Page 44 of Wanting Mr Black

I glance around the room, trying to conjure up a mental image of a teenage Art. “So, were you allowed to bring girls up here?”

“Once or twice, but I wasn’t exactly smooth back then. I had no self-confidence. Even when I went to uni, I was quite shy with girls.”

“That’s difficult to imagine. What happened?”

He tilts his head and looks at me. “I learnt what women wanted.”

I shoot him a quizzical look. “How?”

He looks awkward. “It just came with experience.”

If he was shy around girls, how did he get any?As my brain ticks over his past, an uncomfortable realisation takes root. The woman who introduced him to Savage, the one he often “partnered up” with. The one who wanted a relationship with him. I don’t want to ask the next question, but part of me needs to know.

“By experience, do you mean, the woman from the club?”

His jaw stiffens. “Only partly.”

A strange feeling of jealousy creeps over me. Maybe it’s the thought of another woman “educating” him in that way. Maybe it’s the idea of him being intimate with another woman – full stop.

“I suppose practice makes perfect,” I toss out, hating the bitterness to my tone as I drop my eyes to the floor.

I’m being irrational. I know that. He hasn’t stepped foot in the club or seen the woman for years, but I hate the idea of him being with anyone else even though I know it is stupid.

Instantly regretting my words, I apologise, lifting my eyes to find him in front of me. I attempt a smile. “I’m sorry. Now, who’s being irrational?”

“I get it.” He links his fingers through mine. “The thought of you being with someone else physically hurts. But it was just sex. You’ve given me the most important gift anyone could.” He lifts my hands and presses them to the middle of his chest. “You made my heart start beating again.” He kisses me, chasing away any feelings of jealousy. “Come on. There’s one more place I want to show you before we leave.”

Twenty-Two

Midnight blue stretches onwards above us, and stars twinkle in the clear evening sky. Art leads me through a huge oak-panelled dining room and through a set of patio doors that lead out onto the terrace I saw from his old bedroom window.

I lift the hem of my dress, determined not to trip. I gingerly step off the slabs onto a line of stepping stones, sunk into the grass, which disappear into a hedge of conifer trees to the left. “Where are we going?”

“A special place,” he cryptically throws back over his shoulder as he continues across the stones.

The wall of thick conifer gives way to a cottage garden beyond. The stepping stones wind to the right and lead up to a dark green wooden bench. White spotlights in the gravel around the bench add a magical feel to this quiet, secluded spot, hidden away from the rest of the world. There’s an untamed quality about the beds of wild red poppies, purple foxgloves, and white daisies that encircle the bench, and the little garden is in stark contrast to the straight lines and groomed topiary of the rest of the grounds. It’s as though we’ve stumbled upon a secret garden.

“This is beautiful,” I breathe, sinking onto the bench beside Art.

He rests an arm across the back of the bench. “This place was Dad’s pride and joy. Mum’s religiously had it tended to since he died because she can’t bear to see it become overgrown. On summer evenings, he used to come and sit out here with a copy ofThe Timesand a cup of tea.”

I smile at his fond memories of his dad and peer down at the mass of delicate blue flowers at my feet. “Forget-me-nots.”

“They were Dad’s favourite flowers.”

I suddenly remember the flowers I found on my desk all those weeks ago. The romantic, thoughtful gesture had been Art all along, not Olly.

“Oh my God. They were from you. The forget-me-nots on my desk … they were from you.”

His fingertips idly brush my bare shoulder as he glances around the garden. “Some of my fondest memories of Dad are from this garden. He’d weed the beds while I played, or we’d chat about whatever I was up to – school or rugby. We talked about whether I should apply to Oxford and what I might do after I graduated.”

“You were really close to him, weren’t you?”

“I didn’t like going to school much when I first went into care. When you’re a foster kid, you’re easy prey for the bullies.Straight away, you’re different from the other kids. I’d hear other kids talking about their dads – that they were taking them to watch the local footie team play or out on their bikes. I used to wonder what I’d done to make my father not want to be in my life.”

I place a hand on his thigh. “You didn’t do anything.”

“It took me years to realise that. It wasn’t until I came here that I understood what a dad really was, and I got to do all those things I’d heard the other kids talk about.”

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