Into My Arms (30 page)

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Sorry—I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s such a gorgeous night I couldn’t bear to go to bed, so I went for a walk. Then I saw your towel on the sand . . .’

‘I was going to go in soon anyway,’ said Ben, treading water. ‘Are the boys all in their tents?’

‘Yep. They’ll be asleep too. They’re shattered.’

‘It was a great day,’ Ben said. ‘Daniel’s face when he finished that first climb—and Luca at the top of the cliff, hanging on to his rope for dear life . . . You did well.’

‘Thanks,’ said Sally. Her bobbing shoulders were bare. Ben found himself wondering if she had any bathers on. ‘I love it—they think they can’t do it, and then they’re so thrilled when they can.’ A silence fell between them. Two cockatoos flew across the lake, wings almost touching. ‘It’s nice out here, isn’t it?’ Sally said. ‘Peaceful.’

‘It is,’ said Ben, ‘but I’ve got to get back. Early start tomorrow. Coming?’

They began breast-stroking side by side towards the shore until Sally called out ‘Race you’ and pulled away.

Her tanned legs looked pale in the water, caught the light from the moon above them. Ben switched to freestyle and made it to the shallows just a touch ahead of her.

‘Cheat!’ she teased, wringing water from her ponytail. Then she stood up, completely naked.

‘Oh, Sal,’ Ben said. ‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ But his cock was hard, and he couldn’t think.
Why not?
a voice inside his head demanded.
Why shouldn’t you?

Sally moved closer, her skin glistening. Ben watched, mesmerised, as a drop of water slid down her neck and around the curve of one breast. Her nipples were small and dark, and sat up as if begging to be touched.

‘We’ve got to be together for the next three weeks,’ he tried again, though his voice sounded strained.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘That’s the idea.’ She pressed herself against him and lifted her mouth, lips still cool from the water. Ben fought against it for a second, then let himself go under. Her tongue found his teeth, found his own tongue; her breath was warm and sweet and urgent. She tasted good, but different. He hadn’t kissed anyone since Skye, he realised, then tried to push the thought from his head. Sally’s hands were on his shoulders, his back, were tugging at his shorts. She eased them down as his hands cupped her breasts, then dropped to the sand to smooth out his towel.

‘Come here,’ she said, lying back, eyes closed. In the half-light her body was all shadows and planes arched invitingly towards him. Ben lowered himself onto her, dropped his head to kiss her breasts, but she pulled at him impatiently, her hand on his cock. ‘Now,’ she hissed against his ear. ‘Fuck me, Ben.’

He’d tried, he thought later, he really had. And he’d wanted to, at least initially. But it hadn’t helped that he’d noticed that the hair between her legs was exactly two shades darker than that on her head, just like Skye, or that in her hurry to guide him inside her, the nail on her little finger had snagged against his scrotum. Even so he’d recovered, had kept his erection, had felt her hips lift and open for him, had begun to thrust . . . After the first few minutes, though, he knew it was no use. She was too wet, too slippery, awash with the lake and her own arousal. There was no friction, no purchase. She wasn’t Skye. He drove himself into her over and over while she moaned and writhed beneath him, her arms locked around his neck. After a while she shuddered and called out, so he did the same, withdrawing and tucking himself back into his shorts before she could see he was still erect. Sally had wanted to kiss and cuddle, so he lay with her for what he hoped was a suitable interval, then crept back to his tent. If she suspected anything she wasn’t game to ask.

The air in the tent was still muggy, but Ben was too despondent to care. He lay down on top of his bed and willed himself to go to sleep, but his head throbbed. His penis, too. With a groan, he reached beneath his shorts and began to stroke it, gently at first, then harder and harder. Without intending to, he thought of Skye, imagined her hands on him, her mouth, her warm familiar body lying alongside his, holding him as he shook and wept.
Stop
, he told himself, trying to empty his mind, trying to think instead of Sally, but it was no use. When he was done he felt disgusted with himself, demoralised and depressed. He pulled off the sticky shorts and thrust them deep into his pack, not wanting to have to see them in the morning, then lay back once more. There’d been some release, but still he couldn’t sleep. His mind was buzzing now with images of Skye, real and imagined. Skye by the creek, where he’d first kissed her after rescuing Jess; Skye laughing with Arran in the kitchen of Nell’s house; Skye in her studio, bent over a mosaic; Skye cradling Molly; Skye in bed with Hamish. Husband, daughter, family, work. What didn’t Skye have? How fucking perfect her life was, Ben thought, clutching at his sleeping bag, how bloody happy she must be while he lay by himself in a tent. If he died during the night his own mother wouldn’t even know where he was.

His own mother. Mary. He rarely thought of her, had trained his mind to keep that door firmly closed, but all of a sudden he ached with loss. He missed her and his father and Kirra and Tatong. He couldn’t even remember why he’d left them now. Or rather, he remembered, but the knowledge didn’t stir a white-hot anger in him as it had once done, just ash and cinders and a relentless sting. He was alone. He was completely alone.

33

Skye shifted on her back and tried to focus. Hamish was on top of her, inside her, his skin slick with sweat, his stomach slapping against hers. She found herself hating the sound, and wondered why she’d never noticed it before. Did they edit it out in porn films? She wasn’t sure, but then she hadn’t seen many. Hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t needed to, had never understood how something so sham and staged could be any sort of substitute for the real thing.

Yet that was what she was doing now, wasn’t it? Faking, pretending. She was no different to any of those actresses, she thought, obediently bucking and heaving with a smile plastered to her face. Hamish had left the light on in the ensuite when he came to bed, and Skye gazed over his shoulder around their room, at the drapes, at her bedside table, at the framed wedding photos on the tallboy. It all felt foreign, alien, nothing to do with her. How had she got here?

