True Colours (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2) (17 page)

I’m sitting at the kitchen counter, downing the first tea of the morning when his text arrives.

I enjoyed last night.  Missing you. Xxx

With a smile, I gaze at the screen, picking over the words.  He’s missing me already, even though he only left for work half an hour ago.  And the man who could fuck us both to death actually enjoyed our first sex-free evening together.  The smile broadens into a full-on grin while I rake back through the details of a fairly normal kind of evening.  Dan coming home late from his meeting, fuming that the Housing Minister was a ‘bloody twat’.  An hour spent lugging Harrods bags upstairs and storing clothes away, him carefully folding and hanging, me stuffing anything anywhere.  A Chinese takeaway ordered in, a film, a cuddle and bed.  A mutual decision to simply fall asleep in each other’s arms.  Yes.  A fairly normal evening in the grand scheme of things: a much-needed confirmation, in amongst all the sex and the madness, that we can live together like fairly normal people.

I text him back.

Me too.  We’ll do more of that. X

As soon as I tap the send icon, I find myself staring at my handbag, suddenly reminded of the bits of card stowed away in its depths.  My heart slumps and the smile slips from my face.  Normal?  Who the hell am I trying to fool?  Underneath the veneer of the perfect couple, we’re anything but normal.  And we’re anything but perfect too.  Try as I might, there are just too many things I can’t understand … or ignore.  I haven’t had the full story about Italy, he refuses point blank to discuss his sexual history, and as for his sisters, they’re just the biggest puzzle of all.  Pulling the new set of keys out of my handbag, I hold them in my hand, knowing that there’s something at the back of my mind now, a half-formed notion seeded by Lucy’s words: ‘You could always go and see her.’

I shake my head.  What a ridiculous idea.  It’s just not my place to meddle in Dan’s affairs.  But then again, if I leave him to sort things out for himself, he’ll never get round to it.  And if I’m ever going to trust him completely, I need all the pieces in place.  I drop the keys, shocked by where I seem to be going with this train of thought.  And then, almost on auto-pilot, I take the pieces of card out of my bag and rearrange them on the worktop.  Rummaging through the drawers, I find a pen, a scrap of paper and scribble out the address.

My pulse rages.  My heart pummels at my rib cage.

Am I really going to do this?

‘Yes, you are,’ a voice whispers from the back of my head.  ‘It’s the only way you’re ever going to get an answer, and you bloody know it.’

And that’s it.  Abandoning my mobile on the counter top, I grab the keys and make my escape … only it’s no escape at all.  As soon as I’m out of the front door, Beefy latches onto me, squeezing himself into the lift and shadowing me down to the basement.  When the lift door slides open, I make a beeline for the Jaguar: a big, black, sleek monster of a thing that’s currently sleeping in the corner of the garage.  Nervously running a hand over the bonnet, I can’t help but remember the spanking session at Fosters. But I can’t dwell on that.  Instead, I open the driver’s door, sink into the leather seat and rearrange its position.  Almost immediately, the passenger door opens.  Beefy settles himself into the seat next to me and shuts the door.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

‘Coming with you.’

‘But I’m not going anywhere.  I’m just trying it out for size.  You can get out again.’

‘I’ll get out if you get out.’

I take in a few, deep breaths.  Okay, so that’s not going to work.  I’ll try another tack.

‘And what if I do go for a little drive?  Who’s going to get me?’

He shrugs his shoulders.

‘I have my orders.’

‘And this is a free country.  I’ve got a right to be left alone.’

‘And I’m paid to follow you, miss.  If I don’t do my job properly, I’ll get sacked.  I’ve got a wife and baby to support.  I can’t afford to be out of work.’

For a split second, I stare at Beefy’s massive, brick-like head and wonder exactly what a baby Beefy could possibly look like.  And then, shaking myself out of my reverie, I get on with the job in hand. Okay, so he’s determined to come with me which means that I’ll just have to cook up a devious plan to lose him along the way.

‘Leather and oak.’  He runs a chunky finger across the dashboard.  ‘You’ve got a nice car here.’

