“Luke, please,” I gasp, when he walks me backwards to the wall, kissing my neck.
I have no choice but to walk backwards with him, lest I trip over my own feet and land on my backside.
“Living-room. Now.” His breath is hot and damp against the skin of my throat.
“No,” I say, far more firmly this time.
I am no longer merely uncomfortable from his unwanted advances, I am irritated. There is anger behind the hard shove to his muscular chest. Luke finally relinquishes his grip, and I lurch away from him, my low heels click-clacking on the black and white tiled floor.
I reach the foot of the curving stairs, and swivel on the spot. He is leaning against the wall, arms folded, ankles crossed.
And he is glaring at me, his mouth set in a grim line. Wordlessly, he straightens up, then strides through the living-room door. He is like an angry thundercloud, and for a moment I remain rooted to the spot, unsure as to what the hell just happened.
Finally, I turn away and ascend the stairs.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I creep down the upstairs hallway, not because I’m trying to catch out the babysitter doing anything especially that she shouldn’t be, but because there is a ninety-nine percent chance that Bella is fast asleep, and I don’t want to wake her.
Usually, Jessie sits in the nursery with her when we’re throwing dinner parties like the one we had tonight. She does have permission to use the fifth, spare bedroom that we never use. It is a comfortable room, complete with four-poster bed, chaise-lounge, television, and desk. I have even put a kettle in the room, and always leave her an array of nibbles and soft drinks should she feel hungry, but she very rarely uses the room at all. Instead, she prefers to sit in Bella’s semi-dark room, on my comfortable Laura Ashley armchair that I pretty much lived on when I was breastfeeding.
I am almost certain that this is where I will find her now, curled up with her laptop, doing her college work. She is studying to be a paediatrician, and, as she is only nineteen, there is a long road ahead of her.
I reach Bella’s door, stop, and peer around it into the shadowy room. My gaze latches onto the flowery armchair by the sash window with the pink, voile curtains, but it is empty.
My heart leaps into my throat, then sinks back down again, slamming hard. My head snaps in the direction of the cot, and there Jessie Wilkes is, leaning down over my baby. She is somewhere between in-profile to me, and back turned to me. She is reaching down, both hands in the vicinity of Bella’s face at the head of the cot.
For a ridiculous moment – but no less soul-destroyingly awful for being ridiculous – I am convinced that she is smothering my little girl with the pillow.
“What are you doing?” I gasp, simultaneously switching on the overhead light and staggering into the bedroom.
Her back visibly flinches and she pings upright, spinning around on the spot, her dark eyes wide in her pretty face.
“Mrs Crawford! What’s wrong?”
I stand in the middle of the room, just staring at her. Dimly, I am aware that I must cut quite the strange figure, that I am acting insane. I avert my gaze and briefly clutch my forehead, a subconscious gesture to accompany the way I am trying to collect my thoughts.
“Mrs Crawford? Tanya?” she amends, probably only then remembering that I have repeatedly a sked her to call me by my first name. When she addresses me as Mrs Crawford, it makes me feel so old and staid, like a mean old matron straight out of a Charles Dickens’ novel.
My mind feels as thick as treacle, and I can’t seem to shake the sensation that I am fast asleep, stuck in a nightmare.
“What were you doing?” I ask.
She looks at me blankly, absently pushing her long, glossy brown fringe out of her eyes. Her startled gaze darts to the cot, then back to me again.
“I… Nothing. I mean, I was just fluffing up her pillow, it had gotten kind of bunched up, you know? Her neck was looking a little uncomfortable and twisted…”
Her voice trails off as I suddenly gain control of my legs once more and rush over to the cot.
“Is everything alright Mrs… Tanya?”
Ignoring her, I reach down and graze my fingertips over my sleeping child’s face. She is fidgety, sucking furiously on her dummy and making little mewling noises deep in her throat.
But she is fine.
Of course she is fine, I tell myself crossly. What was I expecting, exactly? For the pillow to be covering her darling little face?
A strangled sob rises up my throat, and I swallow it back down again. Jessie’s hand lightly touches my upper arm, and I flinch.
“Tanya? What is it?” she asks in a voice that is barely a whisper. “Should I turn off the light?”
I turn my head to look at her, and for an alarming second, I simply can’t make head nor tail of what she is saying. Slowly, it sinks in.
“Yes. Right. Light. Good idea.”
A few seconds later, and the room is plunged into shadows once more. I desperately want to lift my darling girl out of her cot and hold her tight, but I resist the urge. By some miracle, she hasn’t woken up during my little outburst, and there is no reason on God’s earth why I should court such a thing now. With a final, loving stroke of her soft hair, I turn away from the cot.
She is absolutely fine, and I am ashamed of myself and my ridiculous flight of fancy that Jessie was smothering her with a pillow. Not so much ashamed, but disgusted. I have no idea why I should have been so consumed by paranoia, so utterly out of my mind with it.
I make my way over to Jessie, who is waiting for me at the open door.
*
Out in the hallway, as we walk side by side to the top of the staircase, I stop and reach out to lightly graze her arm. She grinds to a halt next to me.
“I was acting a little strange just now, and I’m sorry,” I say.
She shrugs, smiling gently. She is such a sweet girl, I think.
“That’s okay. And you weren’t acting that strange, anyway. You just made me jump, that’s all.”
