She leant him against the wall, both of them now breathing heavily. He panted, his eyes desperate to strain around the corner, to see what was happening. But her gaze held him – as frightened as his, but stronger. Those sharp green orbs peered into him, seduced him, kept him still with tangible electricity.
“Are you okay?” she asked. Her voice was deeper than normal. The lightness of her hair, her fresh-faced freckles, her vulnerability in glasses were all inconsequential – she was a force.
He couldn’t speak.
“It’s fine,” she said. “We’re acquaintances of Raymond’s and Nick’s. They’ve probably found an address book and have come to see if we have any information. It doesn’t mean they’re suspicious, it doesn’t mean they have a police appointed dream reader.”
“Shit!” He rolled his eyes desperately in the direction of the flat. “What do you think they’re asking the girls?”
“I don’t know.” She held him still. “But they’re probably not asking about you, Clay. They probably don’t know anything about you. You’ve got nothing to be scared of, nothing to be worried about – you’ve got an alibi, honey.”
He was still wheezing, still trying to rip his eyes away from her (as if any man ever did that without permission), still intent on drawing attention to himself.
“Look!” she said. And she put her hand behind his neck and pulled him to her, jamming her lips to his.
It was a punch as much as a kiss, smacking into his teeth, knocking his head to the wall. She stretched herself tall and kissed him with full force. He leant his head back and then pushed his head forward and competed with her. He kissed her as hard as she kissed him. She yielded instantly and he took her entirely into his grasp.
He jerked her up so she wasn’t on her own weight; she was completely reliant on him. She reached around his neck and bit her lips against his – kissing and chewing simultaneously. There was scarcely a molecule of space between them – but still he tried to pull her tighter to him, still she tried to pull him tighter to her.
She was so delicious, but part of him could still only think of the police in the flat. He wanted to peer at what was happening, to strain his eyes around the corner – but she wouldn’t let him. Her mouth started to move across his jaw, his cheeks, to chew against his ear. It excited him and soothed him at the same time, it made his worry melt like cherry ice-cream. He clutched her breast, feeling her nipple become rigid through her T-shirt and bra. He closed his eyes and started to nibble her white shoulder, moving the material of her shirt, stretching it so her skin was bare in the sunlight.
With a gasp she raised her leg and wound it around his waist – her thigh making an L shape to her body, her calf curving across his back and clasping tight. It took her entirely into his control, or placed him entirely into hers. She pulled herself against the hardness of his groin. Her hands massaging through his hair, clutching to the muscles of his neck. How could he possibly let her go? How could he really take an instant to look back round that corner?
He bruised her behind as he grabbed it, slipping two fingers between her legs and gluing her to him. She gave another gasp and raised her face away from him, up to the sky – so it shone in the light. It was as if she imagined a photograph taken from above, of her held entirely by her lover, of her holding her lover so entirely. Her face was a smile of rapture and exultation.
She loosened her grip on his neck and their lips met again – their tongues dancing. She gasped and looked up once more, allowing that aerial voyeur photographer another glance at their passion.
Clay held Belinda but it was she who moved, she who controlled. She lowered her face to his and they swallowed each other up again. He could barely remember to breathe, let alone think about the police car. Her right leg raised and dug itself sharply into him. He grunted in pain as her heel bruised his back, then grunted in pleasure as they melded together. She worked fast, chewing him, nibbling him, eating him. She pressed into his hard-on, working it through his jeans. It was like he was her pet; she knew exactly where to touch him to give pleasure. She forced herself against him, pressed herself to him, and he found that every thought of the police was absented from his mind. She moved swiftly against him, ratcheting up the passion, actually bringing him off through his clothes. They clutched together, they cried together and then his back arched in relief and she let go. She unwound her legs and arms and slid down to the pavement against him. He clutched her and leant weak to the wall. He could feel his breath – it was somewhere between his throat and his lungs, and didn’t seem to want to leave.
They waited in the alleyway, softly kissing through their clothes. She gently bit against his chest, while he chewed her cloth-covered shoulder. They gave soft sighs which made it sound like they were parting soon.
Slowly, she let him go, the smile on her flushed face, the look in her eyes sheer exuberance.
Nervously, she peered around the corner. The police car had gone. She seemed to smile even wider.
They crept out of the alleyway and towards the flat, holding hands casually, nervously, as if they had something to be ashamed of. She fumbled her keys at the front door and he looked back. For a fraction of a second he thought he saw that ginger girl from the café on Holloway Road, staring at them.
He blinked, startled, and then didn’t know if he’d seen her at all.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Abigail and Judy were hidden away from the summer’s day in the light of the sky-blue lounge. Judy sat on the floor, her ankles crossed and her head bent. Abigail was on the sofa behind her, neatly plaiting Judy’s hair with motherly gentleness. There was a calmness to Abigail’s face, a real care and enjoyment – that strangely made her look her age. She was in her thirties and could easily have a small daughter whose hair she kept in plaits.
