by Barker, Ashe
The future? A knot of panic twists in my gut.
“But I thought we had decided. That you’d forgiven me for messing everything up, for not talking to you about Susanna. I want to stay here—that’s the future. Isn’t it? Please…”
“I want you here. And I want Isabella. But you need to get your head straight before you make any decisions about the long term. You need to get well, love.”
I am staring at him, unsure what to say next. I am well, surely, well enough to know I love him. I love being back here. I belong here. Nothing of that’s going to change. Nothing.
“Did you ask her?” Rosie’s words shatter my silent panic. Her voice is tiny, uncertain. Quivering. As though she’s been crying. We both turn to her, hovering by the door.
“Daddy, did you ask her yet?” She is taller than I remember, and her dark hair is shorter, cut into a shoulder-length bob. Still the gloriously pretty dark eyes I remember, though, even if they are tear-filled. There’s such a lot of it about today. She’s holding my violin, clutching it to her little chest like a protective shield.
“Not yet, Princess. Now’s not the time.”
“Can I come in? I want to see Eva. And you need to ask her now, Daddy.”
I find my voice at last and hold out a hand to her. I’ve missed this little girl so much. “Of course you can come in, sweetheart. I’ve missed you.”
Needing no further encouragement she rushes forward, scrambling onto the bed next to Isabella. She stares, fascinated by the sleeping baby. “Is she really my little sister? Can I hold her?”
“I… I—”
“I’m sure that’ll be okay. Is that all right with you, Eva?” Nathan is already reaching for Isabella, and Rosie is positioning herself, propped against the headboard just as Nathan was a little while ago. Nathan carefully arranges Isabella in Rosie’s arms, showing her how to support the baby’s head. How does he know this stuff?
Rosie gently rocks her new little sister for a few moments, then she’s back in the fray.
“Can I ask her then, Daddy? We need to ask her.”
“Rosie…” The warning in his voice is unmistakable, but Rosie is unmoved. She’s on a mission.
Turning to me, she assumes her most serious expression, one I recall from her attempts to master the more difficult violin exercises last summer. Nathan makes one last attempt. “Now, Rosie, I explained—”
“We want you to marry us. Will you? Will you, Eva?”
I stare at her, then at Nathan, then back again. What did she say? What? Realising belatedly that my mouth is opening and shutting in my characteristic stress-related goldfish impression, I eventually manage to gather sufficient wits to seek clarification.
“Marry? Marry—you? Who?” There, eloquent or what?
“Us. Me and Daddy. Well, Daddy really, obviously. But it includes me too. And Isabella, I suppose. We’ll be a family.”
“A family? Married? I don’t think… I wasn’t expecting…”
Her little face starts to crumple. “Please. Oh please, Eva. Don’t go off and leave us again. I want you to be here, with us. Daddy does too. He told me. And if we’re all married we’ll be together forever. So please, marry us. Say you’ll marry us. Or at least think about it. Please…”
I find myself just staring at her, trying to make sense of the nine-year-old brand of logic that says marriage is enough to guarantee permanence and lasting happiness. Well, maybe it is on Planet Rosie. But here, where the rest of us live?
At last Nathan steps in. “Well, here’s the thing…”
We both turn to him, hopefully. I daresay if asked, Isabella would express her confidence that he could unravel this mess too, but she’s nodded off again.
“I love you, Eva. I always have. Rosie loves you. And you love me. Us. And now you’re back, and we’ve cleared up all the misunderstandings, you’re staying with us. We hope. Yes?” He cocks one expectant eyebrow, waiting for confirmation that so far he’s on the right track. I nod dumbly, wondering where this is going. “Right, fine. So, as I see it, it doesn’t matter whether you stay as my girlfriend, lover, or, well, you know what else.” He jerks his head slightly in Rosie’s direction to indicate why we are not specifying the total and exact range of my potential roles. I nod again, still just as dumbly. “As long as you stay. But Rosie wants a wedding. And if I’m honest so do I, ideally, but I’m flexible. What I’m not flexible about, though, is choice. You need to choose us, sweetheart. You need to choose us when you’re in a position to know what you want, what your options are. Not when you’re ill, and confused, and when you might change your mind again later or regret what you’ve done. It’s all about informed consent. It always has been.”
“I see.” And I do, I really think I do. But there’s a slight problem. “You want to wait until I’m better, when I know what I’m doing, what I’m agreeing to. But what if I’m better now? Or not ill at all, I mean.”
“Right, I get that. And”—with a reproving nod at Rosie—“that’s why I would have preferred to wait until after Gillian’s been before having this conversation. Then we might have known with a bit more certainty what we’re dealing with.” Turning back to me, he goes on, “So, I don’t want you to answer now. I’m going to wait. I’ll wait until you’re better, then I’ll ask you again.” Rosie’s frantic jiggling about is starting to wake Isabella, but her father’s firm glare stills her. “No, Rosie, we need to wait. We will wait. And then we’ll see what Eva decides to do.”
