Kept (4 page)

‘Honey, are you OK?’ I could hear my mother’s voice,
somewhere in the distance.

Blinking open my eyes I was immediately hit by the hideous
colour of the walls, then an overwhelming smell of unpleasantness – a
combination of school dinners left to fester floating around with about six
weeks of dirty laundry, a rugby team’s dirty laundry. I retched, noticing an
acidic dryness in my mouth. It seemed I had the mother of all hangovers with no
recollection of the night’s shenanigans.

Peering around uncertainly I saw I was in a small room, an
unfamiliar one with goose grey walls. Opposite to where I was propped up on the
world’s most rock solid bed were balloons and flowers, the balloons all bearing
the message “Get Well Soon”, tethered to a drip stand.
 
I was in the hospital? My mind felt cloudy.
What was I doing in a hospital?

‘Mum?’ I groaned, instantaneously reverting to the scared
six-year-old child who had been taken kicking and screaming to have her tonsils
removed. I only went quietly after I was promised a kitten, a sleek, black
little thing we called Bentley who sadly got hit by a car when I was thirteen.

‘It’s OK, darling. You were in an accident but you’re going
to be OK,’ she soothed.

I struggled to sit up, my lower left leg feeling heavy and
my mouth dry. ‘What happened?’

‘You broke your ankle, darling. You’ve been a bit out of it
from the pain,’ she explained, pouring a glass of water for me.

‘Am I in Bournemouth?’ I couldn’t focus. What had I been up
to, and why was my head so woozy? I gratefully took a sip of the water, but it
didn’t taste like the usual Wessex water.

‘No, London. Your friend Piers rang us to tell us what
happened but Dad had to go to his conference in Paris. He wasn’t going to go,’
she added quickly, ‘but Piers insisted he’d be happy to help out until you’re
back on your feet.’

My head was swimming. I didn’t know anyone called Piers but,
then again, Mum had never been any good with names. She could have meant Liam,
or equally Laura, that’s how bad she was. More pressingly, why was I in London
and what had I been doing to break my ankle?

‘Oh, OK.’ My head was feeling light and I really didn’t care
who Piers was,
if
that was even his
name. All I cared about was trying to stop my head from spinning.

‘I’ll just close my eyes for a second,’ I mumbled weakly,
putting down my drained glass, and with that I guess I must have drifted back
off to sleep...

‘You can’t keep away, can you?’ I smiled happily.

I was so bored, I was happy to see anyone who cared to visit
me, but I was especially happy to see Piers. Piers who was visiting me a lot.
Every day in fact.

‘Guilty conscience.’ He smiled back, kissing my forehead,
leaving behind a note of lime. Ermenegildo Zegna’s Italian Bergamot, I would
learn later. One hand was hidden behind his back but he suddenly brought it
forward noticing my curious expression. It was a present. Another one.

Five days had passed since the accident and whereas it would
have been considered normal medical practice for me to have been discharged,
they were keeping me in for observation. Apparently my blood pressure was
worryingly high for a girl my age. I couldn’t think why. I mean, there was the
credit card nightmare and the lack of job and clue and direction in my life,
but surely they couldn’t be generating such cause for concern? As a nation of
debt, wouldn’t we all have permanently high blood pressure? I was hardly a
heart attack waiting to happen at twenty-one, or at least I hoped not.

‘Piers!’ I said warningly. ‘I told you, no more presents!’

He had already given me a Gucci passport cover to match my
wallet, a key ring from Tiffany and a Prada mobile phone charm – the cute
little robot charm that everyone had coveted that season after spotting them
out and about on all the celebs’ antennas. They were small presents at the
bottom of the designer chain admittedly, but a very big deal to me.
   

‘Just one more.’ He pleaded this like it was his life’s
ambition to give me presents and I was ruining it. He had this way of making me
feel important.

I shot him a look, but secretly was thrilled not that he was
lavishing these generous gifts on me – not that I was complaining – but that
over the past few days we’d really clicked. It was like I could tell him
anything – anything at all, things you really shouldn’t blurt out to attractive
men unless you want them to think you have a screw loose and are therefore not
the girl for them. With Piers doing this it just seemed to add to his
estimation of me. Bizarrely.

