You Are Mine by Diana Wilkinson
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 2.9 MB
Diana Wilkinson (nee) Kennett was born and bred in Belfast, Northern Ireland, during the height of the civil unrest and moved to England after graduating from Durham University with a degree in geography.
Jealousy can be a killer…
Ten years after her boyfriend Mitch’s mysterious disappearance, Rebecca finally learns the truth about what happened. When he returns a happy ending appears within their grasp but there is no escape from the past. And Arthur, Rebecca’s friend who has formed an unhealthy obsession with her, has no intention of letting her go.
When Arthur realises that Mitch is the only person standing in the way of his happiness, his thoughts turn to murder…
When love and obsession collide, the results are deadly.
Perhaps acceptance is all there is. Desire had lain dormant for what seemed a lifetime. As we shuffled along, excusing ourselves as we nudged and squeezed past the hotbed of sweaty bodies reclining in anticipation, a gentle wave of contentment took me by surprise.
Arthur managed to upturn a half-empty popcorn container which stuck out from under an empty seat; a stark reminder of his gaucheness. The heat, fuelled by the recumbent masses, was overwhelming. My scarf was knotted so tightly I could hardly breathe.
Arthur’s hand was clammy. He wasn’t hot or cold. He lacked definition. Arthur was just there; a rock, a foundation tethering my dormant passions to his steadfastness. He didn’t complain, of course, about the heat or our unfavourable vantage point behind an exceedingly tall couple. Arthur didn’t do complaining.
We slouched down and peeled off our winter layers. Arthur kissed the tips of my frozen ears as he snuggled up close. Momentary claustrophobia engulfed me as I frantically loosened my scarf. Arthur, oblivious to the panic, unfolded my seat and ran a cursory hand across the pad. I struggled to catch my breath, closed my eyes tightly and willed my heart to calm.
Gone with the Wind was made for the big screen. When I first met Arthur, we swapped anecdotal tales about our likes and dislikes. I told him Rhett Butler epitomised my ideal partner; mean and moody with a sexual magnetism to melt the coldest heart. Arthur had laughed, pulled me close and assured me he was more than willing to take on the role.
Arthur just sort of happened, his persistence wore me down. He became an incidental companion. Maturity, people told me; I was growing up. Uninvited barbs casually linked the wild visceral passion of youth to immaturity. I’d finally made a wise and safe choice.
My companion had smuggled in a couple of small bottles of dry white wine which he decanted into plastic containers. The salted peanuts were difficult to eat quietly and we giggled as the crackling bags drew audible ‘tuts’ from our neighbours. At the interval the lights went up and Arthur disappeared into the foyer for a top-up.
One glass of wine is never enough; it now dulls the pain of boredom where it had once heightened the ecstasies of passion. In the past it anaesthetised the hurt and fear but now added sheen to a dull humdrum existence. Arthur returned with a Coca-Cola for himself. He always drives on a Saturday night and would never risk more than one glass.