Safe word, p.1
Safe Word, page 1
SAFE WORD
CHARLOTTE BARNES
Copyright © 2022 Charlotte Barnes
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The right of Charlotte Barnes to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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First published in 2022 by Bloodhound Books.
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Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-7784-2
CONTENTS
Love best-selling fiction?
Also by Charlotte Barnes
Before
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Before
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Before
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Before
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Before
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Before
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgements
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ALSO BY CHARLOTTE BARNES
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The Cutter (book three)
BEFORE
I hadn’t expected him to be the cheap lead in a paperback romance. And yet, everything about the situation now spoke of melodrama. When I’d agreed to go home with him, I’d hoped to be swinging from the rafters; fingers knotted in hair and breath snatched clean out of me with the heat of it all. But instead, he was preparing for what looked more like a laughable re-enactment of something from a soft porn film – and not an especially good one at that. He dimmed the lights and queued a string of atmospheric instrumental tracks on the sound system, then set about lighting a collection of candles that made a circuit around the room. I sighed, and he must have heard the disappointment in it.
‘Did you think I’d rip your clothes off as soon as we walked through the door?’ He turned, blew the match out and dropped it in a nearby ashtray. ‘I somehow thought you’d appreciate a more gentlemanly approach than that.’
I laughed. ‘Why?’
He landed hard on the sofa alongside me. But he leaned forward to grab his drink as he answered, which shielded his face from view. ‘I thought you had more substance.’
The comment cut me; I guessed it was meant to.
‘I’m not sure hurting a girl’s feelings is the best way to get her into bed.’
He swallowed so deeply that I heard the gulp of his drink go down. ‘What makes you think I’m trying to get you into bed, Agnes?’
It felt like a second slash; a sharp blade gently piercing the skin, just enough to draw blood. After months of flirting, I’d been hoping for more than schoolboy antics to offend me, presumably as a ruse to make me more interested. If anything, it was having the opposite effect.
‘Look–’
He put his hand flat over my mouth and stifled the excuse I was about to make to leave. In a swift move, he snatched his hand away and kissed me instead. The force of the gesture set me back against the headrest of the sofa. My neck bent back at an uncomfortable angle and the weight of him pressed against me felt odd, awkward. But nothing in me wanted it to stop.
When he eventually pulled away, he laughed lightly, the huff of it falling against my lips before he righted himself and said, ‘It’s not that I don’t want to take you to bed, you understand that?’
I narrowed my eyes and searched his expression. There was a clue here to understanding him, if only I could ferret through the cloak folds long enough to find it. He was the one who’d initiated this, after all, and I refused to believe he’d brought me home with only candles, warm wine and soft insults in mind.
‘Why am I here?’ I asked eventually, when the knot of nerves gave way to something more like irritation, impatience.
He fidgeted about and opened his mouth once, twice before he managed to answer. ‘Agnes, why do you think I asked you about a safe word?’
CHAPTER ONE
I wear the name ‘wife’ in the same way I wear my engagement ring – with a pinch and a fake smile. That’s how he introduces me to people: ‘my wife’. I am a nameless creature rolled out at business events and then shuffled home in a chauffeured car, to the two-storey cottage with an impeccable front garden; a landscape minded by a young and clichéd handsome man from two villages over. He comes and he tends and I pay him – because horticulture is one of many areas in which I have failed. But in being wife I am impeccable: conventionally attractive; astute enough to laugh at the right jokes; mostly quiet with my opinions. If someone were to shake me, I sometimes worry at the things that would come tumbling out.
‘Agnes?’ He clicked his fingers in front of my face. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Do we really have to go to this, Fin?’ I kept a look out of the window as I spoke. Dermot and Xara were having an argument right there on their front lawn and I thought if I paid close enough attention I’d stand a chance of lip-reading their dispute. I sighed: This is what I’d been reduced to. When Fin and I met, I was better than this. I was–
‘You’re not listening to me.’ He turned me roughly, one finger under my chin to yank my face. ‘Yes, we have to go. Yes, you need to show up for me. This company has put a lot of money into the department, and you know what that means.’ With a finger still pressed to my chin, he guided my head into a nod. Yes, Finian. No, Finian. Three bags– ‘There will be some of the old lot there, so you’ll have someone to talk to. A few of them are married off themselves now.’ He let me go, then, and crossed to the large mirror on the other side of the bedroom. ‘It’ll be good for you to mix with others.’
