by Ashe Barker
“Oh, no. I would if I could afford them, but I’m just looking this evening.” True enough, I suppose.
“Me too, though we do have several of Jared’s pictures on the walls at home.”
“Oh, you’re a collector then? And a fan of Jared North?”
She laughs at that. “Among other things, I suppose I am a fan. Tonight I’m just his taxi driver though, come to pick him up and drive him home.” She extends her hand to me. “I’m Rachel North.”
I take the offered hand and shake it. I’m in a daze. Rachel North. Drive Jared home. Christ, I’m here talking to his bloody wife!
“Have you seen him anywhere? We should be getting off really…” She cranes her neck to peer around the room.
“Er, in the long gallery, I think. He was talking to some people…”
“Ah, well, that sounds about right. Always talking, that’s Jared… Would you excuse me, I need to—” She breaks off. “Oh, there he is. Jared? Jared!”
He has just emerged from the gallery next door and turns to face us as my companion calls out to him. He lifts a hand, waves, then glances at me. Our eyes meet, and I could swear there’s flicker of recognition, then it’s gone. His features betray nothing more as he crosses the room to reach us. He bends to kiss Rachel on the cheek.
“Thank you for coming. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“You’d better. You’re on washing up duty for a week. And you can do the school run too.” She turns to me. “It was nice meeting you, Miss…?”
“It’s Mrs. Mrs. Mary Whitkirk. It was nice meeting you too. And you, Mr. North.” I’m backing away, desperately working to avoid eye contact. As if a wife lurking in the wings wasn’t terminal enough, he has children too, and a school run to do. I just want to get out of here and I know I’m acting like a total muppet, but I can’t help it. Rachel furrows her perfect brow in puzzlement, but makes no more of it. Linking her arm through Jared’s, she tugs him in the direction of the door. I take my chance and do a quick sideways shuffle, then dive into the ladies’ toilets.
When I emerge fifteen minutes later, it is to find the exhibition near enough deserted. A few stragglers are conducting their final bits of business with the gallery. Jared and his wife are long gone. Satisfied that the coast’s clear I head for the door.
“Mrs. Whitkirk, do you have a moment?”
I halt and look around. The gallery owner is hurrying toward me.
“I’m glad I caught you, Jared North asked me to give you this.” He thrusts a card into my hand then turns on his heel and scuttles back to his waiting customer.
I glance at the card, one of Jared’s from the front desk. I turn it over. There’s a mobile number scrawled on the back, and three words.
Molly? Call me.
I won’t, of course. I can’t, not now. Not after all this time.
Back in the safety of my anonymous hotel room I try to remember what I knew of Jared North when he was Prisoner Number KG8329. Was he married back then? I don’t recall any visitors, and no mention of it on his file. Surely I would have spotted that. If I’d known I would never have… I couldn’t have…
But I did, and the consequences were awesome. They still are.
He saw me. He recognised me, and he wants to talk. He must want to, he gave me his number. And I need to talk to him. There are things I need to say, questions I must ask someone and he could help me to understand. It wouldn’t need to have anything to do with his marriage, it’s not as though I want to sleep with him.
Liar. Who am I trying to kid? But what I want and what I actually intend to do are two different things.
I pick up the card again though I don’t need to. The number is now etched in my memory. I have only to dial it, and I’ll hear his voice. Or I could text him. Maybe that would be easier. And then, he’d have my number too. I draw my lower lip between my teeth and tap a short message into the phone.
This is Molly. I’m at the Radisson Blu. Could we meet?
I press send before I can change my mind.
His reply arrives less than three minutes later.
I’ll be in the lounge at your hotel tomorrow morning. 10 a.m.
* * *
I’m awake before six. By the time I’ve showered, dressed, and packed my belongings ready to check out after breakfast I still have two hours to kill. I lay on my bed watching breakfast television news and taking none of it in. I reach for the small pad of notepaper and the hotel issue pencil on the side table and start to jot down questions I might like to ask Jared.
Why did you spank me?
How did you know I’d like it?
Do all men who spank, spank like that?
Do you spank your wife?
I cross out that last one. Too personal.
Would you spank me again?
I start to cross that out too, but decide to leave it. That is, after all, my burning question.
I’m not sure I’ll have the courage to ask any of this stuff, let alone the last question. But the spanking isn’t where I should start anyway. Before I can get to any of that, I owe him an apology. Another one.
* * *
I’m in the hotel lounge at five to ten, my overnight bag stowed safe behind the check-in desk. My train to London leaves at noon, but I have no idea if I’ll be on it or not. I take a seat at a table by the French window overlooking the gardens. I can see the canopy over the main entrance from here, so I’ll know when he arrives. I order coffee, then call the waiter back and, ever the optimist, I ask for a pot for two.
“Molly?” The familiar tone behind me takes me by surprise. I whirl in my seat. Jared has somehow managed to enter the hotel without me spotting him. He inclines his head and takes the sofa opposite me. His long legs stretch across the space between us as he leans back and regards me, his expression a mix of amusement and interest. “It’s good to see you, Molly, but to what do I owe this? I assumed you left the area.”
