Page 26

Fucking residentials.

There’s a reason we send them home at 3.20 at school.

It’s 3am, I’m finally back in my own room and the scoresheet so far reads:

3 x vomit (gummy bears, dodgy tummy, drinking shampoo for a dare)

4 x homesick (Verity, Matthew, Ollie and bloody Stella who has called three times to speak to William)

2 x fights (one play, one cat)

Room reallocations: countless (between the puking and the fighting, I have no idea where anyone is sleeping. Please God, don’t let there be a fire alarm tonight. Or a fire).

Al has been fantastic – I’m guessing not sleeping all night isn’t new for him. Ben’s being a trooper too – that man has the patience of a saint. But I’m done in. And I still haven’t had five minutes to talk to Ben . . .

In truth, most of the reason I agreed to come when Rose dropped out is because Ben and I haven’t really spoken since Clive. He’s been putting out fires left and right with parents and I’ve been crazy with the house stuff – this buyer wants to move yesterday. And Taylor and Gracie are barely speaking to me. We went to look at new houses – flats really – over the weekend. Gracie cried the entire time. I can’t expect her to understand now. But she will.

But it’s more than that. Ben and I are avoiding each other. What happened with Clive could happen again. And if Clive had told anyone . . .

But that’s one problem we don’t have to deal with.

I’d hoped having some distance would calm me down, that the fright would knock some sense into me. I’ve got enough on my plate and he’s incredibly distracting.

But it turns out I want to be distracted.

I think about going to his room. I haven’t changed for bed yet and he’s only across the hall – he gave me the room allocation sheet and I think it was his way of telling me . . . Or am I just reading what I want to into any and everything? Jesus Christ, Fisher, get a grip . . . And get some bloody sleep.

I’ve just got my T-shirt over my head when there is a knock at the door for the umpteenth time. There is a strict knocking policy here as there are no locks. I groan and cannot help myself.

‘Khadija! If you and Beth are fighting over who likes Taylor Swift the most again, I’m going to come in there and shake you both off!’

The door opens gently.

‘More of a Harry Styles man, myself,’ comes the soft and gorgeous response. I smile. Then I realise my T-shirt is still over my head.

‘All quiet on the Western Front,’ he says. ‘Theo and William are now in separate rooms, Riley and I have had a gentle chat about what we should and shouldn’t put in our pyjamas and we even managed to fish Simeon’s retainer out of the toilet with a coat hanger.’

‘Nicely done,’ I say, yanking my T-shirt back into position.

‘Right back atcha,’ he whispers with the sexiest wink and an unashamedly appreciative sweep of my body. He’s hovering in the threshold, waiting for an invitation to come inside. I really shouldn’t. It’s late and . . .

‘Come in,’ I say, before my brain has time to get in the way.

He does and closes the door behind him, leaning against it once it’s shut.

‘How have you been?’ he asks.

‘Busy.’ I smile, sitting on the bed to keep a safe distance. ‘House stuff . . . it’s been crazy.’

‘Gracie told me you were moving,’ he says with concern in his eyes. ‘I hope it’s for all the good reasons?’

‘The right ones,’ I confirm. ‘It’ll be fine – it’s just a stress. And Taylor’s being a total nightmare . . .’

‘Not happy?’

‘She’s seventeen. She’s never happy.’

He smiles.

‘I bet. I was a nightmare at that age.’

‘I was pregnant,’ I say, and I realise it wasn’t quite the joke I meant it to be.

‘You were a child yourself,’ he says softly. ‘It’s amazing how you’ve raised your family.’

‘Wasn’t given much choice,’ I point out, sitting on the bed. ‘Taylor’s dad was never going to be involved . . .’

‘Why not?’ he interrupts. ‘Jesus . . . sorry, it’s none of mine, you don’t have to—’

‘Because he was one of my teachers,’ I tell him, and I watch his eyes bulge. I learned a long time ago that it was that dirty bastard’s shame, not mine.

‘Fuck,’ says Ben simply. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea’

‘Most don’t,’ I tell him with a weak smile. ‘He was married, pervy and untouchable. I was seventeen, desperate for someone to love me and not old enough to know better.’

‘Was he never . . . What happened?’ he says, coming to sit on the bed next to me. ‘Did you tell anyone?’

‘Oh yeah.’ I laugh bitterly. ‘I told my form teacher. She told me I was a slut, entrapping a virtuous man with my sin, and I should give my baby to the church so it could be purged. Got me thrown out of school. A month before my A levels.’