When he says ‘the old lot’, he means people I used to work with. Finian and I studied for our doctorate degrees at the same university. Mine, English literature; his, geography. Our earliest years together were spent arguing over the relevance of each subject and now, given that he was a working lecturer and I was a housewife with no family to nurture, it felt as though the final dig of the argument had been made. I sometimes wondered whether that’s why he’d relegated me to being this angel of his house; to prove a point.
Sometime during our second year of study, we started to have sex in every corner of the campus. Sometime during our teacher training – also together – he proposed. I was young and whimsical enough to believe it was a good idea; too much time with my head spent in books, my mother might have said. Still, when I make a decision I stick to it, and that applied to the engagement, the wedding and now, this, our blissful, glossy marriage. Six months after the wedding was when Fin dropped the bombshell, though – ‘Why do you even need to work?’ – and whenever I provided him with ammunition of a difficult day in the classroom, an avalanche of marking, the endless inter-department emails, he would boomerang them back to me and dangle the proverbial carrot: ‘Don’t you want an easier life, sweetheart? A life away from it all?’ He was on a full-time contract by then while I was a fractional worker; in one classroom for half the week and another for the rest. He could afford to carry us for a while; that was the party line he eventually won with. The suggestion that this would be temporary; that one day, I might be a three-dimensional working-woman again. Only soon, children were mentioned; trying for a family: ‘Doesn’t it make sense that you’d stay home with them?’
We don’t yet have children. And on my worst days I imagine the mustard wallpaper in the would-be nursery might be housing a mirror image of myself who lives in the pattern. If that happens to be true, I hope her life is a damn sight more exciting.
He was still looking at himself, straightening his tie, when I said, ‘You look good.’ This was my expected line. And I delivered it with such conviction that he cocked an eyebrow at his reflection, straightened his tie again, and shrugged as though double-checking the fit of his blaze r. It fit perfectly, of course. Fin’s measurements are something I know by heart; my recall is great for ‘important’ information like that. When he didn’t answer I added, ‘I would.’
His head snapped up, then, and he stared at me through the looking glass. ‘We don’t have time, Agnes.’
I walked over and wrapped my arms around him until my hands settled on his hips. My chin rested neatly on his shoulder, such was our convenient height difference – and my strategic use of the lowest kitten heels available. He was looking at me in the mirror still, but I kept my eyes hooded beneath glittered lids. ‘You’re the boss.’
I heard him huff out a near-laugh, and I knew he must be smiling.
This was also my expected line.
There were people waiting with red and white offerings when we arrived outside the venue. If I’d been from the donating company, I’d wonder how many of the bottles I’d paid for versus how many sites of historic and geographic interest I’d helped to discover. But what do I know? I took a glass of white for me, red for Fin; he hated the taste but he thought the colour looked better on him.
On the journey to the hall Fin had coached me on the people to look out for; those from his department – as though I were a rookie – and those from outside the department. Apparently one of the donors was known for being hard to get close to but Fin seemed determined, and said, ‘You were always good at breaking down walls whenever someone new came into the fold. Use your natural charms, okay?’ He tapped my arse lightly then held his arm up for me to loop a hold of. The room was swamped by people eager to impress and be impressed, and I was already calculating the likely timescale for our escape. We should have decided on a safe word. Still, at least if academia went in for centrefolds, we would have been first pick in the place; just how Fin liked it.
‘Dr and Mrs Villin, a joy to have you here as always.’
Dr and Dr. ‘Jim, always a pleasure, never a chore.’ I let him kiss my cheek while I fixed a smile in place just in time for when he backstepped from me. ‘I’m still clinging onto that doctorate for dear life, though, and don’t you forget it.’ I winked.
‘You’re no longer teaching?’ The question came from a woman I didn’t know: petite; pretty; she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He hasn’t mentioned you…
‘Agnes decided to take some time off,’ Fin leapt in. ‘Stressful, isn’t it, the teaching malarkey?’ He looked around the tight group for support and there came a grumble of it. Then, in such a presumptuous gesture that only an entitled male would dare to make it, he set the palm of his hand flat against the round of my belly and said, ‘Besides, we’re hoping there’ll be good reason for her to stay at home soon.’