“I did. I’ve been living in London. My train back leaves in a couple of hours.”
“Oh, just a flying visit then? Lucky we ran into each other last night.” He leans forward, his elbows on the table. “Or was it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a long way from home by the sound of it. Was it luck, or did you come looking for me?”
I open my mouth to trot out some trite denial, but it dies on my lips. His eyes are cool, his expression hard. He expects the truth.
“Yes. I’ve been trying to find you. I bought a ticket for the gallery, and…”
“You came all the way from London? Especially for my showing last night?”
I nod. “Needed to see you. I hoped…” I fall silent, no longer certain what it is I hoped for, but it wasn’t this. I remember a warm, vibrant man, a man who excited and terrified me in equal measure, and who saved my life when circumstances called for it. The man sitting opposite me now looks as though he’d like to throttle me.
My fragile courage deserts me. “I don’t want to cause any trouble. I’ll just go.” I reach for my handbag, just as the waiter arrives with our coffee. He arranges the mugs, the jug of milk and the cafatière, and I remain in my seat intending to sign for the order, but the waiter hands the bill to Jared. He scribbles his name and hands it back.
He returns his attention to me. “And what trouble might that be, Molly? It is still Molly, I take it?”
I nod. “Mary’s my real name, but everyone calls me Molly.”
“And Mrs. Whitkirk? What’s that about?”
“That’s my married name.”
“I see. Congratulations. Shall I pour?” He reaches for the cafatière and presses the filter down, his gaze never leaving mine.
“I offered you coffee once before I seem to recall. You declined.”
I am unable to tear my gaze from his. “I remember,” I murmur.
“So, you were saying, you don’t want to cause me any trouble?” He pushes a c
up of black coffee across the table toward me. “What did you mean by that, Molly? Help yourself to cream and sugar.”
I add a generous portion of both to my cup, using the excuse to play for a few extra seconds in which to think. It doesn’t help much. “I meant trouble between you and your wife. Rachel. She’s very nice, by the way.”
He nods as he helps himself from the cafatière. “She is. But Rachel’s my sister, not my wife.”
“Oh.” I splash my coffee onto the polished table. “Oh, I see.”
“Even if Rachel was my wife, I don’t see how an old acquaintance being in the area could cause me a problem. What am I missing here, Molly?”
I’m at a loss, quite unable to articulate anything remotely sensible. Is that how he remembers me? As an old acquaintance, nothing more? How many crazy assumptions have I made about the attraction between us? It was clearly all one-sided. I’ve spent years fantasising about having kinky sex with a man who barely remembers me.
“I’m sorry, this was a bad idea.” Mortified with embarrassment, I reach for my bag again. “I really do need to go. I have to get to the station, my train…”
“I’ll give you a lift. I’ll drive you all the way back to bloody London if I have to but I want an answer. What’s this about, Molly? Why are you really here?”
I stare at him, feeling rather like a rabbit caught in headlamps. I want to be anywhere but here, but I can’t move. At last I find my voice and I blurt out what’s on my mind. “I wanted to see you. I keep thinking about what happened, that afternoon. I can’t get it out of my head, and it confuses me. I don’t understand.”
“I’m not surprised you keep thinking about it—a prison riot’s a memorable event. What exactly is it you don’t understand, Molly?”
“It’s not the riot. I meant I keep thinking about before that, just you and me, and that… that thing… that happened.”
“Okay. The spanking. Is that it?”
I nod, as heat prickles up my face.
“Right then. If you want me to help you, I need to know what the problem is.” His tone is gentler now, his gaze less intense.
I start to relax, just a little. “You’d help me? Really?”
“Why would I not?” He appears genuinely surprised at my question.
“Because of what I did. I got you into trouble, lost you privileges.”
He laughs out loud. “Molly, I think it’s fair to say I got myself into trouble that day. I did what I wanted to do, and later, when the riot started, I did what I had to do to get you out safely. None of it was your fault.”
I bristle somewhat. “I was in charge. I was an officer.”
“Molly, you were so not in charge.” His voice is low, and he leans forward to look at me under his eyebrows. “You did as you were told, and you did it beautifully.”
“What do you mean?” I detect some greater significance to his words, something I’m just not grasping.
“You were a submissive. I’m a dom, and I recognised the signs. I pressed a few of your buttons, and off you went.”
“You manipulated me? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, that’s about it.”
“But, you were a prisoner. I was an officer, I took advantage of you. It was unprofessional.”
He flashes me his dazzling, lopsided grin. “It might have been unprofessional, I leave that for you to decide, but you most certainly didn’t take advantage of me.”
“My managers didn’t see it that way.”
“You told them?”
I shake my head. “Not all of it. Not the spanking bit. But they knew I was in your cell. There were cameras on the wing and they obviously went over all the footage with a fine-tooth comb to gather evidence about how the riot started, ringleaders, all that stuff. I couldn’t come up with a convincing explanation for what I was doing in your cell, and there were other questions too. For instance why were my clothes left behind in there? And why did I not come out when the furniture started flying and try to restore order?”
