Rich Tapestry (15 page)

“Yes, miss. But I’ll need to let my control know how long I’ll be. How far south do you have in mind?”

“Bristol.”

That gets his attention. “
Bristol!
That’s over two hundred miles. I’m only being paid as far as Kendal.”

“I’ll pay you more. What will it cost to drive me to Bristol?”

“I don’t rightly know, miss. Let me think…”

“A hundred pounds?”

“Well, I’m not sure… I’d have to drive all the way back as well, you see. I’ll not get any more fares all night. Most of tomorrow too.”

“Three hundred pounds then. Is that enough?”

He hesitates a moment, then, “Oh, okay, miss. It’s a deal. Money up front though.”

“Good. Thank you. Can we stop at a cash point on the way please?”

* * * *

After Kendal, I think Bristol is perhaps my second favorite place to live. Maybe because I was happy here, doing well until my mother intervened, screwed up her life again and trampled all my plans into the dust while she was at it. I had a career—or at least the prospect of one—training, a pay rise, a job I loved, a nice little flat. My life was tidy, well ordered, just as I like it. I was comfortable.

Soon after I arrived here, I called in at my old library, the St Paul’s branch, just to say hello and to check out if there might be any jobs going. A long shot. They were fully staffed and in any case, the council doesn’t recruit people who just walk in the door and ask for work. But I felt I should try.

Getting a job isn’t imperative, I have enough in savings to last me another six months at least. I do intend to go back to Kendal, well before my cash runs out. I know Freya’s worried about me, despite the message hurriedly texted from the back of Ted’s taxi, just as we cruised past Preston on my journey south.

Sorry I missed u. Going away for a bit. C u soon.

She’s texted me several times since, asking me where I am, if I’m okay, when I’ll be back, but I haven’t replied. I feel bad about that, but I have no idea what to tell her.

Soon. When I’m ready. Never?

From her messages to me, all of them unanswered, I know that Freya went on holiday soon after I did my bunk. She went to visit Margaret, our mutual foster mother, in Australia. I wish I’d thought of that. My funds would have run to a long distance flight and I haven’t seen Margaret for years now. The last I heard, Freya was back from Australia and was staying with Nicholas, in Cartmel. She mentioned that she’d seen Dan and he’d asked after me. I turned my phone off, stuck it in a drawer and went out and bought a pay as you go handset, just in case of emergencies. I haven’t given anyone my new number.

I’ve had a lot of time to think, especially in the first couple of weeks I spent here, holed up in a Travelodge on the Bristol ring road until I could sort out a short-term lease on a flat. When I wasn’t busy sorting the hotel stationery out into neat piles, I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, contemplating the clever and witty things I might say to Dan Riche should I ever encounter him again. The things I ought to have said to him in that bar. The million and one put-downs I might have come up with that would have convinced him I was not the easy prey he clearly—correctly—thought me to be.

Not again. Not next time. There never
will be a next time.

It should never have happened. That’s all there is to it. We all make mistakes—that night with Dan Riche was one of mine. A whopper, it’s fair to say. But I need to forgive myself and move on.

Except it’s not that simple. Not when I can still feel his hands on my body, his fingers inside me. Not while I still clench uncontrollably at the memory, my underwear moistening as I relive the way he stroked me, the effortless way he licked and sucked and sent me into orbit. How he spanked me, hurting me and pleasuring me in equal measure. He totally overwhelmed me, demanding obedience, nothing less than total surrender, and I gave it.

He called me a submissive, a slut.
His
slut. Lying there on my Travelodge bed, I told myself I wasn’t accepting that. I’m not
his
anything. And certainly I’m not a submissive. It was a one-off, that’s all. A mental lapse.

I now have a nice flat in the street next to where I used to live. I’ve taken it on a twelve week let while the owners are away on an extended tour of South America.