‘Congratulations!’ The same woman as before burst out with such an excitement, and in that second I thought: Be careful with that attitude, dear, because the wolves will get you.
My smile pulled tight. ‘Fin is looking to the future. We’re not there, yet.’
‘The trying isn’t the worst thing in the world, though, is it?’
‘Trust you, Philip, Christ.’
‘It’s not an old boys’ brigade here anymore, or did you not get the memo?’
‘Oh, I likely got it; but it’s buried under twenty others.’
There was a chorus of laughter, then, as though Philip had made the comedy crack of the century. I side-eyed Fin and saw his teeth glint; lips parted in a snarl of amusement. The conversation that followed washed over me. It was part of my housewifery skillset to arrange my face into something that looked like I was actively listening, but it wasn’t until I heard my name that I tuned back in.
‘I’m just going to aim Agnes at him.’
‘At who, sorry?’ I asked.
‘The donor, sweetheart.’
‘Denis Miracle,’ Jim filled in the blank of the man’s name. ‘And don’t think we haven’t made our fair share of jokes about that around the office.’
‘Welsh, I believe,’ I said before a sip of wine. Jim’s eyes spread in surprise and I laughed as I lowered my glass. ‘Don’t be so surprised, Jim, they don’t take the knowledge out of your head when you leave academia. Language still exists.’ I felt Fin tighten his grip around my hand and I knew I’d gone too far. ‘Besides, where else will I use these silly words if not for impressing the most attractive geography department this side of the equator?’
Fin loosened his hold then, as though to say, Yes, that’s more like it. ‘Sweetheart, why don’t we do a lap and find Denis?’ he suggested.
I spent the rest of the evening flirting – just enough, but not too much – with anyone Finian pointed me at. In losing my worth among the latest literary debates, my worth had been replaced, instead, with my ability to make people part with their money – and/or their senses. But by the time the driver was collecting us for the journey home, Fin was smiling and sighing in a way that marked a job well done (on my part), so I knew the talents hadn’t failed me. We didn’t try for idle conversation, only looked out of our respective windows and kept our hands clasped in the centre seat between us. It wasn’t until the city was a safe distance behind us that I asked, ‘Who’s the woman?’
‘Dr Loughty. Irene.’
I noted that he knew exactly who I meant. But I only answered, ‘I see.’
CHAPTER TWO
I stood at the window and watched Fin leave. He told me he’d be late home from work because of a staff meeting, following the big benefit bash the week before. I cherished these moments when he cared enough to lie to me – and when I cared enough to believe him. I’d acquiesced as though I were disappointed and promised dinner in the oven, home-cooked (by someone), and ready for him.
‘Don’t wait up,’ he’d said, ‘I might hit the gym afterwards if there’s time.’
I would spend the morning thinking about the sweat he’d leave for me to wash off his clothes when he came home. After he left, I took my first tea of the day in the living room window. I saw Dermot and Xara leave then, too, holding hands and talking without a force. Although their recent arguments were still written across Xara’s face; laughter lines replaced by worry. She kissed his cheek and saw him into the car, then backstepped to the house as he pulled away. Xara was another member of the non-working club. I remained convinced that I’d once seen her trimming the lawn of their front garden to an exact length with a pair of household scissors, and I wondered when she’d last had an orgasm.
Hardly a minute had passed on her closing the door when my mobile chirped.
‘Hi, beautiful,’ I answered, and I thought I heard Xara blush through the speaker.
‘Ag, you old charmer–’
‘Less of the old,’ I cut her off. ‘This is an early call?’
There was a long pause. ‘Do you fancy tea?’
Ah, so she’s ready for share-time. ‘I’ll never turn down tea. Your place or mine?’
‘Nicole’s?’
Fuck. ‘Is it a mother’s meeting that we’re having?’
‘God, I hope so, I could do with a good moan.’
My lips thinned to hold in a laugh. I couldn’t shake the orgasm idea. ‘Nicole’s it is, then. What time shall I pop over?’
