The Grayson Trilogy

by Georgia Rose

  Silently we both took in the ‘For Sale’ sign planted firmly in the front garden of the place I’d once lived with my family – my other family. This was a surprise for him. I checked on Zaffy, who was gurgling in her car seat, before I looked back at Trent who met my eyes, a slow smile coming to his lips.

  “It’s time?” he said and I nodded, knowing this would be a good moment for him. I was cutting all ties, finally ready for him and our family to be everything.

  “Yes.” Even now as I looked over at the house I could see us, as we had been: the door opening and Eva bouncing out, excited and raring to grasp whatever the day had in store for her, calling for me to follow. I’d rush to catch up, to grab her hand before she left the garden. I’d turn to see Alex pull the door closed behind him as he joined us on whatever adventure we were embarking on.

  I swallowed and blinked away the tears before turning once more to Trent, smiling brightly, knowing my eyes were shiny.

  He leaned over to kiss me, his lips soft against mine, then pulling back he used his thumb to wipe an escaped tear from my cheek.

  “Susie will be wondering where you are so let’s get you home,” he murmured, “back to our peaceful and secluded life.”

  Putting the car in gear, he looked back over at me, shaking his head – amazed no doubt at me managing to surprise him with this. As he gave me one of his broadest smiles, I grinned back, chuckling lightly.

  “Ahh, don’t start dreaming of a quiet life, Trent,” I said as we started to pull away. “That’s one we’re never going to know.”

  The End

  As promised at the beginning, there now follows a little added extra: another voice, another time.

  First, though, a warning, or two.

  If bad language offends you, read no further.

  If you have been perfectly happy seeing things only from Emma’s point of view and have no wish to see what Trent thinks, stop right here.

  You have been warned, so proceed accordingly.

  That First Weekend

  I wait for her, as always.

  Her eyes blink open and fix on me. A startling but dazed blue.

  I’ve been hanging around a couple of hours for this moment, ever since the trip in the ambulance. The last hour I’ve sat right here, the cold remnants of the foul liquid that passes for coffee from the machine on the table at my side. Keen to move from the chair I’ve moulded into, I get up to go to her.

  Welcome back, I say, and I hear the relief in my voice as I ask how she’s feeling.

  Sore, is her croaky response, which is no surprise.

  Regan? she whispers, and I think that’s bloody typical of her to ask about him first.

  He’s fine, back in his stable. I try to reassure, adding that Carlton’s in charge because I know she’ll want to know that.

  Her nod causes her to cry out in pain, a reminder of her situation, and she wants to know what the damage is.

  You’ve been lucky, I tell her, though it might not feel like it at the moment. You have a head injury and concussion; your riding hat was smashed. You have extensive bruising across your back and the rest of you is going to be pretty sore for a few days where you hit the ground, but there are no broken bones and no internal injuries, so, like I say, you’ve been lucky…and I force myself to finish brightly.

  But I’m not at all happy this happened in the first place. Bloody horses. Don’t get me wrong, I like them, but at a respectful distance, and I wish she had nothing to do with them. And I know that makes no bloody sense at all because that’s her job, but I want to protect her. It’s as simple as that.

  She clears her throat and takes a sip of water from a beaker I pass to her. That’s good, she says, speaking more clearly now. I don’t know if she’s talking about the water or her status update, but it doesn’t matter because her voice wraps around my senses, soft in tone with a broken edge like silk snagging across rocks, and it distracts me instantly.

  Her frown comes suddenly and she gasps.

  My concern is there, in my voice, when I ask what the problem is.

  Is she here as well?

  Who? I question.

  The woman…was she injured by Regan?

  She stares at me and I know I’m frowning, confused by her questions. I tell her there was no one else there when we found her.

  And now it’s her turn to look bewildered as she tells me she was sure there was a woman who had leapt out, which was why Regan had shied…and she tails off, deep in thought.

  I ask her what this mystery woman looked like, trying to be helpful, thinking it might jog her memory, though I’m sceptical of there being any memory to jog.

  I can’t remember, she murmurs. It all seems so vague now. If she wasn’t there when you got there, she obviously wasn’t hurt, which is the main thing I guess.

  If she even existed…

  Are you sure your mind isn’t playing tricks on you? Could it be a dream you’re remembering? I think I’ve made a good point there.

  Mmm…perhaps, she mumbles, her thoughts elsewhere. Maybe it will come back to me.

  Then, true to form – true to the Emma I know and…well…know – she turns her attention fully back to me and wants to know if she can go home. Direct, that’s Emma. It’s one of those traits I like.

  The doctor is due to come round and see you again soon, and then we’ll see, I tell her. She looks down at her hospital gown, so I say her clothes have been taken back home.

  Greene came in and brought some clean things for you to wear, I add. When you’re allowed to go, that is.

  That was kind of her, she mutters.

  That’s what friends are for, I think, but then she’s thanking me for staying too and saying she’s sure I have other things I should be doing, so if I need to go and get on with those, she’ll be fine.

  Not a chance, Emma, I’m not missing this opportunity. Not in this lifetime.

