True Colours (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2) (7 page)

‘So, you went to Italy?’ I ask.

‘Eventually.’

‘And that’s where you …’

‘That’s where I learned to speak Italian.’ He sighs.  ‘It’s a good place to learn it because that’s where they speak it.  In Italy.’  He puts down his fork, rubs his forehead and finally makes eye contact.  ‘I lived in Rome for about a year.’

‘On your own?’

‘No.  I lodged with someone.’  His bottom lip twitches, a cagey twitch, an I’m-not-telling-you-everything kind of a twitch.  He bites it into submission: a sure sign that there’s something more.  And I think I might just know what it is.

‘With a woman?’

He stares at me, his face inscrutable.

‘Yes,’ he says at last.

And memory kicks into action.  That’s not what he’s told me before.  In fact, it’s the exact opposite of what he’s told me before: 
No serious relationships.  No non-serious relationships.  I’ve never been married.  Never had any children. 

‘But I thought you’d never lived with a woman.’

‘I lodged with her.  There’s a difference.’

He folds his arms, unfolds them, reaches out and tears off another chunk of bread.  Examining it for a moment, he drops it onto his plate.

‘And you fucked her?’ I ask, nervous of the reply, because unless she was a huge Italian mama, I can’t imagine he kept his hands off her.

‘Yes.’  He leans back again, resigned.

‘Great.  So I’m here for what, three hours, and I’ve already had another Dan bombshell.’

‘It’s not a bombshell.  It’s nothing.  It wasn’t exclusive.’  With a scowl, he takes another sip of wine.  ‘And just for the record, I also fucked half of Rome.’

Suddenly, my face seems to have a life of its own.  My nose scrunches, my eyes narrow and my lips curl up in disgust.

‘Any European capital cities you haven’t shagged your way through?’ I demand.

‘Berlin, Madrid, Lisbon.  Do you want me to keep going?’

‘You’ve been a serious man-slag.’

He smiles at that.

‘This isn’t news. You know I used to sleep around.  And now I’m a serious monogamist.  Don’t read anything into the arrangement I had in Rome.’

‘Arrangement?’

He leans forwards.  ‘Yes.  Arrangement,’ he breathes.  ‘It was an arrangement.’

Oh Lordy, arrangement.  He’s mentioned that word before, on more than one occasion: an arrangement with Claudine, arrangements with other women.

‘So, it was a kinky thing?’

‘Yes.  It was the first kinky thing.  She’s the one who got me into it.’

I must be pulling an almighty I’m-disgusted-by-this sort of expression now because he’s inspecting my face.  And before I can say anything else, he’s putting me firmly in my place.

‘If you want to do the big talk thing with me, Maya, you’re going to hear some things you don’t like.  You asked for this.’

Yes, I did.  And now that I’m getting it, I’m not so sure I want it at all.  Perhaps I should just do what Dan wants me to do and brush the past under the carpet.  But no, I remind myself, that’s not the way ahead.  If I’m going to spend the rest of my life with this man, then I need to know everything about him.  I need to hear it all, digest it, process it, and at least try to understand.

‘How?’ I demand.

‘How what?’

‘How did she get you into it?’

He sucks at his top lip.

‘She picked me up in a bar and took me home.  It went from there.  She introduced me to the BDSM scene in Rome.’

‘Rome?  They do it in Rome?’

His eyes flash.

‘You get kinky weirdos all over the world, not just in London,’ he explains, evidently amused by my innocence.

While he busies himself with another mouthful of wine, I remind myself that I shouldn’t be so surprised by all of this.  After all, just because Italians are super stylish and uber cool, it doesn’t mean that they’re averse to a bit of heavy duty slap and tickle.

‘So … you’d never done it before Rome?’

‘No.’  His expression clouds.  ‘But I took to it and it suited me, and that’s that.’  He touches his forehead.  ‘When I came back to London, I just carried on.’

Silence washes over us.  As we gaze at each other, I ponder over the fact that he ‘just carried on’ for fifteen years, and then I worry over the distinct possibility that when you just carry on with anything for fifteen years, you’re going to have withdrawal symptoms.

