Chapter 25

We walk in through the open gates and across the turning circle in front of the water feature. I wonder what Lydia's impression of my home is.

I've taken the three-storey Edwardian house, half brick and half rendered with generous bay windows, for granted all my life. Even mocked my mother's efforts to replace the front door after she'd bought it from the reclamation yard and spent three weeks researching which tastefully appropriate historic colour she should paint it. Now it represents the middle-class respectability and security that I've never given a second thought to. Lydia never had any of this.

I ring the doorbell. My father throws open the door and immediately glares at us.

‘Tom. Where the hell have you been? And why haven't you been answering your phone?'

‘Hi, Dad. This is Lydia.'

He doesn't even acknowledge her. ‘You forgot your mother's birthday. No card. No call. She's very upset with you.'

Upset not worried, I note.

‘Sorry, Dad.'

‘It's my fault,' says Lydia. ‘I had an accident and Tom very kindly looked after me. He saved my life.'

I'm not sure who's more taken aback at this, Dad or me. He actually takes a step back and looks her up and down.

‘And who are you?'

‘A work colleague of Tom's,' she says. ‘I do hope you'll excuse our appearance but Tom was very anxious not to miss his mother's party after he'd missed her birthday.'

I can hardly look at Lydia. Her verbal dexterity and ability to read the room and her response to my dad's petty snobbery in one quick clever lie have stunned me into silence.

‘Right,' he stutters. ‘You'd better come in then. You'll need to get cleaned up before the party and before anyone gets here. Your mother is in the kitchen. Go straight through.'

Dad holds the door open and I slip my shoes off and drop my rucksack, with Lydia following suit, before we pad down the parquet floor towards the big kitchen, which contains every labour-saving domestic device you can think of.

The house is in full party-preparation mode. My parents are great hosts but then it's all about appearances. Every surface is filled with cling-film-covered bowls and platters. Outside through the window I can see the gazebo has been set up to house a bar and there's a waiter out there, opening bottles of wine.

‘Tom!' My mother's delight instantly fades. ‘What on earth do you look like? I hope you're going to change.' Her mouth wrinkles in familiar disapproval and then she takes in Lydia and gives a pointed look at the mountains of food.

‘This is Lydia.'

‘I see.'

‘Hello, Mrs Dereborn. Sorry to turn up unannounced but Tom has been an absolute hero and rescued me after I had the most terrible accident.' There's a newly acquired plumminess to her voice, which amuses the hell out of me. Lydia has well and truly sussed my parents.

Mum glances at me, clearly not sure what to make of this. Should she be gracious and hospitable, claiming pride in me, or berate me for being thoughtless and not thinking of her carefully planned catering portions? I want to laugh again at her blatant indecision.

Before she can say anything, my brother, William, saunters in, wearing a pair of suit trousers, a shirt and a tie.

‘Tom! Look what the cat dragged in. I hear you forgot Mama's birthday. Naughty. What do you look like?' He grins maliciously. Of course he does. We've spent our formative years playing one-upmanship against each other, vying for our parents' approval.

‘We've come straight here,' I say, my voice tight keeping things vague.

‘New girlfriend?' he asks me, deliberately not addressing Lydia.

I want to punch him for being so rude.

‘This is Lydia,' I say. ‘And it's none of your business. Mum, will you excuse us while we go and get cleaned up?'

Just as I'm hoping to escape, my sister Rosie arrives wearing a suitably garden-party style dress that I know from her Instagram account she wouldn't normally been seen dead in. Real-life Rosie wears chunky leather boots, tight jeans and low cut T-shirts.

‘You're here,' she says without enthusiasm.

‘Rosie, do you think you could lend Tom's … friend something a little more appropriate?' my mother requests. ‘And William, find Tom a shirt and some clean trousers.' With that we're dismissed and in silence I lead Lydia upstairs to my old room, bitterly regretting that I've brought her here.

‘Nice house,' says Lydia, wandering to the window of my bedroom and looking out over the back garden.

‘Yeah, shame about the people.' I sink onto the edge of the king-sized bed, realising that I've never brought a woman in here before.

She doesn't say anything but comes to stand in front of me. She takes my face in her hands and leans down to kiss me.

At that moment my sister barges in without knocking, holding out a beige dress.

‘Here you go. I think this will fit you.' Even on the hanger it looks like a brown paper bag and will drown Lydia's petite form, which I now realise is probably due to malnutrition as a child. This thought fills me with fury.

‘Fuck off, Rosie. Stop being a cow.' Rosie steps back, surprise on her face. ‘If you're not going to lend Lydia something nice, don't bother. In fact, fuck the lot of you. We're leaving.'