Staring at ceilings never got me anywhere and that thought motivated me to get out and find something meaningful to do, to keep me busy and take my mind off what happened. What I did…what I agreed to do. So I volunteered for a reading support program, training as an unpaid classroom support worker to help with reading in primary schools. It’s good fun and useful work. I like the children, love seeing their bright little faces light up when the mysteries of the printed word are revealed, especially those who were struggling. I find I have a natural ability. The children I work with make good progress. The school seems delighted.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror in my small but spotless bedroom. Should I try a light brush of mascara? A spot of deep pink lipstick perhaps? Or is that too obvious on a first date? I glance over my shoulder at the outfit laid out on the bed, a plain but smart enough cream blouse and a navy and white skirt with a matching scarf. Nothing too eye-catching. It’s what Margaret would have termed ‘serviceable’. Freya would call it frumpy. I think it’s just perfect. For me, now.

I’m at the school most mornings, but the afternoons I spend here, in my private domain, watching daytime television and trying not to remember Dan Riche’s voice, his touch. His amazing, dominant presence.

I need to stop devoting so much brain power to him. It’s not as though I have all that much to spare, and he wasn’t that special. He caught me in a weak moment, that’s all. When I was concerned about Freya and suddenly thrown headlong into an environment I didn’t understand. It wouldn’t happen again. It’s vanilla all the way for me from now on.

And now, an opportunity has arisen to test that hypothesis. Mr Barnard, who teaches year five, has invited me out for a meal. He’s nice, I think. Pleasant. He smiles a lot. The children love him, especially when he does the after-school drama club. They’re performing
Bugsy Malone
this year and it’s a sell-out, I gather. All of this bodes well for an evening of intelligent conversation, decent food and uncomplicated sex. There’ll be no nonsense with whips and handcuffs, not with Mr Barnard. No spanking, no hard, uncompromising voice ordering me to kneel. ‘Sir’ will be left behind in the year five classroom.

I ruthlessly crush the insistent little voice telling me there’ll be no screaming his name when I come either, nor will there be a feast of wickedly sensual caresses in a Jacuzzi. But it will still be good. Mr Barnard’s smile is almost as dazzling as Dan’s was, his eyes equally beguiling in a twinkly, hazel sort of way. And as for the rest, well there’s a lot to be said for warm pullovers and beige shoes.

Mr Barnard—James, he insists—picks me up at my flat and we drive to the restaurant. I left it up to him to decide where we went, and he’s chosen a nice, little Italian trattoria, its menu jolly and bright. The tables sport patriotic red and green tablecloths, with candles stuck in the necks of empty wine bottles. The place clearly majors on pizza and pasta, and all the regulars are here to be enjoyed. I like pizza. I eat it a lot. I’ve found it’s one of those things that are easy to cook under the grill.

I choose a Hawaiian, ham and pineapple, my usual. James goes for pepperoni—the pizza equivalent of vanilla. We slice our pizzas into manageable lumps and chew in near silence. The evening passes awkwardly. I’ve no idea what to say to him. James appears not to sense the stiltedness between us or if he does, he chooses not to remark on it. My eye is drawn constantly to the clock. I watch the minute hand creeping around the dial. Our chats in the staffroom were far less labored. There, we have children to talk about, school activities, lessons to plan. Here, I’m not at all sure what we have in common.

Still, he’s nice. He’s polite and undemanding. Reasonably good-looking. He won’t have any unpleasant surprises in store. He’ll be harboring no plans to spank me—I’m certain of that.

There’s also much to be said for predictability.

An hour and a half after we entered the restaurant, we’re dragging out our cappuccinos, sharing a chocolate fudge cake. James constantly asks me if it’s all right for him to have this bit or that bit. Do I want the rest of the chocolate sauce? The cream? In the end, I put my spoon down and tell him to finish it off. He does.

Eventually it can be put off no longer. We troop back out to James’ car and he drives me back to my flat. If I’m totally honest, I’d just as soon say a polite goodnight, thank him for the lovely meal and get an early night. James is also looking forward to an early night, but he clearly does not intend to go home for it. And I have ghosts to lay, so now’s as good a time as any.

“Would you like to come inside for a while?” I turn to him, managing a brittle smile.

“Yes, if you like.”

I’m not right fussed either way, but might as well get it over with. I nod, fish around in my bag for my keys then get out of the car. The sound of James’ car door closing tells me he’s following me.

I open the outer door to my apartment building and James trails after me into the narrow shared hallway. I lead the way up one flight of stairs to my flat on the first floor. I unlock my door and gesture him inside.