‘It’s not mine,’ I murmur absently, taking in the luxury that I barely noticed last time.  ‘At least it doesn’t feel like it is.’

‘A Jaguar XF.  Top-of-the-range.  This thing’s got a top speed of 155mph.’

I detect a touch of terror in his eyes.

‘We won’t be doing that.  Trust me.’  Wondering where on Earth to begin, I scan the dashboard, instantly confounded by all manner of knobs and buttons.  ‘Check the glove compartment.  There must be some sort of manual.’

He opens and closes the compartment, and shakes his head.

‘You’re just going to have to work it out.’

‘Work it out?’

Silently panicking, I scour the dashboard again.  Working out this little lot could take the best part of a day, and I just don’t have the time.  At least I know where the key should go.  Turning it in the ignition, I listen to the engine as it purrs into life, watch in amazement as displays light up in front of me.  Trying out one knob after another, I locate the windscreen wipers, indicators, the horn and the lights.

‘Has it got one of those satellite tracking thingies?’ I virtually whimper.

‘Probably.’

‘Can we switch it off?’

‘Why would you want to switch it off?’

‘I don’t know.’

He frowns at me – at least I think it’s a frown – and then he shrugs.  Okay, so I’ll just have to deal with the tracking situation.  One thing at a time.

‘Where’s the sat nav?’ I ask, fighting off a sharp stab of anxiety.  ‘I’d just like to work the sat nav.  I’d like to go and see my parents at some point.  I’ll need it.’

Beefy nods.  Leaning forwards, he prods at a screen for at least five minutes before he finds what he’s looking for.

‘There we are.  Just go to the main menu and press this.’

He runs through the process again.  I watch carefully.  And then it’s my turn.  Finally, after I’ve accidentally programmed the sat nav to give me instructions in German and Beefy’s reprogrammed it to English, I manage to enter my parents’ postcode.

‘We’re not going there today, are we?’ Beefy asks.

‘Good God, no.’  I smile innocently.  ‘Just practising.  No.  Today we’re just going for a little run-around.’  I grip the steering wheel and realise that my mouth’s dried up.

‘When did you last go for a drive, miss?’

‘About three years ago.’

I glance at my bodyguard, just in time to see his thick lips form an ‘o’, and inside that square skull of his, I’m pretty sure there’s a voice screaming out ‘Oh fuck.’

‘May I suggest reverse?’

‘Yes, reverse.’

Jittering with nerves, I press the clutch, move the gear stick into reverse and take off the handbrake. My heart’s pounding as I set the car into motion.  Checking over my shoulder, I bring the Jaguar out of its parking space, missing Dan’s motorbike by a whisker.  We come to a halt.  With a shaking hand, I slide the stick into first and we crawl towards the garage doors.  As if by magic, they begin to open.

‘What? How did that happen?’

‘A sensor.’  Beefy points to a small black box just above the rear view mirror.

‘Oh God, it’s like a space ship.’

While my bodyguard gives out a throaty chuckle, I do my best to calm down.  Right now I can’t imagine that I’ll ever get used to this bloody car, but I’m going to have to give it a try.  After all, there’s no other way of executing the mad, half-baked plan to sort out Dan’s life for him.  Throwing every last scrap of caution to the wind, I take my right foot off the brake, ease up on the clutch and depress the accelerator.  We practically shoot out onto the forecourt.  Coming to a second halt, I give myself a silent talking to.  Go easy on the pedals, you idiot!  And then, without the slightest clue where we’re going, I pull out onto the embankment.

I’m a bundle of nerves, super-vigilant, overly slow, keeping an eye out for anything that moves: cars, buses, cyclists, pedestrians.  We practically crawl down the road, making for Vauxhall, jerking to a stop at the slightest thing.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Beefy asks.

‘Of course,’ I lie, keeping my eyes fixed on the road.

Adrenalin’s pumping right through me now, sending my heart beat to the verge of tachycardia.  It’s a good half an hour before I even begin to think straight.  Turning into a side road, I stop the car outside a pub.  We sit for a minute or two, saying nothing, accompanied by the soft hum of the engine, the sweep of the wind screen wipers, the tapping of raindrops on the roof.  And while Beefy concentrates on controlling his breathing and probably thanking the Lord Almighty that he’s still alive, I muse over the sense of what I’m about to do.

