Darker (11 page)

I have Nathan’s complete attention, as before. He leans back in the settee, his eyes never leaving me. Even though I never look up from the instrument I can feel his dark, brooding gaze on my bent head as I stretch my fingers across the neck of the guitar to form the chords, strumming softly. Eventually the soft melody ends and the last strains die away. Neither of us makes a move. Not wanting to discuss whips and handcuffs again, at least not for a while, I decide to try something a little more ambitious. This is a lovely instrument, responsive. I’ve become attuned to it, this might work.

I lean over the guitar again and start another piece, this time a classical melody but one made famous as a film soundtrack, as so many are. This piece is written for classical guitar and sounds superb when played unplugged. Under my fingers the sensuous, romantic, melody of
Cavatina
by Stanley Myers floats into the room, haunting, atmospheric. And it seems to fit the mood today quite well.

Nathan is listening idly, obviously content to let me strum away, but he comes to attention as I start this last piece, as he recognises it. His eyes are on me, I can feel them, intense, burning, even though I never take mine off the neck of the guitar where I’m carefully working the steel strings with my fingers. The fingering is complicated, and I’m playing pretty much by ear—I need to concentrate. The lovely, haunting melody fills the room, soars around us, caresses us. The passion and tragedy within the piece is drawn out by the nakedness of the delivery, just as it was intended. No frills, no fancy electronic treatment. Just me, a guitar and a beautiful piece of music.

“I recognise that, I’ve heard it before somewhere.” Nathan’s words are murmured softly as the last strains die away. I glance up, meet his eyes, which are dark, almost black. This time we’re alone, and I know what comes next.

“That was superb, again, Eva. What was it?” The question is voiced softly, Nathan leaning forward to gaze at me.

“
Cavatina
, by Stanley Myers.” His blank look tells me he needs more. “It was the theme tune to
The Deer Hunter
.”

“Ah, yes. I remember now. A lovely piece, and played so beautifully. And deliberately? I think you know the effect it had on me, and what happens next?” I do, but still he makes no move. And then, “Is that how you think of me, Eva? As a hunter? A predator? Have I caught you?” The soft voice is gentle, caressing, the question a serious one.

Appreciating the significance of the moment I don’t answer immediately, considering his words. Maybe my choice was not so random after all. I suspect that nothing ever is in my world.

At last, I answer, “I happened across your path, and you caught me. Perhaps. But it was me who was hunting. And I found.”

Smiling softly he reaches over to take the guitar and places it back in its case. “You certainly did, thank God. And so did I.” He hesitates, watching me, then continues, his voice low and seductive, “You know I need to fuck you now, don’t you? I think that was the idea, yes?”

“Yes,” I whisper, marvelling at my own new-found power to affect events.

“Here?”

It seems I have a choice of location too. Is there no end to my powers? I nod. “Here’s good,” I whisper, looking across the coffee table at him. He holds my gaze, his chocolate eyes sexy and sensual, his arousal obvious.

“Any particular preferences, Little Eva? What would you like to do?”

I think for a moment, then smile, remembering. “That thing you did last night, when you were inside me and you stroked me, stroked my clit, until I came. And came. And came. Can you do that again? Please?”

“It will be my absolute pleasure, Miss Byrne.”

And it was mine too. Absolutely.

* * * *

Later, our long cold teacups replenished, Nathan sits down next to me on the settee. He picks up my mug and places it in my hands. “Here, drink your tea before it goes cold again, you insatiable little beast. I made Earl Grey for you. Fancy a Bourbon?”

I sip and nibble in silence, his arm lightly slung over my shoulders while Nathan’s attention drifts back to the Olympics. The cycling has long since given way to high diving, and find myself watching enviously as the lean, athletic bodies angle gracefully through the air to land with hardly a ripple.

I murmur absently, “I wish I could swim.”

“What’s this, Miss Byrne, something you can’t actually do? Maybe there’s hope for my battered ego yet.”

“I never learnt. It looks like fun, though. And you never know when it might be useful. When someone might toss you into a huge bath and try to drown you, for example.” I peep up at him, and he tightens his arm around me.

“Like I said, if I decide to drown you, you’ll know. I’ll swap you swimming lessons for guitar lessons, though. Deal?”

“What? You’ll teach me to swim? Why?” I turn around, staring at him, amazed.

