Page 6 of Wanting Mr Black
My throat aches with unshed tears, and I take a long drink of tea to dislodge the feeling.
“You’re the first woman I’ve ever really known him to be with.” Barbara’s eyes swim with sadness. “All I want is to see him happy. That’s all my husband wanted too.”
The sound of shuffling makes us look up from the table. Art’s in the doorway with a hand pressed against the wooden frame to steady himself. His brow creases in confusion as he takes us in.
“Mum?” he rasps, his voice hoarse from dehydration. “What are you doing here?”
Barbara breaks into a smile and gets to her feet. “You called me, dear, by accident, I think.” She picks up her black leather Mulberry handbag from off the kitchen counter and slings it overher shoulder. “I came to check you were okay. But I can see that you’re all right now and in capable hands. I’ll be off.”
Barbara pecks him on the cheek and gives me a warm smile. “It’s been lovely to meet you, Sophie.”
Four
Art sags against the wall, as if it’s taking all his energy not to collapse. He drags a hand down his face and looks at me. His dark brows draw into a frown, as if he’s trying to piece together what’s happening.
“You came back.”
I look at him and shrug.
“You came back to me.”
Have I though?
The last twelve hours have been filled with more revelations and twists than my sleep-deprived brain can focus on. I can’t do this yet.
My eyes dart to the purple cut and bruised knuckles of his right hand. “You need to get your hand seen to.”
He slowly flexes his fingers, as if testing them. He winces, clearly in discomfort. “It’s not broken. It just hurts.”
“Then you need a shower and some painkillers.”
He drops his hand and lifts his eyes to mine. “They don’t make painkillers strong enough to stop this pain.”
He’s not talking about his hand anymore. I roll my eyes.
I can’t look at him. I’m not ready to have this conversation. I spring to my feet and busy myself with clearing the mugs from the table.
“Get in the shower. I’ll make you a coffee and find some painkillers.” I turn my back on him and start stacking the dirty mugs in the dishwasher.
“You’re looking after me.”
My head drops, and I keep my back to him as his hopeful words tug at my heartstrings. None of this makes any difference to the reason all this happened. He lied to me. I can’t let what I’ve learnt about his past blur that issue.
“Get in the shower,” I say firmly because I don’t know what else to say.
The sound of bare feet retreating across the parquet tells me he’s conceded defeat. I hear the distant sound of the shower running and search the kitchen drawers and cupboards, locating the paracetamol. I pour a glass of water and make a strong mug of coffee, and then I realise the sound of the shower has stopped, but Art hasn’t reappeared.
I peer around the bedroom door. He’s lying on the bed, a grey towel wrapped around his waist and his hands pressed against his face.
“I’m not used to feeling this rough. I can’t do this,” he groans.
By “this”, I presume he’s referring to dressing himself. His self-induced pity annoys me.
“Yes, you can,” I snap, heading into the walk-in wardrobe.
I sift through the hangers on the various clothes rails and locate a white Ralph Lauren T-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. Then, I pull a fresh pair of black boxers from one of the drawers. When I walk back into the bedroom, he’s easing himself upright on the bed. The tough-love approach seems to have worked.
“Put your arms up,” I demand, putting the pile of clothes on the bed.