by Sara Forbes
Liquid ecstasy creeps into my veins, warm and soothing. Last I heard, two years ago, they were yachting in the Seychelles, slapping factor fifty suncream on each other and screwing their brains out on the beach, and everything was hunky dory.
Although I don’t know how that turd—Peter Maxwell, with his scrawny chest, reedy voice, and insufferable air of superiority—could ever satisfy a woman like Liv MacKenzie, future Countess Strathcairn. With her magnificent curves, her luscious skin, and her insatiable longing for more than life itself can offer, she needs to be fucked hard by someone who recognizes the woman hiding beneath her little girl exterior. Peter didn’t scratch the surface, I’m sure of that.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I don’t have the details.”
I nod and drink my coffee.
I had been getting beneath that exterior of hers, close to getting it all, until she went and hit me with some complete and utter bullshit soon after she went back to university after our summer fling-that-wasn’t. It blindsided me. Convinced that Peter Maxwell was just some tactic she was using to tease me into finally having my way with her, I hightailed it over to her house to suss out the situation—to grab her back, and to have my way with her.
But there he was—Peter, a smirk on his lips, perched on a garden bench between her adoring parents, watching her play croquet. I knew they’d done it. Done what I’d been holding myself back from doing, out of respect, out of a desire to really understand her first and to be truly alone when we did it. So stupid.
It was all I could do not to smash Peter’s face in there and then. But I didn’t. Liv’s father would’ve had me put under arrest. He wouldn’t have needed much of an excuse; he’d always hated me. I tucked my tail between my legs, turned, and walked away. Like the gentleman my mother always wanted me to be.
But I’ve made my decision. Liv’s over there, barely ten kilometers away. She needn’t think I’m going to leave her alone to wallow in her divorce papers, sipping Kir Royales with her mother and sighing about the transience of life.
No. We have some unfinished business, she and I.
3
LIV
THE ABDULS ARE HAVING another difficult day. I sensed it the minute I stepped into their squat little cottage, sitting directly across from the post office in what we affectionately call “downtown” Fernborough. They had a brick though their living room window yesterday, thrown by some extremist yobs who hate immigrants or outsiders of any kind.
“I thought it was a nice community,” Mrs. Abdul says. She’s a mid-forties Syrian woman with dark circles under her eyes in what was probably once a beautiful face.
“Oh, it is,” I insist. “It’s just gone stir-crazy these past days.”
Marwan, the fourteen-year-old, is most affected. Luckily the brick didn’t come through his bedroom window next door but it was enough to send him into his room in shock, refusing to come out for hours.
“This’ll set him back.” She shakes her head sadly. “Anything that upsets the routine is not good, but this is… a shock. It’s despicable. Why do they do this to us?”
I shake my head, ashamed for our entire nation. Mrs. Abdul is a former schoolteacher with a natural affinity for languages, which is why her English is so good. She and her family escaped to England two years ago before the biggest wave of immigration.
They have two neurotypical kids younger than Marwan. I hear their excited voices as they play ball out in the back yard. Marwan has autism and though he is high-functioning, he still needs guidance in his new environment. He’s having a hard time with the language as well as everything else. He’ll be dependent on his family for the foreseeable future. He’s terribly isolated and it’s only going to get worse.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask.
Mrs. Abdul gives my arm a squeeze. “There’s nothing,” she says in a resigned tone. “He wanted to study Chopin, Beethoven, and Mozart at the Damascus Conservatory. Now all he wants to do is play Resident Evil.”
“We’ll get him a piano.”
She laughs.
“No, I mean it.”
“Well, you have to talk to him about it.” She shrugs. “Or try to.”
“All right. Let’s sort him out with a school first.”
We settle down to go through the registration form for the special-needs school in the nearest large town, Ipswich. After walking through some of the trickier questions with her, I accept some tea and fruitcake, then prepare to go. There’s a lot to be done still.