I found him amusing. Fit, too. Undeniably so. Strangely, he
couldn’t seem to get enough of me either. I assumed that’s why he kept visiting
me. We traded secrets, fears, hopes and ambitions – though I didn’t mention my
debt issues and, oddly, I didn’t mention my fashion aspirations either – and we
made each other giggle for no reason whatsoever, just because we could. When
the nurse came in to tell us off she only made us giggle harder.

‘Please, just open it.’

How could I resist that cheeky grin? I nodded, and he handed
it to me. I tore it open like a child at Christmas. What fell out of the
elegantly wrapped present – the paper must have cost more than I’d spent on
wrapping paper in my lifetime – was a watch. But it was more than just
a
watch, it was an oyster-pearl
Rolex
. That explained the delicate
beading threaded through the present’s ribbon, as Piers liked to give clues
with his wrapping paper. The Prada robot charm came wrapped in robot-themed
paper but, wait, surely he hadn’t used real pearls to wrap the watch?

I gasped, too shocked to express thanks or insist that it
was too much, and made a note to have a proper look at the gift ribbon pearls
to see if they were as real as the watch. I wasn’t sure how much those watches
cost back then but I know now. I could have sold that watch and cleared my
debts. I’d even have had some cash to play with if the ribbon had real pearls
strung on it. Not that I could keep it.

‘Before you say anything, Arielle, please, hear me out,’ he
began nervously, fidgeting
 
as he sat on
my bed.

I nodded, flipping over the watch to examine every nook and
cranny. I was trying to avoid looking at Piers because he seemed so nervous and
I wasn’t sure what my face would betray. Funny though, I didn’t realise guys
like Piers knew how to be nervous.

‘These past few days–’ he trailed off. ‘What I mean to say
is–’

He sounded so cute and I smiled to myself but then the image
of a dark-haired child with my eyes suddenly hit me. Woah! Where had that
sprung from? I suddenly wished for that heart attack to get me out of this but
when I looked up at him he looked so terrified that I no longer felt worried. I
felt it too. I wanted us to be friends when I moved to London. I’d always
wanted a gay best friend and maybe if I never married, maybe I could be the
mother of his child. My own father doted on me – how lucky would a child be to
have a mum and
two
dads who loved
him?

My fuzziness went cold though when he suddenly cleared his
throat. Maybe he was trying to tell me that this was it – that he’d paid his
dues to the clingy girl who talked too much, that he’d been stuck with ever
since he had the unfortunate pleasure of knocking her down. He appeared to be
struggling with some inner battle – dumping someone, even a friend, is never
easy – but finally he managed to spill out his words in a way that would sound
clumsy only to someone who could not see his face; his face corrected his
ineloquence and I knew Piers wanted me to remain in his life.

‘I like you, Arielle. I really like you and, before you say
anything, please, just listen. I know we’ve only known each other five days but
you are the first girl I have ever taken time off work to be with, which, trust
me, is a pretty big deal.’ He laughed nervously.

So far, so good.

‘From the moment I knocked you over... well, I was overcome.
I’ve been worried sick about you and I want to continue to worry about you.’ He
shot me an unfathomable look.

I shot him a puzzled, almost scared look back. I had been
feeling quite dizzy with joy at his words but then I panicked. Did Piers know
something about my worrying blood pressure that I didn’t? Oh God, was I dying?
Is that why he had bought me the Rolex because he knew I was on my deathbed and
he’d get it back soon? Was he implying I had a reason to be worried? He was “worried
sick” and was going to continue to be worried about my sickness?

‘Piers?’ I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Why hadn’t anyone
informed me I was dying? If I was allowed the chance to get better, I’d go out
and achieve. I’d stop wasting my life if only I still had a life left to live.
I’d do something wonderful. I couldn’t cure cancer or anything – I’d probably
kill more patients than I’d heal with my lack of biology skills – but I could
still do something meaningful.

‘What I mean,’ he hurriedly added, on seeing the alarm on my
face, ‘is that I want to make sure you never have to worry again. I want to be
there for you.’

