Kismet Read online

  “Just shut up and kiss me,” I demand, leaning back into him, pleading.

  His eyes widen before he hurries to fulfil my request, tucking me even tighter against him. I ignore the motion of the death carriage taking us upwards and focus on his taste and the scent of his spicy cologne instead. His kisses whisper promises of what we might do in bed later and how he might taste as I take him in my mouth again. Then as we break apart, I become more aware of the weight of his arms around me and his sturdy body, right next to mine.

  “Okay, you can recommence waffling,” I whisper, turning my head to make it seem like I’m watching as he points to stuff outside, when all I’m really doing is closing my eyes and trying not to look.

  Then as I feel nauseous again, it’s time to leave the lift. The smell of food hits my nostrils and suddenly, I’m hungry and concentrating very hard on imagining that our surroundings are actually at ground level. Because we’re not situated on a rickety old tower, not really… and if the wind blows hard, we won’t feel ourselves rock backwards and forwards, right?

  It’s like being on an aeroplane, I suppose… if I don’t go to the loo on this thing, then it’s just a weird little rollercoaster ride, really.

  He holds my hand and directs me to the desk where people are queuing to be seated. He squeezes my fingers and asks, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah… just starving.”

  “Oh! Okay! That’s why you’re quiet. You were right, you are bad company.”

  I’d like to give him a piece of my mind, but unfortunately right now my shredded nerves are being put to use in keeping me fully upright, a task usually performed easily, just not today.

  In a blur I find myself led to a table, fed soup and French bread, some kind of chicken dinner, then a lovely chocolatey dessert with a glass of fizz. By the time we’re being served coffee, I’m not sure if I’m on magic mushrooms, or if the air is just different up here.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks. “It feels like I’ve been talking to myself.”

  I ignore the look in his eye and the fact that there’s a massive drop to the ground, just outside the window which is right alongside the table of the couple seated across from us.

  “I’m fine,” I snap. “I’ve had food now. Sure, we could have eaten at the Louvre or you could have taken me to one of the hotel’s other restaurants, but fine, no, this is fine. Dandy. Cool. Absolutely fine.”

  “Okay… fine. I mean, yeah… I could’ve taken you anywhere, somewhere real fancy and proper, but this place has the views.” He huffs and straightens his sleeves, but doesn’t press me again, thank god.

  Thankfully, when the bill is presented to us, the waitress is poised with the card machine already and shoots me an understanding look, as if she recognises the familiar symptoms of someone trying desperately to enjoy an eatery in the sky—even when she has a paralysing fear of heights.

  When we’re back at ground level, my head begins to throb and I race to the nearest bench and hang my head between my legs, taking some deep breaths. After acclimating to that nonsense up there, I’ve got to reacclimate to this down here.

  “Oh god, why didn’t you say?” he asks.

  “Say what?”

  “You’re claustrophobic? You don’t like lifts.”

  I can’t help but cackle. “It’s not that.”

  He tries to rub my shoulders and I snap away from him.

  “Oh, so then…”

  “I don’t like heights.”

  He stands saying nothing for a long time. Then he speaks. “Have I ruined your birthday?”

  “No, no, don’t be stupid.”

  “I have, haven’t I?”

  “I wanted so much to go up there with you, Rube. Okay? That’s all. But I don’t like heights.”

  Once my head stops throbbing so much and it feels like I can finally breathe normally again, I stand up, even though the fight or flight instinct has done terrible things to my innards and everything may fall out of me any second now.

  “Let’s grab a taxi back. Let’s sort you out,” he says, and when my head hits his shoulder on the backseat and my eyes slide shut, I realise exhaustion has me. I’m hers.

  When I wake in the hotel bed, I’m confused. We were meant to be travelling back tonight—I already packed all my things this morning—but he appears to have undressed me, slid my body into bed and curled himself around me. Hours seem to have passed because it’s dark now and the curtains are drawn.

  “What happened?”

  “You passed out, pretty much. The concierge helped me get you up here and then I booked us in for tonight, too. I managed to get flights for the morning to Heathrow. You’ll be back in time for work, don’t worry.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ruben. I wanted today to be perfect. So—” Emotions get the better of me and I can’t stop myself crying. It’s so hateful, I wrap the pillow around my head.

  He lets me cry for a few minutes, then unwraps the pillow and rolls me into his body, gathering me against his chest. The moment I’m in the cocoon of his naked heat… his arms, and his scent… I shudder and quell, take a deep breath and calm down.

  “I love you, Freya.” He lifts my chin and strokes my hair. “I love you.”

  My stomach almost rips at the seams, there are so many butterflies racing around it right now, not to mention I have an extraordinarily full bladder, but at the same time I’m intensely thankful for him. Just that he’s here, he’s mine, and he’s lovely.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” I beg.

  “Okay…” He looks puzzled.

  I race to the bathroom and fling the door shut, peeing for what feels like hours. I have to stop myself moaning as I pass buckets of the stuff.

  I check myself in the mirror and realise my make-up’s ruined, my hair’s a mess and my underwear is all out of place. The hair will just have to do but I quickly wash my face and rearrange my bra straps and knickers.

