The Lost Boy
Part 1 of 4
By S. Faith, © 2009
Words: 28,821 (Part 1: 6,203)
Rating: M / R (Language / adult situations)
Summary: Even the devil deserves a little sympathy.
Disclaimer: Isn't mine. I made up a lot of it, though.
Notes: This got very long. I hope you all stick with it through to the end. And I hope all of the italics aren't too annoying.
SHARON: Yes, he's also a dysfunctional, fucked-up, middle-aged lost boy.
BRIDGET: Well, no one's perfect.
—From Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason
Part 1
"Do you love me?"
The question was one he never expected to hear his mother to ask. Of course Dad loved Mum, even though he was away a lot. That was what husbands did. Loved their wives.
The voice that responded was deeper than his dad's. "I love this." Short silence. "And this." His mother made a soft sigh before there was another silence. "And especially this."
He heard a strangled cry, the same sort she made when she stubbed her toe on the coffee table, only this cry had the sound of eagerness, of anticipation, as if she were enduring such pain willingly. He dared not go closer though. He was not ever supposed to go in his parents' room. Mummies and daddies needed to have their own space, one that children don't go into.
He heard her make another soft sound again, accompanied by the deep voice murmuring indistinguishable words. "No," she said at last. "We can't. Danny will be home—"
"Patricia," replied the deep voice. "He's seven. It's summer. He'll be occupied for hours at the play yard." The biggest bully at the school was at the playground, and he wasn't about to stay and risk getting a black eye. "Let me just show you—"
"Ohh," she said, overlapping whatever it was he'd continued to say, her voice almost pained as the deep voice grunted rhythmically. "Oh, Frank."
He furrowed his brows. His father's name was not Frank at all.
………
"Do you love me?"
The room was dark, the two of them bathed only in moonlight, and silent save the faintest sound of music drifting up from the park outside. What she'd asked, though, set his senses to alert, because his first impulse was to reply Yes. For a split second he felt as if the whole room had gone institutional white; his ears filled with a persistent buzzing. He tried to will away the noise, tried to bring her face back into focus from this ambush of a question. He supposed he'd known all along that he was falling for her, but to hear her ask outright had put him in a near state of panic.
"Shut up, or I'll do it again," he said in an automatic sort of response, hearkening back to their most recent (and illegal in some parts of the world) sexual position.
Her eyes widened, and she smiled in obvious disbelief. He thought all would be well, until she asked again persistently, "Do you love me?"
"Right," he said. "You asked for it." She giggled as he flipped her over onto her stomach, kissed the back of her neck, roughly parted her legs with an insistent hand. Her giggles quickly turned to gasps and moans as he proceeded to fuck her once more.
As always, it was utterly satisfying and she, completely accommodating. Afterwards he fell silent, deep in thought; she surely thought he'd fallen to sleep, and was soon asleep herself.
What on earth was he doing? He hadn't set out to be in anything resembling a relationship, but he now found himself well down that very path. She was not his usual type; he'd thought she was pretty when he'd seen her in the publicity department, with her ridiculous little skirts, generous curves, and shyly flirtatious manner. Getting her into bed had been his primary goal, and that had been appallingly easy to do. The more time he'd spent with her, however, the more he realised she was unlike any of his other conquests. Bridget was funny, smart, kind, and sexy in a very different way than what he was usually drawn to. It made him wonder what on earth she saw in him; much like Groucho Marx, he hardly wanted to be a member of any club that would have him.
He sat up in bed, careful not to wake her, running his hand through his short, dishevelled hair. When was it, precisely, that he'd started to fall in love? When was it that he began to seek her company for more than just a thrill? When did watching cricket on the telly with her become preferable to a shag? When exactly had he foolishly let his guard down and let this turn into something more serious? He had never intended his romp with Bridget to be anything but a bit of fun, a little fling with the office flirt. Could he really see himself with Bridget as a long-term partner, a wife?
Relationships and love were for other people. Not Daniel Cleaver.