‘No,’ he gasps. ‘That’s awful. Did you report her?’

‘Ha! Not a chance,’ I snort. ‘The church owned the school. She was untouchable too.’

‘Why?’

I turn and look at him.

‘Because she was Claudia Stitchwell.’

I quite enjoy the shock on his face. I’ll give my life this much. It makes a good story.

‘, I—’

‘Don’t sweat it,’ I tell him, patting his thigh. ‘There aren’t any right words. Trust me, I’ve tried to find them. It’s dead and buried. As is Stitchwell. And I couldn’t be happier about it.’

‘I bet,’ he says, this safe conversation drifting into a dangerous pause. We say nothing for a moment. I need him to be the first to speak.

‘ – I really need to talk to you,’ he says, standing up again. ‘What happened last week—’

Shit. I know where this is going and I need to get in first.

‘Look – it’s fine. I get it,’ I say. ‘It’s just too risky, there’s too much at stake, we’ve been stupid and we need to cool it. You don’t need to spare my feelings.’

His face breaks into that sexy smile and he laughs gently.

‘You know, for the brightest girl I’ve ever met, you can be really stupid,’ he says with a cheeky grin. He’s inviting me to play. But what’s the game?

He kneels down in front of me and my innards turn gelatinous. What is it with this man? He’s magnetic to me – the moment he’s near, I just want to throw my body at his and see what sticks . . .

He takes my hands in his.

‘What I was going to say,’ he begins, smiling at me, ‘is that what happened last week made it clear to me how I feel about you.’

My whole body is alive with static. These next words are everything. Or nothing. Or both.

‘You’re going to have to give me a clue,’ I whisper. ‘Maybe you could—’

Whatever silly shit was about to fall out of my face is stopped by a kiss. A long, slow, loving kiss. I don’t want it to end. But I also want to hear what he has to say. He pulls away and our foreheads rest against each other.

‘ . . . when Clive . . . walked in on us last week, I don’t mind telling you, I was terrified,’ he begins. ‘But a part of me – and not a small part of me – was also relieved. Darlin’ – I don’t want to be fooling around in dark corners behind locked doors. I want to be by your side. Holding your hand. Telling the world that—’

‘Ben . . . don’t say something you don’t mean,’ I whisper, closing my eyes. ‘Please, please don’t lie to me . . .’

‘I’m not lying!’ he insists, grabbing my face. ‘ Fisher. I am batshit, head-over-heels, cock-a-hoop, truly, madly, deeply in love with you! I think about you most of the day and all of the night. I want you. I want all of you. Your heart, mind, body – oh God how I want this gorgeous body – and your life. I want to be part of your life. As your man. As your partner. As your love.’

I usually cry approximately three times a year – and one of those is when I watch Home Alone at Christmas. But hearing his beautiful, earnest, heartfelt words . . . the tears start running down my face.

‘Do you mean that?’ I ask him. ‘Do you really, really mean that?’

‘I do,’ he says before I can finish it. ‘I know this isn’t ideal and I don’t want anyone to get hurt. But love doesn’t always grow where it’s supposed to. And I’m in love with you. And I don’t ever want it to stop.’

‘Me neither,’ I say, surrendering any last shred of restraint. ‘I love you, Ben. I love you, I love you, I love you . . .’

He pulls me to him and we kiss again. But this isn’t a kiss of lust. This is one of love. And it’s perhaps the best one I’ve ever known.

We go into autopilot as he pulls me to my feet and tight into his body. All thought, all sense, all feeling is directed at him – I’ve heard the cliché about becoming one before, but tonight I get it. Urgent hands tear at anything between us, any barrier to our bodily affirmation, to our joyful surrender. He gently picks me up and places me on the bed, slowly leaning down until he’s pressing down on top of me. Oh God – the weight of a lover’s body is one of the greatest gifts sex ever affords – but still it’s not enough. We won’t be sated until we are locked together, indivisible, tangled, unified . . .

‘I can’t sleep,’ comes the sleepy wail at the precise moment the door opens. ‘I had a bad—’

Ben leaps off me like he’s been stabbed. I pull some clothing around myself. But any child with the most basic involvement with Love Day will know what is going on.

Although this isn’t just any child.

And I know she understands exactly what her sleepy little head has just witnessed.

‘Mr Andrews?’ Grace says incredulously. ‘What are you doing with my mum?’