The Art of Keeping Faith

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN-13: 978-1-61935—
436-4

www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

For my mum and dad.

For always having faith in me

no matter what I do.

Acknowledgements

I have so many people to thank for helping me with this book. As this book is plenty long enough, I am going to keep this short and sweet.

Thank you to Verity for reading my initial draft with its million mistakes. Thank you to Dave Taylor for putting me on the straight and narrow and coaching me to push myself harder to get the perfect story. Thanks to Zoe and Heather, for reading and loving my work, despite the typos I send your way. Thank you to Kim for being such an avid supporter of my books. Lastly, thank you to Naomi for giving me a stern lesson in punctuation. You are the comma Queen!

Finally, as always, my love and thanks go to my amazing family and Mr. B., for continuing to support me in my dream.

A.B.

September

Breathing Again

I stand and glare at the stage and all the people around me. Well, I’m attempting a hard glare, but as I can only see through one eye I may not be having the desired effect.

I’m glaring at my friends because I hate them. I’m glaring through one eye because I have drunk two bottles of wine to relieve the pain of being forced to attend the Freshers’ Ball.

It’s bad enough that I dream about a Freshers’ Ball every single night. Not this shit one. No, I dream about the Ball last year and the night that changed my life.

This time though we are the dignified second year students watching the Freshers roll about drunk, snogging anyone who steps into their path, while spreading Freshers’ flu like wild fire.

I don’t want to be here. I want to be home in front of the laptop stalking Ben. My Ben. The single best thing to ever happen to me.

Ben left in June just like I asked him to, but he didn’t leave me. Instead I found him waiting for me on the fountain at Trafalgar Square, which is where I ran to like a demented person after opening his Post-it note.

“Lilah, I’m always going to be waiting for you,” he’d said. Then he stood up from the edge of the fountain, slid his hands along my throat, and leant in to kiss me, making my knees give an almighty Elvis wobble as I realized the enormity of the situation.

I knew that I would always wait for him, too, no matter how long it took for us to be together properly. I would never let him go.

Now it’s the Freshers’ Ball and unlike last year there is a terrible band playing and the lead singer is leaving a lot to be desired—well he is ginger for a start.

The two bottles of wine have had the desired effect and I’m using the wall as a support because the room is spinning badly while my friends twirl about in front of me. I’m about to tell them I am leaving because the Ball sucks, when through one eye I notice the person singing is not the same as before. The new singer is six foot two, has a shock of black hair and flashing blue eyes that are pinned on me from the stage.

Ben?

It can’t be. Ben is in America having his photo taken with skinny American stick insects.

This must be a dream. The same dream I have been having all summer where my poor deluded brain imagines Ben just turning up and sweeping me off my feet.

The singer has changed the tune and I recognize it straight away. Taylor Swift’s “Love Story.” This dream sucks far worse than the others.

I turn to leave and hear the crowd shout as I walk toward the door. I’m about to walk through when a hand grabs hold of me, fingers linking through my own. I spin and turn, looking up into sparkly blue eyes, the colour of the sky at midday.

Ah, pretty.

“You know, it’s rude to leave when someone is singing to you.” A tall dark head lowers to look at me.

“Ben?”

“Lilah.”

“Ben?”

“My God, I love you, Lilah McCannon.” Then his lips press against mine and I finally feel like I can breathe.

15th September

Silence

That’s strange. Taylor’s gone. For the first time in weeks I haven’t woken up to her relentless singing. Admittedly she has been replaced by a very loud steam engine noise but the silence can only mean one thing. Ben is here and last night was not a dream.

“How’s the head, Lilah?” Ben slides his leg over mine. I’m just thinking, ’Ben is here.’ Closely followed by, ‘Why don’t I remember anything?’

“You’re here.”

I feel his arms tighten round me. “Yes I’m here, crazy girl.”