He was surprised when the first rays of sun started to brighten the sky; he knew that Bridget and he had been up late into the night with their mini-break shagging, but he hadn't thought it was so late to meet the sunrise in such short order. With the break of day, the garden party he'd promised to attend came ever closer. It had seemed a daunting but doable prospect until they'd run into his former best friend the day before. He hadn't particularly looked forward to being paraded around a picnic dressed as a vicar and introduced as Bridget's boyfriend, but now, with Mark Darcy's attendance a certainty… if his parents were also there, the likelihood was very high of her learning that the history with Mark Darcy he'd given her was not entirely truthful. He dared not think of her reaction if she learned the truth. He especially did not want her to chuck him; he preferred to be the one to end things. He would have preferred to avoid the fête altogether, but he would just have to do his best to avoid his former best friend and his family, to avoid any talk that might rouse her suspicion.
He was just exiting the shower when his phone began to vibrate on the bathroom counter. Quickly he grabbed it and silenced it. The display read 'unknown caller', was an American number, and a Manhattan prefix, if his memory served. He answered it.
"Yes?"
"Daniel?" Smoky, familiar female voice. "It's Lara. Hope I haven't caught you at a bad time."
In an instant, he regretted not having kept her number in his address book; he might not have answered had he known it was her. He glanced through the slightly open door to where Bridget was asleep in the four-poster bed before pushing the door shut. "No. Not at all."
"I know it's early—for me it's late—but I just got in and was wondering if we could meet to discuss Monday's meeting. Excuse me, tomorrow's meeting."
He always found her accent a little jarring, a touch grating and nasal, until he got used to it. "Do you mean today?"
"Yes. I mean, after I catch a few zees. Sleeping on the flight was impossible. But yes. This afternoon."
"Don't think I can. I have a prior… obligation." He could not bring himself to say the word 'commitment'.
"Daniel." Her voice got darker, more authoritative. "The New York office is seriously considering shutting the London branch down. I think it's your obligation as editor-in-chief to attend to the business at hand."
He took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, as if in relief; he was relieved, actually, that he would not have to attend the party. "You're right, of course. Why don't we make it one, my flat? Lunch is on me."
"Great," she said; "Looking forward to it. Still in the same old hovel?" He could tell she was smiling, could tell that she was honestly looking forward to seeing him.
"Yes," he said, grinning despite himself. "See you then."
He was already dressed when Bridget rose from slumber. She was understandably upset that he was backing out of attending with her, but in the end he convinced her that his work really did need to take precedent over a summer garden party. He dropped her at the party then pushed the limits of his vehicle to get back to London in time to meet Lara with beef and broccoli takeaway.
………
"Happy Christmas."
"Daniel."
He stood on the front porch bearing gifts for his best mate and his wife. Surprise, he expected; silence and shock, he did not. "Um. It's a bit cold out here."
"Oh," she said, coming back to the present. "Sorry. Come in."
She stood back so he might pass by her into the house. "Thought I might bring these by." He handed them to her, shedding his jacket, then looking around himself for other signs of life. "Where's Mark?"
He turned back in time to see a strange expression clouding her features. "Working."
"On Christmas Eve?"
She shrugged. "Yes, well. That's Mark for you." Their Christmas tree, a horrible white artificial table-top monstrosity with identical blue globe ornaments perfectly placed on its limbs, was in the front room, and she walked in there to set the gifts beneath it.
"Care for a drink?" she asked, turning back to him. "I'd say 'while you wait for Mark' but God only knows when he'll get in."
He had no other plans for the evening; his mother and aunt were together in southern Italy on holiday, which pretty much ate up his options for family for Christmas, and as always it was too painful to be alone on Christmas. "Sure, I'll wait."
She walked over to where a bottle of merlot sat along with four glasses, as if she'd expected to be entertaining at a moment's notice. Maybe that's what she thought being a barrister's wife would entail; she was still pretty new to the gig. She poured two generous glasses, then handed one to Daniel.
"I feel like there ought to be a toast," he said.
A smile touched the corner of her mouth. "To friends." She held up her glass and clinked it against his. "There. How's that?"
He grinned, taking a very long draw, as did she. Mark had always had excellent taste in wine. She poured them each another, and for a while, they nattered on with the usual small talk.
"Daniel," she said, after her glass was nearly gone; it was very good wine, and he was on his third at her insistence, to the point that his head was beginning to swim a bit. "May I ask you a question?"
He did not know Mark's wife that well, but he had a feeling he'd be seeing a lot more of her. It behoved him to get to know her better. "Of course."