“Why not? Like you said, might be fun. And useful. You might fall off a boat…”

“I tend to avoid boats. Are you a swimmer? Is that how you keep your body so, well, so perfect?”

“I scuba dive. And surf a bit. So yes, I do need to swim. But I only do that stuff in warm water so not that often. Since you ask, my main sport is karate. I’m at the dojo two or three times a week. When I can manage it.”

I’m surprised. I might have seen him as a weekend cricketer, or maybe playing rugby. Definitely working out at some expensive gym. But martial arts? There’s a turn-up. “Are you any good?”

“Black belt, fourth Dan. So yes, I’m pretty good.” He finishes his tea and puts the mug down, turning to me. “More than a match for you, Miss Byrne, but I think I’ve already proved that. The kick boxing is on soon. I do a bit of that too, but I’m not especially good. Still, I was going to watch it, might pick up some tips.” He nods in the direction of the Olympic coverage on the television, settling into the settee next to me. “Care to join me?”

“Mmm, sounds good.” I snuggle in, tucking my feet under me.

We enjoy a few minutes of companionable silence as the divers do their thing. I’m not especially interested in sport, but who can’t be caught up in the patriotism of Olympic fever. London 2012. Inspire a generation. Certainly, something’s inspired me recently.

Long minutes pass as we watch the athletes’ endeavours in admiring silence. Then, “Don’t you wish you were there?”

“What? Where?”

“There. London. You could be seeing all this live if you’d been at home this summer.”

“London’s not my home. My mother lives there, not me.”

“Oh. I thought you said you drove up from London. That night. In the rain.”

“Yes, from my mother’s flat.”

“I see. Where do you live then? Where’s home?”

This is it. I’ve been dreading this conversation, but it was always going to happen. Might as well tell it like it is. Well, some of it. “I lived in Oxford until a few weeks ago, at St Hilda’s College. But I left. Suddenly. I can’t go back.”

I sense his sudden alertness, his attention fixed on me. His tone is harder, more exacting now. “Can’t? Why can’t?”

“I just can’t, that’s all. Just leave it, it’s not important.”

Not the response he was expecting, and not what he’s prepared to accept. His body stiffens, he sits up straight. His voice has hardened—the steel is back with a vengeance. Clearly my reluctance to share on this occasion is not going to wash, but I’m not exactly certain why it matters this time. Obviously it does, though and he’s not letting me off the hook.

“Were you sacked from your job? The truth, Eva. What happened?”

Suddenly, from almost nowhere, it’s back. That overwhelming sense of panic, that desperation to escape. That black cloud that I managed, eventually, to crawl out of so many weeks ago is surrounding me once more, smothering me. Choking me. All the suppressed emotion, the thinly veiled terror that has been hovering just below the surface re-emerges with a vengeance. I leap to my feet, start for the bedroom. Anything, anywhere, just as long as it’s away from Nathan. Nathan and his prying questions, his suspicious hostility. Why couldn’t he just let it be?

He snags my wrist as I pass him and he drags me back onto the settee, close to him, his hand circling my wrist to keep me there. His grip is firm, almost painful, his eyes glittering in sudden anger.

“Answer me, damn it. Eva!” The command is there in his tone now, and blistering anger.

I’ve never actually seen him angry before—at least not with me. Even that first night, when his car was damaged, his anger wasn’t really directed at me. Now it is, and it’s terrifying. All the more so for having erupted out of almost nowhere. A chance remark, an innocent question, and suddenly my fragile composure disintegrates. Is everything in my life really so flimsy?

But even the blast of Nathan’s anger is not as terrifying as the truth. The dreadful, humiliating, reality of why I left Oxford, why I ran so hard and so fast and never dared look back. And it’s not just the utter shame of what happened to me back then—it’s also the impact it could have on the here and now. Always, throughout everything we’ve done together, Nathan has insisted on informed consent. Almost to the point of obsession he’s made his requirements clear, made sure I understood. The whole thing rested, surely, on both of us being ‘of sound mind’. What will he make of my so-called consent now, once he finds out I’m a flake? Will he still believe I knew what I was doing, what I was agreeing to? Maybe not. Probably not.

So now I’ve no alternative but to lie, evade, defy him.

