‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’
‘I’m completely comfortable not knowing.’ The song ended, and she dropped her arms. ‘Excuse me.’ She held her skirts close so they didn’t brush against him. Could she walk straight to John? He’d moved though, and she didn’t see him, Victor or Emma anywhere. She headed towards the drinks table and poured herself another glass of wine. She should attach herself to a group, make chit chat with archaeologists. Not doing it would only add to her reputation, but she hated it. She leaned against the cool wall and sipped her wine. Its sharpness flooded her tongue. Why did she feel flustered? Was she being as snobbish as Mother? The moustache alone, never mind his clothes. Will had eased into a group of women, and they all chatted cheerily to him. He’d clearly been about to call her a bitch.
John came through the living room door with Victor. Victor laughed at something John said, and John smiled. She shifted through the crowd until she reached them.
‘You okay, kiddo?’ Victor asked.
Max nodded.
‘Would you like to dance again?’ John asked.
‘Yes. Excuse us, please, Victor.’ They linked hands and took the few steps back to the dance area.
‘I’m sorry we were interrupted,’ John murmured.
Maybe she should be embarrassed at how easily she relaxed in his arms. She wanted to curl into him. ‘So am I.’ Why was she spending her time away from the dig with the people who annoyed her? She’d barely even seen Victor or Emma, and she and John couldn’t actually talk. The song came to an end, and they slowly separated. ‘Do you mind if we leave?’ Max asked. She didn’t wear a watch tonight, but it couldn’t be much later than eight.
‘Are you all right?’ John asked.
‘I just have a bit of a headache. The music’s quite loud.’ Smoke hung in clouds in the rooms.
‘Of course.’
Max waved at Victor, who nodded. And then she was outside in the gloriously fresh air.
John opened Max’s door and then walked around to his side. But he didn’t turn on the car immediately. ‘I’ll take you home.’
Max flushed. ‘It’s quite early still. Would you like a drink somewhere?’ She glanced down at her handbag. ‘I guess I didn’t feel much like a party after all.’
‘There are lots of pubs around here.’ John stayed silent for a moment. ‘Or would you like to come to my place?’
‘I’d prefer that.’ Max took a deep breath. Her mother would be horrified. Going to a man’s flat on any date, much less the second one.
The drive only took a few minutes, and soon John turned down a narrow street and parked. They slowly walked to the last terraced house. 15A. John unlocked the door and ushered her in. Was she being foolish? The hallway light illuminated a dozen or so envelopes and a couple of magazines spilling across the hallway carpet.
‘Sorry, I haven’t been home yet. Go on in.’ He bent and started picking up envelopes.
Max turned on the light in the living room. No television, but a radio sat near the sofa. An utterly bland room, with cream walls and a hideously blurry painting of a country landscape in lavender and pale green. She’d bet it came with the flat. Just before she turned back to the hallway, she spied the bookcase beyond the sofa. Some historical books—two by historians she didn’t rate but the rest she deemed acceptable. The lower two shelves held novels. She recognised titles in French, Italian and German. Some Agatha Christies. The Russian and Asian language titles she could only guess at.
‘I figured you’d be at the bookcase.’ John placed the stack of post on a side table. Did she imagine it or were the envelopes graded by size? ‘Approve?’
‘Yes. How many languages do you speak again?’
‘Seven fluently. I’m decent in a few more.’ He opened the living room window. ‘It’s a bit stuffy in here.’ He took off his jacket and folded it precisely before draping it over the armchair. ‘Now, I offered you a drink. I hope bourbon is okay.’
‘That’s great.’ Max followed him into the kitchen. Every item sat at right angles, from the bread bin to the dish drainer. A single, wilted pot plant sat in the middle of the small table. ‘You rent this place, right?’ A refrigerator hummed in the corner.
‘How’d you know?’ He opened a cupboard that held a bottle of bourbon, two tumblers and two wine glasses.
‘I didn’t have you down as a soft-focus landscape kind of person. Although I’m surprised a landlord would give you a refrigerator.’
‘He didn’t. I bought the fridge since I’m away so often—and usually without a lot of notice. Coming home to rotten meat once was an incentive enough.’
