Page 67 of Love Is: Two Bodies One Soul

ChapterTwenty-Two

Alone in Lex’s flat,Owen wandered restlessly, fighting against an overwhelming desire to run despite his promise to stay while she went to the shops.

He drifted to a desk, cast half curious eyes over the papers without taking in what they were before he idly opened a plain manilla folder full of photographs. Not weddings, babies or pets, but ordinary people out and about, nature scenes and wildlife. Ponies in the depths of winter; frost on their eyelashes like sugar icing. The Brighton sea-front, near the pier in a winter storm, towering white waves breaking over the promenade, clouds of sea spray misting figures that looked like Lowry matchstick men and women cowering from the tempest. A yellow stemmed summer grass with a chrysalis split open and a newly emerged Burnet moth, its shiny black crumpled wings dotted with bright crimson, clinging on spindly legs to the stalk. They were all works of art. For a brief beautiful moment, Owen forgot his pain and his heart swelled with pride in his Lex.

The door opened behind him. Startled, Owen turned around. ‘You were quick.’

‘I only had to go to the top of the road.’

‘I hope you don’t mind.’ Owen waved a hand at the file.

‘Of course not.’ She smiled. ‘I’m just pleased you’re still here.’

‘I was tempted to run.’

‘I knew you would be. But you’ll be glad you didn’t when you see what I got for you.’ She extracted a bottle of Lagavulin single malt whisky from her bag and passed it to him. ‘I know George would frown on me encouraging you to drink, but I thought today was an exceptional situation and you might need a good whisky.’

‘My favourite. How did you know?’

‘I think you might have mentioned it the other night, or maybe it was just a lucky guess. There are glasses on the sideboard. Pour us both a drink while I put the fish and chips on plates.’

‘No need.’ He caught her wrist. ‘Saves washing up if we eat straight from the paper.’

‘Well, all right.’ She placed her bag on the small coffee table. ‘I’ll just get some kitchen roll for finger wiping while you pour the whisky.’

* * *

‘So …,’Lexie said, crumpling her food wrapper. ‘I didn’t press you on the way home. It seemed maybe the conversation was the sort that might be hazardous to have when driving, but can we talk about what happened with the judge now, or would you prefer not to?’

He swallowed his last chip. Honestly, he would prefer not to talk … he didn’t even want to think about Henry McKinnon ever again. What he had learned had opened a whole new can of worms and destroyed what he thought of as his past. Telling Lexie meant sharing things he never wanted to share with anyone, with the added pressure of accepting he was not the man he’d thought he was. But there she was sipping her whisky, watching him with those beautiful blue eyes, with an expression which was like balm to his tormented soul. He’d thought that morning he might love her. Now he wondered if she could ever love him. And if she could, dare he let love into his life? Or did he still deep down believe he was cursed? Would loving Lexie put her in mortal danger? Or was that only a remnant from a childish nightmare? From a childhood that was a sham.

‘It’s a long story,’ he said, scrunching the fish and chip wrapper.

‘We’ve got time. Tonight and all tomorrow.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Unless you’ve got somewhere else to go in the morning that you’ve not told me about.’

‘No. It’s simply you might wish I did have somewhere else to go when I’ve told you everything.’

She shook her head and leaned over for the whisky bottle. ‘I very much doubt that.’ She topped up their glasses and chucked the kitchen roll at him. ‘Clean your hands and start talking, Kingsley.’

‘Right,’ he said, forced into smiling at her as he tore off a piece of kitchen roll and wiped his fingers, thinking she was so special, caring, kind, courageous, clever, talented, the best … far too good for him. He picked up the glass and took a slug of whisky before he began.

‘Henry told me he’s my father.’

A little gasp escaped Lexie and she sat very still.

Owen went on, ‘Henry started by saying my mum would be proud of me. That was wrong on so many levels. My mother was never proud of me. It was Dad, my real dad ….’

‘You mean the one you told me about the other night, soldier-dad, the one killed in Bosnia?’ Lexie curled her legs under her and waited for him to continue.

‘Yes.’ He nodded, and taking another swig of whisky, Owen steeled himself for the next part. ‘Henry used my mum’s pet name, and that’s when it hit me. He must have known her. I’d never shared the name with anyone. Only four people had ever known it, and three of them are long dead.’

‘What was it?’

‘Dormouse. Sometimes just Dormie.’

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