“I can’t believe you are here,” I say. Although what I mean is ‘I can’t believe you are finally here,’ and it feels like someone is smashing my brain in with an axe.

“What on earth happened?” I ask with a pain-induced groan.

”You were very, very pleased to see me.” He chuckles against my ear and his warm breath slides along my throat. I want to open my eyes to look at him; just to make sure I haven’t completely lost the plot.

“And then?”

“You decided to celebrate my return by knocking back countless tequilas.”

Ah, tequila. That is what I can taste.

“Sorry, it was not a very romantic reunion,” I say grimacing, an action hindered by the throbbing pain in my forehead.

“That’s okay we have time to make up for it.” Ben’s arms tighten around me.

“Still, I’m sorry. I know we can’t have much time together.”

“Lilah.” He kisses along my jaw. “I am just so glad to be home with you, even if it is only for a couple of days.”

A couple of days?

“Did you fly home just to play the ball?”

“No, crazy girl. I flew home so I could make sure you got home safely from the ball. It’s part of my ‘Lilah McCannon’s boyfriend job description.’

His words make tears sting behind my closed eyelids.

I attempt to move again. This time I manage to maneuver myself over to him, my eyes still firmly closed against reality, and slide my hand over his chest and stomach.
What the hell!
My eyes fly open and I struggle to sit up, clutching my head as I do. “Jeez, have you got a bloody six-pack?” I am astounded. I mean he’s always been slim and defined, but a six-pack?

“Yep, the record label has made us work harder than you’ll ever know.” The blues glint in what must be late morning sunshine. Great, I have wasted our few precious hours together in a zombie state. Way to go, Lilah.

I stare at him for a moment, it’s hard not to, he has always been shit hot. Now he is shit hot with a six-pack. I am drooling and I know it. Then I notice something else. “Fucking hell, Ben, have you got a tattoo?!”

My Ben has damaged himself permanently with ink. Oh, how the angels must have wept. I can’t make it all out. It is on his left hip and it runs around his back. “Roll over,” I insist.

“Oh and to think I have been waiting weeks for you to say that to me.”

“Funny, Chambers, now roll over.”

He does and I stare for a moment longer before big fat girly tears start to leak down my face landing on the inked skin.

“Lilah?” He turns back over to face me.

“Why did you have that done?”

“I thought you would like it?”

“I do.” I roll him back over to look again.

Ben’s had ‘
Foi Vainquera
’ tattooed on his left hip. It is the phrase I had engraved on the ring I gave him before he left
——Faith Conquers. The ring he is still wearing on his right hand. Just like I am still wearing his gran’s Sapphire solitaire on my right-hand ring finger.

They mean something. I am not sure what.

I risk a glance down at myself; it is as I expected. I am still wearing most of last night’s outfit, and there is a smear of mascara across my pillow, which means there must be an identical one across my face. Shit.

“Stay right there.” I wag my finger and edge off the bed heading toward the door.

I need to shower and then I need to have sex. Lots and lots of sex.

Three minutes later

Ben walks into the bathroom and steps into the shower with me. “You were too long,” he murmurs against my neck. His hands slide down my soapy back and pull me in tight against him.

“Sorry,” I say, although I am not really that sorry. This works just as well for me.

“I have missed you, Lilah.” His hands help me work the shampoo lather out of my hair.

“I missed you, too,” I tell him in earnest before I pull his mouth down to mine. It’s probably better to keep just how much I have missed him to myself.

He’s here now, and that is all that matters.

My hand strays to his washboard abs again. Yep, they are still there.

“Are you going to feel my stomach muscles all day?”

I pretend to think about this for a moment. “Yes,” I reply with absolute certainty.

“Well then, could you go a little lower?” He bites my lip a little and my stomach, which has no muscle tone whatsoever, makes an alarming drop in response.

I lower my hand about 1 cm starting to giggle, which is so not cool or sexy.

“Low enough?”

“A little lower.”

“Low enough?”

