Breach of Faith (2 page)

“We’re going on holiday.”

“You’re taking
me
?”

No…Carl.

“Of course. Who else?”

I bit my lip. Will’s grin faltered but only briefly, it returned brighter than before.

“We’re going on a big plane to a place a long way away. Jetting away from our little corner of Australia, all expenses paid, to … drum roll, please … England.”

Of all the places in the world:
England, my birthplace, the country my parents still called home. The parents I’d not seen in years and missed like my heart was breaking.

How on earth could I have said anything to him after that?
“Thanks, Will, I’d love to go to England with you and by the way, are you sure you don’t want to take your boyfriend instead?”

No, it just didn’t work.

A trip to England was too important to me and if that meant keeping quiet for a few months then so be it. The front lawn had remained litter free. My mind had been made up; I would not, could not confront Will until after England.

I thought life would go on as normal, whether I liked it or not.

How wrong could I be.

22 September

“Damn you, woman. You’re sizzling.”

I smiled shyly at Martha and eyed myself in the changing-room mirror, “it doesn’t make my bum look big, does it?” I peered critically at my reflection, the dress hugging my figure like a second skin.

“Idiot. You gonna get it?”

Moments later I strode out of the shop, my new purchase folded into a red plastic bag. “Where to now?”

Martha glanced at her watch. “Oh, Kate, I have to get going. I have to pick Dan up from work.”

I pouted. “It’s been so long since we looked around the shops together.”

Petulant child?

Martha smiled, “we’ll do it again soon. Walk me to my car?”

We wandered along the crowded street, the sea sparkling in the distance, glittering brightly in the early afternoon sun. I could sense Martha scrutinising me.

“Why the sudden change, Kate? Is it all to do with this trip to England?”

I hesitated then shrugged, “not entirely.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Martha interjected, “what you’re doing, it’s … you look awesome. New haircut, clothes, you’re even wearing make-up. I’ve never seen you wear make-up before. How much weight have you lost?”

“Four kilos.”

“In two weeks, that’s brilliant. But why? I thought you were happy, I didn’t realise you wanted a total make-over.”

I stared at the pavement with my mascaraed eyes as we walked. I
did
feel awesome. Different, confident. What did it matter that Will hadn’t noticed? Men never noticed these things … did they? I knew I couldn’t tell Martha the whole, unadulterated truth:
I’m trying to turn a gay man straight, of course.
But I had to tell her something.

Anything.

I sighed. “I’m feeling old.” I gazed at Martha suddenly realising the truth of that simple statement. “I’m thirty four years old; thirty four going on sixty. I feel old, look old, act old, I probably even smell old.”

Martha giggled and I smiled grudgingly at her. “I just want to start feeling my age again, instead of feeling my mother’s age. One day I’ll wake up and my hair will be grey, my face will be lined and my boobs will be hanging around my ankles. I just don’t want that day to be tomorrow. I was a frump but now I’m feeling alive; attractive. I feel great.”

We stopped at Martha’s car, “well, you’re looking great too. And you don’t smell old, I promise. Would you like a lift?”

I shook my head, “I need to go to the bakery.”

Martha looked confused, “I didn’t think you were buying bakery bread anymore. Last I heard you insisted that the loaves at the supermarket are just as good and much cheaper.”

“I lied,” I stated self-consciously, chewing my lip as I rubbed hot cheeks with cool fingers. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Intrigued, Martha nodded.

“A couple of weeks ago I had a … dream. It was about that bloke in the bakery–”

“The one with the dreadlocks and scruffy beard,” Martha grimaced.

“—no, of course not. The owner, Frank –”

“Oh … the hot one.”

“NO! Yes. Just be quiet and let me tell you.” I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly,  and told her the whole story.

The Dream

I gasped and shook my head, millions of tiny water droplets flying this way and that, my cold fingers tugging through the saturated tangle, striving to tame the beast. The rain bounced off the road slowing traffic to a crawl, and as I sheltered in the shop entrance, there was no way I was going anywhere, not unless I was willing to swim. I shook my head again, studying my reflection in the glass door and cringed as I caught sight of the hirsute cyclone on my head, distorted by the foggy glass.

“Bloody hell!”

I jumped, swinging towards his voice, one hand clutching my chest in a vain attempt to stop my heart leaping out my mouth, the other beginning a desperate, last ditch effort to calm my unruly mane.

With a startled look he stumbled backwards, so I gave up on my heart. Obviously both hands were better occupied in mollifying my hair before this poor bloke had an apoplexy.

Mouth to mouth resuscitation … tempting.

“It’s raining,” I gulped, gesturing vaguely at the downpour. Maybe he hadn’t noticed.

“I noticed.” Trying, but failing horribly, to ignore my hair.

“It’s really hard,” I offered, talking about the rain but unable to stop my eyes travelling down his body, predictably halting at his crotch. It didn’t
look
hard but then again …

I bit my lip, dragging my attention back to his face. “Do you come here often?”

What a bloody stupid thing to say
.

For the first time, he focussed on my face. “This is my shop,” he smiled, motioning towards the bakery we were sheltering outside.

I knew that. I came here at least a couple of times a week. I also knew that
he
knew that I knew. I really couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just grinned idiotically.

“You’re very wet,” he shoved open the shop door, “come inside and I’ll find you a towel.”

The bakery was full of mouth-watering smells and I licked my lips; I
always
felt hungry here. I trotted after his retreating back, trying not to drip on the sparkling tiles.

