by Barker, Ashe
“Stress caused it, like it always does. Too much adrenaline surging around and nowhere to use it up. When neither fight nor flight’s an option, maybe you just turned it on yourself. I’m no psychiatrist, but I do know this is an illness like any other so it can get better. It can be cured. You’re well again now, and we’ll help you stay that way. And if you’re determined not to work in Oxford again you’ll need to do some sort of a deal with Ben.”
“What deal? I’m not going back to Oxford.” I can feel my heart rate spiking at that very prospect of being forced back into my old life.
“I don’t think he expects you to. He just wants you to finish the project you started.”
“But how can I…?”
He squeezes my hand again, this time pulling me to a stop to face him. “Eva. You must know better than anyone that you can work anywhere. It doesn’t matter where you’re based, you can connect to your department online, work remotely. You can live here, or anywhere else for that matter, and still complete your contract. You just need to talk to Ben about it. Work something out. Negotiate.”
“I’ve never been any good at negotiating.”
“Well I am, so I’ll do it for you. With you. It’ll be fine, love. We’ll work out a compromise.”
* * * *
“Yes, you can stay here. No problem. We’ll need to involve an associate faculty in a university in this area, one of the Russell Group preferably. Leeds would do. Or Manchester. You’d need to check in there quite frequently, and keep in regular touch with me as the project leader.”
We’re all three of us seated at the kitchen table, the scene of so many of my most dramatic moments of late, a pot of tea between us. Very civilised. Ben’s been incredibly laid-back about this change in plans. I suspect Nathan’s right—his main priority is to ensure that his flagship project is completed. He could probably invoke some contractual commitment as a last resort, but he’d much prefer my willing participation. So he’s ready to make a deal.
“Leeds would be convenient,” I agree. Nathan nods, looking distinctly enthusiastic. The prospect of spending more time in Leeds, together, is not unattractive.
“Leeds is good,” agrees Ben. “I know the Chair of Linguistics there, and their School of Computing Studies is one of the best in the world. Yes, Leeds will do very nicely. I’ll get in touch with them and set up the meeting. Are you available next week at all?”
And so, yet another of my apparently insurmountable problems is settled with a few words over a pot of tea. Amazing.
In the event it took three weeks to set up the meeting with the Faculty of Computing Science at the University of Leeds. The chair of the department was away scuba-diving in the Seychelles and her secretary insisted on waiting till she returned to work before making any arrangements.
Ben stayed with us a couple of days then headed back to Oxford. I expected my mother to be anxious to get back to the bright lights of London too, but apparently not. Nathan invited her to stay as long as she liked, and much to my amazement she said she thought a little holiday in the countryside would be very pleasant. She moved into my old room, tactfully offering no comment as to the reasons for its being available for her to use, and she seems set to stay there indefinitely. And despite all my misgivings I am enjoying spending time with her. We’ve talked more this last three weeks than I think we have in the last ten years.
We’re frequently left to ourselves as Nathan has had to go into his office most days and the rest of the household have their own stuff to get on with. So, sitting around Nathan’s kitchen table, nursing mugs of Earl Grey, we’ve talked a lot about me, my life, my aspirations, my dreams.
In the past I’ve been secretive and evasive because I always expected her to have a view. A strong view. To want to mould or direct me, convince me I ought to do things her way. Or, failing persuasion, just to insist that I do. Now it seems that she just wants to listen. To understand. To be included in my plans. Maybe that’s all she ever wanted. Whatever—I daresay I can manage that.
And we’ve discussed her dreams too. I never knew she was nursing a secret ambition to tour the USA in a mobile home. We’re making plans to go, and wondering if we could persuade Nathan to let Rosie and Grace come with us—and Amy if she stays—make it a real girls’ road trip.
And we’ve talked a lot about my dad. Listening to my mum’s side of it, it’s clear that their marriage was rocky from the start. He was a lovely man in many ways, and I adored him. He was a wonderful father, but a crap husband. I can see that now, especially his infidelities, which were pretty much a permanent feature of their married life. My mum adored him, too, at the beginning, and I now understand how hard she tried to make it work, for her sake and for mine. She was patient, long-suffering, loyal. She’d thought he’d change, settle down to family life. Especially after I was born.
