Hardened (7 page)

The event is scheduled to start at six o’clock. There are cocktails, an opportunity to view the exhibition, a few nibbles, and the speeches themselves will start at around seven. I have a new outfit just for the occasion, a smart, knee-length dress in navy with matching white shoes and a clutch bag. I even invested in new lingerie, because I know how much Jared appreciates lacy underwear. Not that I expect him to be seeing mine. Chance would be a fine thing, but it’s the thought that counts.

I arrive just as the doors open at six and wander aimlessly around the near-deserted venue. The exhibits are stunning, but I’ve seen many of them already on Jared’s blog. One or two have small sticky red dots attached to their title signage indicating that they are already sold. There is nothing here priced at under two thousand pounds, many cost much more than that. I can only conclude that Jared North has done all right for himself.

The rooms fill up during the course of the next hour, and by seven the place is heaving. I find a secluded alcove and slip into the shadows to wait and to watch.

It isn’t long before the gallery owner steps up onto a small podium and coughs into the microphone, the polite signal calling for silence. A hush descends on the room. We all wait, expectant.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and may I welcome you to the Titus Salt Gallery, here in historic Saltaire. This evening we are delighted to honour a true local talent. Jared North was born and grew up not ten miles from where we now stand. Since then he has travelled the world, capturing every continent on film, but it is his native Yorkshire that is the subject of this evening’s showing. You will have seen examples of his work already and there will be ample opportunity to enjoy it further as the evening progresses. For now though, please join me in welcoming the man himself, Jared North.”

There’s a round of enthusiastic clapping as a man shoulders his way from the back of the room, through the throng of assembled admirers, heading for the podium. His progress takes him right past my alcove, he passes not three feet from me. My Jared.

He has changed. The prison haircut and austere T shirt and jeans have given way to expensive styling. His almost-black hair is longer now, though so is mine. His suit is well cut, and looks to be a designer label though I couldn’t say which one. His features appear less harsh here in the muted lighting of the art gallery than they did in his cell at Armley, though they could not be described as soft even so. His eyes are the colour of dark slate, a shade I’ve remembered with pinpoint accuracy across the years. His jaw is square, his lips full. He reaches the podium and smiles at the crowd surrounding him, displaying even white teeth. It has only been five years, but he doesn’t seem to have aged at all. His tanned face is striking, many would describe him as handsome. To me, he is quite simply breath-taking.

I shrink back into my alcove as he starts to speak.

Jared’s words dwell upon how pleasant it is to be back in Yorkshire, where his roots run deep. He is appreciative of the accolades, the support of those who buy his work, the critics who admire his efforts and recommend his art. He goes on to applaud the Titus Salt Gallery, and the local creative scene, as well as the wider landscape of moors and hills that provides him with a wealth of raw materials.

I hear every other word, no more. My attention is riveted on the man himself—his tall, ripped body, his sensual, mobile features, his smile, his laugh. I never heard him laugh before, but I do now as he responds to a comment from the gallery owner beside him. All too soon, he is done, stepping down from the podium to greet the guests closest to him as the owner exhorts everyone to mingle, to eat and drink, to view the collection and to talk to the gallery staff if they wish to make a purchase.

I creep from my hidey hole and follow Jared around the collection, always remaining a discreet distance away, careful not to attract attention. He is constantly in demand, stopping to chat to groups of people, answering questions, offering advice or observations when asked. He’s at ease, sure of himself. In command.

I suppose he always was.

By about eight-thirty most of the pictures are sporting little red dots. It has been a successful event and the gallery owner is beaming. Many guests are drifting off, and I know I need to leave soon if I hope to remain unnoticed. I still want to talk to Jared, but not here, not in public. I sidle over to the reception desk close to the entrance to pick up a handful of leaflets and his business card, in the hope I might at last be able to get his contact details.

“Are you a buyer?”

