by Alam, Donna
‘That I’ve still got a husband? That I’m not divorced?’ His countenance clouds immediately. ‘I’m sorry,’ I add quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so harsh.’
‘If you can handle still being married to the prick, I’m sure I can. For now,’ he adds weightily. ‘Same goes for what you have to tell me now. I’m guessing this is about your marriage?’ I nod. ‘It won’t be forever. And I want you, Fin. I think I’ve made that perfectly clear. Everything else is secondary.’
‘Okay,’ I say quietly. ‘Just remember, this isn’t about you.’
‘Me?’ He looks faintly confused. ‘What could I have to do with your marriage?’
‘This is not about you. This is more a reflection of me. The me of then.’ His mouth is suddenly a thin line as I inhale a deep breath and begin. ‘You know about my mother, right?’ He nods, a sort of taciturn motion, his fingers tightening on my waist as though in reassurance. Maybe he thinks speaking of her in these terms is uncomfortable. But a spade is a spade. ‘Look, I’m grown up. The things narrow-minded people may think or say—’
‘Still hurt.’ His thumbs caress now, his earnest expression bringing a lump to my throat. ‘I know.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ I look away because I can’t be this close and remain detached. I don’t want to cry; for either of our memories. ‘Back then, it was pretty shitty.’ I bite the insides of my bottom lip in an effort to stop it from quivering. ‘I think that’s probably why I lost my virginity late.’ His brow quirks in question. ‘Real late,’ I answer. ‘Like twenty-one. I’m not even sure what I was trying to prove.’ My gaze slides back to his all watery. ‘Because they said shit about me anyway.’
‘Kids can be cruel.’
‘Even to themselves,’ I reply on a deep exhale. ‘You had a hand in losing my virginity. Well, more than a hand, because technically, you can’t lose your virginity by the use of only hands.’
‘What?’ His question comes out quivering, like he’d like to laugh but isn’t sure it’s appropriate. ‘Surely, you lost your virginity to your husband, because you said—’
I shake my head, repeating. ‘You and I.’
‘You and I what?’
You know that saying; the one about understanding and the light dawning in a person’s eyes? Yeah, that’s not happening here.
‘You and I had sex,’ I say slowly, the rest coming much faster than I’d like. ‘Before I married. After college, I came back to the village because my mom was selling the house and I needed to pack up my things. We met at the County one afternoon. You know, the pub?’ I pause, finding myself nodding encouragingly, and though Rory inclines his head, barely, I’m pretty sure he has no idea what I’m talking about.
‘There were some bitches from school at the pub that afternoon.’
‘School?’ He looks kind of horrified.
‘No, I wasn’t at school. It was over. I’d left and hadn’t seen them in years. Unfortunately, they seemed to have decided they hadn’t had enough of being mean to me. And you stopped them—kissed me in front of them—hell, my toes curled and everything.’
He smiles, though I think bemused rather than with any sort of recollection, the warmth in his smile more related to my position on his lap, or perhaps my exuberance.
‘You had a tongue piercing.’ I lick my lips, an automatic reaction, not sure why the memory still causes such a subtle thrill. ‘It was my first time, not being kissed. It was the first time I’d had sex—but not in the pub.’
He laughs suddenly, his gaze sparkling with mirth. ‘I should think not—not for your first time.’
My cheeks heat, though it feels good to hear him laugh. Almost as good as it feels to have his hand on my waist. Stroking, as though his fingers ache with need as much as mine. ‘No,’ I agree, smiling. ‘Not in the pub. It happened later that evening. And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t your first time.’ If my laughter sounds forced, it’s because it kind of is. ‘I’m sorry, Rory. When you told me about your dad, of how you used to spend holidays at the cottage, I could’ve—should’ve—said then. God, my life is a walking clusterfuck!’
‘Fucking hell!’ And there it is; it might not be early in the day, but the light, it’s a dawning. ‘You had blue hair!’ he exclaims, his eyes wide and his smile . . . bright and unexpected.
‘You remember?’
‘I’m not likely to forget. Any of it.’ His fingers tighten, his gaze flicking over me like he’s recognising me all over again. I find myself smiling along with him, actively fighting against its fall, knowing what else I have to say. The idiocy I have to admit.