I stand up, pushing my hand through my hair, just as surprised as anyone else by my loss of control. Normally my siblings and I are coolly contemptuous of each other, and we never call each other out on our behaviour, but I'm incensed that Rosie thinks it's okay to drag Lydia into our competitive awfulness.

‘Don't leave. I'm sorry,' says Rosie desperately. ‘Please don't go.'

Now I'm surprised. She actually sounds genuine.

‘Why not? What do you care?'

‘Because…' She glances at Lydia. ‘Welcome to the vipers' nest. Sure you want to stay? You could still leave while there's time.'

‘Why, Rosie?' I persist.

‘Because if you're here it dilutes the attention. If you go, it will be my fault or William's. There'll be a scene behind the scenes. You know what it's like.' Her eyes are pleading.

She's right but Lydia doesn't have to deal with this shit. I look at her but as if she's read my mind, she says, ‘We can stay, Tom,' and tucks her hand through my arm and squeezing my bicep gently, letting me know she's in this with me.

‘No, Lydia. We don't need to stay. We'll go.'

Rosie swallows and looks close to tears. ‘Sorry, Tom. Why don't you come with me, Lydia, and choose something from my wardrobe?'

Lydia looks from me to Rosie and back. She gives me a sad smile and squeezes my arm again. ‘I think we should stay.'

‘See,' says Rosie, seizing on this.

‘Let's stay a while,' Lydia repeats, looking at me rather than my sister this time. ‘We've got time.' She gives me a reassuring, we've-got-this nod. I smile back at her because how can I not? This woman has got my back. With her I can do this. We can stay for an hour or so, do our duty and then go into London and win our prize.

‘Okay,' I say, giving Lydia a quick kiss. ‘Thank you.'

‘No problem,' says Lydia and follows Rosie out of the room before I can stop her. She's back two minutes later with a floaty blue number on a hanger and a hair dryer. She lays both on the bed.

I force myself not to take her in my arms. I wish I hadn't brought her here, exposed her to the family. I know she didn't have things easy but she's estranged from her parents. I'm the coward who still very much conditioned by mine, still seeking their approval. I feel very ashamed of myself. Compared to her, I've had it easy and I've not had the strength to rebel, to stand up for what I really want. I don't deserve someone like her.

‘You don't have to stay, Lydia,' I say softly. ‘If I were you I'd get straight on a train and get away from this shit show. We could arrange to meet up later and then go on to Trafalgar Square.'

She shakes her head, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. ‘And miss all this fun? I don't think so.' Her eyes bore into mine. ‘You need me. I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me.'

Could I love her any more in that second?

She steps forward, sliding her arms around my waist, a determined glint shining in her eyes. I realise I've said the words out loud.

‘Show me,' she says lifting her mouth for a kiss.

The kiss isn't enough. I need more, more of her. I need her to eclipse the ugliness of the environment of this house. To stamp her presence here so that it will always be here for ever more. I feel raw inside and it makes me hungry. I kiss her like my life depends on it, open-mouthed, demanding. Lydia meets me head on, just like she always does. She doesn't submit, she comes out fighting, matching me in passion.

It's her that backs me up until I'm against the en-suite bathroom door. Her mouth fused to mine. I pull her tight against me, her soft breasts pressed against my chest, my hands kneading her backside. Suddenly we've gone from nought to flammable in seconds. She's tugging at my T-shirt, raking her hands restlessly up and down my back.

The door flies open and we fall through it into the bathroom, just catching ourselves. I turn Lydia so we're both facing the bathroom mirror. I want her to see herself, as I see her. Flushed, eyes diamond-bright, her chest heaving. God, she's fucking gorgeous and she's all mine. I turn her around again and push her up against the now closed door, feverish with desire and the need to create a memory with her that reminds me of who I am, who we are together. I feel that together with Lydia, I can conquer kingdoms. I want to be inside her, part of her, with her so badly I think I might explode with the feeling. I'm well and truly out of control and I do not care. ‘Fuck, Lydia. I want you. So fucking much.'

‘Stop talking and do something about it,' she says, her hand dropping between my legs and cupping my balls through the light fabric of my walking trousers. All thought leaves my brain.

* * *

He lifts my top, pushes down the cups of my bra and his mouth is hot against my breasts, his teeth grazing my nipple, sending shooting sparks of lust south.

‘Ah,' I moan as the sensation fires through me. I'm up against the door writhing as he pleasures and tortures me, sucking hard and fast now. His hand has dropped to my crotch and is rubbing me through my jeans.

‘I'm always going to want you,' he groans, pulling away from my breast, his hand grinding at the seams of my jeans. ‘I can't help myself around you. There's never been anyone like you.'

‘Tom.' My voice is breathy. I'm so turned on, I'm undoing his belt buckle and he's attacking my jeans' zip.

