A Dom is for Life Page 6

  “I know you were worried. I was—”

  “Worried? Worried? I wasn’t bloody worried. I was near paralytic with terror. I didn’t dare open the door in case it was some major or colonel come to deliver the bad news, all solemn-faced and sympathetic, full of meaningless platitudes about heroes and honour…” She stands, paces the kitchen, occasionally sparing me a withering scowl. “I didn’t dare turn on the television news, but neither did I dare to miss it. Every day, the same torture, the same mind-numbing fear, the certainty that it would happen. One day, I would lose you to some Taliban thug who fancied himself a soldier. I couldn’t bear it, couldn’t live that way. It wasn’t a marriage, it was a time bomb.”

  I stare at her, for once, speechless. I truly had not appreciated the depth of her distress, though she’d definitely told me at the time how she felt.

  “And you, you treated it all as some sort of joke. You made light of it, if you listened at all. I adored you, and I hated you, too.”

  Shit. I try to speak. “Libby, I don’t know—”

  “Shut up. You came here to talk. It’s always you doing the talking, though, isn’t it? Well, what about if you try listening for a change? Listening and fucking hearing.”

  My temper rises to a simmer. “I did listen. I did as you wanted.”

  “Not what I wanted. If you truly left the army for me, you would have told me. Whatever you did, you did for yourself. And this new life you have now, security work at the shopping centre that’s for you, too. Your life, just yours.”

  “Not just mine, Libby. I wanted—”

  “If you wanted me in your shiny new life, you only had to ask. You knew that. You knew where I was. Three and a half years, Josh, three and a half bloody years, and never so much as a text. If it hadn’t been for that chance meeting on Saturday, how much longer would you have waited before contacting me?”

  “I don’t—”

  “How long, Josh?” she demands. “A month? A year? Never?”

  Chapter 6

  Libby

  I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Not any more, not over him. I did all my crying over Josh Novak three years ago. No more.

  I brush at my tears, almost as angry with myself as with him. I spent months in abject terror, expecting to be made a widow at any moment, and the years since in aching loneliness, but he comes through it all unscathed. He looks as good today as he did then, and he’s still every bit as confident and self-assured, too.

  He marches into my house — my house — to complain about how much I hurt him. Is he expecting an apology? Am I meant to grovel, to beg him to be my Dom again?

  Hell will freeze over before that happens. One spanking at a low moment doesn’t come close.

  “I want you to leave,” I manage through my gulping sobs. “Just leave me alone.”

  He shakes his head.

  I consider braining him with the vase I put his roses in.

  Roses? Bloody roses? What’s that all about anyway?

  “If you don’t go, I… I’ll call the police.”

  “Okay, call them. In the ten minutes or so it’ll take for them to get here, you’ll have to listen to what I have to say. I heard you out, you owe me that much.”

  “I owe you nothing,” I spit. “Just go.”

  “I should have told you,” he concedes… about three years too late. “You’re right about that, though wrong about the reasons why I didn’t.”

  I glare at him. What’s he trying to pull now? Josh always had a way with words, could twist me in knots when he wanted to. It was one of his sexier Dom traits but cuts no ice after all this time. Those days are long gone.

  He continues, ignoring my lack of encouragement. “It had nothing to do with not wanting you. I wanted you, Libby. I wanted you as much as I wanted my right hand. I was gutted to lose you.”

  “You didn’t lose me. I was always there.”

  “You phoned me, told me we were done. You moved out of our apartment.”

  “Yes. I needed a clean break, on my terms. If I was no longer your wife, they wouldn’t come to tell me if… if…”

  “But they would. Even an ex-wife would be informed of her husband’s death.”

  I collapse into a chair. I genuinely never realised that. “It was all for nothing then?”

  Worse than nothing. However much I tried for a clean break, I never stopped worrying about Josh, even after I filed for divorce. Sacrificing my marriage didn’t give me the relief I was seeking, nowhere close. And, the supreme irony, the final nail in the coffin — all the time I’ve been trying to get over him, put the past behind me and move on, Josh Novak has been out of the military. He was safe, here in the UK, swanning around protecting shopping centres. I allow myself a mirthless laugh.

  Josh reaches for my hand. I should pull away, but I honestly don’t have the energy.

  “It sounds like it was. For nothing, I mean.” Does he really have to rub it in? He continues. “But it wasn’t just you who screwed up. I played my part in this clusterfuck by letting my stubborn pride get in the way of better sense. I was angry. You managed to wound me, Libby, whether you intended to or not. That phone call… I was stunned. I had no idea you felt so strongly, that you actually meant to end our marriage. I thought I had time…”

  “You didn’t even care. You just told me to get on with it.”

  “I cared. I cared all right, but I wasn’t about to let you know that. My pride, you see. I’d already filled in the discharge forms by then and I should have told you.”

  I gape at him, barely able to credit this. “You were already preparing to come out? But you let me think…”

  “I know. Fuck, Libby, I wish I’d been honest with you instead of playing the tough guy.”

  “I would have waited,” I whisper. “I’d never have gone anywhere near a solicitor.”

