Kiss Don't Tell

by Avril Tremayne

  ‘Which you top up,’ he said.

  ‘Which I top up.’

  ‘And your brother spends.’

  ‘None of this was his fault, Adam.’

  ‘So somehow that’s become your fault? Your responsibility, too?’

  ‘I can understand it, you know. Why should I still have money when I was the one who got Dad killed, when Mum and Brad have none?’

  ‘That isn’t logical, Lane.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve told you before, logic isn’t my mother’s strong suit.’ She scrubbed her hands over her face. ‘But the truth is no matter what I do, I can’t get anything right with her. Maybe if I lost all my money …?’ She trailed off, considering that, but then sighed. ‘No, she’d think that was unforgivable since I have to help Brad out.’

  ‘You don’t have to. You just do it, and they fucking don’t deserve it from what I’ve seen. And I’d have to say, if that’s what a so-called perfect love leaves behind, I think my parade of wicked step-parents wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was at the time.’

  Lane took his hand then, kissed it. ‘But I’m sure it was much worse than you let me believe. And here I am boring you about something so … so trivial by comparison. I’m sorry, Adam.’

  ‘It’s not trivial, or boring, and this isn’t about me, Lane. Well, except for how furious it makes me for you to be treated so badly.’

  ‘It’s not always as bad as tonight. My birthday … it brings it back full-force, that’s all.’

  ‘I fail to see how that turns you into a cash dispenser.’

  ‘Not quite that. I … I advise them more than anything else.’

  ‘I’ve seen you give Brad cash, Lane. A great wad of it.’

  ‘He was sick, as a child. So sick.’

  ‘And now he’s not.’

  ‘And I had advantages that were … were taken from him, way before he was old enough to know.’

  ‘Give it a rest, Lane. It’s not like you embezzled from him. How much penance do you want to do? And what about the advantage that was taken from you? Is he doing penance for that?’

  ‘What …? I don’t—?’

  ‘He had all your mother’s attention, Lane. He still does. When is it your turn for that?’

  Lane leapt to her feet, paced away from him. ‘Stop trying to make me into an object of pity. I hate that. I hate it.’

  ‘It’s not pity, Lane; it’s fairness. Justice.’

  ‘I don’t deserve that either.’

  ‘Everyone deserves that, Lane. Every last one of us.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Why the fuck not?’

  ‘Because I stole her life.’

  ‘Goddammit, Lane, you did not kill your father! If she can’t get over him, that’s her problem, not yours. Her choice!’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Then make me, Lane. Make me!’

  A sob tore out of her throat, even though she had no tears. ‘She can’t get over him because I didn’t let her! I knew! I knew and I didn’t tell her; I kept it a secret.’

  ‘Kept what a secret?’

  ‘I found the divorce papers in his study,’ Lane said, and jammed her hands over her mouth as though she were about to vomit.

  ‘So your father was going to divorce your mother,’ he said, super calm in the face of her torment. ‘Well, I never did quite trust that perfect love you described.’

  Slowly her hands lowered. ‘Nobody knows. Not even Erica. Only me. And now you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Lane. I’ll add that to the confidentiality clause.’

  She moved restlessly around the room, plucking at the ribbons of the dangling balloons, pulling them down randomly from the ceiling, one at a time. Adam knew her well enough by now to realize what she was about. Keeping her hands busy so they didn’t give her away. So she didn’t fall apart. And so he waited, knowing she had more to tell him and that she had to find the words for herself, in her own time, if she was going to keep it all together.

  She’d collected every last balloon before she stopped. She looked at him, and he waited for another endless minute, and then, at last, she started to talk. ‘Mum had been in bed, sedated, for days. Brad was still in hospital. Erica was back at school. And I … was lonely. And lost. And sad. I wanted to … to feel close to someone, and there was no one there. I wanted to feel close to Dad. So I steeled myself to go into his study because I thought … hoped … I might sense him there, somehow. It certainly smelled of him. It … it felt like him, too. I guess that’s inevitable when a person spends so much time in one place, and Dad … Well, he spent every waking moment in there when he was home.

