Love & Freedom (Choc Lit)

by Moorcroft, Sue

She glanced guiltily at her watch – it was after nine. ‘I was just so tired.’

  He laughed, pulling her against him. ‘Evidently.’

  She let her fingers wander inside his shirt, grateful that he hadn’t got rid of Ru with heavy hints as Stef would have done. Even if those hints were dressed up as jokes, they could still sting. ‘I owe you.’

  His eyes half closed as her fingertips brushed his ribcage. ‘I will collect. I take it you don’t want him to know about us?’

  Her conscience twanged, even as her heart hugged itself at the idea that she had got herself into an ‘us’. Then anxiety rolled in like a stomach ache as she followed his reasoning. ‘Robina. Holy crap, she’s going to be upset.’

  He squeezed her, reassuringly. ‘Why worry about a stalker when we could worry about a husband?’

  She hesitated. ‘She’s more than a stalker.’

  ‘OK, she’s your employer. But let’s not stress about it tonight, OK? Let’s just live in the moment.’

  ‘Never works,’ she said, gloomily. ‘Stef always wanted to live in the moment if I worried about tiresome things like getting enough sleep before work or paying the rent ahead of the entertainment budget. The bad stuff just waits till the moment’s over.’

  He nudged her hand, which had suspended its stroking beneath his shirt. ‘At least until I get back from Paris.’

  ‘OK.’

  She tried hard, eating scalding fish and chips straight from the paper, laughing at Ru’s disgusting combination of vinegar, tomato ketchup and mayo on the side, refusing to believe that he would have topped the lot with cheese, had there been some. After, Martyn logged on to his Twitter and Facebook accounts, lazily dictating posts while Ru’s fingers flew over the keyboard. She even cheered when Martyn observed, ‘Ru, you’re an IT wizard. Would you be interested in taking over some of my routine on-line stuff? I’d pay you.’

  Ru breathed, ‘Wicked!’ before Martyn had finished the sentence. Then Ru wanted to see every one of the sites Martyn designed and kept up, avid for information, for opportunity, to have something better to do than work in a tearoom.

  Still, Honor couldn’t rid herself of the spectre of looming trouble.

  It was hovering like one of the biggest, beadiest gulls down on the undercliff, just waiting for a tourist to come along to be crapped on.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Saturday began agreeably as Martyn, reasoning that he could catch up after Honor had begun her day at the Teapot and she had surely banked enough sleep by now, woke her with his mouth on her prettiest curves.

  ‘Whassa time?’ she muttered sleepily, shifting accommodatingly.

  ‘Six.’

  She shuddered as he let his lips trace the lines down her abdomen, exactly as he’d pictured when he’d been lusting after her in her sports bra, exhibiting a body that was his definition of perfect. Taut. Pretty. Curvaceous to just the right degree. ‘Six? What are we doing awake at six?’ But her fingers threaded through his hair in a way that encouraged him to continue doing exactly as he was doing.

  ‘We’re making time for a fabulous sexual encounter before you go to work and I go to France.’

  She groaned. ‘I was too tired to ask, last night. Tell me what’s in France.’

  ‘Paris.’ He blew gently over her damp skin, rewarded with a shiver and a pathway of goosepimples. ‘Eiffel Tower, Arc du Triomphe, the Seine, Avenue Montaigne, Rue St Denis, Boulevard St Germain, Moulin Rouge … all the backdrops essential to sell mock-French cologne.’

  ‘Oh right.’ She shifted, as if planning to return his attentions. He moved his weight to keep her where he wanted her. Because he wanted her a lot.

  Afterwards, when she was curled tightly in his arms, hair like ripples of caramel across the pillow and his shoulder, he said, ‘When I get back on Thursday, we’d better talk.’ Because there was a guy called Stefan Sontag whose first job when he regained his liberty was going to be to try and put his marriage back together.

  He felt her heave a sigh.

  Fitting his fingertips neatly into the dimples either side of the base of her spine he kissed her. ‘I know. It’s not easy. But, you know. If we want things to go on from here …’

  She kissed his shoulder and he felt her cheeks move as if she smiled.

  He tried to see her face. ‘Have you had any more emails?’

