He kissed me then, all passion and the press of his belly against mine.
I could get used to this. To him.
I just had to hope he felt the same way about me.
* * * *
After I’d brushed my teeth, I left him to it in the bathroom, giving him privacy to get dressed. Besides, I needed to get away from him to ring my boss. Plus, I didn’t fancy dressing in front of him, what with not knowing him well enough for that yet. Funny that, because I’d shared my body with him twice, yet something as easy as putting my clothes on with him watching was a bit too much. Too intimate. That didn’t make any sense at all, so to stop myself going over it, I pushed those thoughts from my mind and ferreted through my wardrobe for a suitable outfit.
He’d said he liked jeans and T-shirts, and Jane had plenty of those. I pulled out a dark blue pair of skinny jeans and a bright pink T-shirt that had Gosh I’m Posh splashed over the front of it in white lettering. I wasn’t posh, but the top had been a gift from a work colleague in the last Christmas Secret Santa. I hadn’t worn it, so it was as crisp as it had been on the day I’d received it. Better than my other stuff anyway, which was looking tatty and somewhat worn.
Knicker and braless beneath my clothes, I set about blasting my hair with the dryer, the result, me looking like I’d had an electric shock. I usually let it dry naturally because of this phenomenon, but I wasn’t about to go out with wet hair in this bloody weather. I’d catch my death of cold, and now that I’d met David, I didn’t fancy not being able to see him owing to me being snottier than an old granny’s hanky. I stood debating whether to tie my hair back or let him see me like this when he knocked on my door.
“Are you ready yet?” he asked. His voice had been muffled, as though he’d pressed his lips to the part where door met jamb.
“Almost,” I called. “I just need to… Oh! It’s you again.”
He filled the doorframe, making me see just how big he really was. Oh, I’d known he was—in more ways than one—but somehow here, in my little flat, he was larger than life.
“Yes, me again,” he said. “Wow.” He nodded. “Hair.” He smiled. “Lots and lots of it.”
“Indeed,” I said. “Passed down to me from my great-grandmother, who I would curse for the gift, but she was such a beautiful lady I cannot bring myself to do so. Each day that I go around looking like a crazy Yeti, I’m reminded of her.”
“I quite like it.” He smiled wider.
“Only quite?”
“I imagine you hate it. I can see using those straightener things on it would take you a long time to get the frizz out.”
“I have tried but burnt myself on the forehead, which put me off doing it again as I had an unsightly red line for a week afterwards, which made me look terrible. Now, that is quite enough about my nasty hair. We must go. To the river.”
He stepped back as I barrelled towards him, moving right out of my way so I could flee to the living room and try to work out when I could use the bloody phone. It was coming on for ten to nine, and I had to clock in by nine.
“Did you ring your boss?” he asked.
“Not yet. I have not had time.”
“May as well get it over with now, eh?” He jerked his head towards the house phone sitting in its cradle on my coffee table.
Oh, God. “Yes, I will do it immediately.”
I walked to the table on suddenly shaking legs, picked the phone up and dialled. The ring sounded overly loud—and, dare I say it, frightening. My heart gave an odd set of bumps that left me feeling hollow inside for a few seconds.
“Goodwin and Franklin,” Jo the receptionist said, all chirpy and someone I really didn’t feel like speaking to. “How may I assist you?”
I freaked, what with David a few feet away, so legged it into my bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind me. “I need to speak to someone,” I said, Frenchish, my voice low, “about somebody who works with you.”
“Oh, right. And who might that be?”
I could see Jo’s frown, her narrowing her eyes as curiosity got the better of her. She’d have a field day in the kitchen while she made coffee during the mid-morning break, telling all and sundry some odd woman had called in.
“Jane Smith,” I said. “She is unwell.”
“And what is wrong with her?”
“She has… She has a case of the squirts,” I said, kicking back at the door for my stupidity.
Yes, a definite field day.
“Oh, how unfortunate.”