‘But then, the next day—’
‘Aye. You were supposed to come back.’
‘I did,’ I reply softly.
‘But I don’t . . .’ His brow furrows; whether he’s trying to recall, or he’s just remembered his shady morning activities, who knows.
‘We made plans, but when I got to the cottage the following morning, it looked like you’d changed yours.’
‘I didn’t see you that day, or any other. And I looked.’
‘Look, we were kids,’ I say. ‘And you were obviously going through some things. I’m not blaming you for any of this, but when I saw you with another girl less than twelve hours later, I’m not gonna lie, it was a kick in the gut.’ And something I’d vowed never to experience again.
‘Another girl?’ he repeats, not without scepticism.
‘Dark hair? Big rack?’ I raise my hands to make the appropriate gesture, thinking the mime juvenile before lowering them again. ‘It’s not like I’m expecting you to remember any of it.’
‘But I do remember. I remember you, and the next day when you didn’t show. I sat at the end of the street I’d walked you to—sat there for hours, hoping you’d pass by. I thought you must’ve, I don’t know.’ He shrugs. ‘Had regrets?’
‘Oh, I did.’
‘And that was the only thing that stopped me from knocking on all the doors in that street.’
‘But my regret came that morning when I reached your garden gate. I know what I saw.’
‘Must’ve been Kit,’ he says decisively.
‘No, it couldn’t have been.’
‘Must’ve been,’ he says with a confident nod. ‘He was all about experimenting back then.’
‘Experimenting?’ I ask, slightly horrified.
‘He’s gay. Maybe bi—hell, I don’t know. I don’t like to ask. Did I not mention this?’
‘No.’ I draw the word out, the sound resembling an unkind laugh. Not because Kit’s sexual orientation, but because, ‘I know what I saw, Rory.’
‘And I know what I did or didn’t do. I also know Kit was shagging girls almost exclusively then.’ I’m pretty sure, right now, my eyes would be at home on Looney Tunes; as in, hanging out of my head on stalks. Could this be true? Part of me wants it to be even while I silently acknowledge this makes me an even bigger fool. ‘Think about it,’ he says. ‘You’ve met him. Some people have a hard time telling us apart, maybe less so now, seeing as how I’m so much more handsome than him.’
‘I just don’t know . . .’
‘I might be older—by fifteen minutes—but I think he’s doing all of the aging, y’ken?’ he says, squeezing my waist again.
But I don’t ken. In fact, I understand very little right now. ‘There was no other girl for me that day. I mean, I was a bit of a lad, but two girls in the same twelve-hour period would be something to brag about. What I mean is—’
‘You don’t have to explain. Quite frankly, you’re only making this worse.’ Because if he isn’t guilty of being a dick, then it means I’m doubly so.
‘I’ve never led you on, Fin,’ he says soberly. ‘I’m not gonna apologise for—’
‘No.’ I place a finger across his lips, silencing him. ‘That’s not why it’s worse. It’s worse because . . .’ If I thought it uncomfortable to say before, now it’s downright torturous. ‘I’m just going to come out with it. Gonna rip that Band-Aid of
f fast.’ As I say this, I’m making the motion with my hand, Rory’s confused gaze following.
‘It was good—real good—but afterwards, not so much. I was young and hurt after seeing . . . what I thought I saw. I don’t think I ventured from my bedroom much in the weeks that followed. Don’t look at me like that—I wasn’t to know the truth. Anyway, it was time to grow up, but we were going to have one last fling, Ivy and I, before growing up. I went travelling and in Thailand I met a guy. An older guy.’
‘How old?’ He’s frowning again.
‘Not that old.’ I find myself adding Marcus’ age as Rory’s frown develops into a scowl. ‘A little older. A lot more sophisticated. And I’d decided before I left Scotland I wasn’t—wasn’t going to be like my mom.’
‘I think I see where this is going.’
‘I wish I had. I wouldn’t sleep with him—I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again—and looking back, I think he became infatuated. With me, I mean.’
‘I can see how that would happen,’ he says with a sad smile. ‘So he asked you to marry him?’
I nod. ‘And even more foolishly, I said yes.’
‘No man asks a woman to marry him because he just wants in her knickers. You know that, right?’
