by Lee, Mandy
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘For taking so long.’
She pulls back, holding his face in her hands.
‘Don’t be daft.’ There are tears in her eyes. ‘I understand. Now … let’s get on with the job of building those bridges, shall we?’
Chapter Twenty-Five
I’m roused by a kiss. It invades my sleep and soon becomes real. Breaking it, he pulls back and says nothing. He doesn’t need to. The look in his eyes says it all. Pure love, pure reverence, pure intimacy. Slowly, he manoeuvres himself on top of me, easing my legs apart. There’s to be no foreplay this morning. We’re getting straight into the action.
With another kiss, he presses his cock against me, entering without any resistance whatsoever. I’m already wet. With one hand under the small of my back and the other at my shoulder, he drives inwards, filling me completely before he withdraws. I run my hands over his broad shoulders, loving the power that’s arching above me, moaning softly as he drives, withdraws, adjusts his position, and drives again. I’m super-sensitive down below, every single move keenly felt. Flutters quickly become ripples. Undulating through my muscles, they swell, transforming themselves into waves of sheer pleasure that ebb and flow through my vagina. Sometimes kissing me, sometimes holding eye contact, he keeps up the action, maintaining a gentle but relentless rhythm, and sending me to the edge of sanity. Every now and then, a squall of rain patters against the window. Apart from our ragged breathing, the occasional groan, it’s the only sound in the world.
Finally, he’s there. Twitching and jerking, he fills me with a few last thrusts, and I implode, muscles contracting in one delicious flood of heat that leaves me gasping and writhing beneath him. He collapses on top of me, still throbbing inside, waiting until we’ve both come down from the high before he speaks.
‘Thank you,’ he whispers against my mouth.
‘What for?’
‘The best Christmas ever.’
I gaze up at him in surprise.
‘Overcooked sprouts, a pissed-up sister and nightmare Scrabble?’
He laughs.
‘Being with you.’ He pecks me on the mouth and withdraws.
‘Are we having a cheesy moment?’
‘Yes,’ he says proudly. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with cheese.’
He reaches over to a box of tissues on my bedside cabinet, and pulls out a handful. Concentrating fully, he sets about wiping his semen from me.
‘Last Christmas was fucking miserable.’ He tosses the tissue onto the floor. ‘Spent it on my own.’ He rolls over onto his back and I cuddle up to him. A warm arm closes round me. He rests his chin on the top of my head and pulls the duvet over us. ‘I never thought in a year’s time I’d be engaged to the most beautiful woman in the world.’
‘Oh, come on.’ I prod him. ‘I am not the most beautiful woman in the world.’
‘Oh yes, you are.’ He runs a hand across my stomach, down to my crotch, urging my legs apart. I’m still tingling from my climax. If he goes on like this, I’ll be cross-eyed with ecstasy before breakfast. ‘I never thought I’d be a dad … and I certainly never thought I’d be back in touch with my sisters. You’ve given me all that, Maya. You’ve given me happiness.’ He presses a finger against my clit. An arrow of warmth shoots right through my groin. ‘I’ll never be able to pay you back.’
‘Oh, I can think of a way.’
‘Which is?’
‘More kink.’
‘Filthy woman. You’ve had plenty.’
And I have. Over the past month, we’ve used the cross more times than I can remember – only for pleasure – and experimented a little further with rope. But more often than not, we’ve returned to his favourite, the cuffs. Yesterday morning, he even presented me with my first ever Daniel Foster Christmas present: the Rolls-Royce of all vibrators. And he’s already managed to send me mad with it. The only thing that’s out of bounds is spanking. He’s made that perfectly clear.
‘I want more.’
He circles the finger.
‘I bet you do. And you’ll get it, believe me. But before that, I’m making you breakfast in bed.’ The finger’s removed.
‘Oh,’ I whine.
‘No complaints. I need to feed the pregnant one. Tea and toast?’
‘Perfect. Use the teapot.’
‘Yes, boss.’ Shuffling out from beneath me, he rolls out of bed. ‘Jesus, it’s fucking freezing. I’ll put the heating on.’
