by Jade West
“No, Helen, I don’t fucking know how it goes. Mutual decision?! Since fucking when? It’s only bloody Friday, you were with him for two weeks solid last week.”
“And tomorrow night,” Mum butted in. “You only said about that this afternoon.”
“Don’t try and defend him, Helen. I’ll have none of that!”
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m really not.” My story was fucked, but I didn’t have a better get out. “I, um… just hadn’t got round to telling you. It happened today… lunch… I just didn’t want to worry you…”
Mum looked thoroughly confused. “But you were both so happy… You’ve been so happy…”
“So, he was still seeing that bit of stuff behind your back, was he?” Dad demanded. “Because I’m telling you now, Helen, there’s no way that shit he pulled tonight was hot off the press. They were pretty fucking familiar. So he did pull a fast one, didn’t he? Mutual decision or bastard not.”
“But you must be devastated,” Mum said. “You liked him so much!” Tears pricked at her eyes and she pulled me into a hug, and I felt so bad, so very bad. “Don’t you worry, love, we’ll make it alright. We’ll still have a nice night tomorrow, you’ll see. We’ll make up for it at home, girls’ night, hey?”
I felt so bad lapping up Mum’s sympathy, especially when my brain was whizzing through a whole host of excuses to get out of her concern.
“I’ll be ok,” I said. “I’m ok.”
And that’s when Dad looked strange. His eyes suspicious and beady.
“You don’t seem that upset, Helen. Not considering you only split up today.”
“Mutual decision,” I maintained. “Like I said.”
“Mutual decision my fucking arse. You were well into him. He seemed well into you as well. Croissants, and potato bloody waffles.” He scowled. “Something doesn’t make bloody sense about all this.”
Mum waved her arm at him, jabbed a finger. “Don’t you start up with the conspiracy theories, George. Not now!”
“But it doesn’t,” he insisted. “Something’s fucking off.”
“It just is what it is,” I snapped, and I shouldn’t have. I definitely shouldn’t have.
Dad stared so hard I had to look away. “What does Mick Sawbridge look like, Helen? What car does he drive?”
I wanted to die, right there in my seat. Shrivel to nothing.
Mum sighed. “George, stop it! Seriously!”
“No, Angela, I won’t stop it. Helen can answer the question, it’s a simple bloody question.”
I could hardly breathe. “He’s… old… just, normal… haven’t seen him that much…”
“You’ve been in his house for two fucking weeks and you don’t know what he looks like?”
“Brown hair…”
And Dad lost it, he slammed his fist on the table and walked away, over to the sink and back again. “Mick’s blonde. He’s a throwback from the pissing eighties, Helen. He drives a fucking truck. A big fucking truck. Tattoos all over his arms.”
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
“Yeah, that’s it…”
It was a dumb answer. Even Mum drew breath.
Dad jabbed a finger. “So, where have you really been going?”
“With Harry!” I lied. “Just not at his house. We just hung out!”
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Helen Palmer. Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Leave it, George,” Mum hissed. “Not now.”
“Not fucking now?!” He was seething, absolutely seething. He pointed to the doorway. “Get to bed, before I really lose my fucking temper.”
“But Dad…”
“GET TO BED!”
And I did. I did go to bed.
It was a long time before the shouting stopped downstairs.
I keyed in message after message to Mark, but I couldn’t face it, couldn’t face sending them.
Everything was about to fall apart, everything in my soul was screaming. Screaming danger.
And I couldn’t stop crying.
***
Helen
“You’re not going out. End of story.”
Dad was serious. He had his don’t push me face on. Not even Mum could argue with that face, but I had a go anyway. I had to have a go anyway.
“I’ve got plans… Dad, please!”
“Plans with Harry bastard Sawbridge?! Not bloody likely, Helen. Do you think I was born fucking yesterday or something?”
“Not Harry!” I used the only other card in my hand. “Lizzie’s. I’m going to Lizzie’s.”