  “I know. I suppose I knew then, but…”

  “But you just let me get on with it.” I drag my hand away from his, my fury and resentment soaring to new heights. “You said nothing while I packed up my stuff and left. Not a bloody word while I filled in the forms accusing you of unreasonable behaviour, and all the time…”

  “Yes.” He meets my gaze, his grey eyes full of remorse, but I can’t get past my anger, my resentment. The bitter taste of failure near enough chokes me. The acrid stench of a life wasted fills my nostrils. One word, just one little word from him, and everything would have been so different.

  “You ruined my life.” I utter the words in a low tone, almost inaudible. I can’t bear to say it louder.

  “I ruined both our lives,” he agrees. “Please, Libby, let me put it right.”

  I shake my head, close my eyes. “I don’t even want to look at you.”

  “Libby,” he groans. “Please…”

  “Go, Josh.”

  “I’m a seasoned Dom as well as a hardened soldier. I had no business letting my emotions dictate my actions.”

  “Just. Go.”

  He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. Long moments tick by. At last, he nods. Just once.

  He stands, reaches for his jacket, then glances about the kitchen. He spots the magnetic notepad stuck on the front of my fridge, the one I use for shopping lists. There’s a pen on the worktop, so he picks that up and scrawls a number on the top sheet.

  “My contact details. Call me, Libby. Please.”

  I turn my back on him, my eyes tight shut. I don’t open them again until I hear the sound of my front door closing and, eventually, the engine starting up outside. Only when I’m sure he truly has gone do I permit myself the luxury of dropping into my rocking chair and sobbing as though my life has shattered for a second time.

  Perhaps it has.

  The next morning, I drag myself out of bed having had about ten minutes’ sleep all night. My anger has cooled a little, the white-hot furnace now glowing a searing red. And much of my anger has been turned on myself.

  How could I have been so foolish? I knew Josh, better than I
knew myself at times. Of course he would react like that. I should have known.

  And so should he. That final remark, about being a seasoned Dom…why could he not have realised his responsibilities in our relationship when it would have made a difference? I always relied on him to be the strong one, to be in charge, in control. He let me down on so many levels, and I will never, ever forgive him.

  But, real life goes on. Relentless, merciless, requiring me to pick myself up and trudge forward. I can’t stay here wallowing in grief and recriminations. Apart from anything else, I have a living to earn, and God knows I need the money. So, I shower, get dressed, chew on a slice of toast, then pick up my briefcase and go out to my car.

  Luckily for the unsuspecting clients of Carter and Benbow, I know my job inside out. I can do it on autopilot and somehow manage to get through the morning without causing financial ruin for either my employer or our customers. I finish work by early afternoon, my part-time status allowing me more free time than I’ve been used to. I take advantage of the opportunity to drop in at the estate agent managing the sale of my house, only to be informed that the Dangerfields have made an offer, but it’s twenty grand below the asking price. I instruct the agent to reject it, but not because of anything Josh might have said. I’m on my own now. I make up my own mind.

  And if I sell at that price, I’ll actually make a loss.

  Perhaps I should look again at the range of job vacancies, maybe check out a few contacts. If I can find the right opening, I could manage with just a few extra hours each week. There’s an agency in the next block specialising in executive and finance positions. We’ve used it a few times at Carter and Benbow, when we needed temps. I make my way there and fill out a few of their forms, though it’s obvious from the quizzical expression on the face of the admin assistant taking my details that I’m way overqualified.

  “You’re a chartered accountant and you have a degree in business studies?” she double-checks. “Are you sure you only want to consider part-time?”

  Am I? Maybe the time has come to leave Carter and Benbow entirely, start out somewhere new.

  I stifle that impulse. Josh’s influence, clearly. “Yes, just part-time. Fifteen hours a week at the most. Do you have anything?”

  “Well, there’s an opening for a ledger clerk in the accounts team at AI North,” she offers, mentioning the name of a massive gaming company who have taken up residence in an industrial building on the outskirts of the city. It would be like working in an aircraft hangar, and they only want to pay a third of what I earn at C and B.

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  “Do you have experience of call centres?” the assistant enquires.

  I shake my head.

  “Filing?” she continues.

  I offer her a tight smile. “Could you let me know if anything closer to my current role comes up, please?”

  I arrive home by mid-afternoon. My garden needs attention, and I seriously consider getting out my trowel and fork and dragging a few weeds out. It’s come to something when I’m actually willing to do my gardening in the middle of the working week.

  My work ethic prevails. I spend the rest of the day on my computer, trawling through online recruitment agencies, leaving my details with any that seem remotely suitable.

  *****

  Josh

  “I saw Libby again.”

  Pru slides me a glance, distracted for a moment from the scene we are both watching, two women playing turnabout on a spanking bench. “How did it go?” she asks.

  “A disaster,” I reply.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she offers.

  I shake my head. “One good thing did come out of it, I suppose.”

  “Oh? What was that?”

  “I think I know who our next finance manager ought to be.”

  There’s something I need to talk to you about. When’s good for me to come round?

  I deliberately waited a couple of days before texting Libby. I need to apologise, but for that I need her to be ready to at least listen to me. Best to give her a bit of space, but not too much. That was my mistake in the past, letting her think I didn’t care. I won’t make the same cockup again.