She was clearly considering her words for many moments before she spoke. "I don't think it's normal for a man to neglect his wife so soon after his marriage. Do you?" She finished her wine, set the glass down, then turned her eyes to him, tugging the top button of her blouse open. He suddenly knew exactly to what sort of 'neglect' she was referring. When she spoke again, her voice was deeper, sultrier. "Do you think I'm attractive?"
He would not call her a stunning beauty by any stretch, was not as well-endowed as women who usually caught his eye, but she was quite attractive in her own way. "Yes, of course I do."
She offered a half-hearted smile. "Maybe it's not me, then."
He drained the last of his wine away. He could not help but think of the irony of the scene playing out in front of him: his perfect friend's perfect new bride was trying to seduce him, two weeks out from their wedding. If Mark didn't have a chance at a successful marriage, a faithful partner, what on earth chance did he have? And yet, as she slipped another button open, then another, as he saw the pretty lace and satin of her bra as she traced a finger between her breasts, he felt himself wanting to touch her, felt himself wanting her, especially as she was the forbidden fruit, and his judgment was not at its best at present.
"No," he said at last. "It's definitely not you."
He wasn't exactly clear if she had moved closer to him, or he had moved closer to her, but her desperate mouth was suddenly on his, her hands first on his back then on his arse, pushing him into her. A little voice in the back of his head kept saying that this was what Mark deserved for trusting him too much; he remembered how he had heard Cambridge classmates warn Mark against befriending Daniel, but Mark had chosen to ignore those warnings. She moaned and made soft sounds into his mouth as he kissed her in return, one hand on her backside, one hand aggressively palming a breast, before she broke away.
"Daniel," she said raggedly. "Mark won't be home for hours. Take me upstairs."
With a perfectly good sofa to his right, he wondered why the need to go to the bedroom, but he was not about to argue when she took his hand and led him upstairs and to the bedroom she shared with his best friend.
Maybe they were each teaching him a lesson in their own way.
He did not think it possible to strip down to bare skin so quickly, but they each did and were upon each other in no time at all. As he kissed her, stroked her skin, bent to place his eager lips on her breast, she whispered, "The bed."
"No," he said, pulling her down to the floor, in front of where the fire was already roaring; she must have been upstairs when he came calling. "Live a little."
He was climbing over her, kissing her, pressing fingers between her legs then thrusting forward into her; it left her no chance to protest, only utter muffled cries with each drive forward. He came quickly and easily, but she had not yet, so he rolled over so she was on top. "What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly.
"You want to come, don't you?" he growled.
She looked at him for a split second like she didn't understand, before he grabbed her hips and moved her on top of him. She let out a little moan, then began to move of her own volition; he looked up at her, her lower lip between her teeth as she rode him hard.
Mark. He realised that Mark was standing silently in the doorway. He had no idea how long Mark had been there, but there would be no mistaking what he was seeing for anything other than what it was. Daniel must have tensed up or otherwise done something to alert her of a change in their surroundings, because she stopped and looked at Daniel, who looked pointedly at the door. She looked too.
Daniel had never seen Mark look angrier. In a voice bespeaking barely-controlled rage, Mark said, his eyes engaged with Daniel's, seemingly mirroring Daniel's own thoughts, "I should have listened, after all."
He said nothing to his wife. He only turned, clearly intending to walk away.
"What about me, Mark?" she asked, scrambling off of Daniel, reaching for her robe. He grabbed a nearby blanket.
Mark stopped. "You are nothing to me."
"Nothing? Nothing?!" Her voice was getting shriller by the moment. "I'm your wife."
"I can see you take that vow very seriously." He looked at her, did not blink, only let loose his most penetrating stare. "I'm leaving. Going to my parents for Christmas, alone. When I return, I expect to find you gone."
"Mark!" she wailed.
"The only contact you will have with me is through my solicitor." He turned that piercing gaze to Daniel. "You are no longer welcome in my home."
There was silence for many moments after Mark disappeared from view. She then began bitterly ranting and raving with tears in her eyes about what had happened to a man who was not even there—"What do you expect, leaving your wife on her own when you should be on honeymoon? Work's always more important with you, isn't it, Mark?"—while Daniel quietly dressed in preparation to leave.