“Indeed. She will have to stay off for two days to minimise the threat of spreading this tummy upset to everyone else. I am ringing on her behalf as she is unable to get off the toilet.” Oh, Chantal. Shut the hell up!
I heard a snuffling noise and knew Jo was trying not to laugh. Bitch. I’d never liked her.
“Oh, dear, that really is unfortunate. Not a problem, I’ll log it in the book that she’s off and why. Good day!”
Before I could scream down the phone for her not to write my ailment down, the call was cut off, dead space buzzing in my ear. I’d never live this down, and everyone would also want to know why I’d never told them about my French friend. Well, I couldn’t do anything about it now, so I might as well go out and enjoy myself with David. It didn’t hurt to make the best out of a bad situation, did it?
Chapter Eight
The morning passed pleasantly with us walking by the river. We stopped sometimes to take in the view, watching various little boats drift past, and, at one point, a V-shaped gathering of ducks streaming towards us, hoping to be fed. I was annoyed with myself for not bringing any bread. Perhaps next time I could.
If there was a next time.
I wouldn’t allow myself to think otherwise, although the web of lies was getting bigger, like Chantal the Spider had decided on a mad dash around the edge to expand her home. David had asked me personal questions, about my childhood and my parents. They had been easy enough for me to answer honestly—I’d just told him my fond memories, where my parents lived now, and that I was an only child whom they thought was still a kid. All the truth. I was evasive as to the location of where I’d rolled down the hill into dog shit—it could have been anywhere, in any country—and to my relief he didn’t ask anything about France.
“You speak very good English,” he said.
We sat outside a pub on the river route called The Loopy Lady—very apt, I thought—the bench damp beneath my arse, the cold seeping through my jeans. It wasn’t particularly good weather to be sitting out, but I hadn’t wanted to remain inside. Too many people had been in there when we’d gone inside to order drinks—both of us choosing white wine—the press of them giving me a near panic attack that someone from work would stroll in and I’d be spotted. Although The Loopy Lady was far enough from my place of work, one could never tell, with the kind of luck I had, whether the fates would throw a colleague or two my way. At least out here I’d see them coming—hopefully before they saw me. Mind you, they were used to me with my hair a little less…freaky and wouldn’t be expecting me to look like a wild man from Borneo at all. Maybe my horrible hair would be a good disguise.
“It is my first language,” I said, realising that could lead to uncomfortable questions and answers, so I went on with, “But that is enough about me. You have yet to tell me about yourself.”
“Not much to tell,” he said, his smile a little sheepish.
I suspected he didn’t like talking about himself, perhaps found it embarrassing. The slight pink tinge to his cheeks told me that, as did the lowering of his eyelashes, him looking sideways, as though he was either choosing what to tell me and how much, or watching some memories flicker through his mind.
“There must be something you’d like to talk about,” I said. I hoped he was forthcoming, as I’d rapidly come to the conclusion that I wanted to get to know all about him, not just as much as he’d allow.
“I was born and raised here. Nice parents—they live in the same street as me,
but on the corner at the far end—and I went to school, college, university, then set up my business and here we are. Very boring life.”
“Ha! I cannot believe this. You mentioned the women and the parties. You must have been to some in order for you to know you do not like them. The same with the meals in fancy restaurants. Tell me about this life.”
He winced, and I felt guilty that I’d pushed, possibly asking him to retell about a section of his world that he’d rather not. I’d breezed over my boring existence because if I’d been bored living it, he’d sure as shit be bored hearing about it. I wondered if that was how he felt now. Or were there painful issues wrapped up in those glitzy nights?
He sighed. “Yes, once I started making big money, I was invited to a lot of parties. Felt I had to go to further my career, get my name out there, make myself known. It turned out I didn’t. I became known anyway, what with winning cases.”
“You are a lawyer?” I asked, all manner of scenarios flying through my mind. He was a clever bean. It wouldn’t take him long to work out I was a big ball of swindle. He’d have ways and means of finding out everything about Jane Smith and nothing about Chantal Rossi if he had a mind to go snooping.
