Faith (5 page)

I shrug. “No reason really. I just wanted to talk to someone, and…”

He smiles again, quite dazzling. The dimples are back. “I’m glad you chose me. Any time you want to talk to someone, if I’m here, you’re to come round. Or you can give me a ring if I’m away.”

“I don’t have your number.” It doesn’t occur to me to ask him why I should rely on him. It’s enough that I just can.

“Give me your phone.”

I hand my mobile over and he keys in his number. “There, now you do. Remember, any time.” He hangs on to my phone. “Now, do you have an accountant? A business bank account?”

I shake my head, my heart sinking at all the officialdom I’ll need to navigate. I like design; the paperwork leaves me cold. Oh, God, I’ll even have to deal with the VAT man.

Ewan taps another number into my phone. “This is my accountant. He has a lot of sole trader clients so he’ll be able to advise you. He can do all the company setup stuff too. You’ll need to find a bank online. Check out which ones are offering free business banking, that sort of thing. Do you know a builder who could do your attic conversion?”

Again I shake my head.

“Right. This guy’s a friend of mine. He’ll do a decent job and not charge you an arm and a leg.” More details keyed into my phone.

My head is reeling now. So much to do, so many projects to set in motion. And for the first time in months I’m eager, actually itching to get on with it.

“Thank you. I wouldn’t have known where to start.”

“Yes, you would. I’ve just given you a few shortcuts. We small traders need to stick together. I’ll be expecting mates’ rates on my website design though.”

“You’d hire me? But you haven’t even seen my work yet.”

“I know you’ll be good. I’m your first client. Don’t let me down.”

I’ve been dreading the first Christmas without Ed, but now it’s here and I don’t feel nearly so desolate as I imagined I would. I’ve been so busy getting my fledgling business up and running I’ve hardly had any time to sit and brood. And the solitary drinking has stopped altogether.

Ewan stayed for about ten days, then was gone again to sunnier climes. He called round to see me the morning he left and reminded me that I was to give him a ring if I wanted to talk. I haven’t, but we’ve exchanged a lot of texts. Just small talk, or updates on my business.

Arrived about an hour ago. Fucking hot

Just back from seeing Pete. Very helpful. Thanks for recommending him. He’s going to do my tax returns. Thank God!

Forgot to pay my paper bill. Could you? I’ll settle up when I’m back

Builder’s been. Starting in the New Year—too wet right now to do roof work

45 degrees in the shade here.

Show off. How’s the stadium coming along?

Good. See you in two weeks.

Two weeks. He’ll be back in a fortnight. I hug myself when I read that text. He’ll be back early in the New Year then.

I’m really looking forward to seeing Ewan again. I’ve missed him. Not in the aching, empty way I miss Ed, but in a more eager, anticipating way. Ewan is real, and solid, and alive. And soon he’ll be here again.

I spend the Christmas and New Year holiday in Glasgow with Helen and her family. They are kind, welcoming, sympathetic. They go out of their way not to mention Ed. That doesn’t really surprise me, lots of people react that way. But for reasons I can’t quite fathom I also go out of my way not to mention Ewan. Not that there’s anything to hide, of course there isn’t. It’s just—private.

On balance, and despite my sister’s misplaced sensitivity, the holiday is nowhere near as morose and maudlin as I feared—my first Christmas without Ed and all that. I actually enjoy the cheerful chatter and the glitzy television shows, even the Queen’s Speech to follow Christmas lunch. Ed would have hated it. He liked to spend Christmas Eve in the pub, and Christmas day in bed.

I return to Yorkshire the day after Hogmanay, looking forward to the bright, shiny new year stretching enticingly ahead of me, glittering with promise and possibility. This time last year I was contemplating getting married. It will, sorry, would have been, our first wedding anniversary in the middle of January. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Ed and I lived together for two years before we tied the knot, but I don’t recall this sense of gleeful anticipation back then. Still, difficult weeks ahead. First anniversaries are always hard, or so I’m reliably informed by Helen. Next year should be easier.

Is your kettle on?

The text from Ewan pings onto my phone at around eight o’clock on the second evening after I return home. I reply straight away.

No

Ping.

Wrong answer. I’m coming up your path now.