“Nothing! Nothing happened. I left. I’d had enough, couldn’t stand it there anymore. I needed to get out. So I left. Not that it’s got anything to do with you.” All my defences are on high alert, and the more I resist the more his suspicions are well and truly aroused. I’ve seen him persistent before, but never so brutally relentless. He’s on the trail of something. I know what it is, he only thinks he does. But he’s filling in the blanks for himself. Putting two and two together and making five.

“Ah yes, your emotional car crash. I’d forgotten about that. And as long as you’re tutoring my daughter, staying in my home, everything about you is my business. So, what happened in Oxford? And if not back there, where will you go when your contract here ends?”

Pushing away from him I manage to wrench my arm free, or maybe he decides to relinquish his grip. I scoot down to the far end of the settee. My arms folded tightly across my chest, I glare defensively at him, defiant and desperate to head him off. No way am I discussing my work at Oxford, my old life. No way is he getting anywhere even close to my breakdown. Not a sniff. The taint of mental illness is behind me, it’s not a part of who I am now, where I am now. That’s all in the past—it
is
because I say it is. I’m here now and starting over.

Made reckless by fear and desperation I toss my defiance back at him. “Oxford’s got nothing to do with you so just leave it. And I’m going nowhere. I’m staying here. Well, Black Combe, or thereabouts. There, I mean. This is my home.”

“Fuck that. What the hell are you on about? You said you’d never been here, there, before?” He is clearly bewildered, and to be fair that does make two of us. I try to explain myself.

“As soon as I looked out that first morning, and I saw the moors, I felt I… Well, I felt I recognised the place. That I belonged there. It seemed like home. And that feeling has just got stronger over the last couple of weeks. More compelling. I’ve walked the moors with Rosie. And Barney. And I love it. I think I’ll always love it. So I want to stay. I want to stay in Yorkshire, stay on the Brontë moors. I love Black Combe. I’ve made some friends already—you, Rosie, Mrs Richardson. Even your friend Tom seems nice. Me and Rosie went up the Greystones and he showed me round the farm. So… I’ve decided I want to stay here, find work. Settle down.”

He is silent, staring at me in disbelief. And he is angry. So very, very angry. Even I, emotional cripple that I am, can sense the tension, the sudden chill. Why didn’t I keep my big mouth shut?

“So, you’re intending to stay. Permanently. At Black Combe. At my home? You’re moving in. Just like that.”

“No, I only meant…” I had never intended to outstay my welcome at Black Combe. I was thinking of looking around for somewhere to rent, but he’s not listening. His tone is biting, his posture stiff as he stands, looming over me. Without thinking I cringe away, making myself small as I huddle on the settee.

“Stop that. I’m not going to fucking hit you, even if you do deserve it.”

He is obviously furious, disgusted with me. And I am genuinely at a loss. What’s brought this on? I only said I wanted to move into his neighbourhood, for Christ’s sake!

“Please, I didn’t mean…”

“I’ve heard enough. Enough lies and half-truths. Enough evasion and bloody mystery. I need to know who’s around my daughter, and I’m sick of trying to work you out. Last chance, Eva. Why can’t you go back to Oxford?”

Desperately miserable, I curl up into a ball. Why couldn’t he just let it lie?
“I can’t, that’s all. It’s nothing, not like you think anyway…”

“Right, I’ve heard enough. Now shut up and get out.”

“What? What do you mean?” I feel the tears spring to my eyes. How did this happen? “Why? What have I done? Don’t you trust me?” Am I pleading with him? Maybe. I’m no good at this stuff. If this is ‘doing relationships’ it’s not what it’s cracked up to be.

“Trust you? Why the fucking hell would I trust you? I ask you a few straight questions and you lie through your teeth and tell me to mind my own business. And as for moving in, it’s manners to wait until you’re asked. I didn’t invite you to move in. You’re my sub, that’s all. My
current
sub. I like fucking you well enough, but I’m not looking for a soulmate. So I want you out. Out of here. Out of Black Combe.” With one last withering look at me huddling on his settee, cowering in silence, he heads for the door.

“I’m going out. I’ll be back by six, and I want you gone by then. You. And all your stuff. Gone. Is that clear?
Is that clear?
”

I don’t answer. There’s no need. No room for negotiation, for apology, for any further argument. This is me getting dumped. Big style. I hear the door slam and know I’m alone. As before. As usual. As always.