He held open a door. “It’s warm in here. I’ll find you a towel and … a mirror, if you’d like.” He looked askance at my wayward locks, a small smile touching one corner of his mouth. “I’m Frank, by the way.”

“Kate.” I nodded my thanks and Frank disappeared.

Interested, I scrutinised my surroundings. The office was surprisingly large, with a bed in the far corner ...

No, not a bed, that’d be stupid. It’s an office for goodness sake.

… a desk. Yes, a desk. In the corner. Papers and books were scattered everywhere and I moved closer, intrigued, scanning the title of one volume.

“It’s
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
, one of my all-time favourites.” Frank’s amused voice came from behind and I whirled around, embarrassed as if I had been caught snooping.

Frank grinned and with an elegant sweep of his arms he deposited a large, blue towel gently over my shoulders like a cape. “You’re shivering,” he observed, rubbing his hands energetically up and down my arms. “Coffee?”

I clutched the towel tightly around my upper body, suddenly not feeling quite so cold anymore. My mouth was dry, my eyes transfixed by the indigo intensity of Frank’s gaze. His hands slowed as he returned my look, his hunger burning straight through me.

His hand floated up, stroking my face from cheekbone to jaw, caressing my lips, and I closed my eyes, forgetting to breath.

“You’re beautiful.” His teeth nibbling my ear, breath hot on my neck, his hand following the line of my spine, holding me close. I put my arms around him, my head tilted back, the muscles of his shoulders firm beneath my palms.

When Frank kissed me, I sparked and fizzed like a firework. Then we were naked.

How’d that happen?

His mouth firm, moist on my nipples. His fingers smoothly sensual on my buttocks as he lay me gently on the rug.

“Bloody hell.” I’d forgotten how to say anything else; I’d forgotten anything but Frank.

“Bloody hell!” I could feel the immense power build up in my body as waves of satisfaction burst through every pore. It was the best sex I’d ever had.

I thrust my hips towards him, never wanting it to end. “Bloody …”

“Kate?”

“…hell”

“Kate? Wake up.”

“Oh … damn?” I reluctantly opened my eyes as
The Dream
bubble burst.

“Bloody hell.”

*

“Right near the end I was woken up … by Will.” I finished.

“Oh no.”

“He thought I was having a nightmare, apparently I was talking in my sleep.”

Martha clapped her hand over her mouth and giggled.

“Martha, it was the best sex ever, he’s a perfect kisser, got a great body and he does the most amazing things with his hands.”

Martha laughed, “that’s why you’ve been avoiding the bakery. I did wonder.”

“I couldn’t look him in the eye, I’d be thinking about how firm his buttocks are and how his chest tastes of current buns.”

Martha snorted, “that isn’t why you’ve done all this, is it?” She waved her hand vaguely at my make-over, “to impress Frank Jones?”

My red cheeks grew scarlet. “No! Of course not.”

Martha raised her eyebrows, “not even just a little bit?”

I paused. That question had been rolling around in my own mind ever since that night. I’d come to the conclusion that the dream was most likely a passing phase, my mind compensating for my husband’s lack of attention. But I still couldn’t quite dismiss the idea that I would like to impress Frank. Just a little bit.

I shrugged, “when I woke up after the dream I felt …fantastic; but by morning, boring, frumpy Kate was back. I guess I want to recapture that allure.”

“And now? Presumably you’ve got over it if you’re ready to brave the smell of perfect current buns while sinking into the depths of his deep blue eyes.”

“You really need to stop reading those second-rate romance novels”. I gave Martha a quick hug, “you’d better get going.”

Am I over it? The question hovered on the edge of my mind as I wandered back along the street, faltering as I arrived at the large, covered step outside the bakery, it looked exactly the same as it had in my dream.

Why him? Why Frank?

I’ll admit, he’s hot. But finding a man attractive and being attracted to him are entirely different, so why’s the line blurring? Why am I attracted to sexy Frank Jones?

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, “I’m acting like a child.” Reaching out I grasped the handle, took a deep breath and pulled.

“’Scuse me.”

I recoiled, a little squeak popping out from between my tightly pressed lips as my heel ground into something firm beneath it.

“Bugger! Was that your foot?” I turned and stared in consternation at the size nine I’d just crushed with my clumsy heel. I couldn’t see his toes, but was convinced they must be swelling up as I spoke. “I’m really sorry; you surprised me.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the foot.

“It’s okay. Really.”

Am I over it?
Am I over that dream?

I looked up into Frank’s friendly face. It was that smile, the one from my dream, the one that made me go weak at the knees.

“No, I’m not,” I said conversationally as I drowned and he frowned in confusion, “I guess I’m not over it after all.”

22 September

I sipped my wine, cold and refreshing. “I have never run so fast in my life.” I could feel Martha’s gaze and kept my own eyes pointed firmly down. I didn’t need to see the amused pity to know it was plastered all over my friend’s face.

“He was so confused. First of all I’m blabbering about his foot then, as soon as he tells me it’s okay, I look him in the eye and state that I’m not over it after all. He must think I’m totally bonkers. And then, without another word, I ran away like a third-rate Olympic sprinter. When I got to the corner, I risked a look back down the road. He was still standing there, staring.”

Martha patted my hand in sympathy, “do you fancy him?”

I’d been mulling that question over and over in my mind since the whole sorry event had happened. Had it been embarrassment or something else; something infinitely more dangerous that had caused my momentary panic?

Replay of The Dream
,
maybe?

Six hours had passed since that (
mortifying
) encounter. Six hours in which I had desperately searched for answers, only to be confronted with just more and more questions. Martha had to be able to help.