  Leaving the bathroom, I see he’s eagerly awaiting my return. He opens the blankets to invite me to crawl in right beside him. I get comfy beneath him, his body partially covering mine.

  “You should’ve said,” he murmurs. “I’m so upset. It’s ridiculous, but I hate myself. I should’ve realised.”

  “I wanted it to be what you wanted it to be.”

  “I wanted the same for you!”

  In his face, for the first time since I’ve known him, I’m seeing vulnerability and weakness. I’m seeing he’s a little fragile, just like the rest of us. He’s my hulk one minute, my sweetly offended gentleman the next.

  The warmth of him wraps around me and I grab onto him as he kisses me, his craving for me more desperate and even more tender than before.

  I’m ravenous with desire again and he removes my bra quickly, then my knickers, snaking his body on top of mine. I hug him to me, my arms and legs clutching him tight, my hands buried deep in his messy hair, my body his to do with as he pleases.

  He slides his arms underneath me, holding me tight, as he pushes slowly and carefully inside me, his lips against mine, our eyes open. My body responds to his, getting hotter and wetter, my breasts heavy and burdensome, my heart clinging on by a thread.

  “Ruben,” I murmur.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m wildly in love with you.”

  He’s fighting a great big smile, but reminds me, “That doesn’t get you out of being naughty in not telling me how you were feeling today.”

  I kiss his chin. “I’m sorry baby.”

  “It’s forgotten,” he whispers, kissing my throat.

  His lips trail across my breasts, tender kisses and licks, his body rocking into mine slow, deep.

  “Ruben,” I gasp, his reverent kisses against my throat making me breathless and intensely aroused. He grabs a fistful of my hair and silences me with kisses, his hips moving faster and more rhythmic. I have both hands on his buttocks, digging him into me as far as he will go, the clenching of his muscles exaggerated every time he bangs into me.r />
  When I begin kneading around him, he pins my arms down and rocks into my body with long, greedy strokes until I’m a shuddering, gibbering wreck, a quickie just as welcome as any other fuck he wishes to give me.

  Afterwards, he kisses my wet cheeks and whispers, “Ready for your birthday present now?”

  “Huh?” I watch, confused, as he turns and opens his bedside drawer.

  I’m expecting something daft like love heart chocolates or sex vouchers, when he brings out a jewellery box and flips it open.

  “Oh my god, Ruben. No!”

  It’s a diamond necklace, so beautiful and fragile, delicate and ornate. The box says Tiffany’s and I almost die of shock.

  “This is just until I get you a real diamond. This is just so you know how beautiful you are to me and that only diamonds should grace your elegant throat.”

  He helps me adorn my throat with these diamonds and then I’m suddenly assaulted by all sorts of fears and what-ifs… why now… why me… etcetera.

  But then his hand touches the diamonds at my throat and I see the stars in his eyes… and despite all my fears (even of heights, commitment and love), for some reason I want to face them all with him.

  “I love you,” I growl, “this is the best birthday of my entire life, because I’m with you.”

  I fling my arms around him and hold him as tight as I possibly can, breathing in the scent and soul of him, because this is all I’ve ever really needed.

  It’s ten o’clock at night and we’ve just eaten room-service burgers accompanied by some ridiculously priced bottle of red. Now we’re lying on top of the bedcovers in our robes, my back against his chest, his arms wrapped across the front of me. There’s a film we’ve been watching, but it’s in French. It’s set during the war—as are a lot of French films—and all I know is that the two main characters would be together if it weren’t for the war, which appears to be a bottomless pit of a romance trope.

  He’s playing with a lock of my hair when I decide to take him to task. “Do you understand this?” I’m asking because he appears to speak fluent French and hasn’t complained about being forced to sit through a foreign language film, even though most English blokes would.

  He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tries to get his hand inside my robe to hold my boob, but I turn to look at him and force his hand away.

  “Ruben, tell me.”

  He leans in and kisses my mouth, barely brushing his lips over mine. He then pulls me close and I’m able to plant some tender kisses on his throat. He groans in response and runs his hands through my hair.

  “Freya, please don’t ask.”

  “You lived here, didn’t you?”

  He takes an enormous deep breath. “I played for Paris St Germain.”

  I knew it… or I knew something like that might be the case.

  I climb onto his lap and wrap my hands around his neck. He places his hands on my waist and looks up at me expectantly.

  “Did you love her?” I ask, intending to shock him.

  I see from the look in his eye, I’ve done that all right.

  Suddenly he’s not thinking about sex, anyway.

  He casts a glance down at my diamond necklace, at the platinum setting which holds the huge stone in place just above my breasts, so that anyone who looks at me is bound to be dazzled by the diamond instead of my cleavage, the chain being long.

  “You’re thirty years old, Ruben. I know there must have been at least one other important girl in your life. At some point. You don’t have to lie to me.”

  I’d rather he told me the bitch’s name now, so I can make sure I avoid her at all costs.

  Then he looks up at me with the saddest eyes and reveals, “She was shot. In the Bataclan attack.”

  I go cold and numb. It’s the look in his eyes. It was four years ago, but it’s still raw for him.

  “I’m so sorry. How come you never told me?”