‘So maybe he thought he loved me. Maybe I thought I could love him in return.’ My hands are in the air and I’m trying hard not to cry, because the truth is, I was running from my past and Marcus saw me as something to possess. ‘I made stupid assumptions and decisions, doubly so, as it turns out, because it wasn’t even you with that tramp! God, I’m such a fuck up. Ivy’s totally right. I do make stupid, rash decisions.’ I bring my hands up to cover my face, surprised as I’m suddenly flush with his body, his arms banding my back.
‘You should’ve told me.’ My hands slide around his neck, his words rumbling through his chest and into mine. His reaction is so much better than I could ever have imagined, even if this is totally mortifying. And I’ve missed this. Being held. This is what I like best about relationships, I decide. The best thing about men. Right here, like this, being held in strong arms. Arms that would take on the world on your behalf.
‘Can you imagine if I’d told you all this before? Maybe after the cottage?’ The words are muffled against his skin, but not so much that he doesn’t laugh. ‘You’d have thought I was a nut.’
‘Yeah, well you sort of are. You did give me a fake name, after all.’ Ouch. I feel myself physically cringe. ‘I knew there was something familiar about you.’
‘Because we’d met in the salon.’ I tilt back my head to really look at him. ‘Even if you pretended not to remember.’
‘Aye.’ He quirks a brow, kind of wickedly. ‘I told you, I was only playing along with what you wanted. But seriously, I remember thinking that I knew you from somewhere. I was even daft enough to wonder if you were the hotter sister of someone I’d already screw—well.’ He halts. ‘It wasn’t a very sensible thought and probably no’ worth repeating.’
‘And not very flattering.’
‘I mean it,’ he says, laughing softly. ‘It was like déjà vu.’
‘Déjà who the fuck are you, more like.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ he says, holding my face. ‘The elusive blue!’
‘So you remember me?’ I hate how small and hopeful my voice sounds.
‘Jesus wept, woman!’ he exclaims. ‘I know we’ve had some pretty spectacular sex, but I’m not likely to forget that night. I had’nae shaken so much since I’d lost my own virginity.’
Rory lets out a slow breath, his eyes raking over me, his expression leaving me in no doubt as to where his mind is. This could have gone so many ways given what has passed between us, and the way he’s looking at me is a reaction that gives me hope. Hope that we can do this thing.
‘I’ve thought about that night often.’ His voice is low and gravelly as his hands slip from my face to my shoulders. From my shoulders to my hips.
‘I tried not to for a long time. Mostly I failed.’
‘You were so sweet, Fin. So lovely. Like a ripe peach.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, laughing, as I press my hands against his chest and push. ‘I get the metaphor.’
It’s a weak attempt at movement, but allows his hands to slip under my oversized t-shirt. Skin on skin for the first time in months, I’m not sure whether it’s the brush of his calloused fingers or the look in his eyes that causes my stomach to flip. I sigh, my thighs giving way, pressing me against his lap.
‘You liked the tongue piercing?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to, you dirty little girl.’ His husky voice and light touches tie my insides in taut, pleasurable knots.
‘I’m not sure you were ever a little boy,’ I say, gently rocking against him.
‘I’m no’ little right now.’ Hands still on my hips, he slides me against the hardness barely concealed by his cotton pyjama pants. ‘And I’m feeling very, very possessive.’
‘Yeah?’ His velvet, seductive tone has me fighting a full body collapse.
‘Yeah. My t-shirt and my shorts.’ he growls. ‘I want them back.’ Suddenly, his fingers push the t-shirt up my body and pluck it from my head. And I’m not wearing anything under there.
‘It’s nice to share.’ My reply is low and throaty, the word pure reflection of his gaze. He looks hungry; like one wrong move and he’d inhale me on the spot.
‘But better to possess. God, you’re so lovely,’ he rasps. ‘You’re so . . .’ His gaze flicks from my chest to my face, my soft sigh drawing off as he leans forward, taking my nipple into his mouth. My whole body shakes, his tongue plucking pure sensation between my legs. ‘So fucking edible,’ he hums, pushing me backwards and onto the bed.
‘You’re crazy,’ I half speak, half sigh.
‘And you love it,’ he replies, his body poised over mine, his expression an unholy sinful sight.