‘So what we have?’ I venture.  ‘Does that suit you?’

‘Of course.’

‘But the things you used to do ...’

‘Are in the past.  You know that.  I quit way before I met you.’

Because he went too far, I remind myself.  Because of a mysterious visitor who sent him over the edge: the twisted Roman landlady, perhaps.

‘But do you miss it?’

He runs a hand through his hair and seems to wince.  It’s obvious that I’m pushing him too far, right into the realms of exasperation.  Any minute now and I’ll drop the interrogation … just as soon as he’s answered my question.

‘Do I miss what?’ he demands curtly.

‘You know … the hard core stuff.’

‘Do you even know what the hard core stuff is?’

‘No.  Would you like to tell me?’

‘No.  Look it up on the internet.’

‘I don’t have a laptop.’

He stares at me, as if I’m some sort of anomaly.

‘We’ll have to put that right.’  Tapping an index finger against the counter, he watches me, clearly waiting for the next question to arrive.  When it doesn’t show up, his face softens into a smile.  ‘Listen,’ he says, his voice gentle now.  ‘What we have is enough.  I still get my kink, you enjoy the kink and we don’t go too far.  What I did in the past and how I behaved, it’s all irrelevant.  You need to understand that.  What suited me back then doesn’t suit me now.  I’m not that man any more.’

‘So what sort of man are you?’

‘I have no idea.’  The smile broadens.  ‘I’m a work in progress.’  He pushes his plate away.  ‘But I’ll tell you one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’m the sort of man who needs to nip upstairs for a few minutes.’  He shrugs, apologetically.  ‘After all, I’m only human.’

He gives me a cheeky grin, and I just can’t help myself: I giggle.

‘You’d better go then.’

Rising from the stool, he collects his mobile and takes to the stairs.  Although I’m sorely tempted to sneak up after him and indulge in a spot of snooping, a little trust is in order.  Instead of spying I’ll get all domestic on his backside: I’ll clear away the aftermath of dinner.

Gathering up the plates, I dump them onto the draining board and set about locating the bin, opening one sleek grey cupboard door after another until I finally find it, right next to the fridge.  Grabbing a plate and flipping open the lid, I’m about the scrape the remnants of the puttanesca into the rubbish when I catch sight of a piece of card.  I come to a halt, registering the fact that it’s torn, that there’s writing on it: the words ‘I hope’ in a distinctly female hand.

With my heart thudding against my ribs, I glance back at the staircase, leave the plate on the counter top and reach into the rubbish.  I shove aside a handful of onion peel, pick out the fragment, and notice that there’s another beneath it … and then another … and another …

Moving quickly, I collect them all and lay them on the granite top.  I check the staircase again, move the pieces and realise that I’m re-constructing a birthday card.  I catch a name.  Layla.  An address.  My heart thuds again.  My thoughts begin to race.  Who the hell is Layla?  Some ex sub?  Another woman from another arrangement?  In a fluster, and with no idea what I’m planning to do, I scoop the pieces together and hide them away in the side pocket of my handbag.

And now I need to cover my tracks.

Noticing a silver panel in the wall, I make the quick decision that it has to be a rubbish chute.  After all, what sort of millionaire in his right mind is going to lug his rubbish bags down the stairs?  After scraping the last of the dinner into the bin, I heave out the bag, tie it together at the top and with a breath of relief, send it down the chute.

The slam of a door heralds his return.  Listening to the soft padding of footsteps on the stairs, I will myself to calm down, go back to the sink and switch on a tap.

‘You’re cleaning up?’

‘I’m a domestic goddess.’

‘I very much doubt that,’ he laughs.  ‘I have got a dishwasher, you know.’

‘Oh.’

I feel a hand on my shoulder.  He swivels me round to face him full on.

‘I didn’t see it.’  I feign a smile.  ‘But I did manage to find the bin.  I emptied it.’

The laughter stops.