"Don't you have anything to say, Daniel?" she said, part anger, part petulance.
Maybe he had proved himself the most loyal friend of all by revealing Mark's wife's true nature to him; maybe some day Mark would even thank him. He didn't think it wise to say so, however.
"I guess it isn't true that he always announces when he's coming," he said at last in a wry tone.
………
Lara was waiting for him behind the wheel of her rental car at the kerb, smiling. She emerged with her briefcase and a couple of binders under one arm, and a handbag on the opposite shoulder. She was dressed very casually in denims and a pink sweater over a white tee shirt. Her dark hair had an air of controlled chaos about it—messy, but intentionally so.
"Hey," she said. "Right on time."
"A bit late, actually," said Daniel. "A bit of a queue at the takeaway place."
"It's all right. There's no time table. But I do have a lot I want to go over with you."
He pulled his own bag from the boot of the car then gestured that she should follow. She set down her things and slipped out of her sweater, hanging it upon a peg near the door, before they went up to the main floor to get to work. With Chinese takeaway on the coffee table, papers spread out before them, and his laptop open to the appropriate spreadsheet, they got down to business.
They took opposite ends of the sofa. Lara pulled a strip of beef out of her carton as Daniel flipped through the binder she'd brought. "It's really great to see you."
"Good to see you, too," he replied, glancing up to her. "We haven't talked in a while."
"Very true." She popped the beef into her mouth, then said after eating it, "Are you seeing anyone?"
Daniel looked down, back at the figures. "Yes. Well, sort of."
She chuckled. "'Sort of'? You either are or aren't."
"Just someone from work," he said, hoping to drop the subject quickly.
She laughed again. "I know what that's like. Someone to pass the time."
"Lara, Lara, Lara," he said in a placating tone. "You were never just 'someone to pass the time'." Even though she had been.
She uttered a short, sharp laugh. "And I'm sure you tell her she isn't, either," she said. Cocking an eyebrow, she asked, "Is she thin?"
"Mm, yes," he said.
"Smart?"
"Smarter than me, I suspect."
"Pretty?"
"Adorable." At her hard look, her cool tone, he asked, "Are you jealous?"
Her gaze was steady and unblinking. He knew that look all too well. "What if I were?" She leaned forward, setting down her lunch, then crawled closer to where he sat, plucked the binder out of his hand, and bent into him enough to tease his lower lip with her own. Her fingers brushed against his shoulder before trailing down his chest, nails raking hard across his nipple, over his abdomen, to the waist of his trousers. "Would that plump your frail male ego?"
Her sultry breath on his cheek, the way she was pulling his lip gently through her teeth, reminded him how good they had been together as lovers, what a strong attraction they'd had since meeting; all of those familiar feelings of their past liaisons came rushing in, making what he had with Bridget seem as ordinary and commonplace as the Sunday Times. As he claimed her mouth roughly, took hold of her, pressed her against the seat of the sofa and ground his hips into hers, the gasp elicited added fuel to the fire. Clumsily they pulled at one another's clothing; he, disposing of her top, jeans and pants; she, caring only that his trousers and briefs were out of the way.
"Not all that's plumped," she purred just as he thrust into her.
The sex was as rough and lusty as it always had been with her, exhilarating and imminently pleasurable. As he recovered his breath, as he satisfied himself with pushing aside the halves of her bra and taking a nipple roughly in his mouth, he could only ponder that this was what he wanted, needed; attraction, not attachment, without deep feelings or complications… or that pesky and ultimately heart-breaking love.
He did, however, fleetingly think how much less there was to her than Bridget.
She moaned in a most satisfied, breathy manner. "Fuck me, Cleaver. Haven't lost your touch."
He couldn't help but chuckle like a prepubescent boy. "Just did," he growled, swirling his tongue around her areola. "And my word, not the slightest hint of jet lag. Impressive."
"You have a way of curing a woman of such things," she said, her deep, throaty voice sending shivers down him again. "Though I'm curious."
He stopped, raising his head to look at her. "About what?"
"Whether your sort-of girlfriend is named Bridget." Her smile was impish; his reaction must have been telling. "I suppose I'll just have to try a little harder—" She squeezed her thighs, causing him to groan. "—to get you to forget all about your adorable, skinny little genius."
