Kismet

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  I keep my eyes trained on the floor. “You don’t want someone like me. Let me go. It’s better for everyone. You don’t need someone like me, please, Ruben. Let me go. It’ll be hard but then it’ll get easier.”

  His throat moves as he gulps, then he stands back and holds up his hands. There’s a vacant expression in his eyes when he says, “You’re free to do what you want, Freya. Stay and tough this out with me, or sneak off like a coward and slither away. Up to you.”

  I swallow everything I want to say, expletives and all. It’s horrifying as he slides back into bed, sitting up with his arms folded, eyes red and fixated on nothing but space. I hate that he’s giving up on me now. I hate it. Fury rises inside me and I scream, throw my handbag across the room and smash the glass on one of his pictures. He folds his arms, breathing heavy, nostrils flared, eyes piercing and hateful. I kick at his chest of drawers and pull at my own hair.

  No, he can’t give up on me.

  I can give up on him, but not the other way around.

  This is why he shouldn’t have woken up, but let me leave like the coward I am so I wouldn’t have to see this.

  As unreasonable as I know I am, I can’t help the way I feel.

  “It’s not a nice feeling, is it?” he growls.

  I see no way to get through this, other than to fuck him into a coma.

  My clothes are off faster than I thought possible, then I’m underneath him in bed, our mouths smashed together, my legs encircling him, hands deep in his hair. There’s his skin and his heat and scent, but more importantly, he wants me and needs me—and I need him, badly. He plunges into me and groans, kissing my mouth like a madman. I cling to him hard, needing him close. The licks of heat deep inside my belly come thick and quickly, my body clutching his, my cries caught by his mouth as he spills into me, his pleasure quick and painful, too.

  He continues to lie on top of me, stroking my hair and touching his mouth to mine, eyes full of wonder and desire.

  “Be my wife,” he says.

  I pull a face that he doesn’t seem to like. “WHAT?”

  “Be my wife,” he repeats, this time more audibly, as if to let me know he’s serious.

  I start laughing, then while I’m shaking my head, he catches my wrists and puts them around his neck.

  “Will you marry me, Freya?” he asks, his sweet breath in my nostrils, his body filling mine with fire. He looks and sounds genuine, needy and desperate.

  I want to be his, forever.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  Chapter Twenty

  A Little Bit Tarnished

  Daylight hits my eyes and I blink, almost hissing in response. I push my face into Ruben’s chest and try to tuck myself as deep into him as I can, blocking out all the light. Not that I’m not already pinned to his body, because I am—his leg is around my hip, his arms have me trapped and there’s even a little of his weight keeping me where I am. I can see he doesn’t mean to let me go.

  Everything looks different this morning. Now I have hindsight and have had a little rest, it’s clear the shock of what Fred said to me made me feel like I didn’t have any choice but to leave or else I’d have to face up to my past.

  I know that if I had been waking up this morning on a pavement instead of in his arms, that would’ve been very hard to take—unbearably painful in fact.

  “Please don’t go into work today,” he begs, even though we both know I will. “Call in sick. Tell them someone died. Just don’t go.”

  I grumble against his chest. “I’m not going to try and run again if that’s what you think. I’m sorry about what I did last night, it was very wrong of me, but what happened with your dad knocked me for six.”

  “I felt that. Unfortunately, so did my painting.”

  I wince as I pop my head up to study it. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “You will… eventually. That thing cost £500,000.”

  I flush red from my forehead to my toes. “No!”

  I catch his laughing eyes and he assures me, “Yes, but I bought it from my mother. Well, a proxy bought it for me. On my behalf. Anonymously. I had to hang them somewhere given the price I paid for them.”

  “WHAT?” I ask, confounded by his confession. “You mean…?”