Privately, I know my decision is made. Whatever my state of mind—and I do seriously doubt Nathan’s interpretation of my recent behaviour, though no doubt the highly acclaimed Gillian will set him straight in due course—I’m staying put. Now I’m back I’ve no intention of leaving again.
* * * *
One month later…
Gillian didn’t set Nathan straight. She set me straight. She asked me about how I’d been feeling recently, particularly over the last month or so. She asked me if I’d been bothered by feeling down, depressed, or hopeless? Had I had little interest or stopped taking pleasure in doing things? In particular things I normally loved to do? Had I been sleeping okay, eating normally? As she asked these questions I began to realise how adrift from my normal self I actually was.
I hadn’t picked up my violin since before Isabella was born, except to give it away. I couldn’t honestly remember my last decent meal, or my last full night’s sleep. I was so overwhelmed by guilt, self-loathing, remorse. I almost gave my baby away. And I almost got myself killed. Wake-up call or what?
Gillian agreed with Nathan, and prescribed anti-depressants. And I got the message at last and took to my bed for five days flat, buried under the duvet. Well, Nathan’s bed. He shared it with me, and the sex has been great if a little on the vanilla side, but Nathan is so gentle, so loving I could cry. And I do seem to have been crying a lot. But less now.
Isabella’s cot went into Rosie’s room so I wouldn’t feel pressured by her. My mum arrived later that same evening—it seems Grace tried to phone Nathan first after I flew out of Black Combe that day, but couldn’t get through as his phone was waterlogged so had to settle for Tom. She lost the connection before he got to ask her to phone an ambulance, so the next call she made was to my mum. My mum got the first train up here from King’s Cross, and Tom, bless him, met her at Keighley station. With his new girlfriend, the mysterious Ashley. The whole household has rallied round to care for Isabella, and for me.
Grace’s part in my recovery has been food. Lots of it—good, wholesome, and delicious. She came to apologise to me, for her less than enthusiastic welcome when I first turned up. She thought maybe she’d upset me and caused my accident. We hugged each other and cried, then it was over, done with, gone. And my mum and I are talking again, really talking. She’s also been on a guilt trip that she didn’t get treatment for me—she knew what was wrong but thought it’d pass. I suppose it probably would have, eventually. But I’m glad Nathan forced the issue.
Most days Ashley calls here on her quad bike to collect Barney, and the two of them make off up onto the moors. Ashley’s a photographer, specialises in landscapes, so she’s in the right place for that. I gather her work is on sale in Haworth, very popular with the Japanese tourists. On days when she’s not at school Rosie often goes with them, and once or twice I have too. Not too far—I’m not back to my old self yet. We talk, laugh, get along. She likes to hold Isabella, doesn’t ask me any questions, and I don’t pester her. It’s just nice to have a female friend my own age.
Nathan and I get along so well I can’t believe it. Even better than before I left, if that was possible. We talk, really talk, about anything and everything. Well, nearly everything. His work, my work, Rosie, my dad and our planned family pilgrimage to Dundee. The one thing we don’t talk about is Isabella. Except for the obvious ‘Does she need her nappy changing?’ and ‘When’s the next feed due?’ we stay off that subject. I think it’s that Nathan doesn’t want to put me under any pressure, and I do appreciate it. So much.
Our sex life is fantastic, getting more adventurous and we’re back up to a lot of our old tricks. Not all, of course. Even if I could convince Nathan that I was up to it I do think the sound of my screams reverberating around the house would raise my mother’s eyebrows. She’s bound to be moved to comment. I love her, and we get on so well these days, but there are some conversations I just never want to have.
I feel a trip to Leeds coming on, and I’m on the lookout for a chance to sneak away. I needn’t have bothered. Nathan’s already on it.
Chapter Fourteen
It’s Saturday morning, and I’ve been back here at Black Combe for about five weeks. It feels like home again. And what’s more the sun’s actually shining. Maybe life’s pretty good, after all. Mostly. Or at least some of the time.
Rosie definitely thinks so. There’s a Thomas the Tank Engine gig on down at ye olde worlde train station in Haworth, and at the various other little restored stations along the Worth Valley line. Lots of dressed-up steam trains puffing about, street entertainers, candy floss, fairground rides. Absolutely wonderful stuff, she assures us all. And she’s managed to talk Grace into taking her down there for the day.
We’re all gathered around the breakfast table as Rosie and Grace plan their day, when, out of the blue, my mother announces her intention to join them. Along with Isabella. A real girls’ day out. They all look at me to make the circle complete, and I might have agreed—it was Thomas the Tank Engine after all—when Nathan reaches for me under the table, capturing my hand in his and suddenly giving a sharp squeeze. I glance up at him in time to catch his wink, and regretfully decline their invitation.
Half an hour later Nathan and I are standing on the front step waving the car off, Rosie’s beaming smile lighting up the rear windscreen. Grace’s Clio disappears around the bend in the drive and I turn to go back indoors. Nathan grabs my hand and tugs me off around the outside of the house. He’s heading for the converted barn that doubles as his garage. Or should that be aeroplane hangar? The proportions are much the same. He pulls the keys to his precious Porche prick-mobile from his jeans and, pointing the electronic key fob whilst still on the run, he unlocks the doors from several yards away. He shoves me unceremoniously into the passenger seat with an instruction to belt up.
