ‘So why don’t you just piss off.’
‘And let you take advantage of a poor, defenceless widow? No chance.’
He stares down at me, his gaze watchful and confused—demanding an explanation. An explanation I can’t offer, because I literally cannot speak; shock, anxiety and fear weighting my tongue.
‘Give it a rest, Mel,’ Natasha says, pushing her way into the room. ‘She might be poor right now, but she’s no’ defenceless.’ She shoots me a supportive smile. ‘The kettle’s boiled, by the way.’
‘No, but she’s grieving!’ Malady screeches.
‘Not divorced?’ I doubt anyone but me hears him ask.
I still can’t reply as Nat interjects in her best Godfather voice, ‘Marcus Pettyfer sleeps with the fishes, capisce?’
‘Is that you’re married name?’ interjects Malady. ‘Why does it seem familiar?’
‘Put a cork in it,’ scolds Nat as Malady brings a hand to her mouth.
‘Oh my God,’ Malady spits through splayed fingers, and instinctually, I know what she’s about to say next. ‘Pettyfer, the Sheikh’s petty thief! That’s what they called your husband, didn’t they?’ They. She means the press. ‘He stole millions—you had wardrobes full of designer shoes and handbags! And you drove around in a Rolls Royce while your cleaning ladies hadn’t been paid in six months!’
‘I didn’t know,’ I protest. ‘They didn’t say. Not until afterwards, not until he was dead. I didn’t kill him!’ I actually squeak when I realise what I’ve said, my expression crumpling as Rory’s silver gaze turns to steel. ‘I—I didn’t, despite what the newspapers said. I told you, you wouldn’t want to know,’ I almost wail.
‘Oh, fuck.’ Nat’s whole body seems to sag. ‘You haven’t told him?’
‘Had you any plans to?’ Rory asks quietly, my hands still in his.
‘I didn’t know how. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.’ He looks almost physically hurt and my heart sinks. ‘But it does. Oh, Rory, it really does. Rory, please. You’re hurting my hands.’
His fingers relax. Not so welcome is his action of loosening them. Or of his taking a step back.
‘Now see
what you’ve done,’ Nat fumes, turning on Malady. ‘If you’d kept your neb out, this wouldn’t be happening.’
‘Me? She’s the one whose affairs with rich sheikhs caused her husband to top himself.’
‘Where the hell are you spouting this shit from?’
‘It was in the newspaper,’ she replies, affronted.
‘From the reliable source of news whose yesterday front page read An Oompa Loompa Let Me Suck On His Willy Wonka? You know Jack shit, you stupid cow. You’re a joke, and so’s your fucking marriage.’
‘I’ll not let you talk to me like that!’ Malady puffs out her chest like an indignant hen.
‘Why not? Everyone else does. D’you think the whole village doesn’t know my Lloyd only works so many hours because he can’nae stand his wife?’
‘And I’ll thank you to keep my husband out if this.’
‘Sure, why not,’ Nat says, throwing up her hands, her voice becoming louder. ‘And yet, I still wonder if he knows his wife has had more fingers inside her than a ten-year-old bowling ball!’
Apoplexy is a good word. It’s also a perfect description of how Melody looks right now. She looks strangled and yet fit to burst—veins popping out on her head—right before she charges for Nat. Which is a mistake, in my opinion, because Nat has at least eight inches on her.
‘I’ll have ye!’ she yells. Like a berserker. A total berserker.
‘Go for it,’ Nat responds laughing and throwing out her hands. ‘Come on—cut a bitch!’ In the split second it takes her to throw back her head, Malady’s gaze shifts, eyes alighting on the knife next to June’s scones.
‘No!’ I yell, as Malady’s arm stretches out. Suddenly, cups, teabags, bottles of tint and tubes of hair colouring scatter to the floor as Rory reaches for the mad woman, hauling her from her feet.
‘Enough. That’s enough!’ he yells, dangling her a little higher and out of reach of the knife.
‘I’ll have her!’ she yells again, struggling against him. ‘She’ll no’ speak about me like that!’
‘Why not? It’s true,’ Nat taunts.
‘You.’ Rory points a finger at Nat. ‘Not helping. And you,’ he says, his gaze flashing to mine. ‘I can’t do—not here. I’ll sort this,’ he says giving mental Melody a small shake. ‘And you come and find me. You know where. And, Fin? Be prepared to stay a while, because it seems to me you’ve a lot to tell.’