  She snuggled closer with a groan. ‘I didn’t look. I told him before I came out here that it was over. But he doesn’t want to hear. And right now isn’t the best time to yell it at him.’ She began to uncurl and sit up. ‘And then there’s the Robina issue. Martyn, that’s probably trickier than you thi–’

  Hastily, he yanked her back down against him, skin on skin. ‘Oh no. I refuse to let her into bed with us!’

  The Teapot was calling and she had to leave, in a flurry of kisses and one long, hard hug, her hair bright in the morning light. He wanted to hold on to her and kiss the tiny freckles spangled across her nose but she laughed and wriggled away. ‘I don’t want Ru to have to call me again to tell me to get my butt over to the Teapot.’

  He leaned on the doorframe and watched her check out the street before she left, running lightly down the metal steps then up the street towards the Eastingdean Teapot, ponytail streaming above her backpack. It seemed faintly ridiculous that she should be sneaking around to avoid Ru – and therefore Robina – learning that they were sleeping together. Honor was being way too careful of Robina’s feelings, in his opinion. Robina was becoming more and more of a pain. He was organising too much of his life around her.

  Although pleasantly heavy of limb, he was too restless to go back to sleep. He showered and packed instead, checking out his diary notes to see how the client wanted him … stubble, which was pretty much standard. He hadn’t shaved for the last couple of days in anticipation.

  Then Ace rang. ‘Everything OK, Martyn? All set?’

  ‘Airport at five, I’m booked into a Hyatt. How’s everything with you? And Shelli?’ He felt a twist of guilt that he hadn’t spoken to Ace since last weekend, when Ace had been so broken up. And he was intelligent enough to know why. It hung before his eyes. Husband. Ace was a betrayed husband.

  ‘Absolutely all over.’ Ace was obviously trying to keep his voice light. But. Still. Definite wobble.

  ‘I’m really sorry to hear that, man.’ The word hanging in the air changed to hypocrite. It followed him around as he finished the familiar task of packing, nipping and gnawing at him like a nasty dog.

  And then, as he was throwing his small black case and suit carrier into his luggage compartment, Clarissa pulled up into the car park. ‘Going somewhere?’ She looked relaxed and cheerful, for once.

  He snapped the hatchback shut. ‘Airport. Working in France this week.’

  ‘Oh, good. I can pinch your car-parking space for an hour, then.’

  Obligingly, he backed the X5 out and let her pull into the space, waiting as she hopped out, beeped her car locked and ran over to his vehicle. As always, she was on her way to or from a class, pink training shoes bright against her black leggings and long black T-shirt knotted at one side. ‘Have you seen Honor? She’s not home.’

  He kept his voice neutral. ‘She’s working at Robina’s tearoom, isn’t she?’ And then, curiosity aroused. ‘Something up?’

  ‘Only that she’s still not cutting the lawns. If she doesn’t want to do it then she’ll need to find someone to do it for her. It’s in the lease. Have a good trip.’ Through the open window, Clarissa squeezed his forearm, then turned and whisked around the corner, into The Butts.

  As he drove away, he reflected that, by some miracle, Clarissa had neither sneered at his work nor tasked him with some of hers. And it was a while since she’d made an affectionate gesture towards him, too.

  Months. Pretty much since she lost her husband to somebody new and, after screaming at him for being Rosie’s ‘other man’ – hadn’t that been fun? – had collapsed, sobbing, into his arms.

  Swi
tching his mind to the job in hand, he drove to Gatwick airport, leaving his car with the north terminal valet parking and checking in, enduring the boring lines of travellers at security, the familiar routine under the bright terminal lights, until he was seated in a traveller’s lounge with a newspaper and a cup of coffee, passenger announcements crackling and departure screens flickering. His flight to Charles de Gaulle was on time. All he had to do was relax and wait.

  But relaxation wouldn’t come. He gazed at the print, but his thoughts chased each other around. Clarissa. Ace. And the way that he was hiding his relationship with Honor from them, as he dealt death blows to Honor’s marriage. All this sneaking around didn’t sit well with him at all.

  But, Honor!

  The coffee in his cup sloshed suddenly. Body like a dancer, smile like a fallen angel, heart like a lion. In his head, in his bed. The past couple of days had been a dream come true and what was done was done. But there was part of him – not that part – that wished he hadn’t lost control when he had found her in his arms in that tiny, stretchy excuse for a dress; that he could have put her down and hung in until she’d been able to wind things up properly with her husband. Been strong. He’d sworn after Rosie had made an idiot of him that he would run a mile rather than get involved with a married woman again.