Not sure if he means clunk click or to keep my mouth shut, I opt for the latter as well as fastening my seatbelt, and wait until the car is purring down the lane in the slipstream of the Clio before asking where we’re headed.
“Leeds,” is the curt reply. “That okay with you?”
“Yes, lovely.” And I settle back and close my eyes.
The next hour or so passes in silence, more or less, punctuated only by the occasional pleasantries—climate control related inquiries, or Nathan’s request that I put some music on.
“Any requests?” My usual question.
“No, you choose.” His usual response.
I dig around in the glovebox and come up with Emeli Sandé. A favourite of mine, I slip the CD into the player and glance across at Nathan for approval. He looks a little surprised—it’s not what he expected me to choose given the collection of classical music he carries in the car—but he simply nods, smiles, and we’re settled.
It seems like no time before we’re gliding into Nathan’s parking space in the underground car park at Clarence Dock. He turns off the engine, and before I can move to get out of the car he leans over and kisses me. The kiss is long and deep, and a familiar harbinger of what’s to come. He always starts like this, affectionate, caring, sensually appreciative.
Eventually he raises his head. “How are you feeling today, Miss Byrne?”
Miss Byrne. This seems promising.
“I’m fine. Today’s a day when it’s good to be alive.”
“Mmm, I think so too. So, Miss Byrne, how would you like to celebrate this delightful new dawn of ours?”
“I want something hard, and sharp. Something I can feel.”
“I think I can promise you that, Miss Byrne.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“A lot? I want it to hurt a lot.”
“Ah, Miss Byrne, you have a tendency towards self-destruction. I remember it well. But yes, this will hurt a lot. Are you up for it?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“Come on then.” He kisses me again, briefly, before sliding from the car and coming around to the passenger side to open my door for me. Courteously he offers his hand and helps me from the car. We stroll towards the lift, at ease with each other.
“How long do we have?” I ask the question as the floor numbers flick by and the lift glides smoothly upwards. I can’t help but recall the last time Nathan and I came up in this lift together, and the disastrous end to that visit. As if reading my mind Nathan drapes his arm over my shoulders and pulls me to him, tangling his hand in my hair. He kisses the top of my head before replying, “As long as we like. As long as we need. Grace and Victoria can look after our girls for us.”
Our girls. That has a nice ring to it. And they are ours, both of them. Tempting though the prospect of a night here in the apartment with Nathan might be, I know I want to go home tonight. Back to both our girls.
Despite the anticipation of pleasure that’s not so very far away now, and the pain I crave, I can’t prevent the shudder that ripples through me as we enter the apartment. I recall vividly where Susanna stood, where she walked, her words, her beautiful, vindictive smile as she calmly demolished my world.
“It’s done, over with. Let it go, Eva.” Again, Nathan is in my head, knowing what I’m thinking, my bitter regret at what happened and my foolishness in letting her win.
“I was so stupid…” I whisper. “Such a gullible fool.”
“You are many things, Eva, but you and I both know that stupid is definitely not one of them. You were confused. You were shocked, hurt. And you made a wrong call. Then you made a right one, and you came back. So now, here we are again. Together. So just let it go, love.” He is standing behind me, his breath on my neck as he lifts my hair from my shoulders, drops the soothing, forgiving words in my ear. I sigh, lean into him.
“You’ll find a new piece of equipment in the bedroom. I’d like to try it out.”
“Okay.” I don’t even ask what it is. It doesn’t matter. He’s promised me something I can feel—pain and the inevitable pleasure to follow. And my Nathan the Dom always delivers.
“I’d like you to go into the bedroom and undress. You can keep your pants on for
now if you like, but I’d like you to place these inside yourself. You’ll find lubricant in the chest at the bottom of the bed if you need it. Can you do that?”
He is holding his hand out in front of me, and in his palm are two egg-shaped objects, fastened together on a slender nylon cord. I take them from him and nod briefly. I understand what I’m to do.
“Good, I appreciate your cooperation, Miss Byrne.”
Wonderful. Now that does sound promising.
He continues, inclining his head towards the bedroom door to suggest that I should be getting on my way. “You’ll spot what’s new straight away. I’d like you to position yourself on it and I’ll be in soon to fasten the restraints.”
I nod once more, and walk silently into the bedroom to prepare myself as instructed.
It’s a St Andrews cross, a huge diagonal cross made of polished oak. Quite beautiful, in a macabre, medieval sort of way. The restraints are positioned at the four points and in the centre, soft leather straps for wrists and ankles and a larger one for around the waist. My wrists and ankles. My waist.
It’s to be a whipping, then. I shiver. It’s a long time since Nathan has had a whip in his hand, at least not around me. I admit to a certain puzzlement regarding his decision to acquire the St Andrew’s cross, but decide to leave any questions for later. He told me he hasn’t had any other submissives in the time I’ve been away and I believe him. I really do. I’ve learnt a lot about the importance of trust.