“Lizzie can come here,” he said. “Unless you want to tell me where you’re really bloody going. Where were you over Christmas, Helen?”
“George!” Mum said, but even she was tired of arguing. “Please… just give it a rest now.”
He downed the rest of his tea. “This isn’t done,” he said. “I’ll be getting to the bottom of this.”
“Lizzie wants me to go there… I have to help her with clothes… for a date…”
“It’s Lizzie’s, George, for Christ’s sake!” Mum put her head in her hands. “You’re giving me a migraine and it’s not even nine o’bloody clock yet!”
Dad’s eyes glowered. “Fine. I’ll drop you at bloody Lizzie’s house. What time?”
“But you have work…”
“WHAT TIME?”
I weighed it up. Mum wouldn’t even be home until eight. “Half eight?”
“Quarter past. I have a break between runs.”
“Cool,” I said, trying to seem a lot calmer than I felt.
I told Mark to meet me at half eight, at the pull-in at the bottom of the old recreation ground, but that meant time would be against me. I was wringing my hands by the time Dad picked me up, and that didn’t cease on the drive to Lawnside. I waved a lacklustre goodbye and walked slowly up to Lizzie’s block, hoping he’d pull away and drive off back to his own business, but he didn’t. He sat and watched me like a hawk. I had to go right up to the communal doorway and still he didn’t leave, so with trembling fingers I pressed the buzzer, praying to anyone who’d listen that someone would be home.
Ray’s slurry voice came through the intercom all crackled and demanding.
“What?”
“It’s Helen, is Lizzie in?”
Dad was still watching me. I tried to keep a smile on my face.
“Nah, she’s out.”
Fuck.
“Can I come up anyway?”
A moment’s silence, and I was willing him, really willing him.
“Fancy a bit of company do ya?”
My stomach tightened. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
The bleep of the door lock sounded and I was in. I held up a hand to Dad and climbed the stairs. Finally, once I’d reached Lizzie’s landing, I saw the car pull away. I breathed a sigh of temporary relief.
Ray opened the door in nothing but a pair of boxers. He had a can of cider in his hand, and looked at me with a smile that made me shiver.
“Where is she?”
He shrugged. “Dunno.”
“Is she with Scottie?”
“Who the fuck’s Scottie?”
“You know, Scottie her boyfriend…?”
He eyed me up and down. “Never heard of no bloody Scottie. She was with some girl. Blonde. Nice ass.”
Rachel. It twisted in my heart. “Ok, well, could you please give her a message?”
“Like she ever listens,” he laughed to himself. “Alright, what is it, sweet cheeks?”
“Please tell her that my parents think I’m with her tonight, staying over.”
He smirked. “You being a naughty girl, Hels? I’ll put ya over me knee if you ain’t careful, love.”
The idea made my skin crawl. “Thanks, Ray.”
“You ain’t coming in? Got a can for you. Watch some TV all cosy if you like?” He scratched at his boxers.
I was already backing away when I thanked him for his offer.
Mar
k was waiting. I dashed through the swings and nipped under the fence, darting around the car to slip into my seat with ragged breath. I asked him to drive away before I even had my seatbelt on.
“Are you alright, Helen? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“It’s Dad,” I said. “He knows I’m not with Harry.”
He didn’t seem fazed. “Ok. That’s not such a problem in itself, surely?”
So I explained the whole deal, everything. My stupid lies and Dad’s conspiracy theorist mentality, and Lizzie not being in. He listened calmly, and slowly my breathing calmed, too.
“We’ll figure something out.”
I was still trying Lizzie, but there was no answer. I sighed. “I hope so.”
“We will.” The town disappeared behind us, and his hand reached for my knee, squeezed it. “Relax.”
I put my hand on his, squeezed him tight. “I’m trying.”
“Just breathe, Helen. The night’s alive, and young. Enjoy it. We’ll have plenty of time to concern ourselves with logistics, I promise.”