A moment later I’m still on my way downstairs to the kitchen when the knock sounds at my door. I detour to open it, and have to give myself a stern talking to about not flinging myself into his arms. He looks delicious. Sex on legs with a tan to die for.
Is it all over?

“Hi. Come in. You look great.”
There. That didn’t sound too needy, did it?

“You too. Nice Christmas?”

“Yes. I was at Helen’s, in Glasgow. You?”

“Cruising on a dhow in Doha bay. Listening to Once in Royal David’s City in forty-five–degree heat is a bit disconcerting. Still, the food was excellent.”

“Is that a hint that you’re hungry?”

“Ah, Faith, how well you know me. I just got back and I have nothing in. Any chance…?”

“Pizza okay?”

His smile dazzles me. I take myself and my dampening pussy off into the kitchen to raid the freezer while Ewan makes himself at home in my lounge.

I really need to get this lust thing under control before I make a fool of myself and embarrass him. He’s my friend, my neighbour. Nothing more. And my interest in him is surely just a sign of my loneliness and sexual frustration, possibly exacerbated by my upcoming anniversary. More to the point, it’s been six months since I had sex. I need to get laid.

Ed was good in bed. Well, enthusiastic certainly. I had no complaints. We weren’t in Caroline and Ewan’s league—not that I’m especially clear on just what that meant—but we were inventive enough. I recall Ed was somewhat sheepish the first time he suggested I might like to be tied to the bed. He needn’t have been; I loved it. He never gave me any indication he might like to progress his kink further and I confess it never entered my thinking then either.

It has now.

I keep remembering Caroline’s remark all those months ago about her dom and a gag. I recall her bruises, the marks she was so pleased with, so proud of. I imagine Ewan’s hands on her, creating those weals. And lord help me, I’ve started to wonder what those hands would feel like on me.

This has to stop.

* * *

“How long are you here for this time?” We’re sitting on my one and only sofa, the remains of a Hawaiian pizza on a tray at our feet.

“In the UK? A month. But I have to go to London next week, and Bristol the week after. I have meetings in Paris as well next month—early planning for their 2024 Olympic bid.”

“Sounds exciting. I love Paris.”

“Come with me.”

“What?”

“You heard.” His gaze intensifies. No dimples. He’s serious.

“I couldn’t.”

“Three days. Four at the most. You could spare the time. Come.”

“With you? In the same hotel?”

“Of course in the same hotel. Separate rooms though. If you insist.”

If I insist? Christ!

“Think about it. You’d have a good time, I promise you that. Sightseeing, fine food.”

“But wouldn’t you be working?”

“Some of the time, not all. We’d have plenty of opportunity to relax.”

“What about the sex?”
Oh. My. God. Did that come out loud?

“Well, I hadn’t got to that bit yet, but if you insist on raising it now…”

There’s an expectant pause before I cover my face in my hands. The flush is burning from my neck up. I’m mortified, so embarrassed I could crawl down the back of my sofa and just die there. What on earth made me say such a thing? What must he think?

“I’m sorry. I can’t believe I said that.” I splutter the words through my hands.

“I’ve heard worse suggestions.” He doesn’t sound offended. Or even particularly surprised. Maybe women proposition him all the time.

“But—it’s you. You.”

“Certainly is. Last time I looked.”

Why doesn’t he take this seriously? “I can’t sleep with you.”

“Okay.”

“No, I mean, I just can’t. However much I might want to. It wouldn’t be right.”

He leans back and reaches for my chin, tilting my face up out of my hands. I’m still blushing, which seems to make him smile more. The dimples are very much in evidence now. At least one of us is enjoying this exchange.

“We’re both single. We can do what we want. Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Of course. Who wouldn’t?”

“Well, quite a few people, I suspect. But let’s not write a list.” He pauses, then, “Do you?”

Tears are prickling behind my eyelids. Any moment now I’ll be making as big a fool of myself as I did that first time he came round, blubbering all over him. I don’t answer. Can’t answer.

Not good enough, it seems. “Do you, Faith?”

“No. Yes.” I whisper the words.

His gorgeous brow furrows as he cocks his head to one side. “Which is it, Faith? Yes, or no?”

“I don’t know. I’m confused. In any case, it doesn’t matter what I want, or think I want. This wouldn’t be right. You and me.”

“Because of Ed?”

