Sweet Deception (28 page)

I turned the corner, and made my way home.

I was hardly aware of how I got home that night. Luckily the lift was available, because there was no way I could have dragged myself up the stairs. As if on autopilot, I managed to get my keys out of my bag, and opened the door. I walked into the sitting room, hoping to lose myself in some mindless television, and froze as I saw Lindsay and Adrian making out on the couch. Damn. In the turmoil of the evening, I'd completely forgotten that they'd be here tonight.

Luckily they were so engrossed with what they were doing that neither of them had noticed me, so I tried to back out of the room without alerting them to my presence. I was nearly at the door when a floorboard creaked under my weight. Their eyes flew open, and they broke their kiss to turn to look at me. Within seconds, they were sitting up and straightening their clothes.

“What're you doing back?” Lindsay was off the couch. “I
didn't expect you to surface until late tomorrow.”

“Yeah? You and me both.” It was hard to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “Look, I didn't mean to disturb you. So I'll go, and you . . . well, just get back to what you were doing.”

I headed for my room, but not before I saw Lindsay give Adrian a look that said,
I have to sort my friend out.

Great. That was all I needed.

She was right behind me as I stepped into my room. I walked over and crashed facedown onto my bed. Even though I was in the warmth of my flat, I was still shaking. I'd blown it with Richard tonight. There would be no coming back from this, and with that realisation, I felt a tremendous sadness envelop me. I gripped my pillow harder, burying my head into its softness, as though it might somehow help to block the events of tonight.

“What happened?” Lindsay asked, closing the door.

“I don't know.” My voice was muffled against the pillow. With a last show of strength I flipped onto my back, so I could look over at her, perched on my desk. “I honestly don't know.”

She nibbled at the nails on her right hand. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I knew an outright no would begin a back-and-forth of her insisting I coughed up about the evening. So I decided to be a bit more calculating. “Not right now. But tomorrow,
maybe.” I gave a weak smile, and nodded towards the sitting room. “If lover boy's not around, that is.”

I could see Lindsay hesitating, obviously keen to get back to her date, but also not wanting to be a bad friend.

“Do you want to come and join us? Adrian won't mind, I promise.”

I thought of what I'd just walked in on. Even if I had fancied some company—which I really didn't—I knew when I wasn't wanted. “Thanks, but I'd rather just sleep.”

“All right, then. I'll leave you to it.”

She closed the door softly behind her.

Somehow I managed to get up to prepare for bed. As I removed my make-up and took off my dress, I was aware that I was slowly stripping away the remains of the evening. It was hard to believe that a few hours ago I'd got ready with such hope and excitement.

I'd just got into bed when my phone rang. I looked at the display, and saw that it was Richard. I sat waiting for the call to go to voicemail, because I was too much of a coward to speak to him directly. The message he left was mature but pointed: he wanted to try to sort things out, but he was going to leave it to me to decide the right time to do that. He would be away on business until the end of the week, coming back on Friday, my twenty-sixth birthday. Maybe we could talk then . . .

Oh, and he'd also like me to let him know I'd got home safely.

I sent him a quick text saying I was fine—now I'd calmed down, I felt I owed him that at least. Then I switched my phone off, and burrowed down into the duvet. It was a relief to know he was going away. At least I'd have a few days' reprieve before I had to face him. I closed my eyes, and hoped that sleep would come soon.

*  *  *

I managed to avoid explaining to Lindsay what had happened at Richard's. When she asked me the next day, I just told her we'd got into an argument over something stupid, and that it was no big deal. I could tell she didn't believe me, but she also didn't pry. She knew me well enough to sense when I didn't want to share.

“Something happened this week, didn't it?” Dr. Milton asked almost as soon as I'd sat down in the burgundy leather chair.

I looked up in surprise. It was true that Saturday night was still on my mind, but I hadn't realised it was quite that obvious. But then I suppose it was her job to sense the nuances of her patients' moods.

