My Lies, Your Lies - Susan Lewis Page 0,56

window drinking wine with Martha when he was supposed to have gone away for the weekend? No. He texted me just now to ask about you AGAIN. I’ve told him that he needs to contact you himself because I’m too busy for all this crap.

‘She has attitude,’ Joely murmured as Andee read the last text.

‘So why is Callum so interested to know where you are?’ Andee wondered. ‘And why is he dragging Holly into it?’

Joely’s heart twisted as she guessed at least part of the answer. ‘He’s probably checking the coast is clear to go and pick up some more stuff,’ she said, not even wanting to imagine it. ‘It makes me doubly glad I’m not there.’ She looked at her phone again, expecting the latest text to be yet another from Holly, but it turned out to be from Freda.

When he was asked about it later he said we experienced a coup de foudre. Did I tell you that? FMD.

Joely showed the message to Andee and said, ‘A coup de foudre. Love at first sight.’

‘Or literally translated, a lightning strike.’

Joely sat staring at the message thinking how odd it was that Freda should fire off a text as though they were in the middle of a chat. ‘She’s at home thinking about him, reliving it all …’ She lifted her gaze to Andee’s. ‘Did I tell you what she said last night? She said she feels jealous of the time I’m spending with him, just by writing about him.’

Andee frowned.

‘I know, weird to say the least.’ Joely checked her phone again as another text came through,

I believe you’re having lunch with a friend. I hope you’re not discussing the memoir. If you are you’ll be in breach of our contract. FMD

CHAPTER TWELVE

I learned so much from Sir that first weekend we were together – not in the way you’re probably thinking, but yes that too. Definitely that. I didn’t realize until after he’d made me his – that was the phrase he used – that I could love him even more than I already did. Each time I looked at him I felt as though I was breathing him in, that every part of him was reaching every part of me. He was in my eyes, my mouth, my heart, all over me. He was tender and rough, playful, happy and curious to know what pleased me. He showed me pleasure to degrees that made me cry out for him to stop even as I wanted more. He was like a painter taking a brush to canvas, bringing it to life with expert strokes, teasing touches and bold, purposeful embraces. He wanted me to be naked the whole time so I was, thrilling at the sensation of cool air on my skin when we were outside, and the caress of his eyes as he watched me. I’ve always loved to be naked, to be admired, and it seemed he loved it too.

He played the piano – Elvis, Johnny Cash, The Everly Brothers, the Beatles – we sang and I danced. He changed to classical – La Campanella by Liszt; Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata; Tchaikovsky’s Concerto No 1 – and I twirled, stretched, pirouetted, pointed my toes and swept my arms in circles like a ballerina. His passion for playing was as consuming as his passion for me; when he pulled me to him hungry and masterful we made sweet, thunderous music of our own.

He taught me about jazz and the differing stories of its origins; he told me about his plans to join his brother in America to support the fight for civil rights. (I will go with him, naturally, because now I know more about it I also care very much about black people and the oppression they are suffering.) He talked about his parents and what it was like growing up in a household where music mattered more than food. We played symphonies conducted by his uncle, a recording of his mother in the role of Tosca: and of course violin concertos performed by his father.

The weekend was ours alone, perfect and full and over so soon that the end still felt like the beginning. On Sunday evening he drove me to London to get the train back to school, stopping on the way to kiss me and remind me of the promises we’d made to each other. We knew how to behave during the coming days, and we knew that next weekend couldn’t come soon enough.

All that