  “A few years ago, nobody knew of her. She thought she started selling because of me being a footballer and her being my mum. She told me she was sure it was the association that started getting her all kinds of sales. Actually, it was only as I started bidding anonymously through a well-known broker, others decided her art was worth something as well. It was the only way I could give her the money or she never would’ve taken it. Plus, he would never imagine me having any interest in art, which I never used to, until I had money to spend and an accountant to educate me. It’s just lucky you didn’t go for the Pollock downstairs… it’s worth so much more!” He laughs like it’s hilarious, while I feel utterly mortified.

  “You mean… that house… you bought it for them?”

  He looks at me, confused. “Pardon?”

  “Your mother said she’s the breadwinner… so…”

  “Ah… right. Okay.” He seems to go vacant for a second, before coming back to life once more. “Artists are never appreciated in their time, are they? I gave her a leg up, yes, but Mum has sold a lot more pieces to various collectors since I helped put her on the map. But no, I didn’t buy them that house. Trust me.”

  I stare into space, wondering if I really have found the kindest man in London. Otherwise, what he’s saying is a load of cock and bull and he’s actually a bad guy spinning yarns to cover up what it is his family actually does. Because as far as I know, he retired from football a few years ago now, meaning he doesn’t have oodles of money coming in anymore. I know footballers have contingency plans in place, but still… that house is rather lavish for a retired cab driver and a small-time artist to be living in all alone. It must cost a fortune just to keep the Mayfair mansion running every day, so where is all that money coming from? I do keep my ear to the ground when it comes to art—and okay, I know I’m not any kind of academic on the subject and I’m not exactly an artist myself—but I have never heard of an Alexia Kitchener making millions at auction, so… how do they keep that house going? Because Ruben lives here, in a pretty humble abode, and most of his money must be locked away for the future (that’s what accountants would advise, no?).

  “That’s… astonishing,” I murmur absentmindedly, as he cuddles into me, because what he’s saying is that his parents live in the lap of luxury off the back of a few paintings his mother sold here and there.

  I honestly should have heard of her… shouldn’t I? To live in such a place, she should be the daughter of a sheik or in the same league as Banksy.

  Hmmm…

  “Would you mind if we had an engagement party,” he says, “not at my parents’ house. Well, unless you’ve calmed down since last night…?”

  I swallow my bile. “I don’t want a party, nor a big wedding. I’d be happy with a register office and nobody we know being there.”

  He lifts my chin and looks down into my eyes. “It’s important you meet my friends at the very least. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “I seriously do not want a party, really.” I feel anxious just at the thought of it. “I’ll meet your friends, that’s fine. But I’m not having an engagement of any sort. I don’t even want a ring. We just set a date, then you and me go, and that’s it. Done. I can’t have it become a big circus when I don’t even know if my family would come.”

  He closes his eyes and sighs. “It’s just between me and you for now then. We’ll keep it quiet until we decide more.”

  “Thank you…”

  “…but you’re having an engagement ring and a wedding ring. End of.”

  He leaps from bed giving me no time to challenge him on that.

  I lie back feeling odd, not sure if I won or lost that one.

  ***

  Being back at work after everyt
hing that’s happened feels strange. Ruben and I are sitting in the Range Rover, staring into space. He got me here a little early and I don’t want to upset him by leaping out of the car, not when I don’t have to be in there yet and don’t want to make myself seem like any more of a flight risk than I already am.

  I have so much whirring around my head, but I’m not sure where to start. It would’ve been better had he allowed me to get the train into work like I asked, so that I could’ve had some time alone to think, but with him beside me all I can generally think about is how good it feels to be with him. All my reason flies out of the window in his proximity. Deep down, I know there are questions to be asked and answered from both of us, in equal measure, but quite frankly I’m not sure he’d answer my questions any more truthfully than I’d answer his. I think that’s why neither of us is speaking right now.

  “I won’t run, Ruben. I promise.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  “Why don’t you get ahead of the game? I’ll pick you up usual time.”

  “Ten tonight, yeah.”