‘How long have I got left?’ I managed to ask. I would be
strong. I would not cry. Well, not until Piers had left the room and then I would
blub like a baby.

‘Left?’

‘I’m dying?’

‘Arielle, no! Or at least, I hope not because–’

 
‘Well, what is it
Piers?’ I asked him gently, aware of my wildly beating heart. No wonder my
blood pressure was high with all this drama.

‘Look, Arielle, it’s like this.’ He gulped. ‘I want to be
there for you and not because you’re dying,’ he quickly added, ‘but because I
don’t want you to worry about anything ever again. Come home and stay with me
whilst you heal and have your physio, and when you’re better and can go, stay
so I can look after you in health. I want you, Arielle,’ he finished in a great
rush, ‘if you’ll have me, that is?’

I stared at him incredulously as the penny dropped, my heart
racing. ‘You’re not–’ I couldn’t finish that sentence off. Of course he wasn’t
gay.

I had suspected he liked me, just as friends though – almost
like a little sister – and I did wonder at first it he really was afraid I
would sue him. I suspected that was why he had paid to have me moved into a
private room and had promised to foot all the bills associated with my
recovery. When he promised to keep visiting because Mum had to rush back home –
one of the neighbours had phoned to report a break-in to one of the garages,
Dad was still in Paris – I thought he agreed because he felt obliged through
guilt, not because of anything else. I hadn’t realise he
liked
me in the way he seemed to be suggesting.

I know he
had
spent from morning until night chatting with me, but wasn’t all this a little
too soon? And what exactly
was
this? Was
he trying to trap me whilst my defences were down? Was I being shown the real
Piers Bramley? I couldn’t help feeling suspicious; silly really because I
really trusted him. I’d never once felt uncomfortable with Piers and I’d never
really trusted men. It had to mean something.
 

This was also confusing because Piers was a gorgeous bloke,
one who could have his pick of London’s finest. I was aware he didn’t have to
literally
pick a girl off the street to
get someone; one look at him would tell any sane person that. Piers was tall,
dark and handsome – that old chestnut – and you could see he was well-defined
underneath his clothes, despite his appalling taste in the clothes themselves.
Still, he made appalling look appealing.

From his presents and lifestyle hints he was clearly loaded
and I was certain if he walked into a bar he’d leave with several numbers.
Numbers pressed onto him, both from females and males, so why was he single? He
could have his pick of the best, so why would he have wanted me?

Attractive as I was, I didn’t have grace and poise and I was
nowhere near Piers’ league. Surely he realised that? We’d met by my clumsiness!
I didn’t have Piers’ patience or charm – if only he’d lectured me on economics
at Warwick,
then
I’d have understood
derivatives – and I was no socialite. I couldn’t even get a job; I was a
debt-ridden, unemployed graduate. I was not a catch for a man like Piers
Bramley; I was the dregs you threw back overboard.

Oh yes, I was definitely an unemployed graduate having
picked up my voicemail just before Piers had arrived to be informed by a very
gleeful-sounding Penelope Whitter that I wasn’t of a high enough calibre to
join their company but good luck for the future. No surprise there.

But, what were my options? I could go home, recover, start
the job process all over again for jobs I neither cared about, nor wanted, and
which I probably wouldn’t get anyway. With those thoughts swirling around,
combined with a hopeful Piers gazing at me in admiration, longing, wonder or
insanity (his, not mine), I finally looked up from staring at the Rolex again
to answer Piers. I couldn’t see
any
downside to what he was offering me – why shouldn’t I recover in London with
him? Friendships had struck up under stranger circumstances.

Thinking about it, Piers was offering an alternative, an
easier
way of life, and he’d already met
Mum and passed that test. People get together romantically after one night in a
bar and I had actually got to know Piers, sober, as friends. This was the
perfect solution.

‘I’d love to,’ I said, blushing at his delighted whoop and
grin.

Should I have said no? No, I don’t think so.

‘Wow!’ I couldn’t help but gasp as he helped me hobble
into his massive Chelsea pad, although secretly I was slightly disappointed he
hadn’t carried me in because wasn’t that how a fairytale was supposed to play
out? ‘It’s breath-taking.’

