Wanting to savour every moment, I opened my eyes, and saw that Oliver’s eyes were open too, and we laughed and moved apart, suddenly awkward. I heard a sort of click in Oliver’s throat as he swallowed, and there was a catch in his voice that I’d never heard before when he said, “Will you come home with me?”
I thought about my bag back at the hotel, and about all the sorting out and clearing up we’d need to do the next day, and the taxi that was booked to pick Daisy and me up at the end of the night – all the boring, practical reasons why I couldn’t possibly say yes. I carefully didn’t think about any of the other reasons, the real ones. And then I said, “Yes.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Oliver immediately became brisk and matter-of-fact. “Right,” he said. “I’ll ring my driver and tell him I’m ready for him. You collect your things and tell your colleague you’ve made other arrangements – although it looked as if she has, too. Don’t worry about getting back here in the morning, Elliot, my chap, will take you.”
I did as I was told. At that moment Oliver could probably have told me to jump off a cliff, or read a Jeffrey Archer novel, and I would have done it, such was the force of my longing for him. Feeling sick and trembly with nerves and desire, I ran to fetch my bag, checked that nothing disastrous was happening in the Black & White marquee and sent Daisy a text telling her I was going to spend the night at Dad’s. Oliver was waiting for me outside when I emerged, and he took my hand and said, “Come on.”
He opened the car door for me, and once he’d got in the other side he put his arm around my shoulders. The leather seats were slippery and squashy, and smelled of wealth and newness. I can’t remember much of the journey – the car swished along empty lanes, and I got occasional glimpses of fields and trees and huge, ramparted gates – country stuff. We purred smoothly through the night, and I thought inconsequentially of the classic bit of copywriting from the 1950s, saying that the loudest noise in a Rolls Royce is the ticking of its clock. Oliver’s car didn’t have a ticking clock, but it was silent just the same. I didn’t say anything and nor did Oliver. He held my hand, moving his fingers softly over my skin, stroking my palm and my wrist until I was almost writhing with lust.
“Here we are,” he said at last, as the car’s headlights illuminated the stone facade of the house. I remembered Oliver saying that it had been his grandmother’s and he couldn’t bear to sell it, but he hadn’t mentioned that it was almost a mansion.
Oliver got out, and I waited for him to walk round and open my door for me, because I knew that was what he expected me to do. I thought, I must remember every second of tonight. I’ve longed and longed for this and now it’s going to happen. Then I thought, shit, I’ve been standing all day and it’s hot, I really hope my feet don’t smell. What if he’s a foot man? And what if he’s a leg man? I’ll disappoint him for sure. Then he opened the door, and took my hand again as I stepped out of the car.
“Thanks, Elliot,” Oliver said to the driver. “Have a good night.”
I hoped he wouldn’t say something cringy and cheesy like, “Welcome to my humble abode,” but he simply walked up to the front door and unlocked it, and said, “Come in.”
The house was massive. Properly huge, and there were beautiful pictures on the walls, old ones in gold frames with dark varnish covering the paint and giving it that dark, glowy look, and modern ones in brilliant colours. My heels rang on the stone floor, before being muffled by a thick Oriental rug.
Oliver said, “Are you hungry? I’m sure you’ve barely eaten today, you’ve been working so hard. Or I could open some wine?”
I couldn’t have eaten if you’d paid me, my throat was all closed up with tension, but I’d stuck to fizzy water almost all day, and realised I really, really wanted a drink. So I said that would be lovely, and then, feeling desperately shy, I said, “And where’s the loo?”
Oliver laughed and said, “Come upstairs, I’ll show you where everything is.”
