All That Mullarkey

by Sue Moorcroft

  ‘And you’ll never forgive what I did – look, here’s a living reminder. My daughter. And you don’t even like her.’

  They cut between the lakes to a wooden playground. Gav made a clumsily obvious effort with Shona, pushing her on a swing and clapping when she shot down the shiny metal slide like a little ball. But she ducked away and climbed onto a wooden rabbit to glare. Cleo watched the light die again from Gav’s eyes and sighed.

  She tackled Justin the moment he arrived to pick her up, ignoring his dry, ‘Great dress, is it new?’

  She turned in the seat to face him. ‘Did you tell the police Gav torched your flat?’ Though her eyes were fixed on his, she was aware of his dark grey suit and cobalt-blue shirt, of the quills of hair hanging over his eyes.

  He grinned. ‘Has he been telling tales?’

  ‘Did you?’

  The grin faded. ‘Not by choice. The Blumfields had alibis, friends who say they were with them in Brighton. The police asked me the direct question, “Anyone else with a grudge against you?” I said, “Not one who’d do this,” and that was enough, they leapt in saying there was obviously something I wasn’t letting on, they were used to dealing with delicate matters, etc. I knew Gav’s name and where he worked.’ He shrugged. ‘Couldn’t be avoided.’

  They looked at each other. She reached for the seat belt. ‘Shall we go?’

  The function room was unimaginative with red velvet curtains, white tablecloths and way too much brass and copper. Their places were at what was evidently the singles’ table as no one but Justin had brought a partner. Her red place card was inked ‘Cleo Reece’ in gold pen, whereas the rest were properly printed. She even caught a hissed, ‘Who’s she?’ It couldn’t be more obvious that she was a late addition to the guest list.

  She watched Justin from under her lashes and wondered why he’d really invited her. Her being a good mixer seemed a bit lame. And if it really was to thank her for putting him up for a few weeks … hmm. Not much better. She sighed and admitted to herself that she was here because he felt sorry for her, with her nice new dress and nowhere to wear it. She shrank inside. She was a pity date.

  He’d hardly want her glued to his side, in that case, so she’d better make a damned good job of ‘mingling’. Brightest smile firmly in place, she said, ‘Introduce me to everybody, then.’

  There were ten others on their table, four from the studio, two girls from the office, Elizabeth and Zoë, and four men from the print works. Of these, three were machine assistants and one was a printer – Brad, tall and hunky with dark shoulder-length hair. He wore a seventies two-tone suit as if for a joke, collar undone, tie knot four inches too low, jacket straining over his shoulders. His avid brown eyes were trained on the sleek fabric of Cleo’s dress where it draped and gathered around her breasts.

  ‘Hello,’ Cleo tried. ‘I’m up here.’

  With a blink, Brad snapped his gaze up to meet hers. ‘You certainly are. Where has Justin been hiding you? Justin, swap seats – I gotta sit next to her.’

  Justin examined the menu card. ‘As if.’

  Cleo couldn’t resist giving Brad a second look. Whatever reason, she was here, and if Brad’s attention was as obvious as the beam from a lighthouse, well, fine, it had been too long since anyone had offered such balm to her ego. Time was, of course, that Justin had gazed at her with identical wolfish intent and how had they ended up …? Well, she was wiser now.

  As a cheesy appetiser of scallop shells filled with prawns and piped potato was served, Justin lifted his wine and chinked glasses with her. ‘Thanks again for taking me in. It must have been a pain.’

  ‘No problem. The house seems very quiet and tidy without you, now. Poor Shona still bursts into the sitting room expectantly in the mornings.’

  He smiled a crooked smile, forking potato around without eating. ‘I so enjoyed being with her. I might be biased but I think she’s a pretty fantastic kid. It all worked out OK, didn’t it?’

  ‘Fine.’ Cautiously, she took a mouthful of soft prawn and dry potato. It didn’t taste a lot better than it looked.

  Slowly, Justin laid down his fork. ‘I got to spend time with her, you got to share the load. To return to the conversation that was interrupted when I got the call to say my flat was on fire – that house on Main Road, nearly opposite the pub, the one you like but that you said was too big and expensive for you – we could share the deposit, share the mortgage, and all live there together. You, me, Shona. I could have my room, you have yours. Shona would have both of us.’