‘Bollocks,’ I scowl, realising that there’s absolutely no sense in it at all.  I’m about to be the queen of reckless, and I just can’t stop myself.  Somewhere deep in the lobes of my brain, the amygdalae must have decided to put their feet up and have a quiet cuppa.

‘What’s the matter?’ Beefy asks.

I swallow, blink, and then I just get on with it.

‘People keep waving at me.’

‘Who?’  He leans forwards, squinting into the side mirror.  ‘I haven’t noticed anything.’

‘I have.’  I try out a concerned expression.  ‘I think it might be the lights.’

‘But this is a new car.’

‘I’ve got my side lights on, but people are waving.  Someone flashed me earlier.  I don’t think they’re working.’

‘I’m sure you’re imagining things.’

‘I’m not.  Can’t you just get out and have a look?’

‘In this?’  He gesticulates at the windscreen.

The rain’s pelting down now.  And yes, I do feel like a complete bitch, but I also need to seize the day, even if we are currently in the midst of a downpour of Biblical proportions.

‘Please, Beefy.  I need to know.’

He watches me, and then he shrugs.  Finally, with another squint into the side mirror, he grabs the handle.  Getting out of the car, he shuts the door and walks round to the back, and I waste no time at all.  Slamming my foot on the accelerator, I’m off, haring up the road like a demon, weaving my way from one street to another.  Central London in the rain is no place to get used to a new car, but I don’t slow down until I’m convinced I’m out of Beefy’s reach.  Eventually, I come to a halt at the kerb and fiddle with the sat nav, keying in my parents’ postcode and lurching back in surprise when a disembodied, super-cool voice begins to speak.

‘In twenty metres, turn right.’

‘Yes!’

I punch the air, satisfied that I’ve managed to conquer technology.  Now all I need to do is conquer this bloody car.  I have no idea how long it takes before I’m out in the suburbs.  As the traffic thins and the outskirts of London give way to countryside, I opt for a quiet life, tucking myself into the inside lane of an A road and refusing to overtake.  It’s going to take forever like this, but I don’t care.  Hardly daring to take my eyes off the road for a second, I drive on in silence, listening to the sat nav’s occasional instructions and thinking about Dan.  By now, he’ll know that I’m absent without leave.  And if he hasn’t already chartered a helicopter to come and find me, the very least he’ll be doing is plotting my comeuppance.

At last, the countryside flattens.  Fenland skies stretch out above me, swathes of blue and grey arching across a landscape of soulless fields and ruler-straight roads.  As I push further northwards, the earth slowly comes to life again with hills and hollows, the roads lined now by pine trees rather than ditches.  And after what seems like an age, the squat church of Limmingham comes into view, its tower like a chunky hand acknowledging my arrival.  The sat nav continues to dish out instructions, but I’m no longer listening.  From here, I know the way.  Navigating the dip into town, I take a left along the sea front and head for the housing estate where I grew up.

When I finally park in front of Mum and Dad’s home, I rest my head on the steering wheel and try to compose myself.  It’s a good few minutes before I get out of the car and look down the road, catching sight of the nondescript house where Dan spent the first ten years of his life.  There’s a sudden chill in my blood.  I shrug it off quickly and make for my parents’ back door.

I find no one in the kitchen and no one in the living room.  They’re both out in the garden, fussing over the rockery.  Stepping through the open French windows, I call to them.

‘Mum!  Dad!’

The look up in unison.

‘Maya,’ Mum calls back, dropping a trowel.  ‘What a nice surprise.  Have you brought Daniel with you?’

‘No.  He’s at work.’

‘We’re so glad you’re back together.’  She plants a kiss on my forehead.  ‘Sara told us.  We felt awful about what happened.  Was he alright?  Tell me he was alright.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I reassure her.  ‘You didn’t do anything wrong.  And he’s fine.’