Unsure (Sure Mastery) Page 10

  Despite my intense dislike of him, and my resentment at being dragged up here before the crack of dawn to scrub his bloody house for him, I can’t help but notice what a fine sight he makes here in his home setting. What a truly impressive specimen of masculine beauty, casually at ease in his own skin. He’s obviously dressed for outdoor work in faded, frayed jeans, Doc Martens and a thick green and gray check shirt. His blond hair, still wet from the shower, is over-long and combed roughly back from his face. A large mug of coffee steams next to him on the table, and a plate of crumbs suggests he does at least have mastery of his toaster. Maybe I could ask his advice…

  “Come in, Ashley. Shut the door.” He doesn’t even bother to look up at me as he starts ordering me around. I bristle, but do as he says. It’s cold outside, after all.

  “There’s coffee if you want it.” He gestures toward the pot beside the huge white porcelain sink, the sort of sink I suspect is only ever seen in old, rural homes or trendy upmarket interior design magazines. Scrupulously clean, the large rectangular monster gleams cheerily as I make my way over there to pick up an upturned mug from the draining board. I fill it with coffee, but there’s no milk to be seen. I’m just starting to look around for some when his voice pulls me up.

  “Fridge.” He gestures me over to the other side of the large room with his head, and I trot across obediently. I find a carton of milk in the door compartment and splash some into my mug, then turn back to the table waiting for my next instructions. Instead of barking out orders, though, he seems to be in a hospitable mood this morning.

  “Have you had breakfast?”

  I realize I’m hungry. The smell of perfectly done toast no doubt. “I—no. I just came straight up here.”

  “Did you bring anything to eat at lunchtime?”

  “No. I never thought…”

  He stands, gesturing that I should take the seat he’s just vacated. He goes over to the worktop beside the sink and quickly saws two thick slices of wholemeal bread from a large loaf. He stuffs the doorstops into a large toaster. I make a mental note to look carefully at the settings on his—mine can’t be that different surely. While waiting for the toast to pop back up he dumps a plate of butter in front of me, and a blunt, flat knife. He regards me silently from across the room as he waits for the toast before finally coming back to the table to dump that unceremoniously in front of me. Then he drops into a chair opposite.

  “You’ll be here all day so you’ll have to help yourself to something to eat later. There’s plenty of food in the fridge, you choose what you like.”

  Feeling a little embarrassed—I didn’t come here to beg for food parcels after all—I start to mumble my excuses. But the smell of that toast is tending to cloud my thinking just now. “Okay, thank you. And I’m sorry about today. I just never think about that stuff. I’ll bring a packed lunch with me in future.”

  “No need, there’s always plenty here.”

  Such generosity seems out of character. Still, every little helps. I start to tuck in to my toast, and have to admit it tastes as wonderful as it smells. Much better than the cremated lumps I’ve been making do with. He watches me silently as I ram food into my mouth, and in no time the thick slices are both gone, a delicious memory. Wordlessly he gets up, goes to the worktop and cuts two more slices. A couple of minutes later my plate is refilled. I’m well into my fourth slice before my growling belly finally admits defeat and I sit back, full at last. Simple buttered toast but that was the best meal I’ve had probably since Mrs Richardson’s home-made supplies ran out and my invitations to tea at Black Combe were summarily discontinued.

  “For such a tiny little thing you certainly have an appetite. When did you last eat?” The question is quiet, but serious.

  Surely he can’t be concerned about my welfare, not at this stage. If he really cared he wouldn’t have spanked me—well, not so hard anyway—and he wouldn’t have forced months and months of unpaid work onto me. I gather up my resentment and dislike once more, reminding myself that he’s a bully and a mean-spirited jerk, as well as being bloody rude. Positive self-talk, remember. And this is not a social call, despite the coffee and toast.

  “Thank you for breakfast, it was very welcome. But now, can we please get on?” I put my best, most businesslike voice on, and meet his gaze steadily.

  He inclines his head in a brief nod. “Good idea, Ashley.” Hitching up one hip, he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. He pushes it across the table to me. “Here, your list of jobs for today.”

  I unfold the sheet then start to read.

  Ironing—pile in basket in front of washing machine in utility room.

  Hoover all carpets, upstairs and downstairs.