Oh, Lord.
“I am. Is that a problem? Do you have a seedy past full of illegal dealings I need to know about?”
“I do not. Seedy and illegal are not in my nature.” Although I have taken to lying a lot lately…
“Then why the deer-in-the-headlights look?”
I hadn’t been aware I appeared as though I was a constipated Bambi, but who was I to argue? I couldn’t see my face to know what it looked like, although I did know my eyes were wide and my mouth was clamped shut. I relaxed my features, bringing out a smile, which rapidly faded as I spotted a man and woman peeling themselves out of a red Ford Fiesta in the car park.
Time seemed to stand still. With my heart doing double time and forgetting to beat every few seconds, I stood, remembering we’d sat at one of those bench sets where the seat was attached to the table. No amount of me trying to scoot the seat away was working, and I toppled backwards, my head and shoulders landing on the grass, my legs still hooked over the wooden slats. Mortified, I lifted my legs off then crawled on hands and knees to the end of the table amid David asking if I was all right and joining me, going down on his haunches to help me up.
“What the bloody hell happened there?” he asked, no trace of amusement on his face.
I was thankful for that. It took the sting out of my mishap.
“I, err, sleeeped,” I slurred, my accent thicker. Had the knock to my head done something to my brain? “I need to sit here for a moment, that is all.” I need to hide!
“Okay,” he said. “Take your time. Do you feel sick?”
I thought of the people and the red Fiesta. Oh yes, I felt sick. “A little.”
“Do you feel tired?”
Tired of lying. It was getting to be a bit of a burden already. “Yes.”
“I think we may need to get you to a doctor. You took quite a bang to the head there. Come on.”
Before I could protest, he hauled me upright. The man and woman were walking towards us, arm in arm, chattering about something or other. If I could just… Too late, the woman turned her head and stared straight at me.
“Jane? What on earth are you doing here?” she screeched.
I staggered backwards, needing to get the hell away. If I started speaking in a French accent around those two, the game would well and truly be up. They’d ask outright why I was talking in such a daft way, and would I ever grow up, ever stop making a fool of myself?
On and on I went, backwards, backwards…
I started falling, windmilling my arms to try to get myself upright again. It didn’t work. I cried out—hoping the yell could pass for both French and English—and realised, with total horror, where I was going to land.
River water greeted me with open, cold arms, cuddling me whole. I closed my mouth too late, a treat of dirty water filling it, and a caul of my hair cemented itself stubbornly across my face. I flapped my arms and legs, tried to peer through my hair to find out where the sunlight was but couldn’t see a thing but blackness. I struggled, panic setting in, and floundered beneath the murky depths, wondering, inanely, whether this was my last act. I’d die under this crap-infested water never having known what it was like to love and be loved.
A whoosh of movement tossed me sideways, and I floated away from it, feeling the ripple and push of the undulating momentum. Everything sounded so dull—the somewhat creepy tinkling of the water changing direction, a female scream, an odd whistling inside my head—and my lungs felt like they were going to burst. I lifted one hand, still frantically flapping the other, and pushed my hair off my face. I stared around, seeing nothing but brown—no welcoming lightness to tell me where the surface was.
I was a goner, I really was.
May as well face up to it and let the river claim me. It wasn’t like I was going to be able to get away with anything after this. I’d been caught and there was no getting away from that.
I sat on the riverbank, shivering and looking down at the sodden grass, water streaming off my hair to drip onto my soaking jeans. I couldn’t lift my head, didn’t want to see the people surrounding me. And there were many. Several pairs of feet in various shoes were arranged in a semicircle. I couldn’t see David’s trainers.
“Jane, whatever were you thinking?” my mother shrieked.
I winced. The game was well and truly up.
