Teach Me Dirty(113)

“We will.” The town disappeared behind us, and his hand reached for my knee, squeezed it. “Relax.”

I put my hand on his, squeezed him tight. “I’m trying.”

“Just breathe, Helen. The night’s alive, and young. Enjoy it. We’ll have plenty of time to concern ourselves with logistics, I promise.”

“You aren’t worried?” My eyes fixed on his but his were on the road.

“I didn’t say that.” He sighed. “The situation isn’t ideal, but we’ll manage.”

“Dad won’t let it go,” I said. “He’s like a dog with a bone. On and on. He’ll want to know where I’m going. He’ll want to know where I’ve been. He’ll want to know who I’ve been with…”

“And he definitely knows you weren’t with Harry?”

“Definitely.”

“Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow morning we’ll get our thinking caps on, ok?”

I nodded. “Ok.”

“In the meantime, I’ve been waiting all week to see you. I missed you, Helen Palmer. A lot.”

I smiled. “The sentiment is entirely reciprocated, Mr Roberts.”

It made him smile, too.



My heart soared as the twinkle of Mark’s house lights came into view. I took a long breath, and the peace engulfed me, as though I was home, slipping into comfortable slippers. He was waiting for me as I got out of the car, waiting to hold me tight, and I held him, breathed him, savoured the press of his body against mine as I sank into the moment.

Thank God for this, thank God.

The fire had warmed the house, in that blissful way that a real fire does. He lit candles in the dining room while I kicked my shoes off, then grabbed me a glass and poured me a healthy measure of red wine.

He clinked my glass.

“To us. To tenacity. We’ll get through this. Wait and see.”

“I hope so, Mark.”

“Less hoping and more believing, please.”

I took a seat at the dining table, and he did, too. I reached out, tiny fingers stretching across the table for him, and he took them and held them. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“Things are shitty this week.”

“They aren’t shitty now.” He squeezed my hand.

I took a sip of wine. “I was stupid, to think I could pull off a lie like that one. Dad knows everyone, he knows everything…”

“You did what you thought would be for the best. Things happen, it’s just life, Helen.”

“I’m sorry, Mark.”

He smiled, and the beauty in it ripped my heart open. His quiet resignation, his calm, his strength. “There is nothing to be sorry for. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

But it felt like I had. I felt guilty, and scared, and out of my depth. Not scared for me. Scared for us. But that wasn’t it, either. I was really scared for him.

“Can I at least get a smile, Helen? I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

I took a breath and I smiled. And then I moved, because I didn’t want wine anymore. I didn’t want to be sitting at this table with all this space, all this air between us. I dropped onto his lap, and wrapped my arms around him tight, and breathed. Just breathed. And he held me back, so warm and so tight.

“It’ll be alright,” he said. “Forget about it now.”

“But you… your job…”

“Nothing’s even happened yet.”

I didn’t have a response for that, because it wasn’t my head that knew what was brewing. My head could rationalise it away, say I’d make up something, anything, keep a low profile and work this thing through, and it would all be fine. Just like we planned. Just like we wanted. But my heart knew. That horrible knowing, the pang of dread, the shadow on the horizon. My heart knew Dad, too.

I wanted to stay there forever, just breathing, my body next to his, his fingers in my hair, tickling my scalp, but he moved us. Stood up and took me with him, walking us through to the living room where he dropped me to my feet. My toes landed on fabric, and I turned to find the floor covered with sheets. He had paint laid out, lots of it. Paint and brushes all ready to go, but no canvas.

“What’s this?”

His eyes sparkled. “The pull of the muse. Will you indulge me?”

It made me laugh, but it was breathy and disappeared into nothing. “Always.” I watched him as he lit more candles, so many of them, all over the mantelpiece, twinkling and glittering and lighting up our sculpture like little beacons of hope above the fire.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just breathe. I’ll do the rest.”

“Sounds good.”

“I hope so.” He came to me, kissed me so gently before he slipped off my cardigan. “You have far too many clothes on, Miss Palmer.” He pulled my top over my head. “Far too many.”

Fingers traced my collarbone, slipped my bra strap down and dipped inside. His mouth was hot against my ear, lips soft, and I was fluttery and weightless, floating away. He took me out of my bra, then out of everything else, until my clothes were a just a pile of useless unwanted fabric. I wished I’d never need them again, wished that I could stay here like this forever.