‘It was nearly full.  I used the chute.  Did I do right?’

‘Yes.  You did.’

And now the mask descends.

Mr Mean and Hot and Moody is back.

In silence, I watch as he takes the bottle of wine and glasses over to the living area, settles himself onto a sofa and pats the space next to him.  Rooted to the spot by doubt and confusion, I stay exactly where I am.  All I know is this: he’s not about to get a quick cuddle and a dash of sweet talk, not while my brain’s still beating itself up over an Italian landlady and a ripped-up birthday card.  When all’s said and done, there are just too many shadows in the room.

I need him to open up.  I just have no idea how to do it.  Silently resolving not to let him touch me until I’m done, I pick up my mobile and wander over to the sofa.  I may not get to the bottom of things tonight, but at least I can make a start.  When I’m right in front of him, I stop and survey the room, taking in the seascapes and the landscapes, and finally my own painting.

‘I’m sorry I dragged you to Limmingham.  It can’t have been easy.’

‘You weren’t to know.’

‘Was it the first time you’d been back?’

He shakes his head, making no eye contact.  ‘One other time.  A few years ago.’

To do what?  To see who?  I land on the obvious answer.

‘Are you in touch with your sisters?’

‘No.’

He’s deep in thought now, gazing at the wine bottle, scratching his right palm over and over again.  While raindrops patter gently against the windows and the shadows shift around me, a strange atmosphere settles over the apartment.  There’s a charge in the air, an edge of awkwardness between us.  At last, he rouses himself.  Reaching out, he fills the glasses and takes a sip of wine.

‘Dan?’

He looks up.

‘I want you to tell me more.’  I falter, noting the gloom in his eyes, wondering if I’m taking this too far too quickly.  ‘About Limmingham.’

The gloom deepens.

‘You’ve already had the basics.’

‘And now I need more.’

He shakes his head again.  ‘Not tonight.’

‘But you wanted to fast-track.’

‘Not this.’

‘Yes, this.’

Raising my mobile, I open up the contact list and begin to scroll through it, launching into an elaborate ruse of my own.  I can only hope it works.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Wondering who to call.  I can get out of here now.’

He watches me, obviously weighing up the situation.

‘You really want to go?’

No, I don’t.  Even now, Skinny Lily’s words are playing on my mind, reminding me of the twelve-year-old boy who fetched up in her life:
very sweet, very kind … a little lost
.  So, in spite of all my reservations, I’m going to see this through: twenty-three years might have transformed the boy into the man, but maybe at heart he’s not so far removed from where he began.  Doing my best to keep up the mask, I fix him with a long, hard stare.  I’m not about to let him know the truth.

‘Is it because of what I told you?’ he asks.

‘No.’  Strangely enough, I think I can deal with the fact that he went on a grand shag tour of Europe and shacked up with a spaghetti-loving submissive.  I shake my head, reminding myself that I really shouldn’t be judgemental about these people.  After all, I’m slowly turning into one myself.  ‘It’s because you hold things back.’

He raises a hand, palm upwards.

‘What am I holding back?’

‘How should I know?  You’ve got a pretty strange idea of what I should be privy to.’

He lets out a sigh, drops the hand.

‘Don’t go,’ he whispers.  Suddenly, he sounds exhausted, desperate.  ‘Please don’t go.’

‘Then talk to me.’

Occasionally blinking away a ruffle of darkness, he holds my gaze.  Clearly, he’s not in the mood for my agenda, and perhaps it’s time to give him a little nudge.

‘I’m not too good with trust,’ I begin, my voice trembling.  ‘There are things that have happened to me …’

‘You don’t need to explain.  I understand.’

‘Do you?’  While the silence spreads around us, he gives no answer.  ‘You’ve already tested my trust to the limit.  You need to let me in.’  I pause, wondering if this is making any sense.  ‘I need to know everything about you, Dan.  I don’t want you holding anything back.’  I take in a breath.  ‘And I want you to start with your childhood.’

