Unsure (16 page)

I can work out the mechanics of how to use it. Nothing too subtle required, not rocket science. But what about technique? Is it meant to go…inside? The shape certainly suggests that but it’s a bit on the large side I’d say. Compared with Kenny, certainly. Maybe with the lubricant, though… Or maybe I could just sort of slide it around outside. That might be nice. I’m not at all sure what I’d like, what might feel best. Kenny was never much for preparation or foreplay, just preferred to get on with things, which meant getting his dick inside me as soon as he could, then a few sharp thrusts until he came. I never felt anything much, apart from relief when it was done.

I guess my sex drive is somewhere down below the floorboards, always has been. I’m not really that interested. Kenny always said I was frigid. I don’t really think I am—I’m pretty certain it was him who was crap in bed. Whatever, now I’m at a loss. I’m not sure what it was that Tom Shore did that day, but it was a definite first for me. That overwhelming, unstoppable rush of sensation, that sense of being unrestrained, weightless, spinning. That wanting to be touched, straining against his hand for more. That clenching inside as my whole body pulsed, the tingling that shot through every part of me, like electricity.

On that day my overwhelming response to Tom Shore was one of fear, shock, and blind desperation that he might turn me in to the police. But underlying that, I can now recognize the ‘more’—the something special and exciting and purely for pleasure that he also offered, and I accepted. I can acknowledge the physical response he drew from me despite my apprehension. And I’m only now beginning to recognize that I responded emotionally too, though I managed to bury that pretty well. Why else am I returning to his home week after week, enjoying his company? And now, it seems, enjoying his sex toys too. Or trying to.

I try to remember what he did, how he touched me, but it’s a blur. I’m really not sure what happened, how he did it. I do know he used his hands, his fingers, nothing else. I know he slid one, maybe two fingers inside me and I was wet. But there was more, something more he did. Something clever and wicked and powerful. And it didn’t take long. There was nothing I could do to help myself, I had no control over how I felt in those moments. Or over how I responded.

I want to feel like that again, but on my terms. I want that power for me.

Maybe I should have looked in the box under Tom’s bed for an instruction book. Except I somehow doubt he needs one. Tom Shore knows his stuff. Uncertain what else to do for now I take the vibrator and lubricant upstairs, tuck them safely out of sight in the drawer of my bedside table. Nice and handy. I’ll maybe try a little experimentation later, when I’m in bed.

* * * *

I don’t, though. I’m too nervous. And too embarrassed. And too worried I may feel nothing anyway—it may not work for me. That perhaps Kenny was right and I am a cold, unresponsive bitch.

The days and nights drag by and the pretty little toy lies undisturbed in my bedside drawer. By the following Friday I still haven’t started my ‘experiments’. Still not released my inner sensual Ashley, assuming she’s lurking in there somewhere. I really, desperately hope she is. I know I should take the vibrator back to Greystones. I could slip it back under Tom’s bed and no one would be any the wiser.

For some reason, though, I don’t. I go back up to Greystones empty-handed the following week, and manage to enjoy a pleasant breakfast with Tom despite all the time being acutely conscious that he ‘wants to get his hands on me’. And I know why. He’d like to tie me to his bed and do God only knows what, but failing that he’ll settle for just fucking me. I dare say Tom would be a lot more fun in bed than Kenny, but ‘just fucking’ leaves me cold. As always. Done that, and I’m unimpressed. And the ‘more’ is beyond terrifying, I can’t even contemplate that. So I’m stuffed. But not literally of course. Pity really.

Tom leaves for his day’s work and I get on with my tasks, as though nothing has happened. As though nothing’s changed. As though I have no idea what he thinks of me, what he wants to do to me and why he has no intention of doing any of it. He doesn’t want to hurt me, that’s what he said, which I suppose translates to ‘just not worth the bother’. Probably just as well as I’m going to be too busy re-establishing my business in another location. Nathan Darke has made sure Haworth’s a no-go area for me so I’ve no choice now but to go to Plan B. I’ve got my sights set on the Dales. Come January, when I’ve got some cash again from my student house, my focus will be up there. I’ll develop a new portfolio of landscapes and find outlets in touristy places like Hawes and Richmond.