Daddy always took me along on visits to his tenants so this comes easily enough. He had a rota to make sure he saw everyone at least twice a year, and I intend to do the same.
We don’t farm any land ourselves, but hire out a manager to deal with the tenant farmers on our estate. Daddy’s on five local committees, each of which have bi-weekly meetings. Luckily, most of the people I deal with already know my face and are respectful, but there are a handful of misogynists who think I can’t take over from my father and feel the need to make me jump through hoops.
In hindsight, I suspect Daddy felt I should study environmental management to be “relevant”, hoping that some practical ideas would sink into my head between yachting parties and yoga retreats. That plan didn’t work out too well. I suppose I got in with the wrong crowd at university and then with the wrong man. It’s hard to study when you feel depressed. I won’t tell Daddy about skipping university because it’ll only make him sicker.
But I’m not going to run from my responsibility as countess. I’ll make sure our tenants are happy and profitable, just like he did, and his father before him and all the way back to 1654, the first Earl of Strathcairn. Yes, my duties also include producing a child—boy or girl, doesn’t matter. But that part can wait another ten years.
Before I leave the Abduls’ house, I’m determined to talk to the boy. I peep through the door at Marwan. “Hey,” I say lightly, careful not to stare at him. He’s sitting on his bed, arms folded and headphones on, playing something on a tablet—probably Resident Evil.
He doesn’t react. For minutes I stand there and he ignores me.
I come out again.
“What about this piano anyway? I’m sure I could pick up a second-hand keyboard online.”
“He’s very specific. It has to be an Ibach... something.” Mrs. Abdul flicks through websites on her phone. “Tradition C -118.”
“That is specific. Can you send me that?” I’m not musical. But I know someone who is.
I call Letty Belgrave the minute I’m back in my little Volkswagen.
“Hey Liv,” comes her bright cheery voice. “I heard you’d come back. God, it’s mad over here. Did you hear about Sill?”
“Yeah,” I sigh, but I’m not going down that path. “Spot of trouble down in the village too.”
“Oh, yes. It’s so terrible.”
“Have you ever heard of an Ibach?”
“Sure. German. Great pianos.”
“You don’t happen to have one, do you?”
She laughs. “No, I have something better. Come on over and I’ll show you.”
I hesitate. It’s been months since I saw Letty. Since before my divorce. And we never meet in Belgrave Castle—I’ve avoided that place like the plague for the past two years. Letty understands my desire to avoid Ken. I don’t have to spell it out. He must be away or she wouldn’t invite me over.
In a weird way, I did Letty a favor. Everyone expected Peter to marry her, but she never liked him. Their half-hearted courtship dragged on for years between recitals, galas, and charity balls. She gave him a thousand chances to prove himself, but it didn’t work.
I suppose I should have learned something from that.
Ten minutes later, I’m at Belgrave Castle. I lean out the window and type in the four-digit gate code, which I remember from two years ago. It hasn’t changed. It’s not exactly Fort Knox around here. But at least this means Old George doesn’t have to get up off his garden bench. The old g
roundsman is just a charity case these days. He’s determined to die while walking the grounds so he can claim he worked till his dying day, the last of the war generation who know what real hard work was like, as he likes to tell the Belgraves.
I’m feeling excitement and dread being back here as I take in the familiar silhouettes of the trees, the gently undulating lawn near the rose garden, and the duck pond, now looking a little ragged at the edges. The two stalwart stone lions guarding the main door give a false sense of security. Even the squeak of the heavy oak front door as Mrs. B, the housekeeper, lets me in—it’s all etched in my memory from happier times.
Letty clops out to greet me in the main hall. She’s wearing a pink and purple flowing tunic with a brown faux sheepskin waistcoat over it. Huge gold creole earrings set off the ensemble, which should look terrible, but doesn’t. She’s got this pizzazz, this huge personality that would allow her to carry off a bin liner.
“Liv? Oh, this is so amazing. Come into the living room.”