“Of course because of Ed. And Caroline.”

He holds my gaze for long moments before responding. “Carrie’s gone, and I’m sorry for that. I regret that she died so young, with most of her life ahead of her. She wouldn’t have spent that life with me though.” His expression is sad, I can see the sorrow etched there. But not grief. He’s not hurting, not like me. Not lonely, not needy as I am. His words baffle me.

“How can you know that?”

“I just do. We got on well, understood each other. We were sexually compatible and that was a bonus. I liked her, I respected her. I cared about her a lot. But I wasn’t in love with her.”

“She loved you.”

He shakes his head. “No, she didn’t. Ours wasn’t an exclusive relationship.”

Now it’s my turn to shake my head, in bewilderment and denial. “You don’t mean that. Are you saying you thought she slept with other men?”

“I know she did, when she wanted to. That was her choice. So did I. Not men, obviously…”

“But, you lived together.”

“We shared a house. She was my tenant. Paid rent, the lot. She had her own room, not that she usually slept in it when I was here. That arrangement suited both of us too.”

“You were her landlord? But I thought, I mean … how?”

“Okay, I can see this matters to you so I’ll explain. Carrie and I scened together quite regularly at a club I go to sometimes in Manchester. She was a submissive, I think you know that. Do you understand what that means?”

I nod, though in truth I only have a vague idea. “She liked being hurt. Whipped, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, that sort of thing. She liked being caned the most, and I’m quite skilled at that. She would often seek me out, and we had a good time together. She liked me to fuck her after a session, so I was happy to oblige there too. But there was no emotional attachment, not on either side. It was just pleasure, purely physical. But good, even so.”

“I can’t imagine fucking someone I didn’t care about.”

“No, I can see that. Carrie could though. And she did. Me too. Then one time, after a scene, she mentioned she was having to move out of her flat. The building was being demolished to make way for the Bingley bypass road. She knew I lived in the same area and wondered if I knew of anywhere. I had two spare bedrooms and a house I only occupy for a few weeks out of the year. It seemed a good solution so Carrie moved in with me. It worked fine—while I was here, she spent her time with me. When I was away, she did her own thing.”

“It sounds so cold, so detached.”

He shakes his head. “There’s nothing cold or detached about a dominant/submissive relationship. It’s intense and it’s hot. It requires absolute trust and iron self-control. The sub hands over power and control to her dom—she has to know he’ll take care of her. Nothing detached about that. Both partners have to be in the moment, totally.”

I stare at him through my tears, while my pussy clenches like the disloyal little traitor it is. His words move me. They make me yearn for something I never experienced with Ed. I feel as though I’m betraying his memory. I trusted my husband, pretty much, but never in the deep and vulnerable way that Carrie clearly put her absolute faith in Ewan. Would I have allowed Ed to take a cane to my arse? No, I doubt that I would. But I’d let Ewan do it, in heartbeat. And I think I might even like it.

* * *

I had another sleepless night. Ewan left at around ten to do his unpacking and I treated myself to a long soak before bed. The aromatic bubbles did nothing to relax me despite the claims on the side of the bottle. I spent most of the night tossing and turning and trying to get my head round the peculiar but so solid relationship that Caroline had with Ewan. They both knew what they wanted, and they got it from each other. There was an honesty there, a mutual understanding. By the morning, red-eyed and exhausted, I find myself envying a dead woman. She had contentment, a man she could rely on.

But surely, so did I. Ed was reliable. He may have been a womaniser, but he was never unfaithful as far as I know.

Not for the want of trying.
That aggravating little voice whispering away at the edges of my consciousness, questioning the certainties I’ve hugged to myself all these months. Years even. I convinced myself that Ed was the man for me, that he loved me. Only me. So I married him.

He worked hard, he was a good provider.

Who paid the bills?
Again, that insistent little voice, chiming in, unravelling my realities. Ed earned enough from his courier business to pay for his bike, his petrol, repairs, spare parts. He bought me expensive leathers and a top-of-the-range crash helmet, though when it came down to it, they did nothing to help poor Caroline. But it was my salary that paid the mortgage and the electricity bills. My bank account that paid the standing orders for gas, Council Tax, both our mobile phones. Our financial affairs had required almost no amendment following Ed’s death. It was all in my name already.