And what did he do on those trips? ‘Can I help?’ she asked, when John picked up the bottle.
John smiled. ‘It’s hardly high entertaining here. Would you like anything to eat? Having offered, I should clarify that the only thing I’m positive I have in the place is a bag of grits.’
Max lifted the glasses. ‘Just a drink is fine.’ She followed him into the living room. ‘Did you bring the grits back with you?’
‘Oh, it’s much worse than that. I had my mother mail them to a colleague who went home.’ He put the bottle on the coffee table. ‘I haven’t been there in three years.’
‘Neither have I.’ She put the glasses beside the bottle. They looked at each other.
‘Sorry, have a seat, please.’ John opened the bottle and splashed some in each glass.
Max lifted hers and sat on the sofa. It took a lot of willpower to keep her shoes on and her feet on the floor. She’d far rather curl them up under her. John sat beside her and rolled up his sleeves. Max touched his forearm, just above a bandage, startling in its whiteness against his tanned skin.
‘I dropped a glass,’ John said. ‘Cards?’
‘Okay.’ She wanted to kiss him and talk, not play cards, but she hesitated to say it aloud. And how would dropping a glass leave a cut that high up?
John turned on the radio. He fiddled with the dial, moving from a comedy to the end of an opera. The Light Programme announced the fourth episode of play called The Case of the Night-Watchman’s Friend, and John switched it off. ‘I’ve got to get a record player.’ He pulled cards out of a drawer and dealt gin rummy.
They’d last played cards three weeks ago. She’d been in the middle of a game with Charlie when John arrived at her house to collect her for their date. John had coached Charlie, but Max still won. Tonight, she watched John’s tanned fingers against the blue backs of the cards and swiftly lost.
A second date. She couldn’t possibly try to pursue more than drinks and cards. His tie remained knotted. She wanted to tug it loose, but instead she sipped her bourbon. Max swept the cards up and shuffled neatly. Maybe he wouldn’t notice her cheeks had heated. It’d been nearly four years since she’d had sex—and then not very satisfactorily with her ex-fiancé Daniel Hagan. Daniel hadn’t been remotely as attractive as John.
‘How’s your cousin’s leg?’ John asked.
Clearly John was thinking about their previous date too. Not about sex. ‘Charlie still has the cast. His school’s sent him coursework now, so he’s complaining a lot.’ She smiled. ‘You charmed him completely though.’
‘Even though he didn’t win the game?’ John lifted his cards. ‘I’m not sure I helped him that much.’
Max smiled. ‘It didn’t matter to him.’
John shifted a card to the left, and then set them on the coffee table. ‘Gin.’
‘How did you do that so fast?’
‘You dealt it.’ He scooped up the cards as she tallied the points.
After winning one hand, she excused herself to go upstairs to the WC. His hairbrush rested beside the sink, but no black strands twined through the bristles. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Did she want more than cards? Could she honestly suggest it? Clearly John wouldn’t push. He hadn’t even kissed her.
How big a hypocrite was she that she told Will Firmin off for hitting on her but she wan
ted to do the same to—with—John Knox?
She traced a line on the bathroom countertop. A list would help. Cons. Falling for him. More, she added. J saying no, laughing. Pregnancy. Surely, he would have protection. If he didn’t, she’d stop. Pros. Sex. She missed sex. Falling for him, more. And what would happen next?
Her hand swiped away the imaginary list, as if John could see it.
She peeked into his bedroom. The bedside table held a phone, a lamp, a spotless ashtray, another novel and a clock. The bed’s pale blue counterpane fell in perfect alignment. His study had papers and more books, but a filing system kept everything just as regimented.
John stopped playing solitaire as she came back to the living room. ‘Nice browse around?’ he asked. His smile softened his words.
Max still blushed. ‘How’d you guess?’
‘Four minutes since the flush. It’s a small place. Discover anything interesting?’
‘You have no photos anywhere. And your towels are from North Carolina.’
‘As are my sheets. I’m from a textile town.’