“You’d have been torn to bits.”
“I should have tried.”
“Fuck that. We did the right thing. We both survived, and none of the prisoners ended up on charges for murder or assault. And as for the clothes, we needed to make you as inconspicuous as possible, so you changed your officer’s shirt for prison issue.”
“You made me take off my bra too.”
He smiles, his eyes twinkling. “Ah, yes, perhaps not strictly necessary but I’ve never been one to pass up an opportunity. Did they pick up on that?”
I nod, mortified just by the memory of trying to explain everything that happened that afternoon to a far from sympathetic management enquiry. Time to change the subject.
“Were you hurt? In the fight with the other men, I mean. I saw you, before they hustled me away.”
“Bruised ribs and a broken finger, that’s all. Nothing much. I was shipped off to Strangeways jail in Manchester and put back on basic though, which pissed me off. I liked my radio and proper toilet and I had to do without all those luxuries for months. My parole board was postponed too. I served an extra year for my part in the riot.”
“But that wasn’t fair, you had no part in it.”
“Ah, Molly, such faith in the system. There’s not a lot happens in prisons that I’d really describe as fair, but it’s in the past now. I’ve moved on.” He smiles at me and picks up the cafatière. “More coffee?”
I nod, and wait in silence as he pours. He sips his coffee, black I note, and fixes me with that stern look again.
“So, we’ve established that you believe you were a crap officer, though I think you’re being rather hard on yourself. As screws go, I’d say you were decent enough. And we’ve dealt with Rachel. Now shall we discuss Mr. Whitkirk?”
“Who?”
“Your husband. I take it he isn’t with you?”
“Oh, no. No, we’re divorced. Well, nearly.”
He makes no comment on that, just watches me, waiting for more.
“It was a mistake. I got married because I felt I had to. I had to do something, after what happened between us. Andy was there and he just sort of bulldozed me into it.”
“You surprise me, Molly.” He doesn’t say it, but I sense I disappoint him too. That hurts.
“I surprised myself. But as you say, it’s in the past and I’ve moved on.”
“Have you? In that case, why are you back here, looking for me and wanting to discuss spanking? And why did you feel you had to do something?”
I draw in a deep breath and meet his gaze. His expression isn’t hostile or accusing, just interested. And determined.
“Okay. Andy always hated my job, and after the riot he never got his head around how I came to spend forty minutes locked in a cell with prisoner. I told him nothing happened but he didn’t believe me.” Jared’s lip quirks at that, and I shrug. I did what I did, and there’s no undoing it all now. “He was jealous, angry, insecure, and I was fragile in the aftermath of it all. I was weak, and I wanted some peace and quiet. It just seemed—easier. So I handed in my notice and married him.”
“I’m getting the impression this wasn’t a love match.”
“Not really, as it turns out. We were engaged though, and living together, so it was a natural step. Or it seemed like that at the time.”
“You had a live-in fiancé, and you still let me spank you?”
“I know. I just got caught up in it, and you were…” I hesitate, try to find the right word. “You were very compelling. I did as you told me. I wanted to, but it was wrong, I see that now. I saw it then, straight after. I felt guilty, and stupid, and very confused. I needed someone to take charge, and I thought Andy could perhaps replace you.”
“You were looking for a dom, even then?” He doesn’t even pretend not to understand.
I nod. “I didn’t know it at the time, but I do now. And I mistook Andy for that. It was unfa
ir really, and not his fault. He was strict, and demanding. He told me what to do, and I obeyed him.”
“So, what happened?” He is leaning forward, his expression gentle. He reaches for me and cups my face in his hand, and it is only then that I realise tears are streaming down my face.
“He wasn’t kind. I think he was a bully, probably. He never spanked me, never laid a hand on me at all, but he was always angry, always critical of the things I did, anything I said.” I stop to gulp in a few much-needed breaths. “He used to call me names, really horrible things, and each time it felt like a punch in the gut. I’m glad he wasn’t into spanking, I would never have felt safe with him. He didn’t seem to like me that much, not really.”
“So you left him?”
I nod. “I was a coward about even that, though. I was too demoralised to tell him to his face, so one day I went to work and just didn’t go home. I took a room in a bed and breakfast and texted him to say I wasn’t coming back. And do you know what? He didn’t even care. He just replied to say ‘fair enough,’ and to let him have a forwarding address for his lawyer to be in touch.”
“Heartless bastard. It sounds to me as though you did the right thing.”
I manage a watery smile. In my heart I know I was right to end my marriage, but Jared is the first person to actually say it. He wipes away some of my tears with his thumb as I ramble on with my tale. “My family was incredulous when I told them what I’d done. My older sister couldn’t understand why I dumped a decent husband and a good provider like Andy. He hadn’t even been unfaithful, and we’d only just had a new driveway laid. My mother refused to let me move back in with her, and is still fond of reminding me that I made my bed and really should have laid in it.”
“A new driveway, eh? That is a big deal, I suppose…”