“Yeah . . . I guess you could say that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

My initial thought was not really, but it was early in the meeting, and I guessed there was little else to do.

“I went out on Saturday night . . . with this guy I liked. We didn't go out as such, he cooked for me.”

Dr. Milton nodded encouragingly. “And what happened?”

I frowned, shaking my head in exasperation. “I don't
know. Everything was going great. He invited me round to his place, and made this really nice meal.”

I paused, struggling to work out how I was going to tell her about what had happened next.

“That sounds like he went to a lot of trouble for you,” Dr. Milton said, filling the silence. “Like he wanted to make the night special.”

“I know! That's what's so annoying. Because when we were going to—” I paused meaningfully, raising my eyebrows in case she hadn't got it.

“Have intercourse?” she filled in.

I cringed. What was it with medical professionals that they managed to make everything sound so icky? “Yeah, that.” I looked away, trying to formulate what I was going to say. “I just . . . well, I couldn't go through with it.”

Dr. Milton sat back in her chair and studied me. I could almost see the cogs of her mind whirring.

“That's interesting.”

“Yeah?” I gave a harsh laugh. “That's one way to describe it, I suppose.” I pulled a hand through my hair. “I just don't understand it. Why didn't I just have sex with him? It's not like I'm some shy virgin. I've had sex with enough guys before!”

“But this felt different, right?”

“Well, yes . . .”

“So tell me, what's so different about this particular man?”

I frowned, trying to put into words what set Richard apart.

“Well, Rich—” I had to stop myself saying his name; I'd forgotten for a moment that Dr. Milton knew him. Although somehow I had a feeling she'd worked it out for herself. “This man . . . I guess you could say he's a good guy. He's someone I like—someone I could even have a relationship with.”

“Whereas the other men . . . ?” she prompted.

I shrugged. “They were nothing to me. Just a quick roll in the sack. I wasn't looking for anything that lasted beyond one night.”

She was nodding encouragingly again, as though I was just in touching distance of the place she was trying to guide me to.

“So . . . what's the conclusion? I find it easier to sleep with shitty guys than nice ones? I'm not sure what to make of that, apart from that I'm clearly one messed-up individual!”

Dr. Milton was usually good at controlling her emotions, but even I could see her disappointment when she heard my reply. There was obviously an answer she wanted from me, but she needed me to arrive at it myself.

“Seriously?” I kicked the designer coffee table in frustration. “Can't you just do us both a favour and tell me what you want me to say?”

There was silence. Dr. Milton didn't reply—and I hadn't expected her to. I just needed to vent my frustration.

“Well, then,” she said finally, once my breathing had subsided, “why don't we go back to what we were talking about the last time you were here?”

It seemed like such a waste of time. After what had happened the other night, clearly therapy wasn't helping me at all. But I had nowhere else to go, so I might as well do what she asked.

“You want to reminisce, then fine.” I folded my arms. “What do you want to know?”

She quickly glanced over her notes, apparently unfazed by the passive-aggressive note in my voice. “Now, from everything you've told me, you were still a very sheltered person during that summer we've been talking about.”

“That's right.”

“And yet, by your own admission, sex and alcohol play a large role in your life now.”

“Too true.”

“So I'm just wondering if you can pinpoint when that change occurred? Was it gradual, or was there a trigger point?”

I looked away, and began chewing at my fingernails. “I'm not sure, really.”

There was a silence, which was Dr. Milton's standard response when she wasn't getting the response she wanted
from me. “All right, then,” she said eventually. “If that's the case, perhaps we should discuss the event that in our culture represents the loss of innocence.” I looked up in surprise, wondering if I'd understood her correctly. “Yes, that's right.” She sat back, so I could see she wasn't budging on this. “I'd like you to tell me about the first time you had sex.”

I stared at her for a long moment. I'd had no problem talking in detail about my current sex life, but that was different. I opened my mouth to object, but no words came out.

Dr. Milton's expression softened. “I understand this isn't a comfortable subject for you. So why don't we start with when exactly it happened? Was it after you started your art course?”