  ‘Sometimes he’d let me come in, because he had high hopes of me becoming a mathematician one day, like him. He had an abacus. A vintage one. Chinese, in a beautiful box. I’d touch the beads, slide them around and pretend I knew what I was doing, and he’d talk to me about numbers and about China. He had a fascination for all things Chinese, so it’s not surprising I ended up a little obsessed with it myself, is it?

  ‘Anyway, that night I made a beeline for the abacus, and pretended he was talking to me. It wasn’t until I was putting it away that I noticed the papers stuffed in the bottom of the box. I stupidly thought they had something to do with China, so I took them out and started reading them … as best I could. How did I even know what they were? I don’t know. I just know that I did.’

  ‘What did you do with the papers?’

  ‘I threw them out. Because they … they confused me. And I thought … I thought she’d hate me more if she knew I’d seen them. If I knew before she did. If I … knew.’

  ‘You realize, don’t you, Lane, that you might have been wrong about the papers? That it might never have come to a divorce? That he might have changed his mind? Or maybe she knew, maybe they’d discussed it?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said doubtfully. ‘But whatever the case, I knew in that moment it wasn’t exactly the picture of perfection I’d always thought it was. That she thought it was. That she still says it was. And I have to wonder what would have happened if she knew she didn’t have the perfect marriage she thought she did. Maybe … maybe she might have moved on, like your mother with Massimo. Maybe she’d be happier. Maybe she would have, or at least could have …’ She stopped. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Loved you, Lane?’

  ‘Maybe …’

  The picture of her then made Adam remember how Sarah had described her, back at the beginning. Valiant. Here she was, holding on to a mass of gaudily coloured balloons, lips trembling, but refusing to cry. For him, with his ancient divorce stories, she’d cried. But she wouldn’t cry for herself.

  She looked down at her wrist, flexing it to make the charms tinkle. She smiled, and Adam felt the tightness in his chest ease slightly.

  ‘Thank you so much for the present, Adam,’ she said. ‘And for the balloons. For listening. For being here tonight. Lesson Four: all the best sexual relationships have an element of surprise. Well, this surprise was lovely.’

  ‘Let go of the balloons, Lane, and come here,’ Adam said. ‘I’m going to make you forget every lesson we’ve ever had. And your brother. And your mother. And the rest of the world.’

  Lane smiled at him again, letting the balloons go, and walked towards him, and in that one yearning instant, with his heart aching for her pain and his whole body shaking with the need to have her, Adam felt something crack and shift inside him. He wanted Lane in ways he’d never known existed, ways that made him wild, and weak, and angry, and helpless, and frightened, and invincible, and utterly out of control.

  It seemed they’d stumbled onto the something he’d never done before: he’d fallen in love. And that was indeed going to make things interesting, because at last he knew why people kept searching for it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lane smiled as she walked into the living room the next morning and saw the balloons, some of them at half-mast, som
e already on the floor.

  She loved them.

  Loved the bracelet.

  Loved what Adam had done to her in bed, laying her on that gorgeous red bedspread, positioning her like a wanton, spreading out her hair, her arms, her legs, finding that exact spot with his tongue and making her actually scream.

  She loved the way he’d said absolutely nothing except her name as he’d entered her, because that made it feel special, different.

  Loved how he’d held her so closely afterwards. The way he’d kissed her, as though he’d never stop.

  Loved the note he’d left on his pillow for her, before he’d snuck out this morning—10/10. Well done, Lane! You will ace your exam. Mr Quinn.

  There was only one thing she didn’t love: the feeling that she’d given away a piece of herself. She’d felt no distance between them last night: she’d recklessly gone and obliterated any hint of distance. She’d given part of herself away … to a man she’d never see again six weeks from now. A man who would bolt for the metaphoric bathroom as fast as DeWayne had bolted to the real one, to wash her off and start afresh with someone else.