She’s a tall girl; it’s in her genes. I only reach her chin and I always feel petite around her. She says I make her feel like a horse. Other than that, we’re quite similar—dark blondes with greenish-hazelish eyes, depending on the light.
We became close two summers ago, and I’m convinced it was the emotional overload and excitement of having so many new friends that made my courtship with Ken all the more difficult. I wanted to share myself around with Letty, and also Seb and Mara, and Alex and his wife, Hayley. It was like finding a chest full of treasure, and I spread myself too thinly. Maybe.
I follow Letty into the living room. Nothing here has changed. I even recognize the same vertical rip in the gold and cream wallpaper beside the Turner. We settle on our favorite sofa, which faces the window overlooking the back gardens, the orchard, and the stables. On a clear day, you can see our castle in the distance, but it’s a little foggy today.
Like magic, their housekeeper Mrs. B pokes her head in the door and asks if we want tea. We both nod. I wish our Mrs. Henry had this mind-reading ability.
“I thought maybe if I could get my hands on a secondhand Ibach, I might be able to get through to this troubled boy, Marwan,” I explain. “And rekindle his love for music. But I wanted to check if it’s even worth the bother.”
“It’s worth the bother all right. Ibachs are expensive, but the voice is so good.”
“Voice?”
“Every piano has its own voice. You can tweak it by sanding a layer of felt off the hammers to eliminate grooves. So you can make a cheaper piano sound better.”
“That sounds like something Marwan would be extremely interested in.”
“Bring him over next time. Listen...”
Unable to resist, Letty sits down on her stool and strikes up a waltz, her nimble fingers trilling over the keys in an irreverent yet genius way that is so her. But within a couple of bars, the tune becomes hauntingly familiar.
No, not that one. It’s Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Flowers. The first dance I danced with Ken.
My heart’s beating faster than the tempo of the music. I know it’s silly to associate a piece of music with a person, but all the waltzes we danced two years ago are etched in my soul, reserved in that tender section labelled “Ken.”
I’m on the verge of begging Letty to play something else when the door bangs open.
“Letty, do you have to play—?”
I swing around, startled. And I gape.
Ken stands in the doorway, filling the frame in a way that makes my throat constrict. He’s taller than I remember, more muscular. His white button-down shirt strains at the pectorals and over his biceps—my God, where did he get those muscles? His thick, unruly, blond surfer-boy hair sticks up at the top, giving him a wild appearance. Stubble enhances the contours of his stubborn jaw and his smirking mouth.
He looks older, as if the constant effort of looking bemused at life has taken its toll on his skin. But there’s something new in his face. Something hard—a predatory look in his green eyes as he scans me from head to toe. I wish I’d dolled myself up, put on a more flattering shirt. Black, I should’ve worn black, not this turquoise thing. And makeup. I’ve none on. My eyelashes don’t even exist at this moment.
Oh no. This is how he sees me after two years.
“Ken, don’t be shy,” Letty says. “Come in and say hello to Liv properly and let’s get this silly awkwardness over with.”
I flash her a venomous look. She shouldn’t have invited me here.
She intercepts this with a mild chuckle. It’s water off a duck’s back to her.
Ken moves towards our corner of the room, traversing the floor much too quickly. I grip the edge of the piano behind my back, hoping I don’t look as nervous as I feel. I square my shoulders and toss my head back as I turn to face him. At least I blow-dried my hair properly this morning.
“Hello.” His tone is one I’ve never heard before. No warmth, no recognition. Nothing. I don’t deserve anything, of course, after what I’ve done to him. But, like a token of welcome, I get a whiff of the soap he always uses, his West India Lime soap. I remember sniffing it on his skin on the day we rolled in the hay in the barn and very nearly had sex.
I nod briskly. “Hi Ken.”
I hardly know this beast of a man standing before me, within touching distance, a hard glint in his eyes as he devours me with that gaze. There’s nothing left of the boy. He’s all man. I can’t hold his stare, which seems to bear the full weight of my treachery—accusatory, yet with a hint of something like curiosity underneath.