He slips on his jeans, runs his fingers through his hair and goes over to the window, twitching back the curtains.
‘It was a crap present, wasn’t it?’
‘The teapot?’
‘I get a vibrator. You get a tea set.’
‘It’s the best present ever.’
‘You don’t even like tea.’
‘I can always put coffee in it.’ He winks. ‘Now, stop complaining. It’s our last day in Norfolk. I’m going to cook us a wonderful dinner. We’ll have cuddles in front of the fire, maybe watch a slushy film and, oh yeah, and I’m going to fuck you senseless.’
‘That’s the day planned then.’
‘Almost.’ He retrieves his sweatshirt and puts it on. ‘Before we go back to London, there’s one other thing I’d like to do.’
The cemetery’s at the top of the hill, overlooking the town. The Mercedes comes to a halt in the car park. He kills the engine and doesn’t move. Sitting absolutely still, he stares ahead at a bench, a collection of wind-worn trees.
‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Yes,’ he says curtly. ‘You don’t have to come.’
‘I’d like to be with you, if you’re okay with that.’
He seems to think, and then nods. He gets out of the car, circles to my side, opens the door and offers me the customary hand. As soon as I’m on my feet, the cold makes its move. A wall of wind rolls up the hill. I fasten my coat and look to the left: a handful of people lost among the gravestones, visiting the departed on a cold, grim Boxing Day morning. And then to the right: under a grey, colourless day, roof tops huddle at the centre of town, the squat tower of Limmingham church almost lost in the clouds.
‘So, where is it?’ I ask.
‘At the top.’ He points up the hill. ‘Row twelve.’
Suddenly, he seems unsure of himself. I take his hand in mine and give it a squeeze.
‘We can go back to the cottage.’
He shakes his head.
‘I want to do this. I need to …’
Slowly, we make our way along a path between the gravestones, some adorned with flowers, some too old to be remembered by the living. Here and there I spot an offering, a personal memento, a photo, a pint glass, an angel. At the top of the hill we come to the smaller memorial stones, the ones belonging to the cremated. Leading me by the hand, he takes a left, peering at the inscriptions, one after the other, caught up in the business of locating the right name. At last he comes to a halt, staring at one stone in particular.
‘Miriam Eleanor Taylor,’ he reads. ‘‘Much-loved wife and mother’. You couldn’t get much further from the truth.’ A smile touches his mouth, but steers clear of his eyes. ‘Layla said she didn’t know what to put.’
His attention strays to the next grave. Saying nothing, he pulls his hand away from mine and balls his fists, and I understand why. This is his stepfather’s grave.
‘You’re here to see your mum.’ I smooth my hand on his coat sleeve. ‘Not him. He doesn’t deserve to be remembered.’
‘No.’
The word almost disappears on another gust of wind. Lost in thought, he stares at the block of granite, the empty flower holder.
‘What made him do those things?’ he asks at last, with all the innocence of a child. ‘What makes a human being behave that way?’
He glances up at the sky, as if he’s searching for answers, and rubs away a tear.
‘You’ll never know. Not for sure. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t your fault. That’s the only certain
ty.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry.’
‘There’s no need to apologise.’
He chews at his lip, turns his attention back to his mother’s grave.
‘I’ll give you some time on your own.’
His hand comes back to mine.
‘No. Stay. I won’t be long.’
For a few minutes, we stand in silence, braced against the wind. I have no idea what’s going through his mind. Perhaps he’s asking her why she let those things happen; perhaps he’s trying to understand; maybe he’s forgiving her. It’s not my business to ask. Giving him the space he needs, I look back down at the town, and then the sea, trying to figure out where the horizon lies, but I can’t. Everything’s blurred. No clarity. No black and white.
Finally, his fingers tighten around my hand.
‘Done?’ I ask.
‘Done,’ he confirms. And then, out of nowhere: ‘I’d like to go for a walk.’
‘A walk?’
‘Down by the sea … I want to show you something.’