The soft, feminine voice comes from behind me. I turn to find myself eye to eye with a petite woman, her long dark hair caught up in a loose swirl on the top of her head. She is wearing a bright fuchsia cocktail dress and a navy jacket, which she is removing as she speaks to me. I haven’t seen her before now, so I assume she has just arrived. She’s very chic and stylish. My own more sober-coloured outfit that I had considered smart and understated now just appears dowdy beside hers. The new arrival is smiling at me though, and it would be rude not to be pleasant back.

“Oh, no. I would if I could afford them, but I’m just looking this evening.” True enough, I suppose.

“Me too, though we do have several of Jared’s pictures on the walls at home.”

“Oh, you’re a collector then? And a fan of Jared North?”

She laughs at that. “Among other things, I suppose I am a fan. Tonight I’m just his taxi driver though, come to pick him up and drive him home.” She extends her hand to me. “I’m Rachel North.”

I take the offered hand and shake it. I’m in a daze.
Rachel North. Drive Jared home.
Christ, I’m here talking to his bloody wife!

“Have you seen him anywhere? We should be getting off really…” She cranes her neck to peer around the room.

“Er, in the long gallery, I think. He was talking to some people…”

“Ah, well, that sounds about right. Always talking, that’s Jared… Would you excuse me, I need to—” She breaks off. “Oh, there he is. Jared? Jared!”

He has just emerged from the gallery next door and turns to face us as my companion calls out to him. He lifts a hand, waves, then glances at me. Our eyes meet, and I could swear there’s flicker of recognition, then it’s gone. His features betray nothing more as he crosses the room to reach us. He bends to kiss Rachel on the cheek.

“Thank you for coming. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“You’d better. You’re on washing up duty for a week. And you can do the school run too.” She turns to me. “It was nice meeting you, Miss…?”

“It’s Mrs. Mrs. Mary Whitkirk. It was nice meeting you too. And you, Mr. North.” I’m backing away, desperately working to avoid eye contact. As if a wife lurking in the wings wasn’t terminal enough, he has children too, and a school run to do. I just want to get out of here and I know I’m acting like a total muppet, but I can’t help it. Rachel furrows her perfect brow in puzzlement, but makes no more of it. Linking her arm through Jared’s, she tugs him in the direction of the door. I take my chance and do a quick sideways shuffle, then dive into the ladies’ toilets.

When I emerge fifteen minutes later, it is to find the exhibition near enough deserted. A few stragglers are conducting their final bits of business with the gallery. Jared and his wife are long gone. Satisfied that the coast’s clear I head for the door.

“Mrs. Whitkirk, do you have a moment?”

I halt and look around. The gallery owner is hurrying toward me.

“I’m glad I caught you, Jared North asked me to give you this.” He thrusts a card into my hand then turns on his heel and scuttles back to his waiting customer.

I glance at the card, one of Jared’s from the front desk. I turn it over. There’s a mobile number scrawled on the back, and three words.

Molly? Call me.

I won’t, of course. I can’t, not now. Not after all this time.

Back in the safety of my anonymous hotel room I try to remember what I knew of Jared North when he was Prisoner Number KG8329. Was he married back then? I don’t recall any visitors, and no mention of it on his file. Surely I would have spotted that. If I’d known I would never have… I couldn’t have…

But I did, and the consequences were awesome. They still are.

He saw me. He recognised me, and he wants to talk. He must want to, he gave me his number. And I need to talk to him. There are things I need to say, questions I must ask someone and he could help me to understand. It wouldn’t need to have anything to do with his marriage, it’s not as though I want to sleep with him.

Liar. Who am I trying to kid?
But what I want and what I actually intend to do are two different things.

I pick up the card again though I don’t need to. The number is now etched in my memory. I have only to dial it, and I’ll hear his voice. Or I could text him. Maybe that would be easier. And then, he’d have my number too. I draw my lower lip between my teeth and tap a short message into the phone.

This is Molly. I’m at the Radisson Blu. Could we meet?

I press send before I can change my mind.

His reply arrives less than three minutes later
.

I’ll be in the lounge at your hotel tomorrow morning. 10 a.m.

