The Wife Who Ran Away

by Tess Stimson

  ‘Keir, seriously. You can’t possibly imagine anything’s going to happen between us?’

  ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’

  ‘I’m telling you, obviously.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Keir says, ‘I think it already has.’

  A shiver runs down my spine. Staring into his strange gold eyes, I feel the world tilt. It takes a moment for me to recover myself.

  ‘Come on, Keir. This is just—’

  ‘Ridiculous. Yes, so you’ve said.’

  He reminds me of Agness: young people always have an answer for everything. They don’t understand that the world isn’t black and white.

  ‘I’m very flattered, obviously,’ I try again, ‘but you must see it could never work.’

  ‘Must I?’

  I laugh in frustration. ‘Keir, please.’

  ‘Oh, all right. If it’s really bothering you that much, we can talk about it when we get there. Now can you please put that helmet on, before we get arrested?’

  This is hopeless. He’s like a small child insisting it should be Christmas every day. I don’t want to stand here in the street debating this nonsense; it’s too exhausting. It would be simpler to humour him and tactfully disentangle myself later.

  Walk away. Why should you care if you hurt his feelings?

  No one likes being rejected. I remember what it was like. I can let him down gently without denting his pride.

  Come on, you’re enjoying the attention. Why shouldn’t you? It’s been a long time.

  I wait patiently as Keir adjusts the helmet strap under my chin. He eases the Vespa from among the massed ranks of scooters and I clamber on behind him, struggling not to flash my knickers beneath my short skirt. It’s twenty years since I got on the back of one of these. Putting as much space between our bodies as I can, I grip the back of the seat behind me, the way I’ve seen Italian girls do with such insouciance, and nearly tumble onto the cobbles as Keir rounds the first corner. Gasping, I swallow my pride and fling my arms round him, clinging on to his waist for dear life.

  Unexpectedly, I want to giggle. Risking life and limb on a souped-up sewing-machine in a skirt that shows my underwear, going off with a man I barely know, a man half my age who’s already kissed me and made his intentions clear: it’s all so far from the kind of thing I’d normally contemplate. I thrill with pleasure as Keir zips through the traffic. Isn’t that why I’m here, after all? To break a few rules? It’s not as if I’m actually going to do anything.

  The May sunshine warms my bare shoulders as we head out of Rome and up into the encircling hills. Classical architecture gives way to clusters of low-fronted shops and grimy high-rise apartment buildings. My thighs ache and my nipples are as hard as pebbles against Keir’s back. I press my cheek into his bony shoulder blade, smiling to myself. I’d kill Agness if she got on the back of some boy’s bike, but now I remember the appeal.

  By the time Keir pulls into a narrow, rubbish-strewn alleyway between two rundown tower blocks, I’m stiff and sore and flushed with excitement. I slide off the back of the Vespa, fumbling with the helmet strap. Keir puts it away in its locker, takes my hand and leads the way to the nearest apartment building without a word.

  Inside, the hallway smells of dirt and urine. A single bulb hangs from a bare wire, and the tiled floor is cracked and filthy. It’s not exactly what I expected.

  ‘Belongs to a friend,’ Keir says briefly. ‘It’s better upstairs.’

  My excitement drains away. Upstairs. Where there are bedrooms.

  I need to put a stop to this now, before it gets out of hand, but I don’t quite know how to. When the lift doors shut behind us, enclosing us alone in the tiny space, I can almost hear the crackle of electricity pass between us. I’m horrified to realize how much I want him to kiss me again.

  His apartment is on the top floor. Nervously, I follow him into a dark, shuttered living room, making out the silhouette of a high-backed settle and a marble-topped sideboard in the gloom. Through a folding door, I glimpse an unmade bed and clothes scattered on the floor. I’m relieved and unexpectedly touched. This wasn’t planned, then.

  I turn my back firmly on the bedroom, ready to marshal my excuses, but to my surprise Keir doesn’t even glance in its direction. Instead, he strides over to the window and throws open the shutters, flooding the room with sunlight, before unlocking a pair of French windows.

