21. Twenty-One

Twenty-One

A rt pulls me through a door off to the right and flicks on a light switch. A double bed with a navy checked bedspread stands against the back wall, facing a large bay window, which overlooks a slabbed patio area and long rear lawn. The carpet is dark blue, and there's a run of integrated wardrobes on the other side of the room along with a door that I can see leads to the en suite. A selection of trophies and plaques of assorted shapes and sizes are on display on top of a dark wooden chest of drawers. The colour scheme and trophies scream teenage boy's bedroom.

"This was my room," he says, confirming my thoughts.

I wander over to the chest of drawers and peer at the trophies. "What did you win these for?"

"Football, rugby … you name it, I played it. I didn't go to school much when I was younger, but when I came to live with Mum and Dad, I started to enjoy it. I joined nearly every sports club at school. That's when I decided I wanted to do something in that line when I grew up."

I pick up a mahogany plaque with a gold shield on the front, engraved with the words St Barnabas High School, Football Team, Man of the Tournament . Art's name appears five consecutive years. He won the award every year he attended high school. I scan the inscriptions on the other trophies, noticing it's the same story for each one.

"You were really good at sports," I say, looking at him.

He stands at the foot of the bed and gives a dismissive shrug. "It gave me something to focus my energy on, I suppose. I was an angry kid, and sport was an outlet for it. Playing as part of a team made me feel like the other kids accepted me. I'd never felt that way before. Being good at sport meant they liked me. Everybody wanted me to play on their team. I felt as though I was finally in control of something, and I'd never had that before."

More pieces of his past slide into place. I realise control is a fundamental need for him, like breathing.

"And as you got older, you sought control in other ways," I probe. "Running your own businesses and kinky sex replaced sport."

Art pushes his hands into his pockets and nods thoughtfully, as if it's the first time he's made the connection. "I suppose they do."

In the bedroom, control and restraint go hand in hand for him, and I know there's more to it than him just liking it.

"For a while, you stopped restraining me during sex," I say, turning to face him. "But you've started doing it again."

He looks at the floor. "I thought you enjoyed it."

"I do. It's just … why? Why did you stop and then suddenly start again?"

"I've told you, it's something that I enjoy."

I'm pushing him, and he's being his usual evasive self. Not this time.

"It's more than that."

He lifts his eyes to mine, and I can see him wrestling with himself to choose the right words.

"It's like a default. When things go wrong or start fucking up, I feel better, I dunno … less threatened somehow, if I feel as if I'm in control."

"So, it's like a coping strategy?"

"I suppose it is."

Part of me wants to push further, but I stop myself. He's slowly opening up to me. I don't want to press too hard, too fast, only for him to clam up. For the first time since we met, I feel as though I'm slowly starting to get to know him. The real Art. The man behind the impressive veneer.

I carefully replace the trophy and change the subject. "This is a lovely house."

Art nods and glances round the room. "When I first came, I couldn't believe it. I'd never seen a house so big, and Mum and Dad were so … so great …" He pushes a hand through his hair. "It took me a while to settle in. I think I was slightly overwhelmed by it all at first. I kept expecting them to tell me I was moving on. It took ages for it to sink in that this was my home too." He steals a glance at me. "I owe them everything. My life could have so easily turned out differently."

I can't bring myself to think of what could have happened if he'd stayed with his birth mother or those other monstrous foster carers.

"But it didn't." I smile. "And it's clear Barbara loves you very much, and so did your dad."

"Every day, I remind myself how lucky I am – to have parents like I do, to have grown up somewhere like this, to have gotten into Oxford, and to have successful businesses …" He looks at me. "To have found you."

My heart turns over. He's selling himself short, and I won't allow it.

"It's not luck that made you do well at school or got you a place at Oxford. Luck didn't make your businesses successful either. That was all down to you, Art. Running businesses, sport, sex … is there anything you're not so good at?" I tease.

He gives me an easy smile. "Cooking."

"Ah, yes, of course, but I think I can live with that."

He smirks. "Good. And I am trying to improve."

I glance around the room, trying to conjure up a mental image of a teenage Art. "So, were you allowed to bring girls up here?"

"Once or twice, but I wasn't exactly smooth back then. I had no self-confidence. Even when I went to uni, I was quite shy with girls."

"That's difficult to imagine. What happened?"

He tilts his head and looks at me. "I learnt what women wanted."

I shoot him a quizzical look. "How?"

He looks awkward. "It just came with experience."

If he was shy around girls, how did he get any? As my brain ticks over his past, an uncomfortable realisation takes root. The woman who introduced him to Savage, the one he often "partnered up" with. The one who wanted a relationship with him. I don't want to ask the next question, but part of me needs to know.

"By experience, do you mean, the woman from the club?"

His jaw stiffens. "Only partly."

A strange feeling of jealousy creeps over me. Maybe it's the thought of another woman "educating" him in that way. Maybe it's the idea of him being intimate with another woman – full stop.

"I suppose practice makes perfect," I toss out, hating the bitterness to my tone as I drop my eyes to the floor.

I'm being irrational. I know that. He hasn't stepped foot in the club or seen the woman for years, but I hate the idea of him being with anyone else even though I know it is stupid.

Instantly regretting my words, I apologise, lifting my eyes to find him in front of me. I attempt a smile. "I'm sorry. Now, who's being irrational?"

"I get it." He links his fingers through mine. "The thought of you being with someone else physically hurts. But it was just sex. You've given me the most important gift anyone could." He lifts my hands and presses them to the middle of his chest. "You made my heart start beating again." He kisses me, chasing away any feelings of jealousy. "Come on. There's one more place I want to show you before we leave."