  She made herself a cup of coffee and sat at the dining table, pondering the problem, wondering what he’d say if she told him she couldn’t give him up once the contract ended.

  The best answer he could give? ‘To hell with the contract—I still want you.’

  Lane’s lips twisted. The real answer was more likely to be: ‘Sorry, Lane, but remember when I told you the thought of commitment makes me break out in a cold sweat? Well, I meant it.’

  She could recall, word for word, what he’d said about relationships that night at Benedetto’s: ‘You have to accept that life sends you curve balls, but you can choose whether to bat them, catch them or let them go. And I choose to let them go.’

  Lane knew she was one of those curve balls he’d be letting go. She had to face that certainty; however hard it was, she had to find a way to cope with it, the way she’d coped with all the other curve balls life had thrown at her. By closing herself off, tamping down her feelings, channelling her efforts elsewhere. Moving to China, maybe!

  China, moving to China, fulfilling her father’s dream since she couldn’t fulfil her own. Well, why not?

  So lost in thought was she, it took a moment to recognize the sound of her gate squeaking. Adam, it would be Adam; he must have forgotten something. And in that instant, as she leapt up and hurried to the door, nothing else mattered except that he was here.

  But when she opened the door, she did a double-take, because he wasn’t here—her mother was, instead.

  Curve ball.

  Her mother’s lips stretched in what Lane assumed was meant to be a smile. ‘Curve ball?’

  Yes, she’d said it out loud and her mother clearly thought she was insane and maybe she was. ‘Um … hi? Mum?’

  ‘Are those actual questions, Lane?’

  ‘Sorry, I mean hello, Mum. This is a … a surprise.’

  Pause, as Lane just looked at her.

  And then her mother’s lips tightened. ‘Are you going to invite me in?’

  ‘Of course,’ Lane said and stepped back.

  Her mother entered the hall. She was wearing a tailored cream-coloured suit, and looked as flawless and unapproachable as ever. ‘I wanted to drop this off,’ she said, and for the first time Lane noticed she was holding a gift-wrapped box. ‘I was remiss in not bringing it last night.’

  Lane stared at it. ‘Is that for me?’

  ‘I didn’t bring it for Erica, I can assure you,’ her mother said dryly. ‘It’s a birthday present. I think you’ll find it more … significant …’ with a stretched smile ‘… than the bedspread Sarah’s mother sent over.’

  Lane kept staring until her mother made a tsk sound of impatience that snapped her back to the reality of the here and now. ‘Er … coffee?’ she asked, and took the gift.

  An inclination of the head was the answer, which Lane took as an affirmative, so she ushered her mother to the dining room, left her with the gift-wrapped box and hurried to the kitchen, deep-breathing for all she was worth.

  This visit was unprecedented and Lane had no idea what had prompted it. Her mother never stopped by unannounced, and Lane hadn’t been given a birthday present, belated or otherwise, since her twenty-first birthday—which was when her mother had discovered the extent of Lane’s share portfolio. So what did it mean? What could it mean?

  Lane was no closer to answering those questions for herself by the time she’d made the coffee and was carrying it on a tray into the dining room. She set down the tray and handed her mother a cup.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ her mother asked, nodding towards the gift.

  Lane took her seat and reached for the present.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Lane,’ her mother said as Lane fumbled with the wrapping. ‘The damn thing has survived a few hundred years; I’m sure it’ll survive if you tear off the paper.’

  The ‘damn thing’ had indeed survived a few hundred years, Lane saw, as she dutifully ripped the paper away. It was her father’s antique Chinese abacus in its wooden box. Lane was too unnerved to touch it for a moment, too afraid to believe it really was hers, but eventually she reached out her shaking hands to lift the abacus from the box. She remembered the last time she’d touched it, a week after her eleventh birthday, and couldn’t help the sharp breath she sucked in, remembering what she’d found.