Max steeled herself. Had four years left her so inept around men? She pushed aside memories of Daniel. This had nothing to do with him.
But what if John said no? What if he thought her all the words her mother would use—forward, a hussy? What if once she brought it up, he morphed into Will Firmin and never properly talked to her again?
‘More bourbon?’ John asked, lifting the bottle.
‘No, thank you.’ She leaned down to kiss him. As it went on, his arms went around her and drew her onto the sofa beside him.
He broke away. ‘Max, honey, we should stop.’ His finger traced the curve of her ear.
Max ran her lips along the line of his jaw. ‘Mr Knox, I’d very much like to make love with you.’
John took a deep breath. ‘You consistently surprise me, Dr Falkland.’ He tunnelled his fingers into her hair and kissed her. After a long interlude, his mouth skimmed down her throat and brushed along her collarbone. ‘I do like you in red.’
Max sighed, heat flooding her.
‘At the risk of sounding ungentlemanly, can I ask…’
‘It’s not the bourbon; I’ve thought this out very carefully in advance.’ Sort of in advance. ‘Pros and cons.’ His chuckle vibrated against her skin. ‘I’m quite clear about it.’ She traced over the width of his shoulders. ‘Oh, and I’ve had sex before.’
‘That was actually my question.’ He framed her face, and his blue eyes stayed serious. ‘Are you sure?’
His accent deepened, sure coming almost as two syllables. Max inhaled.
‘Max?’
She nodded. ‘Have you?’ It seemed only fair to know as well. Her fingers caressed the black knitted silk of his tie before she loosened the knot.
John smiled. ‘I have.’
She unbuttoned his top shirt button. ‘Are you sure too? Do you…’ She stopped. Nothing about his expression implied judgment.
‘Definitely.’
‘And protection?’ She should have asked that first.
‘Yep.’
His pulse beat swiftly at the base of his neck. Daniel would have already accused her of chattering too much. Had, in fact, when she gave him back his engagement ring. ‘A lot of questions.’
‘Exactly as I anticipated.’ John drew her chin up so she looked at his face. ‘Talking to you, Max, is one of my very favourite things.’
Max leaned forward to kiss him, her nerves falling away.
‘That could be added to my list though. And this.’ His lips returned to her collarbone.
She laughed. ‘Then will you show me your North Carolina sheets, please?’
John stopped speaking, and his caress of her spine slowed and ceased. Under her cheek, his chest rose and fell evenly. He didn’t snore. Another thing to like about him. She shivered, and his arm tightened around her. Max pressed her lips to his skin and watched pink streaks in the sky deepen to navy. Sex had never been so… relaxed with Daniel. When she’d told John that she didn’t want to make love on the sofa under the awful landscape, he chased her up the stairs laughing. When had she last laughed during sex? Any vague hope that she could sleep with him and move on dissipated. She wanted to stay right here, for a long time.
His clock was on the other side of the bed, so she tilted his wrist until she could see the phosphorescent numbers on his watch. Nearly ten. She closed her eyes and breathed in. Smoke, bourbon and a faint aftershave sharpness.
Max eased out from under his arm. He shifted, but didn’t wake. She headed down the stairs to gather her clothes and then tiptoed past the bedroom door to the lavatory to dress. A slick of red lipstick and she smiled at her reflection. But if she went home with her hair this disarrayed, her mother would never believe she’d only been to a party. Max didn’t want to hear the words she’d imagined out loud. Her fingers didn’t make much of a difference to the tangles, so she used his brush. She put it back by the sink but then tugged the long blonde strands free and dropped them in the bin. The bin that held the condom she expected, but on top of it lay a bandage and wrappings for a new one. Presumably the one on his forearm. Bright crimson slashed over the dried blood on the old bandage. Had it bled again when they made love? A glass, he’d said. And a door hit his finger. Would he ever tell her the truth about what he really did?
Her stockinged feet paused by his bedroom door. She could ring for a taxi, but what would her mother say if she returned from a date in a taxi? The light from the hallway illuminated his hair tumbling over his forehead. How had she ever kidded herself this was simply lust? She crossed the room and kissed him gently. He murmured her name, his arms folding around her. He tugged at a button on her dress as his eyes opened.