I could believe that the house had been Oliver’s grandmother’s – it clearly hadn’t had anything new added to it for ages. The furniture, wallpaper and curtains were old and all their colours had faded to delicate, dusty shades of rose, jade and gold. On the landing we passed a chaise-longue with a massive tear in the seat, its stuffing oozing out. There were paintings everywhere – hanging on the walls, of course, but also propped up against them, some stacked three or four deep. And there was that smell old houses have, of dusty books and potpourri that dried out years ago, and a hint of damp. It was beautiful but it felt a bit sad, and frankly looked like it needed a good clean, especially the bathroom Oliver showed me to, which had suspicious stains in the bowl of the loo that might have been limescale or might not, peeling paint on the walls and only one scratchy, threadbare towel. I cleaned myself up as best I could, brushed my hair and put on more lip gloss, then went to find Oliver, leaving the plumbing clanking thunderously behind me.
He was in his bedroom, the one room in the house that appeared to have had anything done to it during the past hundred years or so. It was an island of bright newness in the shabby, neglected house. The floorboards had been polished, the wallpaper stripped away and the walls painted white. The bed was white too, covered in a think duvet like a cloud, and there was a huge painting hanging above it of a naked couple. It was quite modernist, all in shades of blue, and the proportions of the man and the woman were distorted, with her eyes located somewhere under her armpit and his feet for some reason enlarged to massive proportions, but I could still tell that they were enjoying sexual intercourse in the position which I believe is known as the reverse cowgirl. In front of the bed was a white sheepskin rug, and Oliver was sitting on it, drinking champagne, his legs stretched out in front of him. I joined him.
“What do you think of my Cunningham?” he asked.
“What?” I asked, wondering if this was some obscure reference to seventeenth-century erotic literature. “Your cunning what?”
“Jamie Cunningham.” Oliver gestured to the painting above the bed. “Rose found that for me. Cunningham’s not well known but he’s going to be the next Marcus Brand. That painting was only finished two years ago, when he was experimenting with cubism, but it’s already quadrupled in value. Although mostly I just like the subject matter.” He handed me a glass of champagne.
I don’t know if it was the mention of Rose, the stark, almost obscene eroticism of the painting, or Oliver himself, but the desire I’d felt for him was dwindling and I was uncomfortable and even a bit scared.
“What’s wrong with his foot?” I asked.
Oliver laughed. “He must go through a hell of a lot of socks,” he said. We were silent for a little while. I could hear the champagne fizzing in my glass and the sounds of a country night that are so soft they’re almost silence: the hoot of an owl, the swish of a car passing on a distant road somewhere. “So, Elodie, here we are.”
“Here we are,” I said. I turned to look at him again, waiting for the familiar surge of desire his perfect profile and silky hair could ignite in me.
He pulled me towards him and kissed me, his lips pressing mine against my teeth with an intensity that was almost savage. His hands were moving over my body, eager and demanding, one squeezing my breast, pinching my nipple through my dress and bra so I gasped with pain and pleasure, the other snaking up my thigh. I heard the rasp of the zip of my dress being pulled down, and felt the sudden coolness of the air on my back, then Oliver’s warm, dry hand moving over my skin. He pushed me gently back on to the rug and my head sank into the soft fleece. I felt a forest of goosebumps sprouting on my arms and legs. Oliver knelt between my legs, exploring my body, smiling down at me. I closed my eyes, and wished I could close my mind too, to the little voice that was getting louder all the time, demanding to know what the very fuck I thought I was doing.
“Look at you. You’re lovely,” he said.
I heard the rattle of buttons as he threw his shirt on to the wooden floor, and the metalli
c sound of his trouser zip, and my eyes snapped open again. Oliver was beautiful, as beautiful as I’d imagined him, his skin pale and smooth and flawless, stretched over a body so lean it was almost gaunt. He was staring at me so intently, his gaze felt as hot and demanding as hands. “Gorgeous girl,” he said.
“I’ve wanted you for so long. I want to give you so much pleasure. You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He leaned over to kiss me again.
The voice was clamouring now, almost screaming in my head, “Does he say that to Rose? Surely there can only be one sexiest thing?” And that was it, like pulling the plug out of a sinkful of soapy water, my desire drained away, and I could see the detritus it had been hiding: that Oliver was cheating on Rose; that I was betraying my own sister; how horribly I’d used poor Peter and most of all, how disgusted Ben would be if he knew what I was doing.