"Well on your way," he said, though that was far from being the truth. "Almost made me forget about lunch. That's an excellent start."
"Why not eat in bed?" she asked.
He furrowed his brow. "What about work? Threats to close the London office down?"
"A white lie," she said. "I just wanted to see you. Just… wanted you."
Daniel thought that a man on the verge of curing cancer would be tempted to set aside his work if the right woman said those words in that tone to him. "Naughty," he said. "Very naughty."
The corner of her mouth curled playfully. "And how will you punish me?" she asked in a delightfully innocent tone.
"Very good question," he said, pushing himself away from her, righting his trousers, then pulling her to her feet. "Let's start with this." He pointed at her bra. "All clothes have to go."
She flicked her eyebrows up at him playfully as she stripped down to bare skin.
"Excellent. Ten points for agility. Next, you are to march back into that bedroom."
"And then what?"
"I think you know," he said. "You suggested it."
………
His father was on the telephone, but was speaking quietly, as if he didn't want anyone to hear. Especially didn't want his wife to hear. "Yes, darling. I'll be there on Friday night. Yes."
"Dad."
His father turned icy eyes to his son. "Danny, I'm bloody well on the phone, as you can see." He turned to face forward again, began to speak: "As I was saying—"
"Dad, who's Frank?"
His father stopped his conversation sharply. "Danny, I don't know any Frank. Now I'm warning you. Go play with your toys so I can finish this before I wake your mother from her lie-down so she can make supper."
"But Mum had a friend over named Frank in her room, and it didn't sound like he was being very nice to her."
His father was silent before speaking into the phone again: "I'll see you Friday." He returned the receiver to the cradle, then turned to the boy once again. "When was this?"
Danny shrugged. "When you were gone to Manchester. Saturday, maybe." His father was gone a lot. It was hard to keep track.
His father rose from where he was sitting. A slow and steady fury was building in him; that much was obvious in the way his face became progressively redder. "Patricia! Patricia, goddamn it, get the fuck in here right now!"
"Rupert!" His mother came into the room looking as furious as he'd ever seen her. "How many times have I told you not to swear in front of Daniel?"
Rupert grabbed her upper arm and tugged her roughly to him. "Who the fuck is Frank?"
At this his mother's face went paper white. "Frank? He's no one. No one."
"Why would Daniel be asking me who Frank was, and why he was doing things that were 'not very nice' to you in our goddamned bedroom?"
"Rupert," she said, turning her eyes to her son. "Please, not here."
"Did he fuck you?" Rupert demanded hotly.
"Daniel, go to your room," his mother said. Daniel ran out of the kitchen, but lingered out of sight in the doorway to listen to their argument. He had never seen anything quite like it; he was fascinated and horrified at the same time, and he couldn't tear himself away.
His father continued, "Did he fuck you right there in our bed? Did you fucking like it, you dirty bitch?"
His mother's blue eyes widened, and he saw her skin go from white to a deep crimson in her own anger. This was now the angriest he'd ever seen her. Her eyes filled with tears as she said, "Well, I guess you would know a dirty bitch to see one."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"I have overlooked your indiscretions for many years, Rupert," she said, her ire barely controlled. "Don't think I don't know about your secretaries, your little office steno pool tarts…"
"You still haven't told me who Frank is."
"Frank… is a friend," she said.
"Do you deny that you slept with him?"
She raised her chin. "I don't deny it."
"Bitch," hissed his father. "How dare you betray me."
"Me betray you? After all of your affairs through the years, you have the nerve—?"
"Patricia," he said dangerously.
"And at least Frank says he loves me, which is more than I've heard from you in years."
"Bullshit, 'he loves you'," said his father. "Frank wanted in your knickers."
"Yes, well, you would know all about that as well." She gave him a cold look before looking to the kitchen door, and upon noticing her son was still standing there, her expression turned to one of horror. "Daniel! I said go to your room!"
Daniel's eyes widened and he ran away as she followed him, ran all the way to his room, tears in his eyes. He knew his parents were fighting, and he didn't like it. It was not until years later that he understood exactly about what they'd been fighting. His parents never let him forget.