Without a word, he leans forwards.  Resting his elbows on his knees, he interlocks his fingers, fixing his attention on his hands.  This isn’t going to be easy.  Short of tying him to a chair, I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to drag anything out of him tonight.  Desperate for a way ahead, I scan the room, catching sight of a chess set on a shelf by the fireplace.  And suddenly, I have an idea, a full-on bonkers idea …

Laying the mobile on the coffee table, I make my way over to the shelf and touch the pieces, one by one, rotating them, inspecting the faces.  They’re carved in wood, obviously expensive.  And while the pawns seem to be nothing more than gravestones, embellished with knot work, the other wide-eyed figures are all miserable, or anxious, or both.

‘You play chess then?’ I ask.

‘I haven’t played for years.’

‘Me neither.’  I run my finger over a queen.  Sitting on her throne with a palm clasped to her cheek, she seems to be thoroughly fed up.  ‘My dad taught me to play.’

‘So did mine,’ he explains.  ‘My adoptive dad.  That’s the set I learned on.’  He leans back.  ‘It’s a replica of the Lewis Chessmen.  Medieval.  I love the faces.’

A miserable chess set.  Perfect for a miserable conversation.  Carefully, I lift the board from the shelf and carry it over to the coffee table, discovering that it’s a damn sight heavier that it looks.  Repositioning the board near the corner of the table, I take a seat on the floor, crossing my legs and rearranging the shirt to cover my crotch.  And then I motion for him to join me.

‘What going on?’ he asks.

‘I want to play.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now.  Come on.’

He eyes me suspiciously, forces out a lungful of air and slides onto the floor, crossing his own legs and staring at the set.

‘This is mad.’

‘Then it should be right up your alley.’  I smile sweetly.  ‘Here’s the deal.  If you can beat me at chess, I’ll move in.’

He looks up from the board to my face.  ‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s simple.  If you beat me, I’ll move in with immediate effect.  If I beat you, I’m going back to Camden.’

His forehead wrinkles.

‘Tonight,’ I add for good measure.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Don’t call me ridiculous.  You’re the man who lured a woman to his flat and locked her in.’

‘Touché,’ he mutters, inspecting the pieces.  ‘So, I’m guessing there’s something more to this.’

‘Of course there is.  Every time you move, you have to tell me something about yourself.’

‘Such as?’

‘I’ll prompt you.’

He rolls his eyes, lets his head fall back and stares at the ceiling.  ‘So, the challenge is to beat you as quickly as possible?’

‘Exactly.’

He fixes his eyes on me.  ‘And if I don’t take it on, you’re going home anyway?’

‘Yep.’  I flash him a look of pure determination.  ‘And I mean it.’

‘I bet you do.’  Running a finger across his chin, he slips into thought, weighing up the challenge perhaps, calculating the risks, assessing his capabilities.  ‘Okay,’ he says at last.  ‘I’ll go along with it. Just don’t renege on the deal.  I beat you, you move in.’

‘I’m a woman of my word.’  I tidy up the pieces.  When I’m finished, I find him smiling at me.  ‘I’m serious about this, Dan.  You need to talk.  If you don’t play by the rules, I
will
leave.’

‘Fair enough,’ he counters.  ‘But I think you ought to know something.’  He pauses for effect.  ‘I was the school chess champion.’

And I’m thoroughly buggered.

But at least I’ll get something out of him before he beats me into a cocked hat.  Picking up two opposing pawns, I put my hands behind my back, shuffling the pieces before presenting him with closed fists, a pawn hidden in each.  He taps my left wrist.  Unfurling my fingers, I reveal a brown pawn.  Knowing that I’ve got the upper hand, I punch the air, turn the board and manoeuvre the brown pieces towards Dan.  I rub my hands together and make my first move, my usual move, shoving a pawn forwards, two spaces, opening up my queen.

‘So,’ I venture, suddenly all too conscious that I’m about to force him into talking about things he’d much rather forget.  ‘The first prompt.  Tell me about your real dad.’