Having a plan always works for me. With a renewed sense of purpose I finish my tasks for the day and I’m packing up ready to leave as I hear the Land Rover pulling up outside. A few moments later Tom strolls back in through the door, the two border collies, Jess and Fly, hard on his heels as they dash for the best spot in front of the Aga. He slings his familiar waxed jacket over the back of the nearest chair as he heads for the kettle, rubbing his hands together to warm them up.

“Shit, it’s cold out there. Could snow soon. Hope you’ve got plenty of logs down at Smithy’s Forge. We tend to get snowed in up here and I don’t want you freezing to death your first winter here. Bad for business, and I’d never find another tenant as pretty as you.”

First winter? Not much chance of a second as far as I can tell. And where’s that ‘pretty’ comment come from? Is this where he starts his charm offensive to get me naked and fucked to his liking? Not happening. I’ll take my chance with the battery-operated DIY approach. I grab my shapeless fleecy jacket and pull it on, zipping it up tight. I ignore his question.

“I’m done, time I was off. See you next week.” I try for crisp, businesslike.

“Ashley, the logs? Do you need any?”

“No, I’m fine.” Truth is I burned my last one yesterday evening so I’ll have to detour down into Haworth to pick up more. Good thing he reminded me.

“Okay. No need to turn up next Friday, though. It’s Christmas next week, have a day off.”

I stare at him, stunned. Oh! Oh no. The prospect of two endless weeks totally alone is horrendous, crushing. I never even considered missing my visit up here over the holidays.

I try not to sound desperate. And probably fail miserably. Businesslike Ashley is nowhere to be seen now. “No, no, that’s fine, really. I’m happy to come next week as usual.”
Please.

He leans back on the worktop, waiting for the kettle to click off, watching me carefully. Once more I feel like a rabbit caught in his headlights. His response is level, reasonable. Generous even. “It’s not necessary. Really. I can manage my own dusting for a few days. And I’ll even knock the day off the total you owe me. Call it holiday pay. A Christmas bonus.”

“No. I mean, no, thank you. You’ve no need to do that. I’ll be here. I’ll find things to do. And I won’t get in your way if you want to stay at home.”

He turns away from me, pours the boiling water into his mug. “You having one?” He gestures toward the jar of instant coffee. I shake my head. He shrugs, picks his up and turns back to face me, leaning casually against the worktop as he warms his hands on the hot mug. He continues to watch me, not speaking, watching me squirm. I won’t plead. Probably. If I can help it. Unless it comes to that.

He nods briefly, his voice softens. “Okay. But if you do come up here next week, it won’t be to work. You’ll come as my guest. Spend the day with me.”

“What?” My voice comes out as a strangled squawk, and he chuckles as he sips his coffee. The bastard.

He goes on calmly. Ever so reasonably. “Come up next Friday, spend the day here. Relax, have fun. We’ll enjoy each other’s company. Nothing so strange about that. Why look so shocked, Ashley?”

Why indeed? Because his idea of ‘enjoying each other’s company’ most likely involves suspending me from the ceiling and beating me senseless. Or at the very least something humiliating, painful and absolutely terrifying with blindfolds and handcuffs. I just stand there, gaping at him.

“Ashley?” he prompts me gently.

“No, I couldn’t. I mean, what would we do all day?” Stupid question.

“Don’t suppose I could interest you in spending the day in bed?”

“With you? No way. I’d end up half dead and covered in bruises.” I never intended to blurt it out like that. I chew my lip, waiting for his sneering reply.

But instead he smiles, unfazed, confident. And his voice is low, seductive, those gorgeous eyes soft. Inviting. “No, Ashley, you wouldn’t. You’d have a fabulous time. You’ve already had a sample of how good I can make you feel. No?”

I shake my head vigorously, my mouth pursed in a determined line.

He shrugs. “Oh well, it was worth a try. We’ll watch television then, old films. Listen to music. What do you like to listen to, Ashley?” I don’t answer and he doesn’t wait for me anyway. “Eat, drink. Maybe take a walk if the weather’s okay. You can tell me about your pictures, how your business is doing. Or we can stay here and play games. Do you play chess, Ashley?”

“Chess?” I’m beginning to sound really stupid now. “What, yes, a little.”