  For an instant, Cleo had the dizzying sensation that her heart had just done a handstand. Was it with longing? For company, for some of the responsibility to slide onto someone else’s shoulders? Almost definitely its acrobatics were based on hope that eventually Justin would feel again something of what he seemed to feel for her in the beginning. And they’d be happy and it would be glorious and they’d be a family and have fun and –

  Stop it!

  These were stupid, impossible, impractical dreams based on ridiculous, unfounded optimism and almost bound to bring woe. Her heart flounced right side up again and began to sulk.

  Discarding her fork, she snatched up her glass. ‘I thought we’d already agreed that it’s a ludicrous idea. Think of how sniffy Anita was when you were living at my place. And you didn’t even bring her to spend the night. You’ll regret it the moment that you begin seeing someone again.’

  His eyes were calm. ‘Let me worry about my own love life.’

  She leaned towards him so that her lips were close to his ear. ‘OK, let’s worry about mine. I have no love life. Geddit? There’s been no one since I left Gav – and, bluntly, moving in with you isn’t going to improve my prospects.’

  Around them, conversation swelled loud and raucous; but Cleo and Justin worked their way almost silently through the courses. In fact, Cleo didn’t eat much. She turned politely when Rockley’s head honcho took the stage to spout about the firm’s good year and dish out booze as prizes for various achievements, and applauded with the polite glaze of a guest. Justin received a bottle of Armagnac for the Ashton Campaign, whatever that was, and she managed a stiff, ‘Well done.’

  On the closing round of applause, lilac and yellow discs of light began to race one another across the ceiling, and the base line of the DJ’s opening number eased from enormous speakers at the corners of the dance floor as his deep voice rumbled out, ‘Well, hello Rockley Image! Who’s gonna be first on the dance floor tooooo-night?’

  ‘Me!’ Brad’s big warm hand closed firmly on Cleo’s wrist and suddenly she was arriving at the centre of the floor with Robbie Williams’ invitation, ‘Let Meeee-eeee EnterTAIN YOU’, crashing round the room.

  ‘Fancy a dance?’ Brad’s invitation, though belated, was delivered with a scorching smile. After a moment, Cleo laughed and settled her feet into the rhythm. The dance floor filled up, encouraging Brad in his apparent aim to dance with her as close as humanly possible, sliding behind her to move in tightly and follow the movement of her hips with his. She had to corkscrew her neck to try and get a glimpse of him.

  The crowd thickened, everyone bumping into one another to gusts of laughter.

  ‘This is terrible, I can’t talk to you,’ bellowed Brad. ‘Let’s get a drink.’

  Cleo nodded and let Brad haul her behind him to the bar. She hung back while he procured her a cold Budweiser then fanned himself emphatically. ‘Let’s move closer to the door for a breath of fresh air.’

  There was a bit of relief from the bass thump near the doorway, as well as the promised airflow. Brad moved in close, as if still struggling against the crowd. ‘Love your dress,’ he said. ‘Fantastic. You look amazing.’

  As they exchanged the obligatory, feeling-the-way information about work, films and music, one of the machine assistants came over with two more bottles of Bud. Pretty neat idea to arrange that, she acknowledged, as it meant Brad neither had to leave her unattended nor plunge back into the bar mele
e.

  ‘So,’ he murmured, one hand on the wall above her, eyes flicking between her face and the slit at the neck of her dress. ‘You’re not heavily committed to Justin or anything?’

  ‘Not even lightly,’ she agreed. ‘I did him a favour and he brought me here as a thanks.’

  ‘Great.’ He ran the back of his hand up and down her arm. It tickled, pleasurably. ‘And you know he comes with mega-baggage? He’s got a baby with some tart he had a one-nighter with.’

  Cleo nodded, laughter putting a tuck in her stomach. ‘That would be me.’