“Oliver,” I gasped, “Stop.”
His face above me was flushed and bewildered. “What?” he said.
“Please, stop,” I said. “I’m really sorry. But I can’t do this.”
“What’s wrong?” he said, “Are you on your period? I don’t mind, we can still…”
In spite of myself, I burst out laughing. “No. I’m not. I just don’t want to carry on. It’s not right.”
“Jesus.” He rolled over and found his jacket, where he’d thrown it on the floor, took a pack of fags out of the pocket, lit one and offered it to me. I shook my head.
“Jesus,” he said again. “You might have said so earlier. This is going to bloody hurt.” He gestured towards his still impressive erection.
“Sorry,” I said, humbly.
“Do you mind staying here?” he asked. “Elliot’s gone off for the night and I’m in no state to drive. I could ring for a cab for you but I doubt we’d get one to come out here at this time of night.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m sure you won’t come and molest me in the night.”
“You don’t need to worry about that,” he said. There was a pause, then he said, “You know, you’ve changed since I first met you.”
“I know,” I said, thinking of all those plates of salad and bowls of porridge, all the runs and the spin classes, the new clothes and the manicures.
“Not just the way you look,” he said. “Everything. You were different from the other women I know. Less shallow. Softer.”
“I suppose so,” I said.
“I fancied you like crazy the first time I met you,” he said.
“Really?” I remembered my ancient jeggings and shapeless hair.
“Sure. You seemed so passionate about things, so comfortable in your own skin. You were beautiful without trying. You’re still beautiful, but now you’re putting the effort in, and it makes you less… individual, I guess. Since you’re not going to fuck me, I may as well tell you.” He laughed.
I shrugged. “I suppose I needed to grow up a bit.”
Oliver ground out his cigarette and lit another one. “You can still change your mind, you know,” he said. “But you’re not going to get another chance, after this.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I’ve asked Rose to marry me,” he said.
Oliver kept his word, and I slept unmolested in one of the spare bedrooms. Except I didn’t sleep – I lay between the slightly damp-feeling sheets, turning over and over from my back to my side to my stomach to my other side to my back again, like a chicken on a spit. I tried to soothe myself to sleep in all the usual ways – counting slowly backwards from a hundred then back up again; imagining which famous people (alive or dead, real or fictional) I’d invite to my fantasy dinner party (my current list was Caitlin Moran, Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, Dorothy Parker, Marie Colvin, Nelson Mandela and Jacob out of Twilight – call me lowbrow, but you so would, wouldn’t you?); the progressive relaxation techniques I’d learned from a long-ago yoga teacher. But nothing worked. My brain just wouldn’t switch off and my body followed suit, and eventually I gave up and got my Kindle out of my handbag and tried to read, but that was no good either. I couldn’t stop thinking about Rose and Oliver, Ben and Nina, what a horrible mess everything was, and how quite a lot of it was my fault.
At about seven o’clock I gave in and got up, feeling scratchy-eyed, achy and horribly cross. I had an unsatisfactory shower in tepid, rust-coloured water, with the pipes clunking and shrieking alarmingly above me, and got dressed again in my pink dress. There was no sign of Oliver, but when I went downstairs, Elliot, his driver, was sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. I blushed horribly when I saw him – how many women had he driven back here, I wondered, knowing they were going to shag Oliver and then be transported back whence they came the next day, like books being returned to the library before you’ve finished them, or clothes purchased online and found to be baggy around the arse, or something.
“Morning, love,” he said. “Beautiful day.”
I agreed, and said something about how it might only be April but it felt as if summer had properly arrived, and he said it would probably make for a soggy July, mind, and I said how lucky we’d been to have had such a mild winter, apart from the few snowy days around Christmas, and he said it made you think there might be some truth in all that talk about global warming, and I said yes, he was right, and realised we’d reached the point at which the subject was well and truly exhausted.
“Oliver mentioned that it might be possible for you to drive me back to the hotel where my colleague is staying,” I said. “My bags are there and I was hoping to get back to London this morning.”