‘When did you get dressed?’
She sighed as he stroked her back. ‘I have to go home. I’m a respectable girl, remember?’
‘Marry me. Stay and be respectable.’
‘Are you serious?’
John scrubbed at his face and sat up. ‘Yes.’ He spoke slowly. ‘I am.’
Max laughed, although her stomach lurched. Could she? This fast? ‘Ask me again when you’re awake. You look far too shocked for me to take you seriously.’ Was it purely because she’d initiated sex? Did he mean it?
‘I can’t believe I fell asleep.’ He clicked on the lamp and lifted his alarm clock. He blinked. ‘How did I miss you getting up?’
‘I was quiet.’ In the light, without the rush of passion, a bruise overlapping an expanse of scarring on his left side looked far darker. She brushed it gently, and then touched a round pucker on his right shoulder. The bandage on his arm was new.
‘Korea,’ John said, pulling her hand to his lips. ‘The bullet from the War.’
‘And the bruise?’ He didn’t answer. Max leaned over and kissed the bullet scar. ‘See, I don’t think I could marry somebody…’ she whispered against his skin. John stiffened. ‘Who wouldn’t tell me what he did as a job.’ His tension eased, and suddenly he rolled them so she lay on the bed, with him looming over her. He threaded his fingers through hers against the sheets.
‘Honey.’ He punctuated each word with a kiss on her temple, her cheek, her nose. ‘What do you think I do?’
‘I don’t know.’ But she didn’t think journalists often had massive bruises and scraped knuckles.
‘I’m a journalist. Honest.’ John rested his forehead on hers. ‘I’m sorry I fell asleep.’
‘I insisted on this. And I knew you were tired.’
John grinned and nibbled a path up her neck. ‘Insist again.’
Max laughed and then gasped as his teeth closed on her earlobe. ‘I should go.’
‘In a minute,’ John murmured.
‘Have we stayed too late?’ John closed the car door behind her.
The interior light came on as he opened his door, and Max looked in her compact. ‘I think I can get by an inspection if the lights are low.’ She smoothed her hair. ‘Besides, I suspect it will ju
st be Dad waiting up now.’
‘I don’t want you to get into trouble on my account.’ He started the engine.
‘Dad likes Americans.’ She smiled. ‘My British grandfather considered my mother to be the daughter of jumped up shopkeepers. But he adored her. And the money she brought.’ She pushed at a wrinkle in her dress. Next time she shouldn’t just let it fall.
‘What did you hear Firmin say?’
‘Not much. It was quite loud.’ She turned towards him, splashes of light crossing over his hands as they drove under street lamps. ‘Whatever he said, I’ve never—we’ve always been colleagues. Nothing more.’ What would John think of her after tonight?
‘I got the sense you don’t like him much.’ He paused at a traffic light. ‘To be honest, I don’t, so maybe I’m just making an assumption.’
Max shook her head. ‘No, you’re right. He has this idea because I’m blonde and, well…’
‘Gorgeous, intelligent, funny, and charming?’
Max laughed. ‘I wasn’t fishing for compliments.’ Did John really think she was all those things? ‘Anyway, Will has quite specific ideas about me.’ Did she need to be so circumspect after they’d slept together? ‘And he doesn’t take no very well.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ John brushed her hand on the seat between them. ‘I was completely sincere when I asked you to marry me.’
This time the lurch of her stomach felt more like pleasure than fear. Max nodded. ‘I need some time.’
‘Of course. I realise it was sudden. And not in the best of circumstances.’
‘Why?’
‘I hardly painted myself as a catch by falling asleep after making love.’ He glanced over at her as he stopped at another traffic light.
He sounded uncertain. Did he feel as floored as she did? Max slid along the seat and she kissed his cheek. ‘That didn’t bother me in the slightest.’ Make love, he said. Not sex.
John’s arm wrapped around her shoulders. A sigh crept out before she realised it. Somehow her hand landed on his knee. Her finger traced the crease in his trousers. The silence felt easy.
The Running Lie Page 3