All she’d really wanted to do was go to sleep. Though Molly would be two next month she often woke during the night, so Skye did as well. Yet it was more than that, she realised as Hamish laboured on above her. She’d wanted to go to sleep, yes, but what she’d most desired was to be left alone. Instead Hamish had followed her into the bedroom barely five minutes after she’d said goodnight. She’d made a show of stretching and yawning, but still he stroked her hair and kissed her ear, so she’d put her book down, reluctantly, after marking her place. She’d been enjoying that book, an art text that Nell had loaned her. It was giving her ideas. They came crowding back into her mind again, vivid and inviting, and she strived to push them away and focus instead on the body pressing down on hers. And it was a lovely body, there was no doubt about it. Though Hamish was working long hours in the office he still did some personal training, and his shoulders were broad and muscular, his torso tapered to a narrow waist, a flat stomach. Skye remembered the first time she’d seen him bare-chested, when she’d come across him leading a weights session on a hot day not long after she’d started working at the gym. The air in the room was humid and thick and he’d stripped off his singlet. She was walking past on the way to her own class, but she’d stopped in the doorway, forgetting what she was doing, rendered liquid by desire. She clutched at the moment again now, its details still vivid: the sweat on her back, the pool of heat between her legs; the knowledge that she’d fuck him later, after the clients had gone home and the building was silent and dark, that he’d fuck her and she’d shudder and pull him against her until she got what she wanted, until they both did, until they lay there panting and spent.

The memory worked. Desire flared within her and she tightened her arms around Hamish’s neck, urging him on. She closed her eyes, fell back into the moment, then felt him reach for her hair. His hands coiled in it as he kissed her, harder now. For a moment it was pleasurable. Hamish’s fingers caressed her ears and her nape, made a study of her skull—but then he pulled down hard. Skye flinched at the sudden sharp sting in her scalp. Hamish tugged again, this time as he thrust into her.

‘Ow!’ she cried. ‘That hurts.’ She struggled to push him away, but he was holding her in place by her hair.

Hamish stared down at her, his eyes only inches from her own. ‘You used to enjoy that. You used to like lots of things, Skye. But now you don’t really want me touching you, do you?’

She lay breathing heavily, pinned by his weight and those hands in her hair. He was angry, but why? Could he tell that she hadn’t wanted to sleep with him, that her mind was elsewhere? Did he somehow know that when it all got too much she shut herself off and thought of nothing or her art or, if she dared risk the pain, of Ben?

‘I’m just tired,’ she said.

‘You’re always tired. You’ve got to stop getting up to Molly. She needs to learn to settle herself.’ He loosened his grip on her hair, but didn’t let go.

Skye stared into the gloom and began to count. One thrust, two, three . . . she knew from experience that by thirty it would all be over.

A fortnight later she was preparing for bed when she heard Hamish returning from yet another work dinner. Thankfully, spouses hadn’t been invited to this one, and Skye had taken the opportunity to spend the evening in her studio. She was escaping there more and more often, it seemed, but then the commission was due in just two months, and it was such a big job . . . The baby monitor at her side had remained blessedly quiet and she had worked on into the small hours. Now Ria was honking a goodbye and Skye could hear Hamish’s footsteps coming up the drive, his key in the door. As he fumbled with the lock she quickly pulled off her clothes and slipped into bed, pretending to be asleep.

He was drunk. He must have been, it took him so long to remove his shoes, to find the bathroom in the dark. When he finally lay down beside her his breath was rank with spirits. Whisky, she guessed. Not something he usually went for, but then who knew what he’d drink to keep a client company, or given the mood he’d been in lately? Recently it seemed that Hamish had either been tense and moody, snapping at her for the tiniest things, or conversely unaccountably clingy, following her around when they were at home together, always wanting her by his side. Skye stayed as still as she could, kept her breathing regular. Everything was quiet, Hamish motionless, and she found herself slipping towards sleep. Then his hand was on her hip, pulling her closer. A memory came to her of the two of them in bed together a month or so ago. Hamish had wanted to go down on her, but as his mouth moved between her thighs she’d pushed him away and tried to close her legs. All of a sudden she couldn’t bear to have him so close to her, his breath warm on her most intimate places. Hamish had persisted, though. He probably thought she was playing games, trying to tease him. She’d ended up lying there helplessly, nails pushed hard into his back to stop herself from screaming. Perhaps he’d mistaken her grip for passion.

Would he try to do that again? Bile rose in her throat, then fear. Hamish was a big man, strong and fit, and no doubt disinhibited by alcohol. If he wanted to screw her he would. Skye began to struggle, pushing against his arm. It closed more tightly around her. She kicked back with one leg, meeting his shin. Hamish’s hand moved from her hip to catch her thigh, pinning her against him. She felt his mouth on her neck, on her hair, then his voice in her ear.

‘Stop it,’ he slurred. ‘I just want to hold you. Can’t I even do that?’

Her cheek was wet and Skye realised with horror that he was crying. She felt herself go limp and let him gather her body to his. They lay there in the dark, Hamish’s heart thudding madly against her back, his tears hot on her skin. Eventually he fell asleep, but Skye couldn’t. Was this what it had come to—her panicking if Hamish reached for her, him begging her to touch him? She felt sick—sick and guilty and sad. It was ruined, she thought; it was over. There was no point pretending anymore. It wasn’t Molly that was exhausting her—it was this, the constant strain of living with one man but thinking of another. She had to stop, stop all of it—put Hamish out of his misery, certainly, but banish the ghost of Ben too. To be in love with him was wrong, but so was hurting Hamish. She couldn’t be with either of them, she knew that now. Time to face up to it, to wipe the slate clean and make a new start.
Molly
, she thought suddenly, hearing her daughter cry out. The only thing she could take with her was Molly.