I was hovering with the aid of my hideous crutches in the
most gorgeous room I had ever seen, outside of the movies or a magazine that
is. Open-plan, it looked like a light-flooded cavern, rather like Aladdin’s
cave filled with the modern-day equivalent of treasure. The ceilings were high
and the windows stood impressively floor to ceiling making the whole room
glisten in the morning sunlight with the solid red cherry flooring providing a
flattering contrast to all the light. It looked high maintenance, but the
morning sunlight which should have betrayed dust indicated a cleaner; the
tasteful decor, outside help. There had to have been outside help considering
Piers’ style.

His attire may have been expensive, but his
taste
was hideous; loud and vulgar in
that City boy way making him look tackier than a plastic Christmas tree adorned
with that truly terrifying red tinsel. It shocked me that anyone would sell him
the shirt-tie combinations he wore though he probably bought them separately to
avoid accusations of crimes against fashion and humanity. No doubt he was
obliviously unaware of the screams engendered by the sight of his outfits
because I’m certain he wasn’t a deliberately cruel man to inflict such torture
on others.

I know I wouldn’t have been able to look anyone in the eye,
let alone willingly leave the house, in his clothes, which puzzled me. Where
did his abundant confidence come from? It couldn’t have stemmed from his
clothes because he
oozed
charisma and
confidence. I knew he’d had an expensive education but whereas they excelled in
teaching him good old-fashioned manners, their fashion curriculum was found
wanting.

His dress-sense, lack-of, was why I was truly shocked to
discover the tasteful decoration. It wasn’t all chrome, leather and animal
print like I had expected and even though the boy’s toys were undeniably
present, they were expertly blended in with London’s finest fittings and
furnishings – not that I knew who made these because IKEA was the extent of my
house knowledge at that point. I suspected foul play, a woman’s touch. I hoped
for a professional rather than the work of an ex.
 

‘Do you really like it?’ He grinned, evidently quite
house-proud as he helped me to his sofa.

Hold up, weren’t sofas passé? An ironic statement, perhaps?
Whatever it was, it worked. I had to give her snaps. It had to be a “she” as I
didn’t pick up on a gay vibe – the décor wasn’t pretty enough.

Sinking down into the possibly passé sofa’s voracious
cushions as Piers tugged off my lone shoe, I sighed, glad to be so comfortable.
The sofa was heaven, the palest swirl of cornflower blue and plush, but it
didn’t exactly match my hideous cast. Nothing matched that, much to my immense
despair.

‘Here, here,’ he continued before I could answer him. ‘Put
your foot up. We need to keep you elevated.’

He really had paid attention to the doctor’s instructions
and I felt a tiny fizzle of something at his attentiveness to me. Piers made me
feel like the most important person in the room. Fair enough, I
was
currently the only person in the
room, but I knew with some men that even if you were the only person in the
room you could be treated like part of the furniture. Piers was nothing like
that sort of man I had quickly learned.
 

‘Thank you.’ I smiled as he gently swivelled my body around
so I could prop myself up against the body-swallowing goose-soft cushions. ‘And
yes, I really like it,’ I reassured him. How could I not like
her
taste? Which I guess was Piers’
taste by association, or rather by payment.

‘I’m glad, but I must admit something devious, Arielle.’ He
sounded a little naughty. It was ridiculously hot.

‘What’s that?’ I sank further down into those heavenly
cushions – my parents really needed to buy some of those.

‘I used a designer!’ He told me this like he’d just admitted
to a big secret rather than to something very obvious. Bless. Did he honestly
believe anyone thought this work was his own? Surely any woman with an ounce of
(fashion) sense would realise from his shirts and ties that no man who dressed
like Piers could possibly produce a beautiful house like this – it was
statistically impossible; I was useless at maths but even I could calculate that
equation.

‘It’s obvious, you know.’ I said this kindly but immediately
regretted my words. Was I supposed to have acted mock-shocked at that
revelation? He had seemed to imply that it was a big deal admitting this
obvious “secret” to me. I wasn’t used to people like Piers.