  He purses his lips. “I don’t know. I… didn’t want to talk about it.” He looks into the distance, avoiding my eye.

  I’m suddenly fearful he’s edging away… he’s not glad I asked him to open up, quite the opposite.

  “I thought I loved her,” he says in a gravelly voice. “I even went straight for her. Then… that… and I was in shock afterwards. I didn’t know what to feel. It screwed with my head. Was it meant to last? Had I lost the only woman who would have ever put up with me? Was she better off where she’d gone? It was like I woke up and the land all around me had been flattened. And then, to compound it all, when I needed my brother most, he wasn’t there. That’s when I realised, he’d gotten so deep into it… the biggest relationship in his life had become the one he had with drugs. He’d found a concern which absorbed his time and energy above all else. I saw it as a sign to move back home, to help him, but he was too far gone. Six months later, he was dead. Just like that.” Ruben snaps his fingers. “I slipped into a dark place after that and dwelled there happily… until you.”

  I shift closer and hold him against my chest, running my fingers through his hair. I hate that he suffered all this.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I cry.

  “I can’t lose you, Freya. I wouldn’t survive the loss. I’ve loved before and survived, but not you. I’ve never felt this way before.” He pulls his head from my embrace and looks up at me, the corners of his eyes twinkling with unshed tears. “I held back from you because I was scared. When we used to meet up and we’d share anecdotes, my stories were of partners from years past. Since you and I met, there haven’t been many. I swear. I swear on my life. I began to think you might be the same… making it up, even.”

  A tear races down my cheek. “No.” I’m still just a slut, at heart.

  I burst into tears, a deluge threatening, my soul poised to break into a million different pieces. Ruben wraps his arms tight around me and whispers that it’s okay, it’s going to be all right.

  “You can tell me when you’re ready,” he says, “whatever it is that haunts you, when you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

  We lie on the bed and I weep into his chest. I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone or will ever love again.

  It’s just a shame that when I tell him my secret, he’ll leave me forever.

  He doesn’t see that he’s capable of that right now, but once he finds out about me, he will discover he is.

  Chapter Ten

  Chucked Out

  It’s ten in the morning when a taxi drops me outside my mum and dad’s house. I hand the driver the note Ruben insisted I have before he went his own way, back to his own place in Marylebone, because that’s apparently where he lives. I rummage in my bag for the card he gave me earlier which has his address scribbled on it—just to make sure I didn’t imagine it. He mentioned he has a mews house on one of those cobbled streets that was once a row of stables, now converted into modern housing. As I look at the card, I’m sure his house is one of those you always see on TV dramas… There’s no parking on those streets and everyone puts lavish pot plants on their front doorstep outside; it’s eerily quiet for London and everyone has to have money to live down there. I gulp just thinking about it.

  The gate clicks open as I kick it gently with my boot and I wander down the garden path to the front door of home. Before I let myself in, I listen out for any noise, but there’s nothing. My father will be out working, Adam will be at school and Mother is likely to be teaching or practising and won’t enjoy being disturbed.

  I cross the threshold and the familiar scent of home hits me. Ruben and I spent the night in my bedroom upstairs just a couple of days ago and it was the best time of my entire life, barring what has followed since. So why am I dreading being home? I don’t know. Or maybe I do…

  I carry my weekend bag upstairs, trudging. I really need to wash and change and get out of here. I’m working a ten-hour shift today and need to intensively de-grot and exfoliate so that I look bright and shiny enough to be back in charge.
/>   However, as soon as my foot touches the landing upstairs, I discover an obstruction in my way. The door to Mum’s music room is open and it appears nobody is home. A text from me to Mum last night let her know I’d be back this morning… and then it clicks… and then I see…

  He’s put a fucking lock on my bedroom door so I can’t get in and they’ve stacked all my stuff outside the door.

  I rattle the padlock, shaking my head. How could he do this to me? How could she?

  That’s when I recall the cheque she gave me, right before I left for Paris. It’s now hidden inside my phone cover, in one of the card slots. I haven’t had time to cash it yet, but now it all makes sense. She knew he’d do this… and she knew she’d have no choice.

  All my clothes have been packed into three huge suitcases. My shoes are stuffed into boxes. My paintings have been stacked up against the wall without so much as bubble wrap to protect them. I don’t actually know why I stayed here for so long, but being thrown out still sucks. I should have been given notice and time to make arrangements. Instead, this.

  I move my belongings out of the way so I can inspect the lock he must have drilled into the wall only yesterday. Well, fuck him.

  A few kicks and the door is open. I walk inside and discover he’s gutted the whole room already. The dusky pink paint I applied a few years ago has already been painted over with plain white. I see, then. He intends to swap one lodger for another, because that’s basically all I am to him. Well, thanks Dad. At least you’ve forced me to see the light, once and for all. No longer will I sleep under the roof of a dictator.

  He’s even put a new coat of paint on the built-in wardrobes!

  My bed has gone but you can still see where the posts sank into the carpet, only a few days ago. My dressing table—the one I bought myself—is still in the corner. Ruben’s first touch upon my skin came as I looked into the mirror and I’m not giving this up. It’s mine.