Abigail smiled up at them both as they entered. Clay hoped that meant nothing would be said of their encounter this morning. Belinda still held his hand, soothing his jittery nerves. She nodded to her flatmates and took him to the couch opposite. Judy hadn’t yet raised her head, only giving a tuneful grunt of greeting.
The plaits were nearly tied. Abigail’s fingers moving nimbly, Judy emitting tiny winces of pain as her hair was once or twice pulled too sharply. When they were finished – one in a white bow, one in pink – Judy looked at them with the closed mouth, satisfied smile of a happy six-year-old. Abigail shifted slightly on the couch and tapped the seat beside her and Judy got up and sat next to her, instinctively holding her hand.
And there they sat as strange mirror images: Judy, smaller and weaker than Abigail and holding her hand for support; Clay, bigger and stronger than Belinda but using her as the same kind of bedrock.
Clay stared at them. “You’ve had visitors.”
Judy and Abigail just looked at each other, as if given some meaningless clue to a riddle.
“The police,” he said.
“Oh yes – them,” Abigail said. “Yes, they’ve been here.”
“Weren’t you going to tell us?”
Abigail smiled. “It was the word ‘visitor’ that threw us, my dear Clay. When I hear that word I think of friends accepting your hospitality and giving you a nice time in return. I think of cake, tea, laughter and maybe a bottle of wine. None of those things I would associate with the dropping by of police officers, and having now had them ‘visit’, I’m sure my assumptions were correct.”
“They were both cute though,” said Judy.
Abigail glanced at her. “Well, one of them was a bit too young. I thought he looked gawky in his uniform, although Judy disagrees. The other was older and had a manly air, a real presence. It’s so rare you meet someone who – without saying anything, or showing off – can fill up a room. It’s a shame he went into the police force rather than the stage, he’d have been a natural.”
“Was he a Welsh bloke?”
“Why, Clay, you seem to have turned psychic,” said Abigail. “Yes, he was – Mr Llewellyn. Have you met him
?”
“We’ve heard of him,” said Belinda.
Clay edged forward in his seat. “What did they say?”
“Apparently, Nick Turnkey has been murdered.”
“We know.”
Abigail raised an eyebrow. “I’m beginning to believe I’ve underestimated you, Clay. You really are a surprising source of information. He was murdered in his flat last night and they’ve linked it to Raymond’s murder, and so are talking to everybody acquainted with both.”
“They wanted to know where we were at the time of the murders.” Judy couldn’t help putting a note of excitement into her voice.
“What did you tell them?” asked Clay.
Abigail shrugged. “We told them the truth. That we’re Soho girls and never go near such places as Brockley and the Holloway Road.”
“Did they ask about us?” said Belinda.
“Yes, they did. They asked about you, darling, because you’re of course a resident of this flat, and they asked about Clay because someone had already told them he was back in town and staying here.”
“Who?”
“They didn’t explicitly say. Dear Mr Llewellyn is far too cagey and clever for that. But from some of the words the younger officer used, I’m suspecting it was Charles West.”
“He should learn to keep his mouth shut,” said Belinda.
Judy nodded.
“What did you tell them?” asked Clay.
“We told them that you were indeed back and you were indeed staying here. What else were we going to tell them, Clay?
“We told them we were all pleased to see you,” Judy added.
“Did you tell them where I was last night? The night before?”
“Well, they asked,” said Abigail. “And we told them that we couldn’t swear absolutely, but the girl you were sleeping with uttered no complaints, so it seems a fair bet you were snoozing safe beside her.”
He sat back.
Belinda clutched his hand. “You’ve nothing to worry about.”
“Why should he have anything to worry about?” asked Abigail.
“He’s been having bad dreams.”
“Not just bad dreams.” He jerked forward again. “Horrible dreams. Real, vivid, nasty, bloody, horrific dreams. I dreamed I killed Raymond, then last night I dreamed I killed Nick. So as you can see, they’re not just your passing easy-to-forget bad dreams.”
“Oh no!” Judy put her hands to her mouth.
“That’s awful,” drawled Abigail.
Belinda leant into him. “They’re only dreams, honey.”
“Tell me all about them,” said Abigail.
“What?”
“Tell me about these dreams. What do you do? What are you wearing?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. I can’t really remember.”
“But you just said they were vivid and horrific, not your passing easy-to-forget bad dreams – how could you possibly have forgotten them?”
“They’ve vanished,” he said. “I know I had them, but I can’t remember anything about them.”
“Well, there you are,” said Abigail. “Dreams vanish, they’re not real, they’re fantasy. You shouldn’t worry about dreams, even ones which appear to come true. If you can’t remember them, how do you know which parts fitted in with reality and which parts were just nonsense in your head?”
“But they seemed real,” he said. “And when I went to Brockley yesterday and Holloway Road today, it was like I’d been there in my dreams.”
“But you can’t remember them now?”
“No.”
“Then forget about it,” smiled Abigail. “You may have had a dream in which some piece of violence happened to Raymond or Nick, or maybe even to other people. And because your mind is malleable you may have bent your notion of that dream to fit in with reality and thus make yourself look psychically blessed.” She sat back in the sofa, totally relaxed, totally confident that she was right and that he’d believe that she was right. “I wouldn’t get concerned, I wouldn’t be upset, I wouldn’t worry if the police come by to chat. You’ve nothing to fret about, Clay, I can promise you that.”