  Conveniently forgetting that running a mile was something he did with incredible ease.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  By Sunday, Robina’s cakes had run out. Honor let Ru and Aletta do all the prep in the morning while she made chocolate cupcakes from the recipe she remembered from school, times five, and cherry scones from a recipe she called up from the internet on Ru’s phone. She used the last of Robina’s chocolate frosting from the fridge to swirl over the cupcakes, hoping she wasn’t contravening any health regulations and crossing her fingers that no one would get sick.

  There was plenty of jam for the scones, which, because she included a little extra baking soda, rose every bit as majestically and drunkenly as Robina’s ever did.

  The cake table still looked empty, by Robina’s standards, so, cursing, remembering a recipe from Jess’s time at girl scouts, Honor mixed up apple and cream cheese with chopped Snickers bars and dolloped the mixture into more cupcake cases and cooked them.

  When she emerged from her mad bake-in, hot and bothered and muttering, she realised that Ru had filled the potato oven and opened the tearoom and he and Aletta were serving, everything under control. ‘You guys are so great.’ She opened the back door and fanned herself, gulping iced water, then called Ru into the kitchen to tackle the washing up whilst she whizzed through the mini clean-down necessary after her efforts. Just in time for the “elevenses” trade to morph seamlessly into the lunchtime trade.

  By three in the afternoon, she was flagging. With Martyn in France, she’d gone to bed early on Saturday evening. But then he’d called from his hotel room and what began as a quick goodnight became, ‘So, what are you wearing?’ and ended up as phone sex. Fabulous, but it didn’t fulfil the same function as sleep.

  But the teagarden was busy and she was making a couple of pints of fruit slush by throwing fat red strawberries into the blender with ice cubes.

  ‘Honor!’ Aletta scuttled in from the garden, eyes wide in alarm.

  ‘What’s up?’ Startled to see Aletta moving at more than a serene amble, Honor twisted the blender jug from its base and halted.

  ‘Those … those …’ Aletta’s English deserted her. ‘Big boys! And they push Ru–’

  Throwing open the counter flap, Honor raced outside to find Frog and his Tadpoles gathered in a threatening knot around Ru, whilst customers exchanged looks of alarm and drew away.

  Ru stood, unmoving, his hands by his sides, eyes on Frog. His hair was pulled off his face by his reversed ball cap and it made him look vulnerable. But he was clearly composed as he said, ‘No. Not without the money up front.’

  ‘No, freak?’ Frog sneered, his back to Honor, his jeans hanging low to reveal the swirling black pattern on his boxer shorts and his shoulders menacingly broad in a tight black T-shirt. ‘“No” isn’t the right answer. Get your arse indoors and get me a drink. I know your freaky mummy isn’t here to cast her scary spells on me.’

  Honor knew that she should give Ru a chance to sort this out on his own. This is what the classes had prepared him for, given him the confidence to face. If she charged in then she was undoing all the good that Hughie the instructor had done.

  Ru smiled into Frog’s face. ‘No.’

  Delicately, as if preparing to enjoy himself, Frog put his fingertips on Ru’s chest. And shoved.

  As he was forced to step back, Ru’s gaze dropped to the ‘button’ at the base of Frog’s throat, his smile stretching into a big grin of anticipation as his right hand drew back.

  And suddenly, Honor didn’t want him to make that jab that would stop Frog in his tracks and even throw him, coughing, to his knees.

  She didn’t want him to drop to Frog’s level, to get the badass reputation she’d once wanted for him, or maybe even get pleasure from the violence, get a taste for it. She’d watched Stef stand up for an underdog and enjoy it; she’d had a hard time calming him down afterwards and preventing him from turning all vigilante. Being a badass could be bad.

  Even for the badass.

  With a squeak, she leapt forward, yanked out the elastic waist of Frog’s boxer shorts and tipped in the contents of the blender jug. ‘Watch your ass, buddy.’

  Frog screamed, spinning around to face her, gyrating and glaring, plunging his hands into his pants. ‘You fuckin’ Yankee!’

  ‘Good one!’ Ru began to howl with laughter.