“Always been the bloody same you have, my girl,” Dad said. “Remember that time on Lobb’s Mountain, Vera? When she wouldn’t listen to us and ran down it, falling in—”
“That’s enough, Harold,” Mother said. “Really, the good people here don’t want to listen to that. I’m more concerned that she’ll get ill after gulping all that water, or at the very least catch a chill. Go in the pub and ask them for a blanket, will you?”
If I knew Dad, he’d walk away without complaint and do her bidding.
“And you,” Mother said. “Friend, are you? I’d say boyfriend, but our Jane hasn’t had one ever—not that we know of, anyway—so I can’t see her having one now.”
She could have been talking to anyone—there were male pairs of shoes in the watching crowd. I’d just sit still and let her get on with it. Embarrass me as much as she liked so long as I could get away from here, face unseen, and back to my flat where I could live the rest of my life alone. I’d been a fool to think finding a man to share my life with would be anything but disastrous. Yet for a while back there, I’d convinced myself it might work, this relationship thing. I’d have just had to pretend to be French for the rest of my days and avoid letting David meet my parents, that was all.
“Yes, I’m her boyfriend,” David said.
I snapped my head up, then realised what I’d done. It was too late now, though. I stared up at him as he stared down at me, my heart going mental, making up a new dance as it thudded along. He was soaking, the weight of the water dragging his sweatpants lower than they’d been earlier. Inappropriate for the situation, I studied the damp hairs and skin peeking out from where his T-shirt had ridden up, a ruche of material fingers. I might as well, because I wasn’t going to get to see that sight again.
“Oh, right,” Mother said. “How long has this been going on then, young lady?”
I raised my eyes so I could watch his facial expression.
He smiled. “Long enough for me to know I’d like to see her every day.”
“Well, that’s a turn-up for the books.” Mother again.
I wanted her to go away. Wanted everyone standing around us to go away. To leave us in this moment, a sweet, emotional moment that had a lump expanding in my throat as big as a haggis. I must have looked a sight, but I didn’t care now. David looked one, too, hair plastered to his forehead, the kinks stripped out of it by running river water. So he’d jumped in to save me—had saved me. The haggis g
rew bigger. I wanted to speak, but couldn’t find the words. It seemed we didn’t need any. He was telling me all I needed to know with those eyes of his. That I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life alone. That, despite my lies, he wanted to see me every day.
That I had… Bloody hell, that I had a boyfriend.
The blanket was a welcome bit of warmth. Dad had shrouded me in its prickly embrace, making sure I knew I had to return it and not to forget, because I hadn’t been brought up to keep something that wasn’t mine and no daughter of his was a thief. I nodded amid Mother repeating what he’d said, David thanking them for being there, but that he really ought to get me back home now, home in the warm.
We took a taxi to my flat, saying nothing on the journey, him hugging me to his side. I worried about what he was thinking. I mean, it was all very well him saying he was my boyfriend, but I mulled over why—why would he want a liar in his life? Wasn’t he hurt by my deception? It was clear my parents weren’t French, that I wasn’t French, and very obvious I was plain old Jane Smith.
We got out of the taxi. Mr Big Bollocks wasn’t in his garden, but he was standing at his living room window, staring out through the glass with a shocked expression. He disappeared, and as me and David walked up the path that bordered Mr Big Bollocks’ hedges, my swollen-groined neighbour flew out of his house and peered over at us.
“You all right, Jane?” he asked, eyes wide. “Did this man here…? What did he do?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said. “He didn’t do anything.”
I walked on, up the steps, panicked for a second that I’d lost my keys in the river. I patted my jeans pocket, the familiar bulge of them beneath my palm, then pulled them out and let us in. Stood in the living room and allowed the tears to fall, hot and fat and searing down my cheeks. Clutched the itchy blanket tighter around me to ward off shivers that had decided to join my pity party.
David pulled me to him, held me close. “I meant it, you know. What I said. I don’t bloody care who you are—Jane Smith or the crazy Chantal Rossi. I knew the second you’d said Mont Blanc that you weren’t French, and it didn’t matter. I still wanted to see you every day, still do. I like you. A lot. Understand?”
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