  Cavendish has told me to stay so it’s not a problem and I’m here to take you home, if they let you out, I clarify. Always happy to be of service, that’s me.

  That’s good of you, she says, and thoughtful of Cavendish.

  It wasn’t exactly his idea.

  It’ll save me getting a taxi, she finishes.

  I’m not sure you would be up to going home in a taxi anyway, I say. You’re going to have to take things easy for a while, you know. But I don’t think she does know and I watch her for a moment.

  We’ll see. I’m sure I’ll be fine once I get moving, she says. She brushes off the seriousness of the injuries she’s sustained then questions how we found her. Pretty much unconscious as she hit the ground, she didn’t have a chance to use her phone.

  Regan was seen by Porter who raised the alarm, I tell her. We triangulated the signal on your phone and came to get you. And as her brow furrows I wonder if I’ve given away more of our capabilities than I should have done.

  The door opens and a doctor and nurse enter. Pleased to see her conscious, they carry out some tests.

  Emma asks if she can go home when they’ve finished their poking and prodding.

  The doctor says yes, but explains as she’s suffered a concussion there has to be someone with her for the next forty-eight hours or so in case of any deterioration in her condition.

  Her whole demeanour sags with disappointment and she replies that there isn’t anyone who can do that because she lives on her own.

  And this is my moment.

  My time to step up.

  I tell them I’ll be staying with her for the next couple of days so that won’t be a problem. And I hear in the distance, but wilfully disregard, the faint jangle of alarm this raises in her. I imagine she is wondering where my offer came from. I know she is staring up at me; I can feel the intensity of her gaze and I make sure I don’t meet those eyes – that piercing blue honesty that I know will see straight through me in an instant if I make that contact.

  It’s happened before: the day after she nearly took Carlton into her bed
. That day, Eva’s birthday, her reason for drinking too much. She’d asked me why I did all this for her and I knew she was giving me an opening, a chance to come clean, but I bottled it and told her it was my job. But I didn’t believe for one moment she’d bought that. Somehow I’m sure she senses my feelings for her however much I try to hide them. She has a way of seeing right into me as if she can open the pathway to my soul where all is bared – where I have nowhere to hide, yet hide I must. I can’t let her see, not all that, not yet…perhaps not ever.

  The doctor is happy with this solution and takes me to one side to talk through what to look out for.

  Emma thanks me for offering to do this, like it’s some great hardship or something. I’m thinking I need to lower her suspicions that there might be an ulterior motive so I tell her I’m just following orders and she visibly relaxes. I bet she’s wondering if Cavendish has made me volunteer. No, Emma, that was all me.

  We move on. Her pain is obvious as she sits up and wants her clothes. Time to inject a little fun I think as I hold up her tracksuit trousers and try not to smile, raising my eyebrows at her as I ask if she wants some help.

  True to form, she scowls back at me, no doubt relieved they left her with her pants on. She mutters that she’s not sure me helping her dress is entirely appropriate.

  You’re probably right, Emma, you’re probably right.

  Then she asks the question I hoped she wouldn’t.

  Couldn’t one of the girls come and help instead? I don’t want to lie to her, and this is only a white one, I convince myself, although a considerable amount of effort has gone into making it such.

  I look at her and sound genuinely sorry when I tell her that everyone is busy with the Ball coming up. As I’m the least useful person on the estate for the time being, I’m afraid she’s stuck with me. I see the moment she gives in, her body – that body – relaxing as she begrudgingly agrees she might need some help. But limited help. Let’s not go crazy – remember this is Emma we’re dealing with here and she doesn’t do help.

  Grumpily she asks me to bring the clothes over to her and says she’ll manage from there. I watch her struggle to pull on her trousers when it would be so much easier for me to do it for her. Eventually I’m allowed to help her off the bed, then, when the bottom half is finally covered, she sits down, looking pale and more than a little green. I put on her socks and plimsoll’s before tying the laces.

  Now to the top half, I say as I reach for the sweatshirt and turn to her, unable to hide my grin. She’s resisted all forms of assistance for so long I enjoy every minute of her having to be helped, and she knows it, which does nothing to help her mood.

  I can manage, she snaps as I go to put the sweatshirt over her head, but moments later she’s stuck with it round her neck, unable to get her arms into it.

  Enough, I decide, and I take charge.

  Turn around, I say, and when she does I undo the fastenings down the back of the hospital gown, revealing a sliver of skin, pale and soft, that I resist the urge to touch.

  As I go to slip the gown off her shoulders, she says, don’t look at me.

  And I don’t.

  Until she is ready to show me, I don’t.

  Protecting her modesty.

  And saving myself.

  I reassure her I have my eyes tightly closed, and I do. And all is quiet between us.

  Eventually, with everything covered up, I say, let’s go, keeping it casual, keeping it light. I don’t want her to feel anything other than comfortable with me. I collect our stuff together and we head out, making detours to sign forms and pick up pills before finally reaching the car park where I help her up into the passenger seat.