………
Daniel woke feeling he'd had a full night's sleep, when in reality it had only been an hour, hour and a half at most. He blinked, found himself alone in a very tousled bed, and was poised to call Bridget's name when he remembered that it wasn't Bridget who was most recently absent from his bed. He sat up, running his fingers through his hair. He could hear movement in the loo, splashing water. "Lara? What are you doing?"
"Limited options in the bathroom, Cleaver," she called back. "Taking a bath. It's been a very long day."
He smiled, though it faded as the reality of what he'd done came into focus: this was well beyond the point of no return. Cocked it up again, Cleaver, he thought. Not that he was in the least bit surprised. He had long ago rid himself of any illusions that he was long-term commitment material. Bridget would be better off without him, and he… he would be safe.
He rose from the bed to put his clothes back on. They looked none the worse for wear, not at all like they'd been thrown haphazardly on the chair in his room. He pulled the corners of the sheets and duvet taut, smoothed out the barest hint of what had occurred that afternoon. It was likely that Bridget would call upon arrival in town, and he would go to see her, probably even offer to buy her dinner to make up for bailing on her at the party. Even though he logically knew he needed to end it with Bridget, knew that a split was the only viable conclusion, he found himself missing her; he wanted to know how she'd fared in her bunny girl outfit, wanted to talk to her, wanted to make her smile if it had not gone well… and especially wanted to know if Mark had troubled her in any way.
He needed Lara to get dressed and get back to her hotel.
He went into the bathroom, saw that she was just drying herself off. "Feeling much, much better," she said, then amended, "well, much cleaner, anyhow." She offered her most seductive smile and it was tempting, terribly tempting. "Did you sleep well?"
"Just fine," he said. "Hate to do this to you, but… I do have plans tonight."
"Are you giving me the heave ho?" she asked with a grin. Nothing seemed to fluster her.
"For now," he said.
After a pause, she said, "Ahhh. I understand. You've got plans with her."
A shrill buzzing filled the air. The doorbell. "Hold on."
He passed through the bedroom, stuck his head out the living room window and forced a bright smile even as he was filled with horror at this worst-case-scenario come true; it was Bridget. He could hardly refuse to let her up, because as far as she knew, he was only working. He raced through the flat, picking up the cartons of food and pitching them in the rubbish bin, grabbing her binder and kicking her clothing beneath the couch; he'd send Bridget home to have a bath after her undoubtedly excruciating day, then he would worry about finding the bits and pieces that had been scattered to the four winds.
"Lara," he said, thrusting the binder at her. "I need you to stay in here and not say a word."
"It's Bridget at the door, isn't it?" she said.
"Yes."
She smiled. "Won't even know I'm here."
"Thanks. Won't be long. Promise."
He pulled the bathroom door then the bedroom door closed, then went out to press the buzzer to release the lock. It was no more than a minute or so since he'd called down to her, but it had felt like so much longer.
He met her at the door. She was still dressed in full bunny regalia from the party, and bore her overnight bag, which she dropped on the floor in the entryway. "Hi." He bent and kissed her cheek. "Come on up."
He led her up into the heart of the flat; he saw her look around at the papers, the open laptop, and he felt quite secure that she thought he was doing nothing but working. "Sorry, I've been really busy."
"I know," she said. "I really, really wanted to see a friendly face."
He took her hands in his. "Oh… now, listen. I'll tell you what. Let me finish this while you go home, have a long, hot bath, and I'll call 'round, and we'll have dinner later, okay?"
She smiled, clearly pleased at the idea.
Suddenly, to his dismay, he heard something very much like a door closing; the sound came from the direction of his bedroom. Her brows furrowed. "Is there someone here?"
"Not that I'm aware of…. Unless that Bosnian family has moved in again. Bastards."
She gazed at him as if he were mental, then shot towards the direction of the bedroom and threw wide the door. Her relief was palpable when she saw the bedroom was unoccupied, the bed perfectly made. "Oh," she said, righting her bunny ears. "I'm sorry. Sorry. I'm going mad."
"Listen, I am feeling really bad, actually," Daniel said, which wasn't untrue. "I should've been there today."
"No," she said in typical form. "I'm sorry."
"No, no, I'm sorry… but at least I got a hell of a lot of work done. Just give me one more hour, okay?"
