Coming Down (Love in London 1)

The night air smells of freshly cut grass and rain. I move through it, my hips undulating to the sound of music that stopped playing an hour ago. Blood fills my veins like thick black treacle, making me feel weightless, dizzy. High.

The party is over, the rain has seen to that. When the downpour started, everyone ran inside, heading for dorm rooms or calling cabs. I stayed where I was, inclining my face to the sky, letting the rain cool my flesh. It washed away my makeup and the stench of alcohol. It felt so good.

My clothes are stuck to my body. My hair is plastered to my head, but still I dance. The ecstasy I took earlier hasn’t worn off yet. I feel strong and invincible, as if I’m some kind of goddess.

I see shoes first—blue Nike Airs sticking out from under a copse of trees. A plume of smoke spirals above the leaves. A few steps closer and I smell it: smoky and sweet. That’s when I see him.

His eyes are heavy as he stares at me. Dark blue depths I want to dive inside. He gazes at me without recognition, has no idea who I am. I know him, though. He’s one of the beautiful set; an artist.

“You’re wet.” He’s still staring at me.

Unlike the rest of my body, my throat is dry. I swallow hard. “It’s raining.”

“Your observational skills astound me.” There’s an Irish lilt to his voice that thrills. I try to imagine what it would sound like whispered in my ear. The thought makes me shiver.

“Are you cold?”

I shake my head and say “Yes” at the same time. I’m so mixed up by the drugs and his proximity it’s hard to think straight.

“Come here.” He opens up his arms. I hesitate for a moment before I step into them, feeling like the fly walking into the spider’s parlour. A moment later, all rational thought disappears as his strong arms wrap around my waist, pulling me against his chest. He presses his face to my wet hair and takes a deep breath. “You smell like rain.”

Silence surrounds us as I look up at him. His pupils are dull and unfocused. He’s much higher than I am. Soaring.

“You smell like weed.”

“You want some?”

Taking the joint from him, I raise it to my mouth. Though I try to pull away as I inhale, his arms tighten around me. I feel as if I’m made of gas. Melting around him. Into him.

“What’s your name?”

“Beth.”

“Are you a student here?”

His question makes me roll my eyes. I’ve been following him and his friends around like a devoted puppy for the best part of my first year. Not that he’s ever noticed. He’s always too busy: painting, smoking, looking beautiful. He’s good at all these things. I know, I’ve studied him as if he’s my favourite subject.

“Art History,” I say.

“One of the thinkers.” He gives me a smile. It’s wicked and dirty and makes me want to lick his lips. “Do you paint?”

“No.”

“Shame. Do you model?”

I blush at this one. “No.”

“You should. Come and model for me. I want to paint you.” His words slur but his voice is still seductive and lyrical. Somewhere, far beneath my high, I know he’s spinning me a line.

I bite, nonetheless.

“I’m not pretty enough.”

“Yes you are.”

“Or interesting enough.”

He pulls me closer, his erection digging into my hip. “Yes you are.”

My heart starts to hammer against my chest. This is Niall Joseph holding me. I made Niall Joseph get hard. I don’t think about the drugs or the rain or the fact he’s ignored me all year. I’m too worked up for that.

“I want to kiss you.” He murmurs it softly. Then he presses his lips to my forehead. My skin feels hot and fevered. This time, the rain does nothing to cool it down.

“Okay.” I’m almost breathless. He drags his mouth down to my jaw, peppering my skin with kisses.

“You fucking taste like rain, too.”

By the time his lips reach the corner of my mouth I’m almost trembling with anticipation. My whole body is buzzing with desire. I have to grab hold of his shoulders to steady myself.

Then he presses his mouth to mine and everything else disappears.

1

It’s seven in the morning and the sunlight breaking through our bedroom window is tinted a pale pinky-orange. I sit on the edge of our king-sized bed watching my husband pull on his suit, painting on a smile that only pretends to be mine. The ceiling lamp glows yellow, and the light reflects from his grey-blond hair, casting a pale halo around his head.

You only have to glance quickly around our bedroom to sense his masculine influence—dark wooden floors that look beautiful but freeze my feet off on winter mornings, stark eau-de-nil painted walls. Bleached wooden shutters frame the sash windows he’s had lovingly restored.

Though he’s shuffled things around to fit me in, essentially this is still his room, his house. Not that I brought anything with me that would be worth changing things for. He took me on—penniless and low—as if I was another doer-upper. Polished me until I was shiny and bright.

“I’ll try to get home by six.” Simon threads his silver cufflinks through the slits of his blue Oxford shirt. “I promised Elise we would get to the gallery early.”

Elise is his only daughter. I should think of her as my step-daughter, I suppose, but at twenty-seven she is only two years younger than me. It’s hard to feel anything other than ambivalence to her when she stares at me down a perfectly formed nose whenever I walk through the door. Even then, she’s always polite, always measured, and she hides her dislike of me as much as she can. Simon and his ex-wife brought her up well.

“You forgot your tie.” I stand up and chase after him. Wrapping the blue silk around his neck, I knot it neatly, patting it with my extended fingers.

Simon says nothing, simply stares at me through his chocolate-brown eyes. Making me wonder if he’s waiting