  And that breath seemed to have an effect on her mother, who closed her eyes briefly and said, ‘You know, don’t you? You were the one who threw out the papers.’

  And what could Lane say? ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course you knew. Of course. You know everything.’

  Silence. Long and sad.

  And then: ‘I’m tired, Lane,’ her mother said. ‘Tired of lying to myself that the man I loved more than anything in this world loved me. And I’m tired of remembering my son in hospital, remembering being worried out of my mind and being exhausted and trying to be a wife to a man who loved his daughter more than he loved me.’ She settled her eyes on Lane. ‘You can’t know how galling it is to have your ten-year-old daughter be smart enough for you husband when you’re not.’

  Lane was desperately trying for calm and not finding it. ‘That’s not my fault.’

  ‘It’s still the truth, though, isn’t it? He even died for you in the end. His son in hospital, me a nervous wreck, and you were the one who got him out of his office. He died for you. Without leaving anything for me. Not one word. And probably not one thought. Just those papers for me to find, a house, and a third of his money.’

  ‘But you loved him anyway.’

  ‘I did. More fool me. And now I find you knew the truth all along and I don’t know how to deal with it. I’ve spent thirteen lonely years to come to terms with the fact that I wasted my love, and now I have this to take on board—that you knew, and you’ve been laughing at me behind my back—’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I don’t care, Lane. I don’t think I even care that you found a way to replace the one thing I kept from you. I don’t care any more that you made your life whole again while mine was a ruin.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. What did I replace?’

  ‘Me, Lane. You found a different mother to give you the birthday presents I wouldn’t.’

  It took Lane a moment to work through it. To remember her mother’s out-of-proportion reaction to the red bedspread last night. ‘You mean Sarah’s mother? But that— That was— It’s just not like that.’

  ‘Read my lips, Lane: I don’t care. Last night, I cared. Today, knowing that you knew all these years?’ She made a tiny, hopeless gesticulation with one hand. ‘I—am—just—too—tired to care.’

  And then Jeanne-the-not-so-martyr-after-all pushed her untasted coffee away and got to her feet. ‘If there’s anything else of you father’s you’d like, Lane, you’re welcome to it. It’s tim
e for me to let his things go. To let him go.’

  And as her mother quietly walked back to the door and let herself out, Lane thought about what it must be like to love a man who didn’t love you, and pretend that he did love you just because you wanted it so much. And what it must be like to come crashing down to earth and know you were lying to yourself.

  Her mother might resent her, she might even hate her, but it was impossible to see the fractured, unhappy Jeanne Davis as a demon. She was just a woman who needed one very particular man to love her to feel whole.

  Inevitably, Lane’s thoughts turned to Adam and the way her feelings for him had progressed from that first fraught night when they’d signed the contract through to the drama of last night. No, not just drama. Tenderness, and kindness, and passion, and caring.

  She hadn’t planned on those things when she’d come up with the idea for a contract. She’d thought it could be a professional liaison, clinical and businesslike. Do this with your hands, that with your tongue, make these sounds, touch him like that … but she couldn’t seem to think when Adam touched her. Instead, her senses were overwhelmed and her insides were quaking and her chest was heavy with hopeless longing.

  And it was no good to be like that! Wasn’t her mother the living, breathing proof of that? Weren’t Adam’s mother and father, Bertie and all those other failed attempts at love, more proof?

  So the question now was, what was the way back? How did she go about re-establishing the parameters? How could she reclaim some control over herself so she didn’t end up living a blighted life dreaming of what could have been if only …?

  She could terminate the contract early, before she got in any deeper, she supposed. But her throat seized up at the thought.

  No. Not yet.

  Why not?

  The time wasn’t right. There was still so much to learn. She wasn’t ready. She just couldn’t!

  All right. Something else. Something that meant she could keep him in her life as long as possible, and yet restore a semblance of balance. Their dates, she knew, had been getting ridiculously frequent. If she cancelled some, got them back to two nights a week—that would be a start, wouldn’t it?