  I follow him out onto the terrace. The view is breath-snatching. I can see all the way across Rome, from the dome of St Peter’s to the Colosseum and the Forum itself. I pick out the seven hills tucked inside the ruined Servian wall: the Aventine and Esquiline with their monuments and parks, the Capitoline topped by Rome’s modern city hall, the archaeological treasure trove of the Palatine Hill where Keir spends so much of his time. It’s like seeing history spread at your feet. I can almost hear the armies gathering on the Field of Mars, Nero fiddling while his city burns.

  ‘How did you find this place?’ I ask, leaning on the warm stone parapet.

  He shrugs. ‘Friend of a friend. Got it for peanuts. Most people don’t get further than the hall downstairs. I didn’t move in till after Molly left – she wouldn’t even come up to look at it.’

  ‘I can’t say I blame her. It’s not the most salubrious building I’ve ever walked into.’

  ‘I’d like to kiss you again,’ Keir says abruptly.

  I tense. ‘You didn’t ask permission last time.’

  ‘This is different. If we’re going to take this further, I’m not doing all the running. It’s got to be a two-way street.’

  ‘Take what further?’

  ‘Don’t be disingenuous, Kate,’ he says evenly. ‘I’m not going to seduce you. There won’t be a convenient get-out if and when you decide to go back to your husband. You go into this with your eyes wide open, or you don’t go into it at all.’

  Heat rushes into my cheeks. ‘What makes you think I want to go into anything with you?’ I splutter, my sophisticated veneer splintering. ‘I’ve told you, this whole thing is ridiculous! I’d never even have come here if you hadn’t practically dragged me!’

  ‘That,’ Keir says, ‘is precisely the kind of hypocrisy I’m talking about.’

  I open my mouth to retort . . . and close it again. He’s right, of course. I came willingly, knowing the score. I can hardly pretend to be an ingénue at my age. How does a boy like this have so much self-assurance?

  ‘Come on, Kate,’ he says softly. ‘I don’t want to play games. This isn’t high school. We’re both adults. I don’t want anything from you that you don’t want to give. Can you at least respect what’s happening here enough to be honest?’

  ‘What is happening here?’ I whisper.

  His hand hovers by my cheek. ‘It’s not love yet,’ he says. ‘But it’s more than lust. Is that enough for you?’

  I press his fingers to my lips. I’m ready for the electricity this time, and I give myself up to it, my body vibrating with excitement. But Keir disengages himself and gently holds me at arm’s length when I reach for him again.

  ‘Is it what you really want?’ he asks seriously.

  ‘Is this a youth thing?’ I ask. ‘Analysing regrets before you have them?’

  ‘I don’t want to be a revenge fuck, Kate. This has nothing to do with your husband. For as long as it lasts, this is about you and me.’

  I don’t want to think about this, I just want to do it. But Keir gives me no choice. I force myself to acknowledge that, if we kiss again, it won’t stop there. We’ll end up in bed together; we’ll have sex. I will commit adultery. I’ve never cheated on anyone in my life, much less been unfaithful to the man I promised to love till death do us part. For all his faults, I’m certain Ned has never been unfaithful to me either. If I sleep with Keir, I’ll be crossing the Rubicon, changing the nature of my marriage for ever. And I’ll be doing it fully awake, with my eyes wide open. There will be nowhere to hide afterwards.

  I don’t hesitate.

/>   ‘I love my husband,’ I say. ‘But you’re right. This isn’t about him.’

  My heart is curiously light. For once, I don’t second-guess myself. I can’t, thanks to Keir’s insistence on honesty. No false regrets or faux guilt. I want this. I want him.

  The bedroom is latticed with sunshine. Keir goes to stand beside the bed and waits for me, already barefoot in his jeans and T-shirt.

  ‘Come here,’ he says.

  The marble floor is cool on my bare feet as I slip out of my leather flip-flops and go to him.

  I stop a pace away, and without moving any closer, Keir reaches out and gently slides the straps of my camisole down my shoulders, so that the cinnamon-coloured silk slithers to my waist.

  Keir drops to his knees, his tongue tracing whorls down my stomach to my navel. ‘I like that you don’t wear perfume,’ he murmurs. ‘I like the smell of you. Soap and water and something sweet, something like honey. I wonder if you’ll taste like you smell.’ He eases my skirt over my hips, pressing his face lightly to the fine pink mesh of my knickers. Briefly I wish they matched my blue bra; a moment later, all I can think is that I want him to take them off.