  Empty dishwasher and reload with breakfast things.

  Clean the kitchen—floor, work surfaces, cupboards, cooker.

  If any time left, start cleaning utility room too.

  “Any questions?”

  I shake my head. Looks clear enough. I can manage a vacuum cleaner, I dare say, can’t come to much harm with that. And taking stuff out of a dishwasher seems straightforward. Not exactly sure how to mop a flagged floor but the Yorkshire stone looks tough enough, I doubt I could do any real harm to it. I’m worried about the ironing, though. This has been on my mind since he mentioned it that first day. I can’t master a toaster so an iron is completely beyond me. The danger of ruining his best shirts seems a distinct possibility. I take a deep breath.

  “I’ve never done much ironing. Maybe I should just leave that, or practice on tea towels or something…”

  He fixes me with a glare, the mossy glint in his eyes chilling. “Practice on your own tea towels if you must, in your own time. But you’re on my time now and I want you to iron my shirts, jeans and bedding. Maybe a sweatshirt or two, whatever’s in there. And anything you ruin gets added onto your debt. Or maybe I’ll just take it out of your hide. Again.” His lips quirk. He’s probably joking. Maybe. But those jibes and veiled threats sting, they hurt me, undermine my fragile self-confidence, every time. And as far as I’m concerned there’s no funny side to this. He needs setting straight.

  I take a deep breath, set my shoulders and lift my chin. Best to look the part. And I go for it.

  “No, Mr Shore. You won’t. You won’t lay a finger on me again. In any circumstances.”

  Now I do have his attention. He regards me quizzically before leaning back in his chair, his booted feet up on the spare seat next to him. That hard emerald glitter is fixed on me. “Do go on, Ashley. I get the impression you’ve something you want to say.” His tone is soft, but I’m not misled by that. I square my shoulders again, I can’t back down now.

  I clutch my mug of coffee to stop my hands shaking, but this is my opportunity, maybe the only chance I’ll get to set out my stall, and I need to do it quickly. “You caught me at a disadvantage that first time when you, when you…”

  “When I stripped you naked, put you over my knee and spanked you?” he puts in helpfully.

  I know my face is beetroot, the very memory of how he treated me that day, how I let him treat me, mortifying. After everything I’ve been through, that I could allow such a thing to happen to me… I stare into my coffee for a few moments, regrouping. But the words are not to be stopped. “Yes. That. I should never have let you do that. You had no right.”

  “I don’t remember giving you much choice, to be fair.”

  “Well, whatever, like I told you then, I’m not a punchbag or a doormat. Not anymore. I lived with a violent man, a man who thought it was okay to kick me around when he felt like it. Even to rape me. But I left Kenny, and I started again. I’m different now, and I won’t let any man think he’s got a right to hit me just for scorching his shirts. Or for anything. I’ll do my best with the ironing, but if I spoil your clothes I’ll pay you for any damage in cash. But I won’t work for you for any longer than we agreed, and I won’t let you hit me again.”

  No?
What are you going to do about it then? I wait, defiant, for the inevitable response. And even before he calls my bluff I’m starting to consider, and dismiss, my options. Walk out? To go where? Call the police? Yeah, right. I’ve marched myself into a corner and I’ve no real way out I can see. What an idiot.

  And to top it all, my voice was cracking by the time I finished my little speech and I’m horrified at what I’ve let slip. I never intended to tell anyone about being raped, least of all this overbearing bully who came close to doing the same thing to me, only stopping because he doesn’t find me even attractive enough for that. Thank God. But I should never have mentioned it—it’s still too painful to talk about, too personal and too raw. A long silence follows my little outburst. He doesn’t move, but I can feel his eyes on me. Watching, assessing. I wait for his next attack.

  Instead, “He raped you? Kenny?” The question is soft, gentle.

  I nod. “Yes. Twice.”

  “Did you report it to the police?”

  Ah, here we go. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I lived with him, slept with him, had sex with him regularly. Who’d have believed me that once or twice it was against my will? And… I was scared of him.”