“Just a little lower.”

He doesn’t give me any chance to answer. He sweeps me up and I slide my legs around his waist as he walks us back to my room and I screech my head off in uncontrollable giggles.

Ben is here.

Two hours later

“So what time do you need to go?” I hate to ask but I also need to know.

“What is this? Use me and abuse me?”

I wiggle myself closer so we are touching all the way along our bodies. My skin sings where we touch. “No, it’s just easier to manage if I know.”

“Well, what time is your first lecture tomorrow?”

Oh, reality.

A reality where I pretend to be an intellectual at University, but only managed to squeeze back in for the second year by two marks. A reality where I live with my twin, Tristan the Arse, who is back in full Arse-mode, and my bestie, Meredith, who are planning their super romantic wedding for just as soon as our degree is over. A reality where I spend every Saturday pissed, drinking Budweiser at Big Baz’s music shop, where I struggle to sell any instruments let alone attempt to play them.

A reality where my boyfriend lives in a different country to me …

I tighten my arms around him a little. “Nine-thirty,” I grumble.

“Ooh, that’s early. Have you been up that early once the whole holiday?”

How rude. “Yes, for your information I got up once, three weeks ago at eight-thirty because Big Baz could not open the shop.”

Ben chuckles into my ear.

“So what hours have you been working?” I ask. It can’t be that hard, can it? Making an album? Surely they just party all the time—that’s what the photo’s look like anyway.

“You have no idea, Lilah. It has been tough going.”

“What, no fun?”

“I think I laughed once.”

“Yeah, when was that?”

“It was when I called you and you were in a coma, and Tristan spent five minutes trying to wake you up.”

“Really?” I am actually quite proud—that was a true vodka coma and it annoyed Tristan for days.
Result!

“Really.”

“Oh.”

“Just in case you don’t believe me, Lilah, I have missed you. I’ve missed being home with you. Nowhere has felt like it even could be home.” His fingers trail up my spine and my skin tingles beneath his touch.

I know what he means, even this flat, which I own with my own money, does not feel like home apart from right now while he is lying next to me. Ben helped me choose the flat but we both knew he would not be living here with me. That is a reality that is not ours at the moment. “I know.”

We lie in silence for a few moments as his fingers continue their relaxing pattern, I have no plans to move today. I am staying right here.

4.30 p.m.

I don’t think Ben planned to move either, until he got up to get a snack.

We have spent the day in bed participating in some serious catch up time. That was until about half an hour ago. He announced he was starving hungry and could I stop distracting him from daily essentials such as eating. He got up, pulled on his jeans, and padded barefoot through to the kitchen, before reappearing two minutes later with a look of disgust on his face. “Lilah, there is no food! Like none. What on earth have you been eating?”

I contemplate my response for a moment. What have I been eating?

“Cheese.”

“Cheese and what?”

“Cheese.”

“So where is the cheese now?”

“I finished it, two days ago.”

The blues widen in alarm.

“Don’t panic,” I reassure him. “I did have some breadsticks and pickles occasionally as well.”

It is a well-known fact that I can’t cook, and I don’t mean I like to cook but occasionally make gastronomic mistakes. What I mean is that I truly cannot cook. My efforts usually end up causing blood loss or the shits.

I have been eating more than cheese, but I am unwilling to divulge that Tristan, Meredith, and I have called for a takeaway every night for two months.

That would not get the Benjamin Chambers Head Chef nod of approval. “I’m going to the shops,” he proclaims like he has just announced he is ‘going to war.’

“Excellent, can you get some milk?”

“You think? And the rest of the shop …” He turns and grabs his keys before heading over to give me a kiss good-bye.

Excellent, I will just have time to write my Uni Rules before he gets back.

Freshers’ Ball Post-Mortem

Or not.

Meredith has crawled in under my duvet. I don’t have the heart to tell her that she probably doesn’t want to come into the not very fresh sex-pit.