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“Who?” he asked.
“Somebody I haven’t seen in years turned up at the gallery. So I’m going to catch up with him.” I tried to sound matter-of-fact, but it wouldn’t work with my husband.
“Him?” His tone dropped a few notches into colder territory.
“Yes. Not an ex,” I added, “just somebody I saw from time to time.”
“His name?”
“Dougie.”
“I don’t remember you mentioning him.” Jason knew the names of my serious ex-boyfriends and previous Dominants.
“I’d put him out of my head.” I had, and I’d hoped he’d stay there.
“Why?”
“Because,” I bit on my lip, “Dougie was his friend.” I whispered his name. “They were friends from his army days, and Dougie used to visit—”
“You’re not fucking seeing him,” Jason growled.
I should obey that voice, but I couldn’t. Even though Jason had told me not to meet Dougie, in my heart I knew I would, and for an inexplicable reason, it was important that I did.
“Sorry. I have to.” I hung up. My disobedience would infuriate Jason to the point of rage. He had taken Joshua to Blythewood for a swim, and I was miles away by the Thames in the centre of London.
I had less than an hour to entertain my gallery guests. I touched up my make-up, plastered on a fake smile, and stepped out into the fray. The next hour was one of the longest of my life.
I’d made a habit, over the previous weeks, of visiting the café for lunch. Not every day. Some days I brought sandwiches from home, and other times I heated up a snack in the kitchenette microwave. The advantage of the cafe was most customers preferred take-out and so there were always empty tables.
Dougie sat on a wooden chair with his back against the wall. With his arms folded across his chest, he maintained a watch on the door. There were two cups and saucers with a pot of tea between them. Leaving Gibson near the entrance—she’d wanted to join us, but I’d refused—I sat opposite him, keeping my distance.
“Thanks for coming.” He’d removed the jacket, revealing the tattoos on his arm had lost their vibrancy and colour. “I’m sorry I called you sweetie, back in the gallery. That wasn’t appropriate. Did you want anything to eat?”
His politeness seemed sincere, almost over the top, and I smiled as I shook my head. I couldn’t face food until I heard what he had to say.
“I got you a tea. I remembered you liked it.” He poured the tea—Earl Grey.
“Thank you.” I didn’t touch the cup. “How did you find me, Dougie?”
He leaned back and looked me up and down.
“Boy, Gemma, you’ve changed, so elegant and refined.” He pointed at my manicured hands, and I snatched them out of sight, under the table.
I said nothing. I guessed he didn’t know whom I’d married.
His skin was suntanned and wrinkly. I doubted he’d lived in the UK for a while. He cleared this throat. “I saw stuff about the gallery in the local paper. Wouldn’t have bothered to read it, but they had this little photo of the owner, and I recognised you. Couldn’t believe it at first. You’re married, obviously—Mrs Lucas. It’s been a long time, and you’re still incredibly beautiful. More so, with all your fine clothes.” His compliments came thick and fast, and, although a little over the top, they helped placate my nerves.
“Where have you been?” I stirred my tea.
“Abroad. Africa, Middle East, even South America. Mercenary. Paid to fight.” He grimaced.
“But not now?”
“No. Finished with it all. Kind of lost the way for a while. Then I realised I didn’t want to fight other people’s battles. All of them fucking lost causes. Zimbabwe was the final straw. I jacked it in and travelled a bit, taking in the world. Spent all the money I earned.” He guffawed. “Bloody stupid, heh? So I came back to London a few months ago.”
“And?” Something lurked behind his sad eyes.
“Tried to catch up on things, people.” Dougie fidgeted and cocked his head towards the watchful Gibson. “Who is she?”