James wanders past me into my little living room. He glances around but makes no move to sit down.

“Coffee?” I tidied my kitchen cupboards only yesterday, so I’m pretty sure I don’t have any, but this is what you’re supposed to say on these occasions. Fortunately, James has had enough coffee for one night and prefers to move on to the next course. Me.

He shakes his head, shrugging out of his jacket. He drapes it over my one and only sofa, and I automatically reach for it to hang it up.

“Leave it. Please.” He steps closer, places his hands on my shoulders.

His thumb brushes my neck, just above the collar of my blouse. He loosens my scarf and drops it onto the floor. This irritates me, and I just know Dan would not have done that. He would have been too intent on tying my hands together with it…

I shiver, making an effort to stifle all further thoughts of Dan. He has no place here.

James’ hands are cold. I don’t recall that Dan had cold hands. Surely I’d have remembered. And so much for banishing Dan from my thoughts. He just keeps on coming back. In fairness to James, we have just come in from outside. He’s sure to warm up.

Best to make sure. “I’ll just turn up the heating…” I start for the kitchen where the thermostat is housed.

“It’s perfectly warm in here. Let’s go to bed.” James’ chilly fingers have moved to my buttons and he’s fumbling with them awkwardly.

So much for sweet talk. Still, it’s an improvement on ‘strip and kneel’. Isn’t it?

Somehow James is not managing to get my panties wet. Still, there’s time yet. I push his clumsy hands away and unfasten my own blouse. I slip it off and unbutton the waistband of my calf-length skirt. James is still peering around my living room, clearly wondering where the bedroom is. I step out of my skirt and take his hand, leading him back into my little hallway and down to the bedroom door. I open it, and he follows me inside.

On occasions, borderline OCD can be a blessing, and this is one of those times. There are no discarded items of lingerie or yesterday’s underwear lurking accusingly under the bed, no deodorant sprays or makeup tubes scattered across the dressing table, no books piled untidily on the windowsill. The bed is meticulously arranged, the duvet perfectly square and smooth. No wrinkles or misaligned stripes to be found on my bedding. This scene of well-ordered perfection, however, seems lost on James Barnard, who immediately wrenches off his tie and drops it on the speckless carpet, to be followed by his shirt. I glare at the offending heaps of crumpled menswear sullying my inner sanctum, and my overwhelming urge is to gather him up—him and his messy things—and bundle the lot out onto the pavement.

I don’t do that, though, as I have other plans for Mr Barnard. A point to make. I grit my teeth and take a deep breath, reminding myself that I have greater matters to attend to—such as proving to myself that Dan Riche was just a flash in the pan, a man like any other. James Barnard is much more my type. And what’s more, he’s giving every indication that he’ll be more than willing to fuck me. He extracts a condom from his trouser pocket and tosses it onto my bedside table. Moments later, his pants and socks have joined the offending piles on my Axminster, and he’s hooking his thumbs into the elastic of his boxers. Nothing subtle in James Barnard’s approach.

The boxers join the rest of his clothes and I’m treated to a fine display. Well, I’m sure James thinks it’s fine, and in fairness, he’s not bad. Solid, well-toned muscles. Perhaps a little more chest hair than I really like on a man, not that I’m awfully picky, although I do prefer dark to James’ sandy brown. And I’m not terribly fond of freckles either, but I suppose they go with the hair color.

Again, I smother the unwelcome comparison. And I manage not to wince as James hurls himself onto my bed, shoving one of my carefully arranged pillows onto the floor. His erection is reasonably impressive and that is, after all, the main thing. Best not to waste it. I’m quick to shed my remaining clothes, but then I grind to a halt. This is not my normal approach on first meeting a new man, except at a BDSM club obviously. I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, wondering what to do next that won’t seem too eager, or worst still, desperate. James helps out by reaching for my hand.

“You’re lovely, Summer. Like a beautiful bird. A swan—tall and pale and graceful.”

Dan described me as willowy, slender. And he said my breasts were pretty. But a swan? No, I’m not in the least swan-like. Still, I take James’ hand and let him tug me forward, onto the bed. I lie on my side, curling into him as he trails his palm along my ribs, my waist, my hip. His eyes follow, and inevitably he spots my swallows. Well, one of them.