38. Faye
38
FAYE
Her weekend bag had never had so much use as it did in the last week. Crossing the threshold of Bash’s front door, Faye breathed in slowly, taking it all in with new eyes even though she’d been here countless times before.
For a man who oozed luxury left, right and centre in his work, she’d never understood how Bash’s personal taste was so simple, yet sleek. His white-fronted townhouse didn’t feel as though she walked into a showroom, but a home – with its European flare like an old Parisian maison , even if he complained he wanted more for it.
Faye had woken this morning with a smile that was quickly replaced with an “O” when Bash took himself to his knees again and made her see white clouds and shooting stars. He’d made her breakfast – a modest menu of porridge with frozen berries he’d found in Morris’ freezer – and after driving the hour back to London and dropping her off at her flat, she’d gone straight to the bakery.
He’d picked her up from Baked two hours after what should’ve been closing time, surprising Chandra with his unannounced appearance. It’d taken half a second of Bash’s flustered glances and Faye’s blush es for Chandra to realise, quite loudly, what had changed between them.
Whatever paperwork she’d left behind on her desk when Bash dragged her away could wait for tomorrow. She’d tried to protest coming to his house, just a little, stating the logical fact that she only had the clothes on her body and no change of underwear, as well as needing to be back at Baked for six a.m.
“I want you in my bed,” he’d said outside on the lamp-lit street still decorated in tinsel and fairy lights, and the space between Faye’s stomach and her heart went woozy at the prospect, “where I can keep you warm. Because your flat is an ice box.”
She’d known he’d meant it teasingly, but in reality, he’d been right.
“Whatever you want to do, Peanut, I’m here with you.”
Twenty days. That’s how long Faye had before she left. There was every chance that things between them could end – go back to how they always had been – as soon as she set the wheels moving towards Manchester. But for now, Bash was here with her.
“Can we pick up some of my things first?” she’d asked.
“I was really hoping you’d say that.”
So here she was in Bash’s warm hallway – which Faye welcomed, given how her flat had indeed been the ice box he’d named it when she’d hurried to collect her pyjamas and toothbrush.
A bead of giddy apprehension rolled through her; this was the first time she would step into this checkerboard and soft cream parlour as not just Bash’s friend, but something more. She didn’t want to get used to the champagne feeling of experiencing new things with him.
Reverent in her realisation, Faye took off her boots and let Bash hang her outerwear up in the cloak cupboard. Now that she knew how long he’d pined for her too, it was bittersweet to realise how much time they could’ve had together already like this. Instead of get-togethers and dinner party nights, he could be coming with her permanently to Manchester instead.
Don’t think about it. If all they had were a few weeks, then Faye promised herself to live in the moment, and hopefully not break her heart too much on the day she left.
“Are you alright?” Bash came up behind her and gently took her bag from her shoulder, which Faye gratefully let go of. After the day of preparing doughs and deciding which recipes to include in Baked’s new menu, her arms were heavy too.
“I was just waiting for you,” she said humbly, reaching for his free hand.
A knowing look crossed Bash’s soft features as he tilted his head and guided her towards the curving staircase. Usually by now she’d have been halfway up it.
“You don’t ever need my permission to do anything in this house, Peanut,” Bash said, taking two of the steps to the first of many floors at a time while Faye followed behind. “You’re always welcome here, you know that? Go anywhere you want. Do anything you want.” They turned the bend in the landing and Bash took the safe second to flash her a smile. “I just want you to be comfortable.”
Who wouldn’t be comfortable in Bash’s home? The ground floor was still furnished as it had been in the roaring twenties, set up with a kitchen and space for dining off of the reception hall, but the rest was as though he’d built it with the comfort of his friends and family in mind. Faye couldn’t wait to dive into her favourite mountain of soft fluffy cushions on one of the sofas in the living room, which was where the group of their friends piled into when they were here together.
“ Fais comme chez toi ,? * ” he said finally – though Faye had no idea what that meant – before depositing her bag at the foot of the next set of stairs and redirecting her towards the living room .
“Do I get to pick my bedroom?” Faye knew exactly the kind of trouble that question would get her into, and she hoped to start the night off right.
Bash looked at her squarely. “I don’t know where else you think you’re possibly sleeping other than in my bed.”
“I’ve never slept over here before.”
The frown that dented his brow was a surprise. “What? You must have.”
“Nope.”
He made the last stride into the living room and flicked on the switch of a standing lamp. As far as Faye was aware, the main lights overhead didn’t ever get used. The bulbs might only be for decoration at this point.