  Her reply pings into my messages a couple of hours later.

  We said everything. Leave me alone.

  I sigh, though this is not unexpected.

  Not everything. When, Libby?

  I’m busy. For the next year at least.

  Name a day and time or I’m turning up anyway. Time to get firm with her. Libby always responded well to that.

  Get stuffed.

  Hmm, times have changed. And it’s obvious my apology would be about as popular as a rat sandwich right now. I decide to leave it two more days, then arrive unannounced on her doorstep again and take my chances.

  I leave the shopping centre early the following Friday. I’m expected at Heidi’s later, but that still leaves ample time to drop in on Libby in Knutsford. I consider more roses, or maybe chocolates. Perfume would be inappropriate, for obvious reasons. I settle instead for a copy of the finance manager job description and arrive at her door with the document neatly folded in my pocket.

  Her orange Mini is parked in the drive, and the ‘for sale’ sign is still nailed to the gate post. There’s no answer when I knock. Maybe I should just post the job details through her letterbox, but I strongly suspect she’ll just tear the sheets up. I decide to go around to the back and knock there.

  My persistence pays off. I find her on her knees in the back garden, tugging at a stubborn sapling which has clearly had the temerity to seed itself where it isn’t wanted. A wheelbarrow half full of weeds and clippings suggests she’s been engaged in this war of attrition for a while now. As I watch from the shadow of the house, she reaches for a trowel and stabs at the offending roots, eventually dragging the plant from the ground and tossing it on top of the rest.

  She sits back on her haunches and swipes her bright-auburn hair from her face. Most of the waving mass is caught up in a messy pile on top of her head, but a few tendrils have managed to escape. She’s dressed for the occasion in grubby, dirt-spattered jeans and a checked shirt, sleeves rolled up. She tugs off her thick gardening gloves and drops them on the ground beside the trowel, then starts to get to her feet.

  “Evening, Libby.”

  She whirls around with a startled cry, her features hardening the moment she realises who it is.

  “I thought I told you not to bother,” she snaps, marching in the direction of the back door.

  I manage to reach the door at the same time she does. “And I told you that if you didn’t name your time, I’d drop in anyway. You didn’t, so here I am.”

  “Go away, Josh.” She opens the door and steps inside.

  “Can I come in?” I ask her, as politely as I can manage.

  “What do you think?” She tries to shut the door in my face.

  “I think, it would be better to have this conversation inside rather than force me to yell at you through a closed door. No point entertaining the neighbours any more than necessary.”

  “Bloody hell,” she mutters. “Do you never give up?”

  “Not on you, Libby. So, can I come in?”

  “Five minutes,” she hisses. “Then you go, and don’t come back.”

  I follow her inside and through to the kitchen where we talked the last time I was here. She washes her hands at the sink, then pours herself a glass of fresh orange. She doesn’t offer me anything.

  “So, go on. Say what you have to say and get out.”

  Not the most promising of openings, but I’ll settle for what I can get.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She glares at me. “So you said last time you were here. Is that it?”

  Not quite.

  “I’m sorry. I was an idiot. I treated you so badly, and I can’t even start to imagine how I can make it up to you.”

  “You got that right,” she mutters, then downs the rest of her
juice.

  I press on. “Even so, I mean to try. I love you, Libby. It’s that simple. I want to try again.”

  “Try again?” Her face is a mask of incredulity. “You think it’s that simple? After what you did?”

  “I know it isn’t simple. I hurt you, and I didn’t appreciate just how much until the other day. I knew how you felt about the army, but not the emotional toll it was taking. I didn’t truly understand, but I do now. I appreciate why you acted as you did, and even though I’d still like to think you could have spoken to me before you left, I get why you didn’t. And I can see where I went wrong. I should have told you what you needed to hear, and I deeply regret that I didn’t. It was cruel and unnecessary, and it cost both of us dearly. I need you to forgive me, Libby.”

  “Forgive you?”

  “Please. If you would. Or, if it’s still too soon, maybe you could promise me that you’ll try.”

  She regards me for several seconds, frowning. Then, “I don’t believe you.”

  “What don’t you believe?”

  “I don’t believe that you love me. You would never have given up on us if you did. You’d never have just tossed our marriage aside.”

  I groan. “I know how it looks, what it sounds like, but truly, I do love you. I always did. If you don’t believe that, can you at least accept that I’m an idiot and go from there?”

  “I can grant you that much. I must be an idiot, too, for listening to any of this.”

  I hesitate, then, “I’d love a coffee.”

  She shakes her head. “I was just about to go for a shower.”

  “Go, then. I’ll make the coffee. I think I can remember where the cups are.”

  “I need to think…”

  “All the more reason for a nice long soak, then. Take a bath rather than a shower. I’ll wait down here.”

  She narrows her eyes at me, obviously still far from convinced that it’s safe to leave me alone in her house. “If you think you can just march in here and start making yourself at home…”

  “I don’t.” I raise my hands in mock surrender. “It’s just coffee. And a talk. There’s something else I need to discuss with you.”