  Brad’s mouth dropped open for a horror-struck moment; but then his arm darted opportunistically round her shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean tart, oh wow! I’m really, really sorry …’

  His horrified remorse just made her laugh harder. She knew she ought to be drawing herself up in wounded resentment, but for several moments she even held onto him, wiping her eyes inelegantly on the backs of her hands. The whole situation was just so ludicrous. ‘Forget it. Shall we dance again?’ It was just slightly boring, standing on the edge of things while Brad tried too hard to rivet her with his conversation. Dancing would be better.

  And it was. This was where Brad’s talents lay; he ought to stick to simply being a hunk. Squashed by dancers on all sides, his arms slid around her to shield her from the worst of the jostling and, experimentally, Cleo let her flesh go fluid and reform against his hot body.

  Instantly, his mouth dropped over hers like a hoover, making her freeze in surprise, and she clung to his shoulders, feeling his chest muscled and firm through his shirt. It was, after all, difficult to keep her balance with her face stuck to his.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It was definitely out of order, Cleo and Brad sucking the faces off one another on the dance floor like that. Justin felt the molten anger of the justifiably pissed off.

  And with Brad’s oversized hands cupping Cleo’s round buttocks and all that stupid long hair sweeping down to brush her face, people were beginning to look.

  Worse, some of them were then looking at him. And smirking.

  He sighed and began to push towards the oblivious couple, dumping his jacket and tie en route. Bloody woman; bloody overgrown, oversexed man.

  Threading between the dancers, he made a point of greeting people, hoping Cleo would hear and come up for air. Sure enough, her startled dark eyes soon met his. He ignored Brad. ‘I thought I might have a couple of dances with my guest?’

  Cleo nodded slowly. ‘OK.’ She smiled apologetically at Brad. ‘Catch up with you later?’

  Then it was Brad’s turn to look very pissed off. Shame.

  Justin slid his hands onto Cleo’s waist, light, friendly, dancing – not getting-it-on. ‘Sorry I upset you with the house thing. You know what it’s like when you’re convinced how great an idea is – you don’t want to accept others might not see it the same way.’

  Her hands, casual as his, rested on his shoulders. ‘Forget it.’

  Blithely, he prepared to upset her again. ‘You and Brad are getting affectionate.’

  Her eyes, nearly black in the low lights, moved to his face. ‘So?’

  They jogged in a gentle rhythm. Back, forward. Forward, back. As the music slowed down the crowds jostled them more closely together. He let his hands slide round to the small of her back and link up. ‘It looked like an instant improvement in your love life.’ He studied her expression. ‘I’d imagine Brad thinks he’ll get you into bed tonight.’

  Her nod was slow and thoughtful. ‘Probably he does.’ Then she beamed suddenly, conspiratorially, eyes lighting up with mischief. And his heart sank. The madwoman was emerging.

  A couple trying to push past jarred against her. He pulled her closer to speak into her ear. ‘But you’re not going to?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He swore under his breath. She was going to bonk Brad. He could imagine Brad fetching her jacket and they’d leave together, exchanging significant smiles, holding hands.

  He made his voice testy. ‘Chrissake, Cleo, how’s it going to make me look if my guest leaves with Brad? I mean – Brad, testosterone man! I’m not sure I could survive it.’

  For a second her eyes blazed in fury. Then her features stilled, became blank, and relaxed into acceptance. The swaying that had passed for dancing, halted. ‘Right. You’re right. I hadn’t thought of you. It’s not on.’

  Another track began. They started to dance again, in silence. He gazed over her head and felt like eight kinds of git. She’d made it no secret that she was, bluntly, not getting any. The idea of two years – two years! – of celibacy was unimaginable. And Justin had scotched her chances with stupid macho pride, hating the way Brad had sniffed out the opportunity like the wolf he was.

  ‘Justin!’ The whisper whisked him from his thoughts. ‘I’m not a complete sex-starved tart, but could you stop the up-for-it act? You’re making me … uncomfortable.’

  Her meaning struck him like a slap.

  As the crowds had pressed he’d pulled her closer and, wrestling with the tricky Brad situation, his arms had tightened in aggravation. Just look at them – his leg between hers and hers between his; wrapped around each other so tightly that he could feel her heartbeat.

