Chapter 21
He’s propped up on one arm, his dark hair messed from sleep, a light dusting of stubble coating his chin. The white cotton sheet is wrapped around his waist and between his legs. He’s otherwise on display for my own personal viewing.
‘This is a nice way to wake up.’ My eyes run shamelessly over the perfect sculpture of man, falling on his eager crotch, a sight that heats the blood that travels to the tips of my breasts and between my legs.
‘You know what I was thinking? I was thinking I’ve never met anyone like you.’ His fingers trace the side of my body, moving away the sheet so his hand comes to rest on the small of my back. My body reacts, bending closer to his heat.
‘I hope that’s a good thing.’ The sound of my voice betrays my want.
‘Mostly,’ he says, with that half-smile I adore. ‘No one else challenges me the way you do and no one else dares to tell me to check my attitude.’
‘What can I say, sometimes, you need an attitude check, Ryans.’
‘As do you, Mrs Ryans-to-be, and you’re going to get it.’
I moan greedily as he pulls my body against his, letting me feel his intention against my navel. His hand slides to the sphere of my arse, pulling my thigh across his and coming to rest in the crease between my thigh and calf.
‘You’re right when you say we work better as a team. We do, don’t we?’
I assume, on this occasion, he’s referring to the fact Francis wants out of his arrangement with Nick Henshaw and local counsel are already on the case of challenging Nick’s registration of Black Diamonds in the UK and Europe.
All of which kills Nick’s chances of getting three million pounds out of GJR.
‘If I said it, it must be true.’ I’m feeling particularly cheeky and ready to play this morning, something that pulls his lips to a smirk, but his eyes are serious.
‘I’ve never had that. This. I’ve never been part of a team.
I’m always the man in control and with you…
you throw me off balance. Some days, I wonder if I’ve dreamt you.
As if it’s taken me thirty years to realise what I need and you’re a figment of my imagination.
You’re beautiful. Smart and strong. You’re so perfect, I’m terrified of waking up and losing you. ’
I hold my hand to his cheek and wait for him to open his eyes. ‘I feel the same and I’m not going anywhere, Gregory. You’ve changed me in so many ways. You’re the anchor in my new world.’
‘Our new world.’
He drops his mouth to mine and rolls us so my back is on the mattress, my thighs locked around his hips, my body rising to make contact with his, desire turning to a wet, aching need between my legs.
He lowers himself, his weight resting against my pelvis, his forearms either side of my head, his fingers gently stroking my hair. ‘I love you so much.’
I brush his hair back from his brow and lock my fingers behind his neck. ‘I love you, too.’
He leans down, his tongue dipping into my mouth and teasing mine, the soft skin of his lips grazing my own. I drown in his touch, in his love, in him.
* * *
‘Sorry to interrupt but can I take a car?’ I make my way into the lounge in my skinny jeans and oversized jumper, eating a bagel on the move so that I’m not late for picking up Sandy.
Gregory and Jackson look up from the photographs and documents they’re studying on the coffee table.
I don’t need to look to know that Nick Henshaw will be the star of that storyboard.
They’re blindly trying to plot their next move, not knowing how Nick will react to the fact his plan imploded.
This fight has only just begun. The one saving grace is that Gregory hasn’t opted for his usual first port of call and had Jackson bring in extra security.
That’s something I can take comfort from.
He thinks this will be a white-collar war rather than one that requires him to step into the ring.
The men have a silent conversation before Jackson stands and declares, ‘I’ll take you.’
I hold my hand up whilst I swallow. ‘No, thanks, Jackson, I’m good to drive.
’ I glare at Gregory. ‘I know you put me on the insurance; I saw the invoice on your desk. And before you dare to make a remark about my driving capabilities, let me remind you that you’ve never actually been a passenger in a car with me. ’
He rests back against the leather of the sofa.
‘Two things.’ He holds up one finger like a completely patronising arse as he speaks.
‘One, you don’t drive often.’ He lifts another finger and I’d like to mirror that action, flashing my knuckles in his direction.
‘Two, you don’t have the first idea about driving one of my cars. Jackson will take you.’
Whilst I take his point on the supercar front – the paddle gears, no clutch, the car screaming out to go faster – I don’t appreciate his tone.