‘Oh God, I do,’ I say, smiling suddenly. Smiling and fighting back tears as I slide my hands around his neck again. ‘I love it and I love you, Rory.’
‘Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,’ he answers, his expression faltering; becoming serious. ‘You’ve been through so much and I can wait. In your own time.’
‘You don’t get it,’ I say, unable to hold back the flow. ‘My life was such a mess. I loved you, but couldn’t say. I couldn’t even admit it to myself.’
Then he covers me. Covers me with his body and kisses. He kisses my cheeks. My neck. The corners of my mouth. And then he kisses me—wholly. Absolutely. He kisses me like he’s a man possessed and I’m the one responsible.
And if that makes me the devil, I really don’t care.
My heart swells—I’m so full I could quite literally burst. I hold him tight, my hands in the nape of his neck. I’m crying and laughing, and suddenly, I’m staring up into his handsome face as he pulls back.
‘I wasn’t joking,’ he says, his voice strained. ‘I want my shorts back. Get ‘em off.’
Epilogue
Fin
At the front of the room, Kit taps his champagne glass with a piece of silverware. I still find it disconcerting how much he and Rory look alike at first glance. They both have the same chestnut hair, silver-grey eyes and knife-sharp bone structure, but whereas Rory is quick to smile and has a semi-permanent gleam in his eye, Kit is much more serious. Some would say grave. But he’s just as handsome. Okay, maybe a tiny bit less so than my man. It could be his lack of tattoos, because I’m a big fan these days. I’m in love with Rory’s most recent ink: a pin-up girl complete with Betty Paige bangs, very much like I’m wearing my hair again these days. Pin-up girl is super sexy and sort of provocative; tiny denim cut-offs and a risqué bikini top. She bends from the waist, her head turned coquettishly over one shoulder, her expression almost a dare. I’m not sure if I like that she resembles me best, or the swirling script written above her head. In a blue moon. And it’s not in reference to her ass. As Rory says, a l
ove like ours comes infrequently and we’re lucky to get a second chance.
Back to our Master of Ceremonies, dressed impeccably in Saville Row, as his deep baritone rings confidently across the room.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’
‘And Natasha,’ sniggers a voice in my ear. Ivy.
‘Shut it, tubby,’ Nat whisper-hisses over me. The giggling to my right morphs into a sharp intake of breath.
‘You . . . you absolute cow!’
‘Better not let June hear you swearing,’ crows Nat.
‘I asked you last week if I looked like I’d put on weight and you said no,’ Ivy whines plaintively. ‘Call yourself a friend?’
‘For the love of—will you two just shut the eff up?’ I whisper-hiss. ‘I’m trying to listen.’
‘What for?’ they ask simultaneously.
‘Because some of us aren’t here for the free bubbles and canapes.’
Ivy frowns at the wad of used napkins crushed in her hand.
‘No, seriously, what for?’ deadpans Nat.
‘This is a momentous occasion in my boyfriend’s life.’ No need to go into details. ‘And I want to hear what Kit has to say.’
‘Blah, blah, blah. Thanks for coming, now bugger off and eat some grub,’ Nat gripes. ‘Those trays look full of grubs, anyway. I’ll probably need to order room service later.’
‘It looks great, though. Very avant-garde,’ says Ivy, her gaze scanning the room.
‘She means a bit mad,’ clarifies Nat.
And they’re both right. The room we’re currently standing in is a new extension to the original house, and not so wild. Intended to cater for larger gatherings, it’s a modern yet a sympathetic edition; exposed stone juxtaposed by walls of glass, on one side providing a view to the sand dunes and the ocean beyond, while to the other, an extensive patio and outside fireplace—for those twelve days a year it doesn’t actually rain—and the croquet lawn . . . which will probably only get used by drunk people at the very posh weddings that will eventually be held here.
Like Nat says, very classy, though the main house rocks a different vibe. It still has a country manor house feel, only the kind of country manor you might find the Queen of Hearts holidaying in. Because they’re all mad here . . . The residents bar is painted in hues of orange, pink and gold, and houses around a hundred stag heads hanging from the walls. Stuffed antique ones. Carved wooden ones. Contemporary metal ones. One’s as big as . . . well, you get the picture.