The drive into town doesn’t take long. The roads are deserted. We park near the seafront. Dan produces an umbrella from the boot, and we walk through the winding streets of Old Limmingham, finally emerging onto the cliff-top. Sweeping in from the North Sea, the wind grips us immediately.
‘On second thoughts.’ He pulls up his collar. ‘Perhaps we should just go back to the cottage, light the fire and have sex on the rug.’
‘That rug’s seen better days,’ I complain. ‘And besides, I’m intrigued. What is it you want to show me?’
He seems embarrassed.
‘It’s not really worth it.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
‘I don’t know …’
‘Dan.’
Reluctant now, he takes me by the hand and leads me down to the promenade. A smattering of rain soon gathers force, threatening to soak us. He puts up the umbrella and aims it into the wind. Wrapping his free arm around me, he pulls me in to his side, making sure I’m protected from the worst of the elements.
‘This is pure madness,’ he says. ‘You’ll catch cold.’
I tut. ‘We’re not in a Jane Austen novel. People don’t get ill because they get a bit wet, not in the real world.’
‘Well …’ He nods at my stomach, and I understand immediately. He’s worried about the baby.
‘I’m pregnant. Not ill. Don’t get over-protective.’
‘I can’t help it.’ He shrugs. ‘Come on. Let’s get this over and done with.’
Leaving the pier behind, we walk along the promenade, past cafés and shops, all closed for the winter; buckets and spades and seaside tat piled up in the windows. We pass a lone dog-walker, a scattering of fishing boats that have definitely seen better days, a small Victorian pavilion. And then, the promenade gives way to a narrow, uneven path, a final stretch lined with beach huts – the southern tip of the town. We pick our way along the path, dodging puddles until we come to the very end, where any sign of civilisation has disappeared. Beyond this point, there’s nothing but wild beaches and rugged cliffs: it’s marked by a groyne, a wooden coastal defence that stretches out into the sea, protecting the cliffs from erosion.
‘Can you see it?’ he asks, coming to a halt.
‘What?’
‘There.’ He points at a length of timber.
I snuggle up next to him, following the direction of his finger. At first, I see nothing, but then it emerges, faint, but still visible. Carved into the wood, a capital D.
‘I was nine when I did that,’ he smiles wryly. ‘Making my mark on the world. I’m surprised it’s still here. The woods were your sanctuary. This was mine. It took me a few days to finish.’
Moved beyond words that he’s chosen to share this with me, I stare at the carving, one tiny remnant of his childhood. And I conjure up an image in my head: a solitary boy avoiding the world, perhaps on a day like this, losing himself in his task.
‘Thank you.’ I look up at him. ‘For showing me.’
His eyes glint. His lips part, as if he’s on the verge of telling me something else. And then he takes in a breath.
‘We’re about to get very wet.’ He nods out to sea, to a curtain of rain sweeping in. ‘I don’t think this umbrella’s going to be enough. Come on.’
Hastily he leads me back the way we came, guiding me under the cover of the pavilion just in time to avoid the downpour. There are benches here. Closing the umbrella, he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, dries off a bench and motions for me to sit. Taking a seat next to me, he settles into silence for a few minutes, watching the maelstrom of raindrops as they churn up the sea.
‘I always felt more at home here on days like this,’ he says. Leaning forward, he clutches his hands together. ‘Grey. Miserable. Wet. Cold. When the sun came out, when the holiday crowds arrived, I felt like an alien. I used to come here and watch them, all those happy families. Buckets and spades, deckchairs, sandcastles. I had no place here in the summer. But on days like this … it was my kingdom.’ He falters. ‘I liked being alone. But now I never want to be alone again.’ He pulls a penknife out of his pocket. ‘I was going to carve an M next to the D.’
I laugh.
‘You really are in a cheesy mood today. Maybe some other time.’
‘Maybe.’
He puts the knife away and draws me in for a tender kiss. Protected from the cold and the rain, I’m enveloped in his arms, the warm perfection of his lips. After an age I’m released, and we sink back into silence, cuddled up against each other on the bench, watching the worst of the storm sweep past.
‘I was proud of you at the cemetery. That took a lot of guts.’
He shrugs off my compliment.