“Good. That’s the plan then. We’ll play chess. See you Friday.”

And that’s it. He sits down at the table, still smiling. “You sure you don’t want a coffee before you go?”

I shake my head, and bolt for the door. I do seem to do a lot of that these days.

It rains solidly for the next couple of days so I stay in, huddled round my wood burner. My supply of logs is getting low again by the time the weather clears up on Christmas Eve so I nip down into Haworth to re-stock. Unfortunately I didn’t factor in the early close-down for the holiday. The hardware shop I normally buy logs from is closed, and the Spar is out of stock. They do have some very nice turkey-flavored cat food on special offer, though, so I buy some for Sadie. At least one of us will be getting a Christmas dinner.

The log situation is not good, though. The only solution I can think of is to ask Tom if I can borrow some from him—he has a huge pile in the corner of his yard. My instinct is not to let myself be indebted to him for anything, but the alternative is to freeze and I don’t have a death wish. I text him.

Been stuck at home and now I’m almost out of logs. Could I come up and borrow a few from you? I’ll replace them when the shops are open again. Thanks.

I drive back to Smithy’s Forge and throw the last couple of logs on the burner as I keep an eye on my phone for his reply. I wait, and I wait. No response. After a couple of hours I have to face the fact that he’s gone off somewhere without his phone or turned it off. Or maybe he’s annoyed that I turned down his kind offer of a day in bed. Whatever, by mid-evening I’m out of fuel and there’s nothing for it if I want to light my stove but to head up to Greystones and help myself if he’s not there, explain and apologize next time I see him. Or I could just go to bed.

Half an hour later I’m tucked up under my duvet, wearing a sweatshirt and pants, and buried under a pile of coats. If Tom doesn’t reply by the morning I’ll have no choice but to go up to Greystones and raid the log pile there. I’m dreading seeing Tom again, dreading what Friday might bring. I could stay away, but in my heart of hearts I know he’ll come looking for me. And if I have to face him, fend him off, I don’t want to do that here, in my home. I tried that before and failed miserably.

The next morning, Christmas morning, is bright and sunny. Cold, but still, a lovely winter’s day. Fantastic light, brilliant for taking pictures. I’m awake early so I pull on my warmest clothes—most of which have been doing double duty as bedclothes overnight. A thick wool jumper over my sweatshirt, jeans, two pairs of socks. I brush my hair and pull it back into a ponytail, then plait it tightly as usual. Intending to possibly be out most of the day I tip the posh turkey cat food into Sadie’s dish and top up her water before I wrestle my way into a waterproof jacket, pull on my wellies, and grab my rucksack containing my equipment. I set off up the moorland path looking not unlike a Michelin man. But at least I’m warm.

The scenery is fantastic. Frosty, glittering shades of white, silver, ice blue and shimmering gray. Trees silhouetted in white against a bright blue sky, grass and heather similarly etched in icing sugar. Everywhere I look the fine detail is beautiful. I take dozens of close-ups of twigs, leaves, a robin hopping along a dry stone wall, as well as panoramic shots. I start to hatch a plan for a range of Christmas cards that I could design for next year. The robin is center stage, I get lots of shots of him. And of a family of rabbits hopping about in the frost-covered grass, scratching out a living from the hard earth. Just like me. I spot a valley filled with low cloud, the outlines of treetops just poking out of the top like huge spiky stepping stones. I capture the image, and visualize a silhouette of a lost-looking Santa Claus, his sleigh parked on top of the cloud, studying a map. I’ll draw that image when I get home, scan it and drop it in.

I carry on up the hillside, enjoying the superb landscape, every so often stopping to gaze at the majestic views across the valley. I can see my own cottage down in the lower hills, and across to the right I can see Greystones. Tom’s Land Rover is outside. I wonder if he’s seen my text yet. Over to my left I can see smoke rising from a chimney and I know that must be Black Combe. At least they’ve got logs. The whole scene is perfectly still, no one about except me. Despite my resolve to move on and try not to look back and dwell on might-have-beens, at a time like this I can’t help but remember my mum. I should have been with her today, not hiking alone across a moor. Still, it could be worse—at least I’m free, which is a definite improvement on last year. I shake the blues off, square my shoulders and stride onward.