Jack knew she was stalling but he didn’t say anything further, just drove her home and helped her out of the car and inside, where she fairly bolted for the bedroom, telling him she wouldn’t be long.
He sat down on the black leather sofa, his determination to get answers deepening with the time she took to emerge. When she finally did, she was wrapped in the same fluffy white dressing gown and slippers that she’d worn on that fateful day he’d come here to hire her less than two weeks ago. He suspected she wasn’t wearing anything underneath this time, either. Or not very much. She’d taken the jewelled comb out of her hair, he noted, and spread her hair out onto her shoulders in sexy disarray. As much as she looked good enough to eat, he resolved not to be swayed or distracted from getting those answers he wanted.
‘You want coffee?’ she asked.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ he said, standing up and following her out to the kitchen which was as clean and clutter free as always. Seeing her place again—he hadn’t been inside there lately—underlined the fact that her tidiness did verge on obsessive.
‘I still don’t have much food to offer you,’ she said, and turned from the kettle to give him a small, somewhat wry smile. ‘Someone’s been taking me out to dinner every night.’
‘Lucky you. But I don’t want any food, Vivienne. What I do want is for us to talk.’
Vivienne sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she turned and carried the two mugs of black coffee over to where Jack was already sitting at the kitchen table.
‘First things first,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to Daryl’s “boring in bed” accusation. I’m presuming, from what you said, that you weren’t the same with him that you are with me. Is that right?’
‘Well...um...yes,’ she admitted with a small shudder. ‘If you must know, I haven’t done most of what I’ve done with you with him.’
Jack’s male ego might have been flattered if he didn’t still worry she might have been indulging in some kind of crazy act with him, brought on by Daryl dumping her. ‘Why was that, do you think? Were you just pretending to be sexy? Acting out some role with me?’
There was no doubting her shock. ‘No! I never acted with you, Jack. Never. I loved everything I did with you. I...I’m not sure why I’m so different with you. I just was, right from the start. You made me feel things that Daryl never did. I still don’t quite understand it myself. I just know that I love having sex with you and I wouldn’t give it up for the world.’
Jack liked the sound of that. ‘We do have great chemistry together,’ he said. ‘Now, whilst we’re having an honest chat, do you think you might tell me why your place looks like it does? I don’t mean the tidiness part so much. I’m talking about the starkness of the décor. Because let’s face it, Vivienne, it’s just not you.’
Vivienne’s first instinct was to clam up about that. But then she realised that, if she couldn’t tell the man she loved, who could she tell?
Still, it wasn’t going to be easy. Not that she thought Jack would be judgemental: he’d had some experience with emotionally fragile mothers so he would understand better than most.
She sighed. ‘I will have to go way back to the years before my dad left us...’
‘I’m listening,’ Jack said gently. He could sense her reluctance but wasn’t about to let her off the hook.
She looked at him for a long moment before going on. ‘Have you ever watched that show on TV about hoarders?’
‘I have, actually. Once or twice.’ Jack was about to add that he’d been totally disgusted and revolted by the state of some of the houses those people lived in when he stopped himself short.
Vivienne sighed again. ‘I can see by the look on your face that the penny has dropped. Yes, my mother was a hoarder.’
Jack wasn’t shocked so much as sad. For Vivienne. What kind of childhood would she have had if she’d been forced to grow up in the kind of filthy place he’d seen on that show?
‘I see,’ he said. And he did. He could imagine that the children of hoarders would either grow up like them or become diametrically opposite. It certainly explained why Vivienne had an obsession with cleanliness and clutter in her own home.
‘So is that why your father left in the first place?’ he asked.
‘Yes. He couldn’t bear it any more.’
‘Was she always a hoarder?’