  He nods, doesn’t press me further, seems to accept this explanation. “I knew he was a vicious git. I saw the way he treated you that night. I just didn’t realise… I understand now why you were afraid of Nathan and me when we came to your cottage.” He hesitates, his gaze softening. “I’m sorry for that, and for the way I spoke to you afterwards. I was insensitive and cruel. You are safe here, with me. I hope you can believe that.” He reaches out, tips my chin up with his fingers, gently raising my eyes to his.

  I hold his gaze, assertive Ashley back on her soapbox. “Yes, I do believe that. But only because you don’t fancy me. I’m too scrawny, ‘not enough to go around’ I think you said.” The bitter sting of those cruel, dismissive words still bites. Hard. Without thinking about possible consequences I press my point. “And I’m not having any more of that from you either. No more insults, no more belittling me with your personal comments. I won’t let you make me feel small again. Just leave me be, and if you’ve nothing nice to say about me then keep your opinions to yourself, please.”

  Gently cupping my chin with his palm, he holds my gaze, his gorgeous eyes now warm, tender almost. And I see respect starting to dawn there. At last, he speaks, his tone low, serious. A hint of admiration there, just maybe.

  “Well said, Ashley. You’re right, and I apologize. For the things I said to you, back then and just now. I was rude, cruel, and what I said wasn’t true. The truth is, you’re so lovely you take my breath away—especially naked.” He smiles, probably at my astonished expression—nothing he could have said to me in response would have surprised me more than that. Lovely? Me? My mind’s still turning cartwheels as he continues. “I’m not apologizing for finger-fucking you, though, because I did ask. Maybe a bit late, but still… And you seemed to like that bit as I recall. And I’m not apologizing for stripping you and spanking you, although I know probably I should. Nathan certainly thinks so. Trouble is, I enjoyed that part too much to be genuinely sorry now. And if you’ve done the research that I suggested you do you might start to have some idea why I enjoyed it. And why you did too. Do you have any idea why, Ashley?”

  I shake my head, bewildered, completely lost for words now. Enjoyed it? He hurt me, terrified me. But a quiet little voice at the back of my head is quick to point out what else he did, afterwards, and how powerfully I responded. And how much more he could have done to me as I lay there helpless on my bed, offering no further resistance. But he didn’t. And Tom doesn’t push his advantage now, just as he didn’t then, he simply leaves me be with my thoughts.

  He drops his hand, but his emerald eyes are still holding mine. “I shouldn’t have threatened you again just now, even in fun. Forgive me?” His low tone seems sincere, contrite even.

  I do believe he means it. He must have decided to take my continued silence as assent because suddenly he’s all business again, his booted feet hitting the flags with a heavy thud as he gets to his feet. “I need to get off. I’ll be back around one, I’ve a Skype meeting scheduled with a supplier so I’ll see you then. Make yourself at home, have a good look round, try to find everything you need but if you get stuck or need to know anything text me. Oh, and just leave the ironing. Okay?”

  Stunned at my success, and the tangible shift in our relationship, I can only nod. Assertive Ashley definitely has her moments. He grabs his jacket from a hook on the back of the door and winks at me on his way out. “Have a nice day, Ashley.” He clicks his tongue and the two dogs trot after him. A few seconds later I hear the Land Rover fire up and drive off, and I’m alone in his huge old house.

  Chapter Eight

  And that sets the pattern for the weeks that follow. I arrive promptly at seven each Friday morning, let myself in the back door. Tom’s usually there, and we often share breakfast. Sometimes bacon and eggs, sometimes cereals, sometimes porridge. I never liked porridge much before, but the way Tom makes it is lovely and creamy. He always decides what we’re having—I just eat whatever he dumps in front of me. And I’ve never brought my own food, not that I’d be able to find anything remotely appetizing in my frugal little kitchen. He must know I’m raiding his fridge every week, but he says nothing.

  My list of tasks doesn’t vary much—sometimes I’m cleaning bathrooms and toilets, sometimes washing, dusting perhaps, always mopping the kitchen floor, always hoovering. And I’ve even had a go at ironing, practicing on towels and socks before trying my hand at shirts. It’s gone okay so far, no disasters. I’m getting quite good at this domestic goddess routine, tending to be finished before the allotted time.