His face twitched almost in horror at my exclamation. Uh-oh.
Clearly I had just committed some terrible breach of social etiquette that was
unfortunately unknown to me – one which Piers considered tantamount to murder
in his book. Oh crap, I was out of my depth. Maybe I should have gone back home
rather than take up Piers’ offer. I was only going to expose and embarrass
myself if I stayed with him. The hospital had been safe, neutral territory –
this scenario was a faux pas waiting to happen and it just had. Why hadn’t I
twigged this downfall before I had accepted his offer?
  

‘I mean–’ I rushed on, trying to frantically save myself
from my downfall – it surprised me I didn’t want him to think badly of me.
‘It’s so unusual to find a beautiful home. Unless the man is gay or his
ex-girlfriend decorated the place,’ I stupidly added.

Ah. Why couldn’t I control my run-away mouth? I’d just
implied he was girlfriendless, and therefore quite pathetic, or otherwise gay.
I was a guest in this man’s beautiful home. Even I should have had enough sense
to know not to insult my extremely generous host. Absolute idiot and, judging
by his silence, he was plainly trying to control his grimaces at my rookie
errors although not successfully which was causing him to grimace further. I
was a dreadful person.

‘Are you implying I don’t have taste, Arielle?’ he finally
mocked me with a twinkle in his eyes and a huge guffaw after the silence became
too much for me and I hid myself behind one of the cushions in the stupid hope
that as well as concealing me it would also turn back time and I could find my
manners.

I put the cushion down to look at Piers. ‘Well, your shirts
and ties are a little–’

I managed to stop myself in time before I re-insulted him.
What was up with me? Hadn’t I learnt my lesson yet? I usually only went into
blabber-mouth mode when I was nervous and I usually only became nervous if I
felt intimidated... OK, I felt intimated from my luxurious settings but I
feared the
other
nerve-producing option
was prone to be true, that I liked Piers.
Like,
liked him. Oh, of course I did. How could I not?

Thankfully, he didn’t get offended. He just laughed at the
look of horror on my face, before hopefully asking, ‘Loud? A little loud?’
 

Loud wasn’t the word I was going to use. It was a more
polite
word, but it wouldn’t have been
the word leaving my mouth.

‘I’d say more like a disastrous train wreck, if I’m honest.’
Why stop my blabber-mouth at this point?

Luckily, he saw the funny side. In fact, he was looking at
me like he thought my frank honesty was charming. ‘I happen to like my shirt
and tie,’ he jokingly huffed at me. ‘But do tell me where you think I’ve gone
wrong?’

He asked this like the question’s answer – my view – really
mattered to him. He really had the most impeccable manners, ever the gentleman,
and it made me feel even worse for my rudeness.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I muttered, mortified as a familiar
blush started creeping across my cheeks. ‘My opinion shouldn’t matter. You can
wear what you want if you’re happy with your choices.’

‘No, no, Arielle,’ he almost scolded me. ‘Your opinion
does
matter to me. I want to know. You
shouldn’t be afraid to be honest with me. If we’re going to be living together
then I don’t want your eyes to feel offended by my taste in shirts and ties.’

He said it seriously, but I wouldn’t let anyone influence my
fashion choices and tastes without throwing a strop. Piers didn’t seem bothered
I had offended him. He was more concerned he had offended me. Where was this
man from?

‘Your taste is fine,’ I squeaked, turning scarlet.

‘Clearly it isn’t,’ he probed, treating me to a
heart-stopping smile which did not help spare my blushes.

 
‘Only your taste in
shirts and ties. Your other taste is perfect.’

Apart from if he liked me, because that indicated his taste
in women was clearly a little flawed too. I still couldn’t understand that.
Especially now. Now only confirmed my incompatibility with this man.

 
‘Come on. Tell me
exactly
why
you are being so mean to
my poor defenceless shirts and ties.’ Seeing my face, he hurriedly continued:
‘I’m only teasing you, you know. I know I’m a little clueless in the fashion
stakes but it’s how all the other chaps dress. In all seriousness, what’s wrong
with them?’

