Page 46 of Wanting Mr Black
Something jars deep inside me at her words. I don’t like the fact that I’m not entirely sure what she’s referring to. “What do you mean, you’re glad he’s told me everything?”
Her mouth drops open, and then she shuts it quickly. “But … I thought … you said there were no secrets between the two of you and you talked. I thought he’d told you.”
“He told me about owning the club. What else is there?”
She takes a long sip of wine, looking like someone who’s just realised she’s put her foot in it. “I’m so sorry. You need to speak to Art. You need to ask him.”
Uneasiness churns in my stomach. The last time she said this, I didn’t like what he had to tell me.
“But he moved on and put it all behind him with a little support from the right people,” she carries on brightly, clearly eager to move the conversation on.
I’m not fooled. Her positivity does nothing to budge the dark cloud that’s descended on my thoughts, and when I don’t reply, she continues talking.
“After Arthur died and what with everything else that happened, Art was in a very dark place for a time, but he saw a therapist, and it helped.”
“Hey, sorry that took longer than anticipated.”
I turn to see Art next to me, smiling, and I find myself unable to muster up any sort of smile in response.
“Shall we get going?”
Twenty-Three
The drive back home takes place in silence. I stare out of the passenger window with my head swimming. I’m in no mood for chit-chat. Dread hangs like a noose around my neck as my conversation with Barbara plays on repeat in my brain.
He’s not told me everything. Again. And I know it’s something big, something bad, something he knows I’ll be upset about; otherwise, he would have told me already.
As soon as we arrive back home, I dump my clutch bag on the bedside table, head straight for the walk-in wardrobe, and unzip my dress. My mood has plummeted, and I really don’t feel like being dressed up in all this finery, which he bought.
“You’re quiet. Are you okay?”
I slip the Chanel dress back onto its hanger. I barely said two words to him during the thirty-minute car journey home. I can’t say I’m fine because I’m not, and I can’t lie because that will make me just as bad as him.
I stare at my clothes hanging on the rail as my mind chugs along. “What haven’t you told me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I asked you point-blank if there was anything you hadn’t told me about your past, and you told me there wasn’t.” I turn to face him and look him dead in the eye. “But there is, isn’t there?”
His gaze drops to the floor as he retreats into the bedroom. His silence confirms my worst fears.
“What is it?” I demand, going after him.
He unties the black bow tie from around his neck and chucks it onto the bed, and then he peels off his jacket. He frowns, and I can see him trying to work out how I know.
“Your mum let something slip, about how you’d made bad decisions in the past but paid the price for them. She wouldn’t tell me the details and said I needed to ask you.”
He continues to undress, unbuttoning his shirt while staring at the bed rather than me, which only enrages me further.
“Well? I’m asking you.”
He pulls off his shirt and flings it onto the bed.
“You’ve lied to me. Again.”
He rakes his fingers through his hair, still avoiding my gaze. “There’s a reason for it.”
“There’s always a reason,” I shoot back. “Usually, it’s because you’re too much of a coward to be honest with me.”