Belinda kissed his cheek. “You were with me both nights, sleeping softly. She’s right, Clay, she’s right.”
He ran his hand softly through Belinda’s hair, but still felt uncomfortable. It was Abigail’s superiority, it was her assurance that there was nothing to worry about. It irked him. What if she had some reason to make him want to forget? What if it suited her that he forgot? He watched her and knew he wouldn’t be able to read her, but wanted to try anyway. She stared at him – looked down at him. His thoughts had slipped to the beauty of her almost naked body, and her haughty raised eyebrow let him know she knew this.
“I have bad dreams,” said Judy. “Dreams where there’s this play and I really want the lead part, as the character is spunky and cool – a girl I can identify with. But no matter what I do, how I change myself – they won’t let me have the part. And the first girl who has it leaves because she becomes a big star, so I audition again. But they give it to another girl, and she becomes a big star – so I audition again. And it just goes on and on, with all these girls – who aren’t as good as me – getting the part, and me being left behind, unknown and unwanted.” She leant across and wrapped her arms around Abigail’s waist, squeezing her tight.
“And you come to me, don’t you, little one?” said Abigail. “And I help you with your dream, don’t I?”
“She comes to both of us.” Belinda leant into Clay, so again they were a mirror image of the other couch. “We both help her.”
“Yes, you do.” Judy squeezed herself tighter to her friend.
“She tends to have it the night before auditions,” Belinda told Clay, squeezing herself tighter to him. “It can really shatter her nerves, which is not a good thing before an audition. Even if you’re going for a character with major self-esteem issues, you’re supposed to show up at the theatre confident.”
Abigail kissed Judy’s cheek.
“Come on then, sweetie,” she said. “Let’s get started on Clay’s feast.”
“What?”
Abigail stood up from the couch. “We were going to cook you a large and beautiful meal yesterday.”
Judy still held her hand. “To welcome you back.”
“But of course terrible events intervened. Tonight though, I think we should do it – if only because the food will waste if we don’t.”
“Thank you very much,” said Clay. “I’m not sure how hungry I am though.”
“Oh you’ll be hungry,” laughed Abigail. “I’m sure if I leave you in Belinda’s hands, she’ll work up your appetite.”
“It will be my pleasure,” she said.
Abigail and Judy giggled and left the room, like sisters on a day-trip to somewhere pretty.
Belinda was still wrapped tight around him. “Ask me what I dream of.”
“What do you dream of?”
“I dream of a big house in Hollywood,” she said. “It’s a palace, a mansion. It was owned by some great silent film star whose face and spirit are still present. I have two Oscars and two children, but I’ve still kept my figure. I look absolutely fantastic in every photo shoot I do. I have directors who ring me and want to work with me. I have huge stars who want to work with me and seduce me. I have millions of fans who write me wonderful letters to tell me how beautiful I am, how talented I am, how phenomenal I am. I work on one film a year, and it’s always a huge box-office success and in the running for all the awards. I go to parties and the adulation is intense. The actors try to seduce me, the directors – seeing me in the flesh – also want to seduce me. I flirt a little, play a little, smile in their direction, laugh at their jokes, touch their arms when they say something particularly beautiful. But, at the end of the night, I go home with my husband – the big, wide, handsome Mr Clay, who the showbiz magazines admire as the only man strong enough to tame the gorgeous Ms Bondurant.”
&n
bsp; His lips moved up her neck, working his way to her face, her eyes closed in rapture. She allowed him to reach her lips at the final words – once she’d finished the soliloquy and the images were painted fresh.
He remembered his lines: “How many cars do you have?”
“Six,” she said. “One made out of pure gold which I use to make the neighbours jealous.”
“How many planes do you have?”
“Only one, because I can only fly to one place at any time and my darling husband and my darling children never fly anywhere without me. I only have one, but it is the most luxurious plane anybody has ever had.”
“How many houses do you have?”
“I have four. One in Hollywood, one on the beach in Hawaii, one in New York and one in London so my husband and I can go back and feel like real people. That’s one of the things the magazines love about me, that I haven’t lost touch with my roots, that I’m still very much a real person.”
“What else do the magazines say about you?”
She squealed. “They say I’m the best actress of my generation, as good as anyone who has ever been before. They say I’m the most beautiful woman in the world, the lad’s mags always vote me the sexiest woman in the world – but I never do photo shoots where I take my kit of and that earns respect. I’m seen at the best parties and I’m always pristine. I understand fashion, I understand style, I understand what it is to be a great actress – and a great mother and a real woman. My smile alone will double the circulation of any magazine, and triple the audience of every TV show it appears on.”
He kissed her, slow, lingering.
She pushed him off. Her eyes open, fear visible.
“Oh Clay, it will happen, won’t it?”
“It will happen.”
The Wannabes Page 13