‘Why would you put me on the insurance if I’m never going to be allowed to drive the cars?’
‘In case.’
‘In case of what? A rally opportunity on South Bank?’
‘See. This is what I’m talking about.’ He raises his hands and faces Jackson. ‘Baby, you drive rally cars in a rally.’
‘Quit being a dick and just give me some keys.’
His eyes are bright when he looks back to me. He moves to the small safe in the corner of the lounge and types in his code then throws me a key.
‘You can take the Range Rover. It’s a normal drive and it’s safe. Don’t play games. Don’t take risks. Don’t drive over the speed limit and—’
‘Bugger off, Gregory.’
* * *
Sandy and I run from the Range Rover, coats over our heads to shield us from the torrential rain, not stopping until we reach the porch.
I have to fiddle with the lock, yanking the door handle towards me as I turn the key.
A sign of how infrequently the lock has been turned in the last five months.
I push the door past a stack of mail, most of which looks like adverts and trash.
I stopped the important mail after my dad died.
Sandy helps me scoop up the paper and envelopes into a pile on the dark wood side table in the vestibule.
We stand for a while, looking around what used to be a bright, happy home.
It has a strange, musty smell and even with the lights turned on, it feels dark and grey, like the colour has been drained from the furnishings and the paint on the walls.
I run my finger along the side table and look at the thick, grey circle that forms on my skin, a symbol of the past.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Sandy says. ‘I brought a pack-up and luxury biscuits. It’s going to be a long day.’
‘I didn’t even think of that, thank you. I’ll get the boxes from the car.’
* * *
Long day doesn’t cover it. One of the hardest days of my life might come close.
We started downstairs: the lounge, the kitchen, the dining room.
The removal men will be packing up and disposing of everything we haven’t agreed to keep or leave to the buyers and there weren’t many personal items downstairs.
I decided not to look at photographs, wrapping them in old newspaper and packing them into a box before memories could form in my head.
Sandy started with the opposite approach, wanting to remember and talk, but her smiles were cast in the shadow of tears and it took all my emotional strength to comfort her and drag us both through the godawful morning.
Now we’re upstairs and I’m in the doorway of my dad’s bedroom, staring at the empty space left by the removal of the special equipment he was given on loan from the National Health Service.
The bed, the chair and commode, the drugs cabinet.
All gone. In their wake, there’s the pungent smell of stale urine, a worn carpet and an overwhelming sense of death.
I make my way into the room for one thing: the picture of my dad, Sandy and me at Brighton Pier in ’94.
We’re all smiling, holding candyfloss. My dad drapes his arms around our shoulders.
The sun is beaming down on us. He’s young, well, happy.
It was his favourite photograph of the three of us and he asked for it to be put by his bedside on one of his good days.
My throat constricts as I trace his smile with my fingertips and I close my eyes, willing myself to get past this moment for me, for Sandy.
‘I love you, Dad,’ I whisper, then press my lips to the frame.
The loft is the worst room. It was always going to be.
But the reality is worse than the thought of it.
My dad kept so many things from my childhood that I’d forgotten even exist. Dolls, bears, drawings, pictures with glitter and wool that Sandy helped me make.
School reports, trophies from athletics and dancing, swimming badges.
I can’t bring myself to throw away these things because I see in each of them the tremendous sense of love my dad had for me.
I’m eternally grateful to have had a dad who loved me and protected me.
Sandy talks about the stories behind the things we pack into the boxes and I smile outwardly, sometimes even respond appropriately to her comments, but I don’t give myself over to the memories. I hide behind an invisible wall of safety because I’m afraid that when the tears come, they won’t stop.
* * *
Sandy holds in her lap a small bag of belongings that she asked to keep as I drive her back to Lara’s house.
I hardly speak as we make our way, nodding and shaking my head as she talks.
This is Sandy’s way of coping, talking through it, but I can’t help her.
I can’t get words past the pain in my chest, the ache in my stomach, the stinging sensation behind my eyes.
I love Sandy, possibly more than she’ll ever know, but I’m relieved when I turn onto Lara’s driveway because once I’m alone, I can break.
‘Scarlett, hunny, come inside,’ Lara calls from the doorway.
Lara, the wedding. I forgot. I close my eyes, reboot and climb out of the car.