The First Time I Saw Your Face

by Hazel Osmond

  He went round to his side of the bed and got under the duvet and lay down carefully on his side, putting one arm over her and bending his knees so that his legs tucked in behind hers.

  Listening to her breathing, feeling her warmth against his chest, he wondered if maybe they all had a chance: his family, her family. Tomorrow, in this bed, in his arms, he could tell her the truth and hope that she would understand and help him get out of this mess. He’d tell her everything: about Teddy Montgomery and Phyllida; his real name; all his lies. He breathed in the smell of her hair. If he could keep her here, get her over the initial shock, maybe they could talk to Cressida, persuade her to give the story to O’Dowd without Jen being mentioned. He had a few hours’ grace until Cressida arrived; until O’Dowd started chasing him for news.

  It was a long shot. He could imagine Jen trying to get away from him when he told her how he’d cheated his way into her confidence. All he could do was show her and tell her that he loved her. He tightened his arm around her and felt her stir. It all seemed hopeless, but she was worth whatever he had to go through to make this right.

  He had to try, but not now. Now he wanted to enjoy lying here holding her until she woke up.

  They had been awake just over an hour when Jennifer said, into his shoulder, ‘I ought to ring Mum and Dad, tell them where I am.’

  ‘I think they’ll have worked it out, Jen.’ He cupped his hand around one of her buttocks and started caressing it and felt her start to move against him, setting up all kinds of friction in his groin. She had such beautiful skin, as silky as her hair, and he could not get enough of feeling it against his tongue, his hands, his thighs. Everywhere. Seeking out her mouth with his, he kissed her and her hands smoothing their way over him, worked down, down, then around and held him. He closed his eyes and then she was leaving him, pulling away and standing up.

  ‘Come back, come back,’ he said, reaching out for her, ‘Ray and Brenda can wait.’ The sight of her standing there, all blue eyed and blonde haired and naked was making him ache.

  ‘I know they can,’ she said, ‘but you can’t. Stand up, Matt. I owe you something. Something you didn’t get that Friday.’ He squinted up at her, not sure what she meant. ‘On your feet, Matt,’ she said slowly, dangerously. ‘Spread your legs.’

  The thought of what she was about to do to him, for him, made him unsteady as he stood and as she sunk to her knees he placed the palm of his hand lovingly on the top of her head.

  ‘Oh God,’ he said a little later, ‘this is just … oh, God, Jen …’

  He felt her let him go just for a moment. ‘I had a life before the accident, Matt,’ she said softly. ‘I wasn’t an invalid and I wasn’t always a good girl and –’ she took him in her hand and laughed – ‘I will expect tea and toast after this, but you can forget the kebab.’

  If he hadn’t been so busy trying to stay on his feet, he would have laughed too.

  Later he fed her toast and watched her sip her tea. When would be the best time to start explaining? How to begin? He decided there were some other things he wanted to say first, just in case he never got the chance to say them again.

  ‘You know the acting thing?’

  He saw her guarded look, so fed her more toast. ‘Don’t look like that, I was just going to say, had you thought of going back, finishing your course?’

  He noticed she wasn’t chewing.

  ‘Come on, eat your toast. Sweetheart, I’m not hassling you, putting a pitchfork at your back about acting, but it seems a shame to have got so near and then to drop out. And … well, even if you think acting isn’t going to work for you, aren’t there other things you could be involved with? Teaching? Directing? I watched you during rehearsals, those times you helped the others. You have a gift for it, I’d say—’

  ‘All those people looking at me.’

  ‘Looking at you and what, Jen? Thinking that you’ve got a scarred face and then just getting on with it? You need to build your confidence.’

  He could see she was listening, even if she wasn’t eager to answer.

  ‘I … could think about it, certainly,’ she said after a while. ‘It would be good to try and finish my degree, but as for acting …’

  ‘I told you I think you’re better than Cressida.’

  She smiled shyly. ‘I agree with you. I am a better actress than Cress; I’ve always known that really. But even before the accident I didn’t have her thick skin, her drive.’