  We drive back through the farm entrance and she waves to Porter and Summers as we pass, then we’re at the stables. It’s late afternoon and I help her out of the truck. Susie hurtles over, throws a growling bark at me (I seriously need to work on my relationship with that dog) and leaps at Emma with undeniable joy. She crouches to give Susie a cuddle then struggles to get back up and I feel a flash of annoyance. I should have been quicker to help her, but when she does get upright again she looks over at the yard. Carlton is standing watching her (of course he is) and she raises her hand to him and starts to walk over, her progress slow.

  I try not to sound impatient or that I’m treating her like a child when I ask her what she’s doing and remind her she’s meant to be going in for a rest, but I realise I’m probably kidding no one. Of course she needs to see the horse first. I catch her up and gallantly give her my arm to lean on and progress is quicker.

  She has a brief exchange with Carlton and I wish she wouldn’t. He’s a good bloke, a friend, someone who you want to have your back, but right now, right at this moment, he’s a competitor. I know they have a thing between them – a potential thing. I’ve stepped in once, stopped her from ending up in bed with him. It was probably wrong, but right for me (selfish, I know) because even now, if I think back to that night when I watched as he reached for her, there’s a twist in my guts, a flood of nausea, built purely on the fact he touched her. I pulled rank. It was a shit thing to do, I know, but all’s fair in love…

  She strokes Regan’s nose, then opens the door wide enough to get inside and wraps her arms around his neck before stroking her hand down his nose again. He brings his head up and rests his chin on her shoulder. He knows exactly what he’s doing as she kisses and nuzzles the softest part, the silky hollow just above his nostril. Impotently, Carlton and I look on. I don’t know about him, but a flash of jealousy sparks in me.

  Jealous? Of a fucking horse? Seriously, there’s no hope for me.

  And I cough, interrupting. Then mutter something about having to get her inside now. She gives Regan one last kiss, checks on each of the other stables, then there’s another exchange with Carlton before she’s back to leaning on me for the journey across to the cottage.

  We let ourselves in and I tell her to go to bed. That’s a mistake: I should know by now not to tell her to do anything. And she looks up at me in her weakened condition, ever so slightly like she’s pleading with me, wanting to stay up for a bit, watch a film and have some supper. And she’s so damned gorgeous, looking at me like that, and I relent. Of course she can do that. That is, after all, exactly what I want: more time with her.

  I help her through to the sitting room. I take off her plimsoll’s, get her comfortable on the settee with additional cushions and a fleecy blanket to wrap around her feet and legs. Proper boyfriend stuff. Susie comes in at that point and huffs a couple of times, presumably on finding me here, then flops down on the floor as close to Emma as she can get.

  I go to sort out something for dinner and find that Mrs F has been a star. What would I do without that woman? Emma is fine with the pasta dish so I stick that in the oven before I return to the patient to see what film she wants to watch. But she gives me the choice. I’m the guest, she says.

  I look at the shelf of DVDs and am delighted, but not surprised, to see they are all dark thrillers, violent action and adventure – I didn’t have her down as a romcom kind of girl – and I choose the first part of an action trilogy that I’ve seen before.

  She asks if I need to go and get anything from my place before we get settled. Already done, I assure her. It’s all in the planning, I think, all the business carried out before she was even conscious. I spread myself out over the other settee and get comfortable. We pause only to eat, and I like the fact she watches the film in silence. There’s no need for us to talk, and that feels good. I glance over at her a couple of times and wish I was lying with her. I notice she’s falling asleep and only just makes it to the roll of the credits.

  At that point I jump up and say I’m off to run her a bath – doctor’s orders. When I come down I can see how exhausted she is. I unwrap her from the blanket and, as her muscles have stiffened, help her up.

  We get into the bathroom which is when it gets awkward as she wants me to leave. I try to expl
ain that she can’t be left alone in the water in case she passes out, but she’s having none of it.

  She suggests I sit outside with the door open while she gets in and I tell her that works for me, but she’ll have to keep talking otherwise I’ll be in to check on her. So I take up my position outside the door and sit on the top step of the stairs, my back against the wall. I try not to think about her getting naked (that body), but when I hear the movement of the water it becomes more difficult.

  Imagining the warm silky water caressing her skin, I look for a distraction and ask her what she wants to talk about. And she suggests we could use this enforced time together to find out a bit more about each other.

  Uh-oh.

  But I respond with a yes, we could.

  I picture her sitting, leaning up against the end of the bath, deep water, soapy bubbles gliding over her limbs, warming her. She interrupts my thoughts to say that, as I have the advantage of having done a background search on her, she’ll ask the questions to start with, if that’s okay with me. Although I hesitate, of course I want her to know more about me. I want her to know everything – eventually – and I’m fucking delighted she wants to.

  That’s fine with me, Grayson, fire away.

  Where do you live? she asks.

  I tell her I have an apartment in the Manor and a bit more about the other houses and flats on the estate, realising she probably doesn’t know the setup.

  Have you always lived there alone?

  Yes, I answer, then I wonder, is she probing about the state of my singledom or is that my imagination? Tell her then, for God’s sake, you want her to know. So I continue, I moved on to the estate after my marriage broke up.

  How long have you lived there?

  About five years.

  That’s a long time for you to have been on your own, she comments.