“It’s no trouble, love,” he said. “Fancy a cuppa before we go?”
“No, thank you,” I said, “but please do finish yours, there’s no hurry.” So I had to sit and look relaxed while he finished his tea and then had another cup, reading the sports section of The Times very, very slowly, occasionally making comments like, “QPR look to be staying up,” and, “Sri Lanka are all out for 324 then,” until I wanted to howl with frustration.
At last he slowly stood up, had a good old stretch, folded the newspaper neatly and put it in the exact centre of the kitchen table, and said, “About time we got going then,” as if it was me who’d been keeping him waiting.
The lobby of the Swains Abbey Novotel smelled of coffee and bacon, and was crowded with bleary-eyed people with suit-carriers and hat boxes – evidently there’d been a wedding there the previous day. I made my way up to my room, changed into jeans and flip-flops, packed my bags, checked out, sent Daisy a text telling her I’d see her in the office on Monday, and got a taxi to the station, all with a sense of frantic urgency. It was only when I was on the train that I realised I was hurrying back to the flat to see Rose, and I had absolutely no idea what I was going to say to her.
“I wouldn’t advise you to marry your boyfriend, because after being pursued by your sister for months he finally made a play for her,” was something of a non-starter. “Oliver is a duplicitous shit who would have fucked your sister if she’d let him,” wasn’t brilliant either, as conversation-openers go.
Nor was I loving, “You would have to be certifiably bonkers to marry someone who cheats on you the second he’s got a ring on your finger, because believe me, if he does it once he’ll do it over and over again, and you’ll end up as bitter and desiccated as one of those orange slices you hang on Christmas trees,” even though it was true.
As is so often the way with train journeys when you are less than eager to reach your destination, there were no delays at all. Soon I was standing at our front door, fitting my key into the lock and praying, “Please let Rose be out, please let Rose be out.” But she wasn’t, of course.
“Hey, Rose,” I called, walking into the hallway. I could hear the telly playing MTV – it sounded like Glee, which Rose absolutely adores. I dropped my bag on the hall floor and walked through to the kitchen. Rose was sitting at the table, surrounded by piles of paper. There was a ring on her left hand, a tasteful platinum band set with a single, hu
ge diamond. She looked as if she’d been crying.
“Rose?” I paused in the doorway.
“Hi Ellie.” Rose smiled a rather wan sort of smile. I went in and switched the kettle on, waiting for her to say something. It wasn’t until it had boiled and I’d made a pot of tea and put it down on the table with two mugs, my Marmite one and Rose’s Pantone Warm Grey one, that she did. “So, I’m getting married. Not in the morning, probably next year sometime. It took a while but we got there in the end.”
Her face had its closed, calm look. She wasn’t smiling at all anymore. I reached out and touched her hand, the one with the ring on it.
“You know this isn’t really how you’re supposed to tell me,” I said. “You’re meant to be shrieking and dancing and I’m meant to join in and then you ask me to be your chief bridesmaid and we scream some more. You’re not doing this right.”
Rose laughed, a soft, breathy laugh. “Sorry, Ellie. Of course I want you to be my chief bridesmaid. I’ll work on going ‘Oooh!’ a bit, I promise. It’s just that it takes a bit of getting used to, that’s all.”
“Rose,” I said, “you do know that when someone asks you to marry them, that’s when you’re off-the-scale happy. Later on you can have rows about him having strippers on his stag night and whether his mother gets to choose the colour of your bridesmaids’ knickers. But for the moment, you’re meant to be really, really loved up and excited, and you aren’t.”
“You don’t seem excited, either,” Rose said.
“Well, no,” I said. “I mean, it’s not a surprise to me. I saw Oliver yesterday – he was at the polo with some mates – and he told me. I think he’s a lovely guy, I think you and he could be really happy together. It’s just… you don’t seem sure, and to be totally honest nor does he.”
It Would Be Wrong to Steal My Sister's Boyfriend Page 21