  ‘Her ego?’ he chanced.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got a certain amount, pal.’ She lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him and the change was remarkable. He felt a little intimidated until she smiled again. ‘I’ve always been a show-off, comes with the territory. No, what I meant was all that PR stuff, the schmoozing, the vacuous interviews, seeing yourself splashed over the paper. Yuk! Cress loves all that really, I mean not the going-through-her-bins stuff, but being the centre of attention.’

  ‘But you like stage work,’ he said, eager to change the subject.

  ‘Yup. That was what I wanted. I mean there’s still the need to sell yourself, but it’s not as intense.’

  ‘You must try with the acting again, Jen. Even if it’s only with the Drama Club. You need it.’

  He felt he’d got as far as he could for now and wrapped himself and the duvet around her.

  She laughed. ‘Sometimes I think you’re nothing like you were when you first arrived. You’re quite tough really, a terrier when you get your teeth into something. Like Cress.’ He felt her reach a hand back and rest it on his hip. ‘I’ll think about what you’ve said, I promise. I can’t guarantee I’ll do anything about it, but … then again, two months ago I couldn’t imagine anyone ever seeing me and wanting me again. Who knows what might happen in another two months?’

  ‘I don’t just want you, Jennifer,’ he said urgently, ‘I can’t imagine being without you. You do believe that, don’t you?’

  She turned in his arms. ‘Of course I do. You’ve been so brutally honest with me all along, why would you change now?’

  ‘No reason, no reason.’ He kissed her on the nose and even though the prospect of it made him feel sick, he knew that it was time to begin.

  Jen, I came up here two months ago not knowing you, and in that time I’ve fallen for you – but why I came up here was not to write a walking book …

  ‘Jen,’ he started, ‘I came up here two months ago—’

  The front door bell rang and he was immediately strung out and on his guard. This was what happened in films when the hero tried to come clean, someone interrupted and spilled the beans to the heroine and everything went to Hell.

  ‘Let’s ignore it,’ he said, but whoever was outside wasn’t giving up.

  ‘I hope it’s not Mr Armstrong.’ Jennifer looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Bound to be,’ he said kissing her again as if that would make the noise go away. ‘He wants to make a formal complaint about this librarian who peddles filth and conducts riotous love-making.’

  ‘I’m not a librarian, I’m a library assistant. And we weren’t riotous.’

  ‘In my head I was,’ he said, slowly disentangling himself from her and standing up. ‘In my head I was whooping and shouting.’

  ‘Oh Matt,’ she said tenderly, and he resented having to turn away from her towards the window. He moved the curtain aside a sliver so that he could see who was on the doorstep.

  ‘It’s Gregor, Sonia’s Gregor,’ he reported, looking back round at Jennifer as if she could throw any light on why he was there.

  ‘Better go and see what he wants then.’ She snuggled down further in the duvet. ‘I’ll be here when you get back. Put the kettle on again while you’re down there, will you?’

  He did a mock salute, pulled on his jeans and fleece and bounded down the stairs, blinking in the light as he opened the door.

  ‘Good morning.’ Gregor was grinning and holding out his hand and Mack automatically reached out and shook it. ‘We have on
ly met in passing before. The odd wave. But now I have come to give you this.’ In his other hand he was holding a brown paper bag and he offered it to Mack. ‘My wife, Sonia, she likes a little joke, you know. She wondered if you needed these. Please, no offence.’

  Mack took the bag and opened it to see two packets of condoms.

  Did everyone know that Jennifer was upstairs in his bed?

  ‘So,’ Gregor said giving a little stretch and showing off his firm abs as his T-shirt rose, ‘you have fun.’ His shoulders were shaking as he turned and walked down the path.

  ‘How did she know?’ Mack called after him.

  ‘My wife, she hears even the lightest kiss in the dark,’ Gregor called back.

  Mack closed the door and burst out laughing, despite the weight on his shoulders.

  ‘What did he want?’ Jennifer shouted down.

  ‘To give us extra condoms,’ he called back and was delighted to hear her little scream.

  He went through to the kitchen and put the bag on the table. Getting this right, saying it all in the correct order was vital. He filled the kettle and lit the gas under it. Once it had boiled, he’d start his story again. He opened the back door, even though it was chilly out. He just needed to look at the view. It was beautiful out there, you could see for miles.