  How does he know what to say? How does he have such confidence, more than most men twice his age?

  I thread my fingers through his long hair. Keir catches my hand, and brushes his lips against the inside of my wrist, kissing his way to the inner crook of my elbow. I don’t know if it’s what he’s saying or how he’s touching me, but I’m so hot with need I feel feverish. I arch my back, pressing my sex against him as he unfurls my other hand and kisses his way up my left arm.

  ‘Keir,’ I gasp. ‘Keir, please.’

  ‘We’ve got all afternoon,’ he says easily.

  He rises to his feet and yanks his T-shirt over his head. His chest is lean but toned, the planes of his stomach surprisingly defined. Gold-red hairs dust his upper torso. I fumble with his belt buckle, and Keir shucks off his jeans and underwear. I can’t look at his cock yet.

  Keir cups the back of my head and pulls me towards him, his cock nudging my belly-button as his lips come down hard on mine. Gently he dances us backwards, until the back of my knees touch the edge of the mattress. Slowly he eases me back onto the crumpled sheets and spreads my knees with his own. His lips brush my collarbone, my throat, my shoulder with a feather-light touch, and I squirm with pleasure as he scoops my breasts from my bra and thumbs my nipples. Clawing at his back, I arch my pelvis towards his, my sex aching for his cock.

  ‘I love your body,’ he whispers, slithering down the bed. His tongue darts beneath my knickers, flicking across my clitoris, his fingers still kneading my nipples.

  ‘Please,’ I gasp again. ‘Please!’

  He tugs at my knickers, and I lift my bottom so that he can get them off. His amber eyes have darkened to the colour of molasses as he raises his body above mine, his cock poised at my entrance.

  ‘Slowly,’ he says, as I moan and spasm beneath him. ‘Slowly, Kate. This is just the first round.’

  He enters me, and as his cock fills me up and the energy radiates outwards and I start to come, I feel a brief rush of pure rage at what I’ve been missing all these years.

  And after that, all I feel is Keir.

  Ned

  Christ Almighty, I feel like I’ve wandered into a Vinnie Jones movie. Any minute now Ray Winstone’s going to pop up with a sawn-off and tell me I ain’t doing myself no favours monkeying wiv fings I don’t understand.

  My source, Gav, has picked possibly the dodgiest pub in Salisbury for our meet. It’s a real spit-and-sawdust place: several of the windows are boarded up, the tables are bolted to the floor, and the scarred wooden stools look like they’ve done more hard time than the local toughs propping up the bar. Even the barmaid looks like she’s been ridden hard and put away wet.

  I pull out an envelope from inside my jacket. This little fucker better not be stringing me along, or I’m out five hundred quid. Martin said I could forget about reimbursement from the tight-arses at the Globe unless we make the front page.

  ‘Put that away!’ Gav yelps, glancing frantically round the pub. ‘Jesus. You want to get me legs broken for me?’

  Hastily I shove the envelope back into my pocket. Gav looks like he’s going to bolt any second, so I move this along before he changes his mind. ‘I need that name, Gav.’

  He chews anxiously at a hangnail. ‘Yeah, well. I’m not sure this is such a good idea, Ned. They’ll kill me if they find out I’ve talked to you.’

  ‘They won’t hear a dicky-bird from me. C’mon, Gav. We go way back. You can trust me, you know that. I’ve never let you down before, have I?’

  ‘This is different. You’ve no idea how big this thing is, Ned. Take it from me, Morrison’s not a bloke you want to cross.’

  ‘Gav,’ I say reasonably. ‘I’m afraid our little rendezvous here hasn’t gone unnoticed. Whether you talk now or not, you’re a marked man. My editor’s not going to let this story go, and there’ll be plenty to point the finger when it breaks. If I were you, I’d get out of town for a bit till things blow over. That’s going to be a lot easier with half a ton in your back pocket.’

  He looks like he’s going to throw up.

  ‘Look, Gav. All I need is a name. I’ve got most of the story already.’ I smile persuasively. ‘Let me make this easy on you. I’ll tell you what I know, and you can just sing along to the words, OK?’

  After a long pause, he nods reluctantly.