How could I resist those eyes? Those gorgeous brown eyes
with the unfair long eyelashes framed perfectly by his quizzical eyebrows. How
could I let him ruin these gorgeous features through poor clothing decisions? I
couldn’t. I had to tell him for his own sake but where to start?

Piers was wearing a pink and white vertically-striped shirt.
No, I don’t mean baby pink.
Bright
pink. I know. His suit was gorgeously made, that dark navy that’s almost black,
but it had a faint dark navy pinstripe to it. As you can imagine it clashed terribly
with the shirt. The tie… Oh, the tie was the worst. I’m not talking character
tie bad but it was
horrific
combined
with his shirt and suit. It was a fat, red and navy-blue striped tie.
More
stripes. It did look silk and
expensive, probably Herm
è
s recalling the ties Mum bought
Dad, but it looked ridiculous with the rest of his outfit. It would have looked
devastatingly lovely with a nice, plain, light-blue shirt and the suit he was
wearing, but with this shirt? No way!

What did he see when he looked in the mirror? It was
apparent to me his mirror either was not been used and he was grabbing clothes
at random to wear, or perhaps it was one of those funny carnival mirrors.
Yikes. But, how could I put it nicely,
diplomatically
?
To prepare him for reality as gently as I could by making sure my blabber-mouth
didn’t blurt out the potentially soul-destroying truth that he should never be
allowed out in public with his current clothing choices.

‘Can I be completely honest?’

‘Of course, Arielle.’ He looked like he was going to whip
out a notepad and take notes on my very important words.

‘Well, answer this. Are you colour blind?’

Ah, not so tactful then. He roared with laughter though. ‘Do
I really look that bad?’

‘You look like you’re suffering from colour vomit.’

There really was no nicer way I could have put it because he
needed to hear the truth. He needed to stop for his own sake but also to stop
offending the public at large. It was my civic duty to tell him. He laughed
even more at that, not seeming the slightest bit offended by my remarks.

‘Yes, I have been told that before,’ he mused. ‘Although not
as wonderfully as you’ve just expressed it. You really are something else,
Arielle Lockley.’ He grinned, causing me to blush again and for Piers to grin
even more. ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you be in charge of my wardrobe
choices, shall I? You can be my wardrobe
mistress
.’

He was flirting with me. More blushes.

‘In fact,’ Piers continued, ‘I’ll remove the offending
garments so you know what you’ll be working with.’

I thought he was teasing me with his removal remark, that he
was only laughing off my remarks because that’s the sort of polite, nice
gentleman he was. I knew City boys’ egos could be fragile underneath their
ghastly attire – but slowly, like a stripper – not that I’ve ever seen a
stripper in my life, let me quickly point out – he took off his suit jacket and
threw it onto me. Dior Homme. Nice.

‘Piers.’ Something like a squeak escaped me. Surely he was
teasing? He wasn’t
really
going to
strip? I couldn’t run away with my ankle either so I would have to sit and
watch him if he was...
Oh
.

He ignored me, loosening his tie instead. Pulling it off, he
placed it around my neck. I was too transfixed to check the label because
slowly, and very deliberately, he was unbuttoning his shirt. All protests
rushed out of my head as he removed the offending shirt and threw it next to
me. I noticed it was John Varvatos, whoever he was. I was clueless when it came
to men’s fashion – not that men’s fashion was important when there was an
Adonis in front of me. I may have jumped his perfectly sculpted upper body if
I’d had full function of my legs and wasn’t frozen on the sofa in a weird mix
of mortification and lust. He had those stomach lines down past his hips. Those
defined
V-lines that were turning me
to jelly because I wanted to follow them southwards. My breathing felt ragged
in my chest at the thought.

‘Better?’ He slowly turned around so I could check out his
broad shoulders and deeply tanned torso as well. My breath caught as I noticed
the ink on his right shoulder blade.

‘It’s a quote from
The
Iliad
,’ he explained catching my look. Cue deeper blush, especially
considering his hand resting on his hip. I don’t think I could have coped in my
weakened state if he had moved his hand central and unzipped his trousers… It
was quite possible I would have swooned and fainted like an Edwardian heroine.