But he didn’t. She turned a blind eye for years, not fancying the prospect of single parenthood, but was at the end of her tether by the time he was killed. She was on the point of leaving him to preserve her own self-respect and delivered her ultimatum. They had a massive row about it just before he left to fly that final time. Ever since she’s been convinced he was distracted by the problems at home, and particularly by the prospect of losing me, and wasn’t concentrating. And she’s lived with that guilt all these years.
I told her about Nathan’s suggestion that we should visit his grave, together—get some sort of closure. She’s agreed that that would be the right thing to do, the healing thing to do. But there’s no grave. He was cremated, and his ashes just scattered in the crematorium grounds. So we’ve agreed to try to locate the spot where his plane came down in Scotland, the place where he died. Nathan’s set his investigator chap off on a quest to identify the exact location, and maybe we’ll approach the current landowner about placing some sort of memorial there. A garden, maybe. Both me and my mum quite like the idea of a memorial garden.
Rosie has taken to my mum, and so has Grace. But the real surprise is how my formidable mother has hit it off with Nathan. I thought she’d hate him, especially when it was so obvious we were sleeping together. Not a bit of it. They were on first name terms by the first lunchtime. “Call me Victoria,” she insisted. “All my friends do.” She was already warming to him in the kitchen that first morning before either Nathan or I got up, having had an hour of Rosie singing his praises. And mine, too, it would seem. I gather her good opinion faltered somewhat when he was such an arse to me and I slapped his face, although, Hiroshima moment or not, I suspect she would have stopped short of gouging his eye out with her heel as he had feared. But her faith was restored by the way he charged after me and rugby tackled me in the backyard. She tells me she always was a sucker for a forceful man. If only she knew. Best not to dwell on that, though—maternal forbearance has its limits, I daresay.
* * * *
It’s early September and we are all gathered in the sitting room at Black Combe watching some tacky reality TV show. Nurse Amy and Tom are with us, engaged in one of their relentless games of chess. They’re both keen players and both pretty good, but Tom mostly wins. Rosie, as ever, is begging to play the winner. That match won’t last long.
“Is that piano tuned up, love?” My mother’s question breaks into the companionable near-enough silence around the room.
I look up. “Yes, I got a bloke in to tune it soon after I came here. While Nathan was away abroad.” It had seemed a pity to me to leave such a lovely instrument in poor repair and I’d thought maybe Rosie might like to learn.
“So, play for us then. Please. It’s been a long time since I listened to you playing the piano.”
“Not that long, mum.”
“Long enough. Please, love.”
“Please, Eva. Please, please, please.” Rosie has thrown her pester power behind my mother’s request, and Nathan’s interest is obviously piqued too. I suspect I know why, and his response to my playing may well not be suitable for mixed company. Any sort of c
ompany.
That’s his problem. I love to play the piano and don’t take a lot of persuading. I shrug my agreement, rolling off the settee where I’d been snuggled up in Nathan’s arms. I stroll over to the piano and lift the lid, feeling confident. I’m good on the violin, not at all bad on the guitar once I get into it. But piano? Concert standard.
I tinkle a few keys, listening for the tone, flexing my fingers. Then I sit down on the padded stool, position myself so my feet can reach the pedals. I run my fingers along the keyboard a couple of times before looking around. The chess players have taken time out, the TV is turned off. Seems I’m centre stage.
“Any requests?” The usual question is met with the customary response.
“No. You choose.” Nathan has followed me over to the piano and is leaning on the wall behind me. He straightens and leans forward to whisper in my ear, “Choose something sexy, sensual, life affirming. You know the sort of thing…” He kisses my neck as I nod dumbly. I do indeed know the sort of thing.