“You aren’t worried?” My eyes fixed on his but his were on the road.
“I didn’t say that.” He sighed. “The situation isn’t ideal, but we’ll manage.”
“Dad won’t let it go,” I said. “He’s like a dog with a bone. On and on. He’ll want to know where I’m going. He’ll want to know where I’ve been. He’ll want to know who I’ve been with…”
“And he definitely knows you weren’t with Harry?”
“Definitely.”
“Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow morning we’ll get our thinking caps on, ok?”
I nodded. “Ok.”
“In the meantime, I’ve been waiting all week to see you. I missed you, Helen Palmer. A lot.”
I smiled. “The sentiment is entirely reciprocated, Mr Roberts.”
It made him smile, too.
My heart soared as the twinkle of Mark’s house lights came into view. I took a long breath, and the peace engulfed me, as though I was home, slipping into comfortable slippers. He was waiting for me as I got out of the car, waiting to hold me tight, and I held him, breathed him, savoured the press of his body against mine as I sank into the moment.
Thank God for this, thank God.
The fire had warmed the house, in that blissful way that a real fire does. He lit candles in the dining room while I kicked my shoes off, then grabbed me a glass and poured me a healthy measure of red wine.
He clinked my glass.
“To us. To tenacity. We’ll get through this. Wait and see.”
“I hope so, Mark.”
“Less hoping and more believing, please.”
I took a seat at the dining table, and he did, too. I reached out, tiny fingers stretching across the table for him, and he took them and held them. “I love you.”
“And I love you.”
“Things are shitty this week.”
“They aren’t shitty now.” He squeezed my hand.
I took a sip of wine. “I was stupid, to think I could pull off a lie like that one. Dad knows everyone, he knows everything…”
“You did what you thought would be for the best. Things happen, it’s just life, Helen.”
“I’m sorry, Mark.”
He smiled, and the beauty in it ripped my heart open. His quiet resignation, his calm, his strength. “There is nothing to be sorry for. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
But it felt like I had. I felt guilty, and scared, and out of my depth. Not scared for me. Scared for us. But that wasn’t it, either. I was really scared for him.
“Can I at least get a smile, Helen? I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
I took a breath and I smiled. And then I moved, because I didn’t want wine anymore. I didn’t want to be sitting at this table with all this space, all this air between us. I dropped onto his lap, and wrapped my arms around him tight, and breathed. Just breathed. And he held me back, so warm and so tight.
“It’ll be alright,” he said. “Forget about it now.”
“But you… your job…”
“Nothing’s even happened yet.”
I didn’t have a response for that, because it wasn’t my head that knew what was brewing. My head could rationalise it away, say I’d make up something, anything, keep a low profile and work this thing through, and it would all be fine. Just like we planned. Just like we wanted. But my heart knew. That horrible knowing, the pang of dread, the shadow on the horizon. My heart knew Dad, too.
I wanted to stay there forever, just breathing, my body next to his, his fingers in my hair, tickling my scalp, but he moved us. Stood up and took me with him, walking us through to the living room where he dropped me to my feet. My toes landed on fabric, and I turned to find the floor covered with sheets. He had paint laid out, lots of it. Paint and brushes all ready to go, but no canvas.
“What’s this?”
His eyes sparkled. “The pull of the muse. Will you indulge me?”
It made me laugh, but it was breathy and disappeared into nothing. “Always.” I watched him as he lit more candles, so many of them, all over the mantelpiece, twinkling and glittering and lighting up our sculpture like little beacons of hope above the fire.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Just breathe. I’ll do the rest.”
“Sounds good.”
“I hope so.” He came to me, kissed me so gently before he slipped off my cardigan. “You have far too many clothes on, Miss Palmer.” He pulled my top over my head. “Far too many.”