  ‘I’m just going to the loo,’ he heard Jennifer call from upstairs.

  Jennifer got out of bed and hopped around shivering until her gaze fell on Matt’s cord jacket on the back of the chair. She picked it up and pulled it on, wrapped it around herself and ran to the bathroom. At the sink she nicked some of his toothpaste, putting it on her finger and making a rough pass over her teeth. There was a wonderful man downstairs, a wonderful, funny, kind man and he’d not only wanted to have sex with her, he’d wanted to have sex with her a lot. Or even lots of sex with her. She stuck her tongue out at her reflection.

  Who knew life could be as sweet again?

  As she went to sit on the loo, she heard someone ringing the bell again. What now, surely not more condoms? She pictured the look on Sheila’s face when she heard what her sister had done.

  Mack opened the door to Mr Armstrong. He had a magazine of some kind in his hand and looked quite put out.

  ‘I want a word with you,’ he said.

  Mack sighed. ‘Look, Mr Armstrong, we’re adults. We have a right to do what we want.’

  ‘Eh?’ Mr Armstrong’s eyebrows were lowered so far they seemed to make his eyes disappear. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Mack thought of Jennifer upstairs. ‘I’m a bit busy, is there something I can help you with?’

  ‘Take a look at this.’ The magazine was pushed into Mack’s hands and he opened it up. It was a copy of the Methodist News. He stared first at it and then at Mr Armstrong.

  ‘There.’ Mr Armstrong jabbed the page with his finger and Mack started to read.

  ‘ “The Reverend David Nickalls, minister in the Bridport and Dorchester circuit, is delighted to announce that his daughter Mathilda is now the proud mother of twins, delivered by Caesarean section on the 24th March at St Michael’s University Hospital, Bristol. The twins, a boy and girl named Tim and Daisy, are thriving and keeping Mathilda and her husband, Jonathan Harper, fully occupied. The lucky grandparents thank the Almighty for this exhausting but longed-for gift. Mathilda, who has published two walking books – A Guide to Dorset Coastal Walks and A Walk Around North Somerset – under her pen name of Matt Harper, says her writing career will have to be put on hold for a while … ‘I can’t imagine clocking up many walking miles with the twins strapped to my back,’ she says. I’m sure all our readers wish her and her family strength during the coming months.”’

  As he reached the end of the article Mack stepped out on to the doorstep and pulled the door almost closed behind him. He couldn’t see properly and his heartbeat seemed to be one over-long surge.

  Matt Harper is a woman? A woman? Mathilda?

  He was reading the article again.

  Calm down, calm down. This will be all right. Jennifer won’t have heard, she’s still in the loo. This is mendable. Soon it won’t matter, not when you’ve told her everything.

  Jennifer sat on the loo. Cressida was right; loving someone turned you into a romantic fool. She had no idea where this would lead, or what would happen when Matt had finished that walking book. Cress was right again: you really should grab life by both hands; it could take you in amazing directions. Having him on her side, fighting battles with her, rather than for her – well, she could almost feel the old her unfolding and stretching.

  She felt something digging into her and put her hand to the inside pocket of Matt’s jacket. Another of his notebooks, one he hadn’t lost yet. She pulled it out to have a sneaky read and frowned. Not a notebook, it was his passport. She opened it to see if his photograph was as dreadful as most people’s usually were. No, it wasn’t bad, and then she was up off the loo and staring at the words by the photograph. Mack Stone, they said. It was Matt’s photo, but the words said Mack Stone.

  Oh my God, oh my God. Why is he called something else? Is this his writing name? No, no … the name in the passport must be his real one … Matt Harper must be the made-up one, but why would he have a made-up name?

  She clung on to the sink until she could make her legs move, and then she was running back to the bedroom, tearing at her clothes, trying to get them the right way out and pulling them on. She went to the window and twitched the curtain aside as she had seen him do earlier. It was Mr Armstrong. She could barely breathe for the fear that was rising inside her. She looked at the bed and felt dizzy. Who had she slept with, whose name had she been calling out in the dark? This was all wrong. She pulled her boots on, leaving her socks behind, and stood at the top of the stairs. She couldn’t make out what they were talking about. Slowly, stealthily she made her way downwards.