  “See you then,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

  I walk leisurely towards the staff entrance so he doesn’t think I’m glad to escape him. I look over my shoulder just as I’m about to let myself inside, when I see he’s already gone.

  In my office a few seconds later, I rifle through my bag and find my passport gone. He must have swiped it this morning while I was showering. He doesn’t trust me. I laugh internally. It’s ridiculous really.

  I have twenty minutes before I have to be out there, so I take my time making coffee and stand by the window drinking it. The grounds here are lush even in winter. The trees are groaning against the wind and freezing rain, but they’ll bloom again soon, no doubt avidly once the cold gives way to spring. It’s beautiful but it might as well all be ash right now.

  Every time I’m at work these days, since I got thrown out of the family home, I have this feeling of turning up here and no longer belonging. I’m perpetually tense and I think I know why.

  With no more appetite for my half-drunk coffee, I take my cup to my desk and load up my computer. My email pings onto the screen and I notice I have dozens of messages to go through, but minimising that window, I instead open up a Word document. It’s time to tender my resignation.

  One side of my brain says I’m a fool and that this will give Ruben even more power, while the other side is telling me this has been the plan all along—to leave with enough money in my back pocket to start a hotel of my own, somewhere far away. I might only have enough to open a quaint hotel somewhere very remote, but it would be a fresh start. Failing that, I’ll find another job in London easily. In fact, I’ll use that on my resignation letter as the reason behind me leaving: I’m relocating.

  It’s printed and signed before I know it, and once I’ve folded it neatly, I pop it into an envelope and write the HR manager’s name on the front.

  Clopping down the corridor, I find her office empty. She’s probably on lunch. Leaving it in her tray, I leap away and head for the staff room where everyone will be ready to update me on what went wrong over the weekend and how they think we should fix it (I usually listen, but then I rubbish their ideas and give them better things to think about).

  Taking a deep breath, I enter the staff room and the chatter falls to a hush. Everyone’s staring at me.

  “Is it true?” my assistant manager asks, biting her nails.

  Unsure what she’s referring to, I cock my head and glare. “Is what true?”

  Surely HR aren’t back from lunch yet.

  “You’re dating Ruben Kitchener?” Grace blurts, shaking her head.

  I quickly scan the room and everyone seems either shocked or disgusted or mildly amused. I can only imagine someone saw him dropping me off at work.

  “This is the workplace. My private life is none of your concern,” I sneer, folding my arms and pulling my shoulders back.

  “You do know who his father is, right?” someone says, but I’m not sure who.

  I say nothing. His father…

  Fred.

  What about his bloody father?

  “I’ve met him,” I mumble, even though my mouth has become a firm, almost painful line that’s not easy to push words out through anymore.

  Mark, the guy I used for sex that time, steps forward. He still carries a torch, it seems and from the look in his eyes, he seems delighted to be able to speak on behalf of everyone when he says, “Fred Kitchener is only the most feared mob boss in London. Everybody knows it. Except of course, you.”

  I guess it’s out of the bag that I never had an Army boyfriend.

  I look down at my shoes and mumble, “Ruben and his father aren’t close. Now, if we could start the day off how it should begin, please.”

  It’d be like the cat who got the cream right now if I told this rabble I just handed in my notice. It would be offering them the chance not only to slack off until my replacement is announced, but also give them opportunity to say whatever they want to me until the day I leave. Oh, how fun it is being at the top.

  As I begin to listen to people telling me about leaks, spills, missed deliveries because of the weather, staff sickness and general nonsense, Alexia’s words pop back into my head:

  “He knows how to use his body and his mind, but only as part of a game…”

  Something tells me Laurent didn’t die of an overdose. Something tells me he died of a broken heart… perhaps he couldn’t reconcile himself as a lawful citizen when coming from that.

  Ruben’s mother is as embroiled in it all as Fred is, or else she’s too scared to leave him.