  Fantastic. As well as a selfish git he was an insensitive bastard. For an instant he was super-aware of her flesh pressed to his flesh, her perfume warmed by the heat of her.

  ‘If you intend to have sex tonight, isn’t it better the devil you know?’ They gazed at each other, the shock he felt at having voiced the thought mirrored on her face.

  But she didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Her reply came on a gurgle of incredulous laughter. ‘But you’ve been pretty clear that the time for us to have anything between us has long gone!’

  ‘And would there be “anything between” you and Brad? Or are we talking about just sex?’

  Still now. Dead still in the circle of his arms, her brows straight thoughtful lines, eyes fixed on his. After a moment, she shrugged. ‘Just sex, I suppose.’

  ‘Well,’ he drawled. ‘I could certainly rise to the occasion.’ He must be crazy even to think about this.

  He watched her eyes crinkle up in a silent laugh. She was seriously attractive when she did that. ‘You’ll regret it.’

  He felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards in reply. ‘That’ll be my problem.’

  ‘You’ll feel awkward tomorrow.’

  ‘As if! We’re grown-ups.’

  She shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t even consider it. It’s madness, it’s asking for trouble.’ He felt a very slight shudder run through her. ‘But, if you’re sure …’

  No, but how could he resist her laughing eyes and her hot body pressed gently against his? ‘I’ll get our jackets.’ His heart bounced.

  The flat was dark but for a glow of amber lamplight from the street. The smell of fresh paint reminded her that there had been a fire. The flat was too hot, or she was, and her heart hammered so hard that she thought it might be visible in a pounding heart-shaped lump, like in Tom and Jerry.

  Justin’s hands settled on her shoulders. Light. Comforting. Friendly. His voice was low, vibrating with tension. ‘Sure about this?’

  Hers was ragged and squeaky. ‘If you are.’

  And then his hands were moving, sliding her jacket down her arms and to the floor. He captured her as they drifted up the hall, easing down her zip, hands stroking through the fabric, breasts, stomach, buttocks, making every part of her crackle. Moving faster, breathing unevenly, Justin shrugging off his jacket as they cannoned gently into the bedroom, Cleo’s fingers trembling over his shirt buttons. Cool air as he slipped her dress from her shoulders.

  Sudden urgency as he yanked her against him, his mouth on hers. Stripping himself rapidly and pulling her onto the bed. Her small yelp of shock as her hot flesh touched the coolness of the sheet.

  And then it was all about her and what Justin could do for her.

  She should be …
But she couldn’t co-ordinate, he was stroking, kissing, licking, nipping, his flesh sliding across hers, hands caressing, mouth exciting. Bringing her, in a shamefully short time, to a pitch where she was actually whimpering, ‘Quickly, quickly!’

  But he slowed, his tongue making moist trails across her breasts to cool and pucker into tingling goosebumps, his hand slipping between her legs.

  And who groaned loudest when he touched her? She was getting pretty loud, maybe she’d sweep him along with her – but, no, he only chuckled when she half shouted, ‘Come on!’ Desperate, she was desperate to reach the end of the ride, even though the trip itself was so exciting and particularly sweet.

  When he finally slid inside her he refused to rush, holding on, building her up to bring her properly in on the crest of the biggest wave. She closed her teeth gently on his neck and tasted the salt of his skin. Or maybe her tears.

  Afterwards, it felt as if there was only them, cut off from the rest of the world in a rainbow-strewn bubble of contentment. Delicious. Damp bodies stuck together, the sheet clinging around their legs.

  ‘Fuck it.’

  Cleo lifted her head with an effort, blowing hair out of her eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s broken.’

  Her heart lurched. ‘Not the condom?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  Cleo let her head fall back to the pillow and groaned.

  It was bright daylight when she thought about it again and decided that, leaving that little disaster aside, her favourite had definitely been the first time – when she lost sight of everything except satisfying herself and he’d been so brilliant, expecting nothing and giving everything.

  Or maybe the second time, when it had been more leisurely, exploring each other in an exchange of information and remembering.

  Then again … she stretched and sighed. This morning had been pretty sensational as well, waking up to the realisation that this was no erotic dream but real hands were cupping her breasts and a real erection was hot against her back.