  ‘But she’s got the same name as you,’ Mr Armstrong said indignantly, ‘how can that be?’

  ‘It’s a coincidence.’

  ‘Can’t be.’ Mr Armstrong took back the magazine. ‘Look, it gives the titles of the books. They’re yours, aren’t they? You want to complain, someone claiming to have written your books.’

  ‘Can we talk about this some other time?’ Short of pushing Mr Armstrong over, Mack couldn’t think how to get rid of him.

  They both heard the kettle whistle.

  ‘You got the kettle on?’ Mr Armstrong asked, his tone hopeful.

  ‘No.’ Mack tried to back into the house.

  ‘All right, all right,’ Mr Armstrong grumbled, ‘I’m going. Don’t understand this though.’ He was looking at the magazine again. ‘Have to ask someone else how this can happen.’ Mack saw him look towards the shop.

  Nooooo. Think, think, before Sonia the bloodhound arrives.

  He moved closer to Mr Armstrong. That bloody kettle was still whistling. ‘Listen, it’s a long story. Can I trust you?’

  Jennifer reached the bottom of the stairs. They were still talking. Slowly, slowly, she moved into the sitting room. That man out there with Mr Armstrong, the one who’d held her in his arms, all those lovely things he’d said to get her on to that stage, his caresses … who was he? She felt sick as she rushed for the kitchen, aware there was a breeze coming from somewhere. The kettle started to whistle. She stopped moving.

  What will you do if he comes back in to turn it off?

  There was a noise as if the front door was being opened and she held her breath, but he did not appear and she heard the talking resume. She forced herself to go into the kitchen, her heart leaping at the sight of the open door and then she was running along the back lane, the passport clutched in her hand.

  ‘Of course you can trust me,’ Mr Armstrong said, his eyes suddenly alert.

  ‘OK then, well … it’s police work. The woman in that magazine is the real Matt Harper. I’ve taken her name. I’m working undercover.’

  ‘Undercover? Why?’

  Mack let h
is gaze drift to the shop. ‘Illegal immigrants,’ was all he said. It was enough. Mr Armstrong was almost jubilant. ‘I knew it, I knew it,’ he said, ‘I knew he was an illegal.’

  ‘Shhush, shush,’ Mack looked up at the bedroom window. ‘Not a word, Mr Armstrong, or you’ll blow open the whole case. I have to go now, there’s some … some surveillance to do.’

  ‘Got you,’ Mr Armstrong said, and he was back down the path in a positively sprightly way.

  Mack went inside and rushed through to the kitchen to turn the kettle off. Good job the back door was open or the place would be like a Turkish bath. That was close. He needed to get upstairs now and tell Jen everything, sod the tea. Couldn’t afford any more neighbours lumbering by. He bit his lip and was amazed that he could laugh. What were the freakin’ odds on Matt Harper being a woman? Or fate dropping the news in Mr Armstrong’s hot little hands? Life was stranger than fiction, sure enough.

  He bounded up the stairs, practising again what he was going to say and saw Jennifer was still in the bathroom. He sat on the bed and waited for her, grinning at the memories of what they’d done under that duvet. And on top of it. He was still feeling ill at the thought of what she would do when he told her, but it would come good, he could sense it.

  She was taking a long time in that bathroom. ‘Jen,’ he called. No reply. He went and gave the door a tentative push. Empty. He looked in the spare room, not sure if she was messing about, playing some kind of hide-and-seek. He went back to his room and opened the wardrobe. That was when he noticed her socks on his bedroom floor. Only her socks.

  He spun around and saw that his jacket wasn’t on the back of the chair any more, but flung behind the door. He rushed to it and picked it up.

  No, please, not that, please, not now.

  He knew before he put his hand in the pocket that his passport would not be there.

  Jennifer was running and stumbling out of the village and as she reached Peter Clarke’s bench, she looked behind her. Climbing on to it, she took her phone from her bag and tried to ring home, but her fingers were trembling so much it took her a few attempts. She looked behind her again.