Fingers traced my collarbone, slipped my bra strap down and dipped inside. His mouth was hot against my ear, lips soft, and I was fluttery and weightless, floating away. He took me out of my bra, then out of everything else, until my clothes were a just a pile of useless unwanted fabric. I wished I’d never need them again, wished that I could stay here like this forever.
“This is going to be messy,” he said, and there was amusement in his voice. “Quite messy.”
“I like messy,” I said, and his smile was infectious.
He left me naked in the firelight while he grabbed some cushions and arranged them on the floor. He patted the sheet. “Come here, please.”
I dropped to my knees and he coaxed me onto my back, propped my head so gently onto one of the cushions and then lifted me up by my legs to prop another couple under my ass. My thighs fell open naturally and he ran a thumb over my clit. I closed my eyes to his touch, relaxed onto it, but he pulled away.
“Please don’t stop. Please, I really need this.”
“Patience,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
I heard him in the kitchen, footsteps and clattering, and when he came back it was with a towel over his shoulder and a bowl in his hands. He positioned himself on his knees between my legs, and I didn’t get chance to ask any questions before he held up a razor.
“May I?”
I felt my cheeks burning. “You want to shave me? There?”
“If I may.”
“Ok,” I felt so young then, inexperienced and clumsy. “You may.”
“I’ll be very careful.” He smiled.
“I’m not worried,” I said.
He flicked on a lamp at his side, and I felt so exposed, but it didn’t feel unpleasant. It didn’t feel unpleasant at all.
The water was hot, it felt amazing against my skin, but not as amazing as his fingers did as they lathered me with soap. It made me squirm.
“Please try to keep still,” he said. “At least for the next bit.”
I nodded.
It felt so weird. More weird than I’d expected. The thrill of the razor against my skin was quite something. His concentration was addictive, too, treating me like a delicate flower, so gently, so carefully.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I said.
“Yes,” he replied. “But this is different.”
“It is?” My brain skittered through potentia
l differences. Was I weird? Did I have weird…
“It’s with you.” He swirled the razor in the bowl. “That makes it a different experience altogether.” He read my mind. “A good experience, Helen.”
I closed my eyes as he spread me open, the razor kissing my most sensitive of places. I’d never felt quite so exposed as I did then, and there was a thrill to it, an excitement.
“You have the most delightful little pussy, Helen. It’s really beautiful.”
I grinned like an idiot. “Thank you.”
He ran a thumb over me and it felt so different, so tender. It felt incredible.
“Do you like how it feels?”
I nodded. “Yes, I like it a lot.”
He took his time, moving my pussy lips so gently, this way and that. Stopping to tease, stopping to tempt, just enough to make me quiver. The heat of a wet sponge made my breath hitch. Water trickled down over my ass and it tickled. Everything was hot and wet, and needy. I was needy. “All done,” he said. “Beautiful.” He took my fingers and placed them between my legs. “Feel how pretty you are, Helen. How soft.”
It was so tingly. So different. “Wow.”
“Nice, yes?”
“Intense… it feels… so tender…”
“Exposed, vulnerable. Perfect, Helen, you look perfect.”
My eyes met his. “You like it?”
“I love it.” He reached to his side and held up a paintbrush. “Makes a much better canvas, too.”
My heart hammered at the realisation. “You’re going to paint my pussy?”
He laughed. “I’m going to paint you. Not just your pussy. Although I have to say I’m looking particularly forward to that bit.”
I couldn’t stop feeling my newly exposed skin. It was addictive, the sensations were addictive.
He watched my fingers, and his eyes darkened. “Don’t stop,” he said, and shifted position.
His hands gripped my thighs, and his breath tickled tender skin and I moaned.
He kissed my fingers between my legs, and followed them with his tongue. It set me on fire, turned me into a squirming hot mess.
A week had been too long. I reached down for him, grabbed at his hair.
“Please…” I spread myself with my fingers. “Mark, please…”
His breath was hot on me. His words gravelly and breathless.