* * *

I’m awake before six. By the time I’ve showered, dressed, and packed my belongings ready to check out after breakfast I still have two hours to kill. I lay on my bed watching breakfast television news and taking none of it in. I reach for the small pad of notepaper and the hotel issue pencil on the side table and start to jot down questions I might like to ask Jared.

Why did you spank me?

How did you know I’d like it?

Do all men who spank, spank like that?

Do you spank your wife?

I cross out that last one. Too personal.

Would you spank me again?

I start to cross that out too, but decide to leave it. That is, after all, my burning question.

I’m not sure I’ll have the courage to ask any of this stuff, let alone the last question. But the spanking isn’t where I should start anyway. Before I can get to any of that, I owe him an apology. Another one.

* * *

I’m in the hotel lounge at five to ten, my overnight bag stowed safe behind the check-in desk. My train to London leaves at noon, but I have no idea if I’ll be on it or not. I take a seat at a table by the French window overlooking the gardens. I can see the canopy over the main entrance from here, so I’ll know when he arrives. I order coffee, then call the waiter back and, ever the optimist, I ask for a pot for two.

“Molly?” The familiar tone behind me takes me by surprise. I whirl in my seat. Jared has somehow managed to enter the hotel without me spotting him. He inclines his head and takes the sofa opposite me. His long legs stretch across the space between us as he leans back and regards me, his expression a mix of amusement and interest. “It’s good to see you, Molly, but to what do I owe this? I assumed you left the area.”

“I did. I’ve been living in London. My train back leaves in a couple of hours.”

“Oh, just a flying visit then? Lucky we ran into each other last night.” He leans forward, his elbows on the table. “Or was it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a long way from home by the sound of it. Was it luck, or did you come looking for me?”

I open my mouth to trot out some trite denial, but it dies on my lips. His eyes are cool, his expression hard. He expects the truth.

“Yes. I’ve been trying to find you. I bought a ticket for the gallery, and…”

“You came all the way from London? Especially for my showing last night?”

I nod. “Needed to see you. I hoped…” I fall silent, no longer certain what it is I hoped for, but it wasn’t this. I remember a warm, vibrant man, a man who excited and terrified me in equal measure, and who saved my life when circumstances called for it. The man sitting opposite me now looks as though he’d like to throttle me.

My fragile courage deserts me. “I don’t want to cause any trouble. I’ll just go.” I reach for my handbag, just as the waiter arrives with our coffee. He arranges the mugs, the jug of milk and the cafatière, and I remain in my seat intending to sign for the order, but the waiter hands the bill to Jared. He scribbles his name and hands it back.

He returns his attention to me. “And what trouble might that be, Molly? It is still Molly, I take it?”

I nod. “Mary’s my real name, but everyone calls me Molly.”

“And Mrs. Whitkirk? What’s that about?”

“That’s my married name.”

“I see. Congratulations. Shall I pour?” He reaches for the cafatière and presses the filter down, his gaze never leaving mine.

“I offered you coffee once before I seem to recall. You declined.”

I am unable to tear my gaze from his. “I remember,” I murmur.

“So, you were saying, you don’t want to cause me any trouble?” He pushes a cup of black coffee across the table toward me. “What did you mean by that, Molly? Help yourself to cream and sugar.”

I add a generous portion of both to my cup, using the excuse to play for a few extra seconds in which to think. It doesn’t help much. “I meant trouble between you and your wife. Rachel. She’s very nice, by the way.”

He nods as he helps himself from the cafatière. “She is. But Rachel’s my sister, not my wife.”

“Oh.” I splash my coffee onto the polished table. “Oh, I see.”

“Even if Rachel was my wife, I don’t see how an old acquaintance being in the area could cause me a problem. What am I missing here, Molly?”

I’m at a loss, quite unable to articulate anything remotely sensible. Is that how he remembers me? As an old acquaintance, nothing more? How many crazy assumptions have I made about the attraction between us? It was clearly all one-sided. I’ve spent years fantasising about having kinky sex with a man who barely remembers me.

“I’m sorry, this was a bad idea.” Mortified with embarrassment, I reach for my bag again. “I really do need to go. I have to get to the station, my train…”