I suspect, though, that he doesn’t expect church music to fall into that category. I know better. The first strains of Lord of the Dance capture everyone’s imagination, get most feet tapping. Rosie leaps to her feet to demonstrate her approach to Irish dancing, and out of the corner of my eye I catch Amy, efficient as ever, moving to shift the teacups from the coffee table before the lot goes flying. I glance up at Nathan, who is smiling at me, happy, relaxed. And there’s pride there too. He’s proud of me.
Yes, this is definitely life affirming. My fingers fly across the keys, the melody speaking of resilience, struggle, triumph, and I think of my own journey over recent months to come to this. The strains die away to clapping, whooping, whistling from around the room. Cries of “More”, “Encore” and “Again, again” from Rosie.
I think for a moment, and decide on something a little more spiritual this time. A particular favourite of mine, a difficult but in my view absolutely beautiful piece, Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring by good old Johann Sebastian Bach. Not so well known perhaps, but not short on sensuality. Nathan’s hand is on my shoulder as the delicate melody unfolds, the notes trickling from the keyboard like a waterfall, flowing and fluid and haunting. His fingers tighten, and it’s almost painful. As before, as with Bolero, I know I have him. And as before, I’m playing just for him now, only dimly aware of the presence of others around us. I lean over the keys, my eyes closed, concentrating on the music, on building and releasing the harmonies. No one moves, no dancing now. Just listening as the music takes over, reaches its crescendo, then drops away.
Eventually the last strains fade and the room is silent. I lean back, sensing rather than feeling Nathan who is still behind me, his hands on both my shoulders.
My mother breaks the silence. “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. I always liked that one.”
Nathan tightens his grip on my shoulders, leans down. His words are murmured, for my ears only. “This particular man’s desiring just hit danger levels. Let’s take this upstairs.”
* * * *
After three weeks of cooling my heels, hill walking, violin duets, piano solos and bonding with my mother, the middle of September sees Nathan and me heading back to Leeds. Rosie went back to school a couple of weeks ago, keen to show off her new musical talent, and was invited to play to her whole class. She was positively glowing with pride as she told us all about it at the tea table that day, and her happy chatter has been full of her new teacher, Miss Andrews, the redoubtable Miss Snow’s replacement.
We’ve left her to be mollycoddled and pandered to by her adoring fan club of Grace, Amy and my mum.
We leave Black Combe in the early evening, planning to spend the night at Nathan’s apartment. I’ve got my first meeting at the university in the morning after Nathan leaves for work. We’ll meet up again at the end of the day and head for home together. After a lot of grumbling and protesting, Nathan has agreed to drive there in Miranda, with me behind the wheel. I’m relieved because I’ve been feeling pretty queasy lately and the prospect of being a passenger along the winding country lanes was not one I was relishing. I don’t want to disgrace myself again.
Also, it’s my first real chance to try out the new, improved, face-lifted and made over Miranda, and I’m just totally and utterly thrilled with her. I don’t recall that she drove as smoothly as this when she was new. Even the leaky windscreen has been sealed up.
Perfect. My life is just perfect.
* * * *
“Are you hungry?”
Solicitous as ever, Nathan is keen to feed me before he fucks me, it seems.
“No, I’m fine.” Despite driving here myself my stomach is still a little unsettled and I have no desire at all for food. We are in the lift on the way up from the underground car park at Nathan’s apartment-cum-office building in Clarence Dock, leaning against the back wall and idly gazing at our smudgy reflections in the shiny metal doors facing us.
“Good.” Casually slipping a key card from his jacket pocket Nathan jams it into a slot on the lift control panel. The little metal car slides to a halt, between the thirteenth and fourteenth floors. He turns to me, and utters one word. “Strip.”
I look at him askance. He is lounging against the doors, regarding me coldly. I make no move to obey him. He straightens. His tone is clipped, formal. And very familiar. This is Nathan in Dom mode. I shiver, my indigestion forgotten.
“We have no more than ten minutes before the lift engineers start crashing about. Unless you want an audience for this, get naked. Now.”
