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He’d lost his father, yes; his only parent, the man who’d raised him alone. But his father was also responsible for the loss of the many who lay dead.
And that, they could not ignore, even though it was not Desmond’s fault. Desmond had a right to grieve as much as they. But his presence here today, and every other time, was…complicated.
No one ever invited Desmond home for a cup of tea, or to the pub where they had a customary drink afterward, or to the weddings and christenings of the relatives of the deceased. No, Desmond would usually wind his scarf around his neck, set his shoulders, and move silently into the rain alone, the first one out of the church; breathing hard through his mouth and blinking the rain out of his eyes; swallowing hard over and over again, harder and harder, and counting his breaths until the thing that threatened to break past his stoicism settled back deep inside him, where it belonged.
But this year was different. Val’s small figure was beside him, resolute, gripping his hand as if their lives depended on it. Eventually the last guest had filtered out onto the stoop, exclaiming over the rain and arranging a rideshare in a loud hearty voice, and they were alone. It was only then that she finally looked at him. And from her expression he could tell that he hadn’t been very good at hiding his emotions after all.
“Oh, Desmond,” she whispered, and then she was on her toes, cradling his face and kissing him on the cheek. He couldn’t respond. His body, his mind, his lips—they were all frozen.
“We should go,” Val whispered, tugging at his hand. Her eyes had kindled with something that hadn’t been there before, something frightening in its intensity.
He nodded and followed her out into the rain.
He should have pulled away from her, made some dry comment about the folly of kissing in a church, or something—anything to bring them back to normal. But he was just so numb, and so cold, and so absolutely burned out. It’d been exhausting, keeping up this facade for so long.
But he’d be back at it tomorrow; he didn’t know any other way to be.
He shouldn’t accept her pity; he shouldn’t accept her comfort. He didn’t deserve either. He hadn’t asked for it from the other people in the church. It would have been an unbearable cruelty to seek that from them.
After all, his father wasn’t the only one responsible, and Desmond had been hiding behind the protection of a dead man all this time.
The Notting Hill address that Desmond gave to the taxi driver through chattering teeth meant nothing to Val, who only knew of the area from movies. The trip was ruinously expensive and Val saw their driver peering at the bedraggled pair in his rearview mirror, as if wondering who they were. Desmond certainly hadn’t given him a hint. After handing over the address, he didn’t say a word, just leaned back on the seat with a sigh and closed his eyes.
“I’ll send you back to the hotel, once we get there and get you dried off.” And that was all he said, the whole hour-plus drive back through the heart of London. When they pulled up to the enormous detached house, Val barely registered red brick, darkened by the sky, electronic parking with two sleek, covered cars atop an elevated platform or the dark shapes that seemed to indicate a garden. Most of the details were obscured by rain. Desmond punched in a key code and there was a tinny sort of beep, and then he shouldered his way through the heavy black door.
Val found herself blinking rapidly in the soft light of an entryway flanked by floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows that would look magnificent in the daylight. She slipped out of her sodden pumps, feeling awkward about dripping on the floor. Desmond fetched her a towel of such softness and absorbency that she caught her breath a little as it touched her skin. She luxuriated in it for a moment, and when she looked up Desmond was unbuttoning his shirt, his jacket and coat already on the floor.
“You need to get out of those wet things,” he said.
“What, here?” she squeaked, realizing how silly she sounded. Desmond had already seen her naked from every imaginable angle.
And he didn’t seem to notice her statement. He was grimly unbuttoning the dark suit trousers he wore. He stood there, shadows dancing across lean muscle, his skin gleaming with water, drops trickling down and disappearing into the waistband of his black boxers. He stared down at her, looking grimmer still, with a completely indecipherable expression on his narrow, hard face. It was completely at odds with the laconic, smooth-tongued businessman she’d spent yesterday evening with; this was a silent, hollow-eyed stranger.
Yet, Val still felt an impulse to reach for him, totouchhim—
He turned from her and walked with his usual easy gait over tiles that were as clear and as reflective as glass. Heated, too, possibly, if the warmth circulating from the soles of her feet upward were to be believed.
“Come,” was all he said,
She glanced behind her at the abandoned entryway with its sad little pile of discarded clothing; he hadn’t said a word about calling that cab to take her back to The Ritz. She probably should—
“Val!”
She draped the towel around her neck and hurried after him.
“Welcome,” he said, throwing out one arm to the side in a half-hearted attempt at a grand gesture. It was the first hint of his old self she’d seen in hours.
The space opened up into a long, wide hall with glowing walls the color of fresh cream on which enormous paintings hung, gallery style; she recognized Andy Warhol, Kehinde Wiley and others that looked vaguely familiar whose names she could not place.
But she could not slow down to enjoy them because her host was stalking impatiently forward. Almost in a blur, she saw glimpses of a sitting room with a large fireplace, a room with a faded Persian carpet and a massive dining table, and a sunroom that looked as if it ran round the entire western perimeter of the house. In daylight it must be stunning. The house was like Desmond, in a sense—luxurious without being ostentatious, stylish without being flashy. Understated. Elegant. Relaxed.
They reached the end of the hall, where the enormous doors of a lift were covered with slabs of the palest pink marble gleaming beneath the lights. There were no buttons, just a panel that Desmond, still half-naked, let his finger hover over.
The doors slid open smoothly and he stepped in, as if it were a portal to another kingdom. He looked over his shoulder but said nothing.
She swallowed and stepped in beside him. His presence filled the entire space; the sweet spiciness of his skin seemed to have been amplified by the rain. The air between them was so very charged, full of pent-up energy built from the tension of the evening that she had no idea what to do with.
She wanted to rest her head in the hollow between his shoulders. And it wasn’t just about sex, either—it was about closeness; something she suspected he needed.