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

  ‘You’ve got to talk to her.’

  ‘And I will.’ Picking up a pair of huge silver spoons, he dishes out a serving for me, tears off a piece of bread and places it onto my side plate. ‘Eat.’

  He watches me, and I watch him right back, incapable of working out what’s going on behind that perfect face of his. At last, his features soften.

  ‘I’ll do it, Maya. I promise. But let’s not talk about it tonight. Let’s just eat.’ He pushes the plate further towards me. ‘And then let’s fuck.’

  I’m not entirely sure if it’s his words that cause it, or the way he’s looking at me right now, his eyes dancing with promise, lips curled up into a knowing smile, but suddenly, for some reason, something seems to be pulsating between my legs.

  ‘How romantic,’ I comment.

  ‘Eat.’

  This time, I do exactly as I’m told. Picking up a fork, I twirl it through the spaghetti, silently triumphant when I finally manage to catch a single strand. Before it can escape, I shovel it into my mouth, savouring the taste.

  ‘This is gorgeous,’ I mutter, going in for more with a spoon. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Tomatoes, anchovies, capers, garlic, chili peppers.’ Dishing out his own serving, he reels off the list as if it’s nothing.

  I gobble up another mouthful, this time managing to collect spaghetti and sauce. God, I’m so hungry. A single fish finger sandwich in over twenty-four hours just doesn’t cut it, especially when you’re halfway through a shag fest with Mr Foster.

  ‘So, you can cook?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Betty taught me the basics.’ He takes a mouthful of pasta and chews. ‘And I went from there.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I muse. ‘I’ve landed on my feet.’

  ‘Of course you have.’

  While we settle into a comfortable silence, devouring the piles of spaghetti, I take every opportunity to admire the man in my life. At last, I just can’t hold it in any longer. Egged on by a contented stomach, my heart brims over with happiness and I’m suddenly consumed by a need to let Dan know how bloody wonderful he is.

  ‘I’ve got the perfect man,’ I muse.

  He looks up from his plate. ‘How come?’

  ‘Well, for a start, he’s good in bed.’

  ‘Excellent in bed,’ he corrects me.

  ‘And he’s fucking gorgeous.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘With a perfect backside.’

  ‘Is it?’ He shifts to one side, pretending to inspect his bottom.

  ‘God, yes. Those receptionists in the lobby eye it up whenever they can.’

  ‘Remind me to sack them.’

  He levels his gaze at me.

  ‘And he can cook. He’s the real deal.’

  ‘Of course he is.’ He points his fork at me. ‘And you should move in with him.’

  I should have seen myself walking straight into that one.

  ‘Are we heading towards a yes?’ he asks, expertly gathering up strands of spaghetti.

  ‘No.’

  Pausing mid-chew, he rolls his eyes. ‘Che la dura.’

  ‘What?’

  He chews some more, swallows and then explains. ‘Persistence pays off.’

  I lay down my cutlery. Somewhere in the depths of my brain, a light flickers. He’s at it again, speaking Italian as if it rolls of his tongue. And here I am, seriously considering the prospect of moving in with a man I barely know.

  ‘Italian,’ I state simply.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You speak Italian.’

  A frown appears. ‘Just a smattering.’

  A smattering? Oh come off it, Mr Foster. Rifling back through the last few days, my thoughts land on our visit to Gabriel’s Wharf and his little chat with the Italian barista.

  ‘It’s more than that. When did you learn? It wasn’t at university …’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’ He rests an elbow on the table. ‘It was after I left.’

  ‘After you got thrown out.’

  He eyes me suspiciously. Shit. I shouldn’t have spewed that one out. Not yet.

  ‘Lily told me,’ I explain sheepishly.

  ‘Of course she did.’ He picks up the wine bottle, pouring a half glass for each of us. ‘So exactly what is this? Small talk or big talk?’

  ‘It all depends on what you tell me. What happened after you left university?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘Lily told me …’

  ‘Lily’s got a big mouth.’

  I pick up my glass. Suddenly, I seem to be in need of some Dutch courage. ‘If you want me to move in,’ I take a sip, ‘then you’ve got to give me a bit more than that.’

  He leans back, sucks in a deep breath and stares at me. It takes a few seconds for him to make his decision.

  ‘Okay.’ He cocks his head to one side. ‘I travelled. I took off for a couple of years and I just travelled. I was a mess. I needed to sort my head out.’

  ‘And you did?’

  ‘Yes.’ He picks up his own glass and gulps down a mouthful of wine.

  ‘But Lily said …’

  While I trail off into silence, wondering if I’m going too far too soon, he stares at me some more, waiting, holding the glass in mid-air. And then he lifts an eyebrow, as if to say ‘go on.’ Gathering my resolve, and a whole pack of words along with it, I push it all out at once.

  ‘She said you were different when you came back. Did something happen?’

  His lips tighten. Putting down the glass, he picks up his fork and jabs at his pasta. ‘People just change.’

  ‘Maybe …’

  ‘Maybe what?’

  ‘Maybe losing your parents changed you? Your adoptive parents.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Deep in thought, he stares at his plate, absent-mindedly shoving food around. Within the space of a minute, I’ve transformed him from playful to deadly serious and I really should leave it now, but intrigue has elbowed its way into my head, barging right past common sense and knocking it to the floor.

  ‘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 shagge
d 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.

  Chapter Seven

  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.’