  The Tadpoles started to snort, shoulders shaking.

  Customers joined in as Frog jiggled and danced and ice rained out of the leg of his jeans, until the teagarden was swept with gales of laughter.

  When he had finally pawed what he could from his underwear, ice and crushed strawberries lay glistening on the ground. He glared ferociously at Honor. Honor glared right back, swinging the jug gently.

  Slowly, laughter was replaced by silence.

  ‘That,’ said Frog, with perilous dignity, ‘was fuckin’ ’orrible.’ But his lips twitched as he looked down at a damp patch spreading over the crotch of his jeans. Gingerly, he wiggled his hips, reigniting some giggles. His mouth actually curled up at one corner. Without his habitual teeth-gritted snarl, he was nearly good looking.

  Then Honor stepped forward and enfolded him in a great big hug, somehow recognising that, beneath the façade of adulthood, the heart beating was still that of a child. ‘Please stop bothering Ru because we don’t want to have to hurt you. If you want to earn a drink and a cake by doing half-an-hour’s washing up, there’s plenty.’ She stepped back to gauge his reaction.

  Frog’s jaw was suitably dropped and the tips of his ears had gone red. ‘Earn?’ he repeated.

  ‘Sure.’ Encouraged, she linked her arm in his and turned him towards the tearoom. ‘We’re real shorthanded so you’d be doing me a favour. You wash up this load that’s waiting and it’ll be worth a drink and a big cake. What do you say?’

  Frog paused. Then said, gruffly, to the Tadpoles, ‘Catch you later.’

  In the kitchen, he surveyed the stainless steel sink full of steaming water, a stack of plates ready beside it. ‘Two cakes,’ he stipulated.

  She sighed. ‘Well, OK. Just this one time. Because I have to make more strawberry slush.’

  He looked at her and laughed. ‘OK, Yankee Doodle, how much do I have to do to get a cheesy potato?’

  ‘A lot.’ She gave him an apron and began to rinse more strawberries in the other bowl of the sink. Then, seeing that Ru had come into the kitchen to stare, ‘And you have to get along with Ru while you’re here. Rufus, Toby is going to be helping us this afternoon, as we’re shorthanded.’

  ‘Frog,’ said Ru.

  ‘Freak,’ said Frog.

  ‘Whatever. Just play nice.’ Honor switch
ed on the blender.

  After showering out a head full of hair wax that, in his view, had been totally unnecessary on a windless day, but the hair stylist had ‘wanted definition’, Martyn emerged from the all-white hotel bathroom with an all-white towel hooked around his hips, and checked his phone. He’d become a compulsive checker on this trip, greeting every text with a skip of anticipation in case it was from Honor.

  But this one was from Ru. He read and reread it, half-convinced that Ru must be suffering from hallucinations. Electing to go straight to source, he dialled Honor. ‘Ru tells me that you beat Frog up, again.’

  Her laugh was little more than a breath down the line, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. ‘I didn’t! It was a satisfactorily non-violent intervention. I suddenly didn’t want Ru to prove that violence breeds violence.’ She yawned.

  His eyes ran over the text again. ‘So you tipped ice down Frog’s boxers? And then hugged him? Are you bonkers?’

  She yawned. ‘I guess you had to be there.’

  Laughter bubbled up from his chest. ‘I can’t tell you how much I wish I had been. You’re something else, Freedom Lefevre.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Honor, not due at the Teapot until ten, was drifting in an agreeable somnolence of half-dreamed dreams when her cell phone rang. She scrabbled it somehow to her ear and groaned, ‘Yeah?’ discouragingly.

  Ru sounded diffident. ‘Mum and Soppy only got home about six this morning and they’re in bed, wrecked. Shall we open up? Or stay closed?’

  Honor kind of wanted to snap, ‘Stay closed!’ But, sometimes, her conscience just insisted that she live up to the name her father gave her. And she hadn’t slaved and contrived for the last three days to keep the Teapot running just to have Robina come home and mock all her efforts by leaving it shut. The tearoom was meant to be open. So she would make somebody open it. She swore. ‘I’ll be there in thirty minutes.’ She was beginning to totally appreciate why waitresses wore their hair in tight knots or braids. It wasn’t hygiene. It was so no one could tell they had unwashed, unbrushed, unstyled hair because they had no time for all that.