  Then there’s Fred himself. That’s how he knew about me. His son told him he was bringing a girl home and Fred did a little investigating to see if he could find anything on me.

  My former boss at the escort agency must be connected to Fred, as it’s the only way he could’ve known about my past, unless Fred really is a cab driver and that’s his cover.

  That could be it…

  I felt a familiarity when I first met Fred and yes, now I think about it, the agency I worked for did use regular taxi drivers. That’s it. It all adds up now.

  Ruben lied about his mother’s art… unless he gave his mother that money in the hope it would help her escape… and it failed.

  Ruben is ashamed and doesn’t want me to know about Fred. I’m certain my lover isn’t crooked. If he were, he wouldn’t have started the charity. He wouldn’t have become a footballer. I know footballers are massively overpaid in the upper leagues, but they don’t get there on luck alone. It’s thousands of hours of training, discipline and focus. I think Ruben worked his arse off for that so he could have a life for himself, away from Fred. Laurent must have been trying to do the same.

  “Earth to Freya… hello?” I turn and see Grace, my deputy, clicking her fingers at me. Numerous people are laughing because I definitely zoned out then.

  “Yeah, sorry. I think you should go ahead and carry out maintenance as you suggested and I’ll ring the suppliers and pop a little heat under them. Okay?”

  The room breathes a collective sigh of relief, then everyone disperses. I’m not arguing with any of them today.

  “Umm, Freya,” someone calls, and I turn around to see HR manager Saskia standing in the doorway with my letter.

  “You got it, then.”

  “Yes. A word?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  She leads me to her office and shuts us both inside.

  We’re entirely alone.

  Saskia has one of those open faces but she can also turn on a dime. Her glowing caramel skin gets you first, then her huge brown eyes disarm you good and proper.

  “I’m happy you seem to be moving on, I think it’ll be good for you,” she starts, catching me off guard. I nod along, not sure where she got this idea from. Maybe the gossip about me and Ruben is rifer than I thought. “I’d like to offer yo
u the chance to use up your remaining annual leave and the overtime you’ve got stored up.”

  She gives me that innocent smile, but I sense more behind it.

  “You mean, not work my notice?”

  “If you want, Freya. Leave today, or in a month, up to you. If you pack up tonight though, I’ll pay you up to today plus two months’ wages on top. That’s more than you’re actually owed, but it’s a gesture of goodwill. If you leave in a month, you’ll get your usual salary and all your holiday pay but the overtime will be forfeit. It’s up to you.”

  I know in my heart what I want, but it’s still a big step for me. This place maintained my sanity over the years. I don’t know what I would’ve done without it.

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” I murmur, feeling sick. “I will need a reference… I’m not sure…”

  She smiles warmly, shaking her head. “I’m just giving you your dues. Trust me.”

  I breathe a small smile of relief. “Okay.”

  “I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, believe me. And you’ll get a glowing reference on top. I know Grace will step up to the plate, but it’s always been clear you’re destined for more than this, Freya. There is a limit to what we can do here. But elsewhere, I don’t see why the sky would even be the limit for you. I’m happy for you, whatever you choose to do next.”

  I cover my mouth with both hands and try to reel my emotions back in. “Thanks, Sas. You’ve always been so kind.”

  “I try,” she says, before turning to her computer. “Anyway, I’ll do the paperwork and have your shifts covered. If you want to leave quietly, that’s fine, I won’t notify anyone if you don’t want me to. I know you’re a private person.”

  “Would you mind?”

  “No, that’s fine.”

  “Okay, thanks. Thanks, so much.”

  She looks at me as I move towards the door. “I’ll pop across to see you at five before I go, give you everything you need.”

  “No problem.”

  I walk away and wonder if I should be worried. Are they glad to be getting rid of me? Do they hate me? I suppose if they really despised me, Saskia would’ve told me to clear out my desk immediately and go. Instead, she’s happy for me to see out the day—and she’s giving me two months’ salary to boot.