Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes #3)(56)

So many women must have expressed that sentiment. So what if I do too. No, I won’t. It will be my little secret. No one will ever know. Not him, not my mother or my father, or anyone. Maybe I will tell my grandchildren one day. If I have them. If I am not contaminated with HIV or even full-blown AIDS.

‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a full day today. Can you entertain yourself for a few hours?’

I smile. Can he see how much love I have for him? ‘Sure, I’ll clean the flat or something.’

‘No, don’t do that. I’ve got a woman coming in to do that. She’ll come around about two this afternoon.’

‘I’ll read a book,’ I say quietly.

‘Good girl.’ He pauses. ‘Only thing, don’t leave the apartment will you?’ If you need anything just call me and I’ll arrange for it to be brought to you.’

‘I don’t need anything, Shane.’

We get out of bed and use the bathroom together. It should have been mundane, a little domestic scene, but it is not. It is special. And it makes me think. How stupid we human beings are. We think that just because we do something all the time it is not special. It is. Just think that tomorrow is the last time you will ever brush your teeth with the one you love. See what I mean now?

So we brush our teeth and use the toilet. And he doesn’t appreciate it, because for him it is just another boring task, and he thinks he will do it tomorrow with me too.

When he says, ‘What do you want to have for breakfast?’

I know exactly what I want. ‘I’ll make breakfast,’ I say.

He smiles. ‘You don’t cook.’

‘You’ll eat my burnt toast and like it,’ I say with mock severity.

A strange look crosses his face, but I don’t ask that thing that all lovers who are confident of their place in a relationship ask. ‘What? What are you thinking of?

Instead, I go into the kitchen. I know exactly what I am recreating. I switch on the oven. 220 degree Fahrenheit. I take the cherry plum jam out of the fridge and put a few spoonfuls on two plates. I take the plates to the top of the oven and I put them there so they will be at room temperature when we have it.

I open the oven door and a blast of hot air hits me in the face. Perfect. I put the brioche rolls onto the metal tray and slide them in. I squeeze oranges and pour the juice into two glasses. I place the container of unsalted butter on the table and set it with knifes and spoons and forks. And the whole time Shane sits at the table and watches me with slightly raised eyebrows.

I take the brioches out of the oven, place them on the table, and sit next to him.

Shane looks at me. ‘Thank you.’

‘Bon appétit,’ I say.

I watch him tear into the brioche. I watch the steam rise from the inside. I watch him cut a small bit of cold butter and lay it on the corner of the brioche that he has already spooned the cherry plum jam on. I greedily watch him put it into his mouth. I close my eyes because I know exactly how it feels and tastes in his mouth. Cold butter, hot pastry, warm jam.

I will remember this forever.

We eat and we drink and then it is time for him to leave. He doesn’t kiss me deeply the way people who say goodbye do. He thinks he will be back in a few hours. He thinks I will be here when he comes home. He doesn’t know I love him too much to allow him to ever risk his life for me.

I walk him to the door and kiss him goodbye as if I am kissing him before he goes to work. He walks out to the lift. I stand and watch him. The doors of the lift open. He goes in.


And my heart breaks.

I take a shuddering breath and suddenly he is coming out of the lift. He walks up to me, takes me in his arms and kisses me as if he will die without me, his tongue finding its way into my mouth. Entangling with mine. Pulling mine into his mouth. Sucking my tongue.

When he pulls away I am trembling.

‘I’ll finish that when I come back,’ he says dragging his thumb along my lower lip.

I sigh and lay my head on his chest. I hear his heart beating. A steady fast rhythm. I will miss that.

‘See you later,’ I say.

‘Alligator,’ he says.

Then he walks into the lift and does not come out again.

I close the door and I go to sit at the kitchen table. I look at the breakfast things around me, the crumbs, the smeared jam, the knife slicked with butter, and my heart feels so heavy. I go into his study and I look around. Once I asked him why he lived in this apartment when he could afford something better. He said this was only a place to sleep in. He mostly lived in the country.

I sit at his desk and write him a letter. It is short. Goodbyes are best short. Besides, there is not much to say. Whatever it was, it’s over now. Our time has run out. Soon the wind will blow me away. There is nothing else I can do. I touch my finger to my lips and lay it on the letter. There is a photo album on one of the shelves. I take it down and I turn the pages. His family are all there. I smile to look at their happy faces. How lucky they are.

I come upon one where he is alone. It is a recent one. He is on a boat looking like a film star. His hair wind-tossed, his beautiful body is tanned and relaxed and I wonder who took the picture. Carefully I take the photo out and, without bending it, I slip it into my purse.

Then I go into the bedroom. With my heart weeping, I stand there, memorizing the lingering smell of us, the sun falling on our tangled sheets. I’ll dream of this little piece of heaven forever.