Ken leans against the wall, clasping and unclasping his fingers, his eyes glued on me. Now that I’ve cooled down, I catch new details. His shirt is untucked and it’s buttoned wrong—he missed one at the bottom. Dark circles underlie his eyes and a massive bruise is turning yellow on the side of his neck. Strangest of all, he’s barefoot. For someone usually so picky about appearance, he's a mess.
It’s his bare feet that get to me—golden-skinned and perfectly formed, just like the rest of him.
I’m breaching his personal sphere just by being here in his home. I should never have come. To him, I’m the failed girlfriend and the failed wife of another man, living proof that he was better off giving up the fight to hold on to me. I'm somebody he used to know.
Letty sits alert on her piano stool. Her eyes dart between her brother and me, no doubt enjoying this, and no doubt anticipating who’s going to crack first.
It won’t be me.
“I heard your father's sick,” Ken says, finally, his voice gruff.
I bow my head. At least we have politeness to fall back on. “Yes, you heard correctly. Bowel cancer. We don’t know how long.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes.”
He unfolds his arms and scratches above his ear, making his hair stick out even more. Any moment now, my fairy godmother is going to jump into the room in a puff of pink smoke, wave her wand, and transform Ken back into the wild-talking, joke-cracking, fervent romantic he used to be.
Or not. He’s looking out the window, bitter lines appearing around his eyes.
I miss the shape of his mouth when he’s taking fast, the flash of his teeth, the cadence of his normal voice, the look of determination in his face when he’s explaining his unique way of seeing the world. I miss how excited he gets about some risky thing he’s about to do, just because he’s calculated the risks and is confident he can beat the odds. Where has all that gone?
I really want that fairy godmother.
“Liv’s taking over all duties from the earl,” Letty says, apparently having decided that chit-chat is preferable to silence. “She’s been visiting tenants, sitting on committees, campaigning for internet broadband and whatnot. And that's just the start. Won’t she make a fine countess, Ken?”
His eyes slide over me and for a brief moment, something flickers there. But, just as suddenly, the light goes out again.
“Very fine,” he
says.
I don’t like his flat tone.
“It was the plan all along,” I say snippily. “It just got expedited, that’s all. Don't act so surprised, Letty.”
“It does seem an awful lot for one—”
“And I’m better off,” I finish for her.
Ken stirs from the wall. “Are you sure about that?”
“Perfectly.”
He steps towards me, near enough for me to smell his soap, and murmurs, “Are you saying you know what you want this time?”
I suck in a breath. Stepping away from him, I bump into a small coffee table that somehow appeared there, and buckle. I straighten with all the composure I can muster, but my face is burning.
“Didn’t think so,” he says.
He lets his judgment hang in the air as he trails in a leisurely semi-circle around me, his bare feet noiseless on the carpet. “Fickle as a feather.” He yanks a twig of ivy from a floral arrangement on the sideboard, drops it into a different vase on another sideboard, and continues his prowling. “Unpredictable. That’s where I went wrong, you see? The more unpredictable the gamble, the more likely the amateurs are to win. I’m not an amateur gambler.”
“Look.” I raise my palm. “I don’t know what you’re taking about, but if you’re suggesting I’m some kind of trophy, you can—”
“I can what?” He’s right in front of me, looming over me, a hulk twice my size. With my spine pressed against the piano I can’t retreat any further and I need to tilt my head up to meet his wicked gaze. Seeing his chest, neck, and face at this angle is making my groin clench in preparation for something. My whole body buzzes, remembering past delights and past desires. But this is no gentle prelude to celebrating the past. Ken means to show his power over me, nothing else.
“Use your imagination,” I blurt. I won’t stoop to swearing. That would only show him he’s won.
“I do.” His eyes gleam with mischief as his gaze roams up and down my body, and finally lingers on my mouth. “That’s all I ever do.”
Then he turns and walks out the door, leaving me trembling.