  Our agreement says I work for him for seven hours each visit so I should be done by three o’clock, allowing for lunch. After the first couple of visits I got in the swing of things and I could have easily gotten away by two, but I’m determined not to give him any cause for complaint so I’ve found extra jobs to do. Cleaning the windows, sweeping the backyard. The first time I did extra work he texted me afterwards to ask why I did that. I replied, explaining I’d had some spare time. He texted back to say it wasn’t necessary to do extra tasks. As long as my work is all done and done right I can leave when I’m finished. I thanked him politely but said I prefer to work my full hours. So that’s what happens.

  Greystones is quite a large house, and Tom seems to only use some of it. Just one of the four bedrooms is furnished for sleeping. Another is used for storage and another has been converted into a high-quality home office. The remaining one is a spare bedroom. There’s a double bed in there but no bedding on it, and no other furniture at all. The ground floor is made up of the large kitchen where I spend most of my time, a utility room where the washing machine, dryer and boiler are housed, as well as piles of muddy wellies, a variety of waterproofs and hats, scarves, gloves. The large dining room is also virtually unused, despite its large French windows with a magnificent view across the moorland valley behind the farm. Tom explained that he always eats in the kitchen, or in front of the television.

  There’s a large, comfortable sitting room, boasting two large leather sofas in a sort of dark brown, a drinks fridge and a huge flat screen television mounted on the wall. The small cabinet underneath it contains the Sky box, a Playstation, and DVD player. An expensive-looking Bose music system is perched on the top. I asked him why such a huge screen and he explained it’s better for watching sport. I understand he and Nathan spend a lot of their evenings together in here. The drinks fridge is kept well stocked with Budweiser and Corona lagers. And chocolate biscuits.

  Both the sitting room and Tom’s bedroom, which is furnished in traditional oak and decorated in dark reds and black, are fiercely masculine without being butch or oppressive.

  Tom spends a lot of time in his office upstairs, usually in the afternoons. I often hear him talking
to his business contacts, the disembodied voices coming from his computer, courtesy of Skype. Mornings he seems to spend out on the farm, although I now know that most of the day-to-day work is done by his employees, primarily his farm manager, a middle-aged man by the name of Seth Appleyard, and his three strapping sons. A fourth son is away at agricultural college, and there’s a daughter studying to be a vet. They live in a tied cottage on the farm, about half a mile from the main house, and deal with just about all the tasks that need doing. Tom’s role is more one of sales and marketing, communication with suppliers, organizing new deals. And he handles all the finance. He’s also involved in a number of business ventures with Nathan Darke, the biggest one apparently the music festival that Mrs Richardson mentioned the first day I arrived.

  Despite my resentment at having to come here each week, I’m finding Greystones itself a fascinating place. I usually bring my camera with me and I’ve got some brilliant shots of the livestock in the various barns and nearby fields. By quizzing the Appleyards I’ve found out that Tom exclusively rears rare breeds of traditional English livestock, sheep and pigs in the main, though he does keep some endangered poultry too. He has a small flock of Leicester Longwools, huge sheep with very long fleeces. Similarly, the Teeswater sheep trots around its pasture sporting a quirky little woolly topknot. Very comical. The farm produces high-quality wool, much sought after by hand spinners for miles around, local crafters keen to keep traditional crafts alive, sourced by local suppliers. Tom also breeds pigs, the British lop and middle white. These go for bacon, mainly to local farm and produce suppliers, although I suspect I’ve eaten plenty of Tom’s bacon too. I can hardly look the pigs in their little squinty eyes as I frame my shots, knowing I might well have scoffed their mum.

  The pregnant black cat I saw that first morning was around the front yard a lot the first two or three weeks I was coming up here, although I could never get near her. Then she suddenly disappeared. I found her in a barn, led to her makeshift nursery by the high-pitched squeaking of her tiny blind kittens. I started to leave food out for the mother, who I’ve privately named Chloe, but she continues to hiss and spit every time I go near. Tom found me trying to tempt her with a cold bacon sandwich and explained that she’s feral, and there’s no chance of taming her. Even with his best bacon. He only let her stay because she’s a good mouser and too tiny to be a threat to his free-range poultry. I asked what would happen to her kittens, but he only shrugged. I get the impression her days, and those of her babies, are numbered. Tom may be a humane farmer, but he’s not sentimental about animals. If the family of stray cats pose a threat, they’ll be gotten rid of.