I knew what she was thinking. I'd told her how sheltered my school was—she assumed that I'd started at university, been around boys for the first time, and it had happened then.

“No,” my voice came out as a croak, and I coughed, clearing my throat. “No, it wasn't then.” I took a deep breath. “It was during that summer we've been talking about. At a party. My sister's twenty-first birthday party, to be exact.”

Seven years ago

I sat at a table in the corner of the marquee, pushing a piece of cake around my plate. It was my third slice, and I was only pretending to eat it to give myself something to do. On a raised bandstand at the front, a jazz band was playing, and the dance floor was filled with smiling couples. It seemed like everyone was dancing and having more fun than me.

That evening, when I'd been getting ready, I'd thought I looked good—attractive, even. Miraculously, that summer my acne had cleared up, and I'd grown my hair longer. The puppy fat had melted away, and I'd got contact lenses for the first time. These small changes had helped my confidence.

But then somewhere along the way tonight, everything had fallen apart. I felt like I always did—the ugly duckling in a family of beautiful swans. The dress that I thought had looked so good on me now seemed childish. In the shop, I'd fallen in love with the huge princess-style dress. But seeing my sister in a sophisticated, slinky gown, her long, straight hair tied back into a neat chignon, looking effortlessly chic, I felt like a lumbering idiot, like I'd made too much effort.

I was just wondering whether anyone would miss me if I retreated to my bedroom, when a deep, masculine voice said, “So, what are you doing all alone over here?” I looked up to see Toby smiling down at me, even more dashing than usual in black tie.

I sat up straighter, pushed the cake away, automatically returning his smile. “I'm great, thanks. Just taking a break from the fun.”

“Is that right?” The way his eyes twinkled suggested he didn't believe me, but he was kind enough not to press the point. Instead, he held out his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

I couldn't think of anything I'd rather do than be on the dance floor in Toby's arms, but something made me hesitate. “It's kind of you to ask, but you don't have to be so nice to me.” I dropped my eyes to the floor. “I don't want you to ask me out of pity.”

He crouched in front of me, his hand reaching under my chin and tilting it up so our eyes met. “How can it be pity when it's an honour and a privilege?”

Hearing that my heart lifted. I stood up quickly, in case he changed his mind, and let him lead me onto the dance floor.

As his arms encircled my waist, I rested my head on his firm chest. I closed my eyes, and shut everyone else out. In that moment, it felt like we were the only people there.

After two songs, Toby whispered in my ear. “Are you bored? Why don't we go out and get some air?”

In fact, I wasn't bored at all. I'd have happily stayed there dancing with him all night. But I didn't want to disappoint him. “What? Go outside?” I instinctively glanced to the gardens. “It's going to be pretty cold out there.”

“Hmmm.” He seemed to consider it for a moment. “Well, we could go somewhere sheltered. What about that old
barn?” He said it casually, as though the idea had just occurred to him.

“I suppose,” I said slowly.

“I'll see you there, in say, ten minutes?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“Oh,” he winked down at me, “and let's keep it our little secret, okay?”

As the song ended, we parted. I went back to where I'd been sitting before, and he headed out of the marquee. I chewed at my nails, and obsessively checked my watch for the next ten minutes. Then, once the time was up, I slipped from the tent and into the garden.

There was a chill in the night air, but I didn't care. I felt giddy with excitement as I hurried down to the abandoned barn, slipping on the wet grass in my race to get to Toby. Our secret meeting felt deliciously illicit. And although I had a nagging sense that I shouldn't be doing this, I pushed it to the back of my mind.

I knew it was wrong, but part of me liked to fantasise about Toby being my boyfriend. I felt like we had a connection. He understood me in a way that no one else did. And I liked the fact that he seemed to want to spend time with me over Kate. Deep down I knew he was probably just doing so for her sake, taking pity on her awkward little sister. But for a little while at least I could pretend he wanted to be with me.