His hand slips inside my pants. ‘Jesus, you're wet.'

‘And you're hard.'

‘So fucking hard. I'm going to explode, if I don't get inside you right now. Do you want me?'

‘Yes. Oh God yes.' He turns me round and yanks down my jeans, his hand immediately finding my seam, a finger stroking my clit.

‘Bend over, Lydia.' He grabs my hips and pulls them towards him. I grip the sink with both hands and look in the mirror above it. His eyes are narrowed as if he's in pain but he catches my gaze and we both look at each other.

‘Watch me,' he rasps, slipping a finger inside me, then two. It's exquisite torture. The he takes them out and with the wetness, he drags them along the cleft of my bottom, his eyes boring into me.

‘This is us.' I feel the push of the tip of his finger against the tight ring of muscle. I can't help the low moan that escapes as the thrill of illicit pleasure punches into me. His other hand smooths over my buttocks before his fingers push into me, rocking slightly. I gasp as he pushes a second finger in my vagina with one hand and the tip of one finger on his other hand pushes inexorably against my ring.

‘I want to fuck you so badly, Lydia. Want to fill you up, every hole. Like that night at my place. God. I've never forgotten it. Those little moans of yours, so sexy, so fucking sexy. Moan for me, now.' He pushes a little hard against me, and the fingers on the other hand pump long and slow, sliding in and out, so that I can't help the low whimpers that escape.

‘Tom,' I beg, watching his eyes darken, his face taut.

‘I feel so fucking filthy with you, Lydia. Like I can let everything go. Why? Why is that?'

‘I don't know but you talk too fucking much.' I grind my hips, desperate for more.

He chokes out a laugh and tortures me some more, his thumb finding my clit and rubbing over it, while his fingers milk me. I'm getting close, there's that burning tide rising and rising. I give him a pleading look and his grin is devilish. I drop my head. It's too much. The minute I do, his fingers still inside me.

‘Uhnuh, Lydia. I want to watch you come apart. I want to see you come.'

‘Not fair,' I gasp. My breath is coming in little hitches now and I push against his hand.

He starts to withdraw his fingers. My head shoots up.

He grins at me again. ‘Better.'

I glare at him but his smile widens and then his fingers slide in again. The feeling is so sharp and pleasurable it's hard to keep my head up. He picks up the pace, watching me intently. My face contorts, I'm hanging by a thread but I can't look away. I whimper again, fighting it, trying to hold on, trying so hard not to let myself go, not to show myself, that ultimate moment of vulnerability, but those fingers pump against me, relentless and merciless now.

‘Ahhh!' He forces me over the line and the shuddering orgasm tears through me, wave after wave of sharp pleasure, making my knees weak. Tom's smile as he holds my gaze is triumphant.

We stare at each other for a moment in the mirror. I'm a little glassy-eyed to be honest, light-headed with release, little pulses of pleasure aftershocking their way through my tender nerve endings.

Tom gently removes both hands, still watching me, and pushes his own jeans down, producing a condom and rolling it on. I feel the tip of his penis, probing and then his hands are pulling my legs wider. He uses the swollen head to tease my clit a couple of times before positioning it, his eyes holding mine and then he surges in, in one fierce warm thrust, stretching the walls of my vagina. Filling me. Oh God, it feels so good.

‘Oh God, Tom.' I sigh, savouring the deliciously full sensation. My look is full of gratitude. ‘Oh yes. Oh please.'

His face is strained now, concentrating as he slowly, slowly fills me but his eyes never leave my face. It's the most erotic thing I've ever experienced and I'm so turned on and holding on so tight to my breath, I can hardly breathe.

He's found a rhythm now, strong and steady. I'm having to hold on tight to the porcelain but I welcome every thrust. He's getting deeper now. Deeper and faster. His face is a tortured mask, his eyes slitted in concentration and his mouth slightly open, as he pants hard. I can hardly keep up, it's almost too much to take. Pleasure and pain battle it out. I'm not sure where one begins and the other ends.

‘Fuck, Lydia. Fuuuuck.' His face twists, a silent cry on his lips and his expression one of tortured ecstasy. It fills me with so much feeling, my heart actually seems to have heated up, and then a second orgasm bursts over me, a tidal wave of pleasure and relief. Our eyes are locked in one long moment of primeval intensity that I'm not sure I'm ever going to feel again. If last night in the house felt like goodbye, this feels like death.

I'm not sure who tugs their gaze away first, but Tom pulls up my underwear and jeans before tucking himself back in and he draws me to his chest, burying his face in my hair before kissing my neck. Both of us are silent. The moment is charged with energy and it's as if neither of us dare speak for fear of disturbing it.