“But … how?” If the dent creased any more between Bash’s brows, she’d need to smooth it out with a cranked palette knife like he was made of buttercream.
“You must be confusing me for some other woman.” Faye batted her lashes to exaggerate her tease.
“I’ve never brought a date back here.” A flash of a grin broke through Bash’s strange defensiveness. “Not to my bedroom, anyway.”
Like someone above her pulled on a string tied to her spine, Faye rose up straighter. “You haven’t?”
He shook his head once. “No.”
So … she was going to be the first? By the end of the night – she hoped, at least – she would be the first woman to cross into Bash’s bedroom. Faye shouldn’t be as excited about that thought as she was. She wasn’t his first girlfriend, or his first mistletoe kiss, but she was the first one here in his home.
Continuing around the room, Bash flicked on various lamps and, wall by wall, illuminated large sketches and artworks and the bookcases stretching on either side of the old Georgian fireplace. The warmth of the lights touched the room’s gold accents, and the slate greys of the sofas and chairs faded into the darkness outside of the tall windows.
In a true luxury of a time long ago, the view looked over the private gardens belonging to the square, blanketed in a thin sheet of frost, trees and hedges edging towards being overgrown for the winter.
Neighbourhoods like this didn’t exist where Faye lived. And perhaps her mind jumped the gun for a moment and got ahead of itself, but she could imagine what it might be like to look out across this quiet view every morning. Her chest went all warm and fuzzy at the idea.
She clipped her ankle like always on the practically invisible frame of the coffee table in her rush to dive into her favourite cushions. Her cheek smushed into the white fluff and a small laugh reverberated from over by the drinks cabinet in the corner which saved trekking up and down the stairs on tipsy nights. She didn’t care if Bash found it funny how much she loved these cushions. They smelled so much like his woodsy cologne, and maybe subconsciously that’s why she’d always favoured them.
Loaded with a record from Bash’s vast collection in the bookcase, his retro record player sat upon a walnut cabinet and crackled through side one of Ella Fitzgerald’s 1967 Christmas album.
Ella’s voice quietly played through the dimly lit room as Bash came and joined her, cuddling her into his side. He slithered his arms around her waist and tucked himself up against her from behind. He felt so nice there, like a protective bear not wanting to let her go.
It wasn’t long before there was a crisp raspberry lemonade in her hand and fingers massaging her scalp as she reclined into Bash’s side, her head against his shoulder. Being surrounded by his warmth and his very presence was like a happy drug straight into Faye’s veins.
The only evidence it was still the festive season at all was the lone, thin Christmas tree tucked between the two gigantic windows. Faye coul dn’t help but stare at it, wondering how different Christmas might’ve looked altogether if Bash hadn't gone to Shropshire, if he’d stayed here and invited her to join him as soon as he’d heard her boiler had broken like his parents teased he should’ve done.
It was only natural to try and guess if things between them would’ve worked out the same or not without the fireside cuddle and the mistletoe kiss.
Maybe their secrets would still be called secrets …
Faye didn’t regret the choices they’d made this week. Not in the slightest. She felt as though she was finally right where she’d always belonged.
Their eyes met, and it was as if Bash was trying to turn her heart to jelly. She ran her hand up his shoulder and twirled the short strands of his hair at the nape.
“Why are you looking at me like that this time?” The same way he’d looked at her on the last sofa they’d shared.
Bash cuddled her closer, his lopsided smile staying put. “I’ve always looked at you like this.”
Maybe he had. Maybe only now Faye knew what it meant.
“Hmm, no you haven’t.” She caressed the back of his neck, feeling him sigh. “But I don’t ever want you to stop.”
Faye’d thought she’d never find anyone to endure loving her – someone to be there for the long run that she could trust her heart with. But Bash had been there for eleven years, and by everything he’s said and done, he wasn’t going anywhere else.
He knew all of her messy parts, and he hadn’t left.
Was this happiness just the early giddiness of a new relationship? Ellie would definitely say so. And Faye was going to cling onto that feeling for as long as she could.
“What would you like first?” she asked, lowering her voice purposefully. “Dinner … or dessert ?”
Bash swept his fingers back and forth across her inner thigh and Faye knew exactly what he was thinking, her heart skipping faster with each s wipe of his thumb. “That depends … when was the last time you ate?”
She thought about it as seriously as he’d asked, because missing meals was not something to joke about in front of Bash. “I ate lunch at one, and a banana muffin at four.”
Bash tilted his head with a slow exhale, saying without words that any other activities for the evening would have to wait.
“Come on, Peanut. As much as I want to toss you into my bed, I’m feeding you first.”
* ? Make yourself at home