My eyes never leave his as I comply. I’m conscious that he means me to hurry, and a few moments later my neat green blouse and black trousers are in a heap in a corner, my matching lacy olive-coloured underwear strewn on the top. I was going to kick off my black leather high-heeled pumps too, but with a quick shake of his head Nathan indicated that I was to keep those on. I stand before him, nude except for my shoes.
He looks me up and down, taking his time. I have long since stopped agonising about my overly slim body and tiny breasts, but his perusal is still unsettling. Nevertheless, I force myself to stand still, let him look his fill.
At last he speaks, his voice that familiar gravelly tone that I’ve come to associate with Nathan in a distinctly horny mood. “Miss Byrne, I may have mentioned this before, but you are one seriously beautiful woman. I can’t believe the luck that brought you into my home, and into my life. And God only knows how I’ve managed not to drive you away. I love you.” His voice is low, seductive, thick with lust and sensual promise. I feel my pussy clench as I glance down at the obvious evidence of his desire for me. His erection is huge, thick and heavy and straining against his black jeans. I make to speak, to respond in kind, but his raised forefinger silences me. He slashes his finger across his mouth in a zipping motion. No words required from me, it seems. Still not moving from his relaxed slouch against the lift doors, he indicates with a swirling motion of that same raised forefinger that I am to turn around. I do so.
“Put your hands on the wall. Bend over.” The command is low, quiet. And compelling as ever. I obey, bracing my hands on the wall, my bottom facing him.
I wait. For what? To be spanked? To be fucked? To be pleasured beyond imagining?
“Open your legs, Eva. Wide.” Ah, not a spanking then, probably. I do as I’m told, and wait again.
He takes his time, obviously enjoying the view of my body on display for him. My arms are starting to ache, and I am beginning to listen for the sounds of lift engineers coming to our rescue. But I wait. Unmoving.
I hear his footsteps as he eventually comes forward to stand directly behind me. His palms are warm, his touch light as he strokes my buttocks, parting them with his thumbs to reveal my anus. Ah, that then.
Using the fingers of one hand to hold the cheeks of my bum apart he slides one slick finger into my arse. He’s careful, gentle as he twists it to relax the sphincter. He must have had some lubricant on him somewhere and spread it on hi
s hands while he made me wait—preparation is everything with Nathan. Holding me open he works his finger in and out a few times, plunging it deep. I flinch, not so much in pain but at the intimacy of this silent invasion. He strokes me slowly until I calm under his hands, then he eases a second finger inside me. I groan, and feel my knees start to buckle.
His free hand comes round me, supporting me.
“If you can’t stand, Eva, you can kneel.” Grateful, I sink to my knees, his fingers still deeply thrust inside me. He crouches behind me, and uses the fingers inside my anus to ease my bottom up into the air. His knees nudge mine farther apart. I rest my face on my arms, my eyes closed, conscious of my total surrender, total exposure. And I consciously release any remaining tension in the muscles in my pelvic floor to let him do what he wants with me.
A third finger joins the first two. He is very, very gentle, his strokes slow, unhurried, but deep. I am impossibly stretched now, panting to control my groans. I am nervous, as ever, when I’m unsure what’s coming next. But unresisting. He has my total consent, my total surrender.
He pulls his fingers out and I wait, despite my submission my body tensing in anticipation of the deep, massive penetration of his cock. It doesn’t happen. Instead, I feel something much smaller, cold, round, heavy sliding into me. I flinch, but his hand pressing on my buttock warns me to be still. He eases more of these cool, round objects into my unresisting arse until I feel full to overflowing, but not uncomfortably so. Eventually he straightens, his fingertips now lightly rimming my entrance. He takes hold of something, something I know must be protruding, and gives a little tug. The ripples of sensation roll through me, the undulating pressure teasing, delicious. Sensuous. I moan, this time with undisguised pleasure.
He lifts me, turning me to face him. He lifts me onto his knees, cradling me. Every movement causes more of those delightful ripples and I know that I could very easily come. If only he’d touch me. Or let me touch myself. My legs are open. I’m begging him silently.