His shoulders tense.  He stares at the board, and I have no idea whether he’s rifling through memories or simply thinking about the next move.  I’m expecting him to put a premature end to the game when he finally begins to speak … slowly, quietly, his voice almost a whisper.

‘I never knew him.  He left before I was born.’  He reaches out, eyes still fixed on the pieces, and mirrors my action, moving his pawn out to meet mine.  And then, without any further prompting, he carries on.  ‘I know his name.  That’s it.  I have no wish to meet him.  Your go.’

Resting his right elbow on his knee, his chin against his hand, he presses his lips against his knuckles.  I can hear his breathing now: a little faster than normal, each breath catching on itself, faltering slightly.

‘Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.’

He pins me down with the swirls of blue.

‘It’s a fine idea,’ he says.  ‘I’m about to beat you at chess, and you’re about to move in.  Take your turn.’

Half aware that I’m no longer in control, I scan the board.  And then, with no idea what I’m doing, I pick up a knight, bringing it out to threaten his pawn.

Registering the move, he settles his eyes on me and waits for the next prompt.  I give it to him.

‘Your sisters.’

He studies the pieces before he begins to talk again.

‘Layla was born when I was two.  Sophie a couple of years later.’

Barely registering the second name, I stare at him open-mouthed, but he doesn’t seem to notice: he’s mulling over the next move.  Layla.  So, that’s who the card was from: not some ex-submissive, but his sister.  With one mystery solved, I should begin to relax, but I can’t.  A new set of questions are already jostling their way into my head.  Why would he rip up a birthday card from his sister, and why would he exclude her from his life?

‘Is that it?’ I ask.

‘There’s not much to know.  I didn’t have a lot to do with them.  I wasn’t allowed.’  He squints at the chessboard.  ‘Layla was …’  He drifts into silence.  Reaching out to move a knight, he changes his mind and retreats.  ‘She was more sympathetic.  Sophie didn’t give a shit.  She was a daddy’s girl.’

‘Don’t you want them in your life?’

He opens his mouth, closes it again.

‘But they’re your family.’

‘It’s not …’  He hesitates.  ‘It’s not that I don’t want anything to do with them.  It just can’t happen.’

‘Why not?’

Making a decision, he leans forwards, bringing out one of his own knights, ready to take mine if I capture his pawn.

‘It’s complicated.  Your move.’

And now I’d really like to finish with the game.  My brain’s all over the place and I can barely concentrate on the miserable Medieval chess pieces.  I’d rather focus on the miserable man right next to me.  But this was my stupid idea and I just need to get on with it.  As shadows dance in the corners of the room, I pick up a bishop and take him diagonally across the board until he’s level with my pawn.

‘Your step-father.’

He forces out a quiet breath.

‘A drunk and a thug.’  He reaches out again, his fingers unsteady, retreats again, balling his hand into a fist.

I’m not about to push him further and, as it happens, I don’t have to.  Still focussed on the board, he carries on, speaking quickly, his tone flat and lifeless.

‘I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t around.  I irritated him because I wasn’t his.  I was a nuisance.  Baggage.  He was always shouting at me, smacking me, reminding me what a useless piece of shit I was, that sort of thing.  The older I got, the worse it got, especially when he’d been down the pub.’

He shifts a pawn, opening up his king, and I watch him silently as he works at his bottom lip with a thumb, staring resolutely at the board.  Come what may, he’s clearly determined to meet the challenge.  Playing by my silly rules, he’s going to make absolutely sure that I don’t leave.  I pick up my second knight and move it into play.

‘But he wasn’t like that with your sisters?’ I ask uncertainly.

‘No.’  He runs a hand through his hair.  ‘I was the handy target.  Every last bit of frustration he had, he took it out on me.’  He brings out a bishop, sweeping across the board and moving it into position next to my knight.  He’ll take it if I don’t defend myself.  ‘Your turn.’

‘But what about your mum?’  I move the knight out of the way, using it to capture a pawn in the process.  I’m one up, but that was a seriously bad decision.  I’ve just cleared the way for him to take my queen.  ‘Why didn’t she try to stop it?’