‘I said goodbye to her. Properly. I’d never done that before … and I forgave him.’
I look up at him. My expression asks the question. Why?
‘Because I pity him. Just like I pity Boyd.’
‘Pity? One of them abused you. The other tried to kill you.’
‘And neither of them knew contentment or love, not like I do.’ His gaze penetrates me, right to the core. ‘Boyd was ill. And my stepfather? Well … there must have been a reason.’
He’s right. Those who torment are never happy. I think of Boyd and what he did to me, crushing any self-confidence I had left. And then I think of Sara, perhaps the root cause of all the weakness. Silently, I forgive them both … and banish their misery from my life.
‘Don’t you ever wonder about your real dad?’ I ask. It’s a question that’s been lurking at the back of my mind for a while now, and this seems to be the perfect time to ask it. ‘Don’t you ever want to contact him?’
He looks out to sea. Grey waves swell and surge, tumbling over each other in an endless race to reach the shore, each one crashing to pieces before it’s dragged back into the mass.
‘I did a bit of research,’ he admits at last. ‘When I was off work. The devil makes work for idle hands. He’s still alive. Lives in Suffolk.’
I hold my breath, wondering what’s coming next. A host of half-siblings?
‘He’s an alcoholic,’ he informs me, ‘with several broken relationships behind him. He’s been in prison a few times.’
‘You don’t want to meet him?’
He shakes his head and pins his gaze on me.
‘He walked out on us, Maya. He didn’t care. He’s never been there for me, never made the effort to find me. As far as I’m concerned, he has no right to be in my life. He might have other kids. I didn’t bother finding out. And if there are any, I don’t want to risk contacting them. I don’t want any more heartache or trouble. I have Layla and Sophie. That’s enough.’
‘So, what do we tell this one?’ I touch my stomach.
‘The truth … eventually. I’ve done what I can, but some ghosts just need to be left where they belong.’
I nod my agreement. He’s made his decision. His real father – and everyone associated wi
th him – is out of the picture for good, and I respect that.
‘I understand.’
‘What’s the point of clinging to the past? What’s the point of letting it crush you? I’m moving on. I’m through with it.’
I reach up and brush a finger down his cheek. I’d like to tell him we’re never through with the past, that it’s with us forever, sometimes out of sight, sometimes in full view, always unchangeable. We can only ever learn from it … and manage the consequences.
‘How about you?’ he asks. ‘I read that interview, the one you did in New York. This place had an effect on you too.’
Oh, the interview. I’d forgotten about that, and the truths I let out into the open.
‘I’m dealing with it,’ I tell him. ‘I’m moving on, just like you. The person I was … she didn’t feel like she belonged, she didn’t feel like she had any merit. But I’m not that person any more.’
‘No you’re not,’ he answers quickly. ‘And I’m the luckiest man in the world because you’re going to be my wife, my partner.’ He arches an eyebrow. ‘And the mother of my children.’
‘Children?’
‘Are you really going to stop at one?’
I place a hand on my stomach. I’ve not even felt the baby move yet, but we’ve had the first scan and I’m already in love with this new little being. And so is Dan. More than once, I’ve caught him gazing in wonder at the picture.
‘Probably not.’
‘I didn’t think so.’ He smiles. ‘The person you were … leave her here. Leave her with that boy.’ He nods towards the groyne.
I put my hand in his. His grip tightens and he stands. I stand too. He picks up the umbrella and flips it open.
‘Ready to weather the storm together?’ he asks.
‘With you, I’m ready for anything.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
I stare at myself in disgust. It’s not the hair that’s the problem. That’s fine. An elegant up-do, all curls and twists and things, crafted by a professional hairdresser. It’s not the make-up either. I’ve done that myself. And it’s definitely not the jewellery. The sweet-pea necklace and matching earrings were a no-brainer. From the neck up, everything’s fine: simple, understated, and me. No. The real issues begin from the neck down. Twelve thousand five hundred pounds’ worth of designer wedding dress, made to order at Dan’s insistence. It looked glorious on the page, great on the rail and fine on me … when I last tried it on, two weeks ago. But now …