"Fine. That's fine. I will go home and de-bunny." Her smile was charming. "Oh… and you know last night when I said that I loved you?"
He actually had no recollection of her actually saying any such thing, only asking him if he loved her. Noncommittally, he said, "Mm-hmm."
"I didn't mean it. I was being ironic."
"Oh, God," he replied; he didn't think for a second she was being ironic at all, only trying to smooth over his non-response the night before. "I know, I know."
He walked her to the front door, picked up her bag and handed it to her with a smile. At that moment, though, as a crippling horror washed over his body, her eyes connected with that pink cardigan Lara had hung on the peg on her way in, which, in his haste to rid the flat of any trace of Lara, he realised he had most egregiously forgotten about.
Bridget's eyes turned to him, an expression of surprise, hurt, and anger crossing her face, as she dropped the bag and raced back up into the flat. Quick as a, well, rabbit, she aimed directly for his bedroom and everything seemed to freeze in that moment when she flung open the bathroom door and saw that Lara was perched on the edge of the bathtub, still completely naked, leaning on the open binder she was using to cover herself. She had her head cocked.
"Bridge," he said, stumbling on his tongue, "Bridget. This is Lara from the New York office. Lara, this is Bridget."
Smooth as silk Lara said, "Hey, there." She looked to Daniel as Bridget did the same, a playful twinkle in Lara's eye. "I thought you said she was thin."
At that, Bridget pushed past him and despite his calls after her, she grabbed her bag and rushed out of the building. He thought about going after her, but in the end, decided it was best to just let her go. Best for both of them.
Fuck, he thought.
He went back into the flat, back upstairs, and found Lara looking rather penitent, although it did not seem entirely sincere. "Sorry," she said. "I closed the door a little too hard."
"I closed the door," said Daniel.
"Well, yes," she said, "but I couldn't resist trying to have a listen."
"Lara," he said, his tone dark.
"I was curious to hear her voice." Lara stood, setting the binder down, and she suddenly seemed taller and thinner than was humanly possible. "Come on, Daniel. Take it as a sign we were meant to be together." She placed her hands on his hips, pulling him directly into her still-naked body. "She's cute, but she's so… ordinary. Naïve. Not like you and I. She never saw this coming… what kind of an angel does she think you are, anyway?"
She teased at his lips with hers, trying to goad a kiss out of him; his resistance wore further and further down as his mother's voice echoed in his head from long ago: Men are all the same. They only want one thing, and they'll do anything to get it.
………
"What do you mean, 'only want one thing'?"
He'd been asking the same question for four years, and the answer was always the same. Today was no different.
She paused to put the folded laundry into his drawer. "You'll find out soon enough, Daniel."
Daniel struggled as he always did to understand what she could mean by her answer, perplexing and cryptic as it was, when his thoughts turned to Nora Sutcliffe from a grade ahead of his at school; when they'd returned from the summer holiday break, she suddenly had a very different shape, a grown-up body. It had especially been her larger breasts that Daniel had been fascinated by, the way they pressed against her sweater and bounced when she ran. He had never really thought about them before; all older women were shaped like that, after all. His female classmates someday having womanly figures was something that had not really occurred to him.
He also thought about chatter amongst his mates at school, particularly the older boys, suddenly commenting on how much they fancied Nora, speculating on what she looked like without her sweater on, wanting to catch her alone and maybe kiss her, maybe do more, but what that 'more' exactly was he did not quite know. He thought she was pretty; she smelled nice and she always smiled at him when she saw him. He had to admit that he had himself wondered what she looked like now without her sweater, and realised that the thought of kissing a girl suddenly didn't seem so dreadful.
"Mum," said Daniel tentatively. "Are you talking about… girls?"
His mother actually smiled a little. "You see, Daniel? I told you you'd find out soon enough."
"But I still don't understand," he said. "Boys are supposed to want girls when they grow up, aren't they?"
"Most of the time," said his mother, then added with a hint of bitterness, "but it's more than just wanting girls, my dear. It's wanting something only girls can give them."
He felt frustrated. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She went over, patting down his unruly hair with her hand. "You'll have to ask your father about that." She kissed the top of his head then left his room, but not before glancing back to him with an affectionate but troubled look on her face.