  I count off on my fingers. ‘I know Drew Morrison’s behind the match-fixing scam, and I know the names of at least six of the players in on it. Cliff City have thrown three of the last four matches they’ve lost, am I right? Ditto Derby Celtic. And Morrison’s making a bloody king’s ransom betting on the results.’

  ‘If you know all that, what d’you need me for?’ Gav mutters.

  ‘Because I need proof,’ I say, leaning forward. ‘I want a list of matches they’re going to throw, and the names of the bookies in on the scam.’

  ‘You think they tell me that?’ Gav exclaims. ‘Only two people ever know what Morrison’s planning, and one of them’s God. If I knew who was going to bleedin’ win, d’you think I’d be taking five hundred nicker off you? I’d be making me own bloody fortune, wouldn’t I?’

  Yes, I realize suddenly. You would, wouldn’t you?

  My legs are actually shaking as I leave Drew Morrison’s boxing gym two days later. Jesus H. Christ. Gav wasn’t kidding. Morrison’s not the kind of man you want to give a reason to hold a grudge.

  I unlock my car, climb in and lean my head back against the headrest. Christ. Christ. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my entire life. The man actually exudes menace. My hands are trembling, and I can’t stop shivering. I can’t believe what I’ve just done. If things had gone the other way, they’d have been picking bits of me up from the side of the A3 for miles.

  Finally, when my heart has slowed to a semblance of its normal rhythm, I open my eyes and pull Martin’s number up on my phone. ‘Mate? Look, this story. It’s a bloody wash-out. No one’s saying anything. I’m not sure there even is a story, to be honest.’

  ‘Shit, really? I thought you said your source was solid.’

  ‘Pissing in the wind. Didn’t know a bloody thing.’ I jam the phone awkwardly between my ear and shoulder and pull the car away from the kerb, still a bit shaky. ‘I’m starting to wonder if someone’s giving you the runaround on this one, mate. I’ve put out dozens of feelers and come up with fuck bloody all. If Morrison has got some sort of scam going, he’s managed to put the frighteners on an awful lot of people. I don’t think even he’s got that much clout. I reckon someone’s yanking your chain.’

  ‘Blast. That leaves a huge bloody hole in Saturday’s paper.’ He sighs gustily. ‘Oh well. If the story doesn’t stand up, it doesn’t stand up. Least you got a few days’ work out of it.’

  ‘Yeah. I owe you for that, mate.’

  ‘No probs. Thanks
for trying. Send me your invoice and I’ll pass it along to Accounts. Anything else comes up, I’ll give you a bell.’

  ‘Appreciate it, Martin.’

  I toss the phone onto the passenger seat. I feel a bit bad leaving Martin swinging like this, but one scoop isn’t going to make or break his sorry-arse career. Or mine, come to that. The most I’d have got out of this story, even if we’d made the front page, would’ve been another week’s freelance work, and maybe my byline at the bottom of page seven if I was lucky.

  Whereas by killing the story altogether, I’ll be set for life.

  I could bloody kiss Gav. The little darling. In the end he didn’t just give me any name, he gave me an in with Drew Morrison’s lieutenant, his right-hand man. It’s like getting a hotline to God. I didn’t have a hope of getting the man to turn on Morrison, of course. But thanks to Gav’s unwitting stroke of genius, that was no longer the plan.

  Make me own bloody fortune. Why didn’t I think of it before? I must be more of a pillock than Gav himself, and that’s saying something. The answer to all my prayers, and it was staring me in the face. Mind you, I nearly didn’t go through with it. When I walked into Morrison’s gym for the ‘interview’ his number two had arranged, I thought I was going to shit myself for real. But it turns out Morrison’s a reasonable man. As soon as I explained that this story could be made to go away for ever in return for a little quid pro quo, he quickly saw my point of view.

  For the first time in two days, I start to relax. My face splits into a grin. I pulled it off. The biggest fucking gamble of my life, and I bloody pulled it off!

  With an effort, I force myself to keep calm. The trick now is not to get greedy. If I walk into Ladbrokes and put fifty grand on a second-division footie match, it’s bound to raise a few eyebrows. I’ll spread it around at half a dozen different bookies over three or four matches. Given my reputation, I could put money on two raindrops racing down a pane and no one would turn a hair, as long as I don’t get carried away. And as soon as I make enough money to pay off what I owe, I’m done. I’ve learned my bloody lesson.