She’s just being kind, I know she is, but I appreciate the gesture just the same. Clearly, she doesn’t want to lose this babysitting gig. And who can blame her? We pay triple the going rate.
“Well, I’m sorry anyway.” I let out a weak-sounding laugh. “Let’s just say that it’s been a rough night. Truly, thanks so much for your time. You’ve been an angel, as usual.”
“It’s a pleasure. I got a ton done on my essay, Bella is always so easy.”
“That’s great, I’m glad you managed to get some work done. Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
She beams at me. I think how fresh-faced and innocent she is, how lucky we are to have her appear in our lives the way she has from seemingly out of nowhere, like the proverbial angel, dropping straight down from Heaven. It was the Lavingtons, funnily enough, who recommend her – or Tony, specifically, who did so. Apparently, she babysits for another colleague of Tony’s, and he didn’t hesitate in recommending her services. We are so lucky to have her, I simply don’t know what came over me just now.
“You know what, Mrs Crawford? I mean, Tanya. When I grow up, I want a baby like Bella, and a house just like yours. In fact, I think I want to be you.”
“Trust me, you don’t want to be me.”
As I say it, the strangest feeling curls around me – I am distinctly out of whack again. This time, I do my best to shrug it off immediately, but not before I think, and do you want my husband, too?
I know I’m being unfair but I can’t help it, the thought has crept up on me and caught me quite unawares, no matter how quickly I try to dismiss it. I mean, she’s a pretty girl. A very young pretty girl. But that kind of thing happens all the time, doesn’t it? The older man having the affair with the beautiful young student. Because if Luke looks like Tom Cruise, then Jessie bears more than passing resemblance to Selena Gomez, with her cute little nose, square jaw and puppy-dog brown eyes. She has a knockout figure too, even if
she is on the short side, and perhaps a pound or two overweight. The unpleasant thought occurs to me that it wouldn’t be so outrageous if Hollywood paired these two together on the silver screen – in fact, it would look something approaching normal. Sickening, maybe, but not that outlandish. Not like if the age gap was the other way around.
“Oh, but I do want to be you,” she giggles. “And I’m going to work really hard at college so that I can have everything you have.”
Or you could just marry into it, if you want to be like me, I think bitterly. Or, better yet, why not just take my husband if you want this life so much…
I wonder if she has a crush on Luke.
And worse, I wonder if he has a crush on her.
Then, once again, I’m wondering if it’s moved beyond the crush stage…
Stop, I scream in my head.
“Come on,” I say, making a move to continue our walk down the hallway. “You must be desperate to get home, Luke’s calling you a taxi as we speak, and we still have to pay you, yet.”
“Yes, of course.”
A look passes over her face, one that I can’t quite fathom. Or maybe I can. It’s almost like she’s disappointed. It only then occurs to me that perhaps she wants to stay a while longer, not so much in the babysitting capacity, but as a friend. Like, she envies my life so much, she wants to be a part of it for as long as she can.
As we resume our walk across the landing, I surreptitiously lean in closer to her, trying to catch her scent trail. Because what if she smells the same as the perfume I had smelled on Luke’s clothes?
I stop myself, for I’m not going down that road.
If I do, I will surely lose my mind.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Barricaded in our en-suite bathroom, I push a tiny pill out of its foil casing. I swallow it dry, used to doing so by now, then crouch before the open cupboard doors beneath the sink where I keep a sizable stash of beauty and bathroom products. The outer box itself of these contraceptive pills has long since been binned, and I stash the silver strip of pills at the very back of the cupboard, underneath a hefty, unopened bottle of bleach with a concave bottom.
“Are you okay in there?” comes Luke’s voice from directly on the other side of the door.
I jump guiltily. It’s almost like he knows what I’m doing.
“I’m fine,” I call back, lurching upright from my crouching position on the floor and clutching the rim of the marble sink. I stare at my wild eyes in the mirror. “I’ll be out in a sec.”
“Well, hurry up. I’m getting lonely in here.”
I have butterflies, I’m not sure why. It’s only sex – something we used to be pretty good at. Used to be, being right, sadly. Because lately, that side of things has changed between us. It isn’t anything that I can quite put my finger on, but our lovemaking has become increasingly mechanical, increasingly soulless.
I think of his behaviour out in the hallway from earlier, how I had sensed his thinly veiled, sexual aggression, and I shudder. I tell myself that I am overreacting, that he was just being overly amorous, and I dented his ego by rejecting him, but in my heart I don’t buy it. No man should ever make a woman feel this way – there is never an excuse for it.
I feel sad then, because gone are the days when he would whisper sweet nothings in my ear, or go out of his way to make sure that I orgasmed multiple times. Sex is just different now.
I sigh deeply, staring at my just-cleaned face in the mirror. I pick up the tub of expensive moisturiser and unscrew the lid. My skin is flawless – and so it should be with the amount of expensive gunk I rub into it, and my diligence with a daily SPF of fifty.
I am naked, as I’ve just had a quick rinse down in the shower, my wavy hair scraped back into a high ponytail so that it doesn’t get wet, and I put back on the underwear that I had been wearing. My small breasts disappear from view in the mirror as I shuck myself back into the cream-coloured, silky bra, and hastily I step into the matching, silky knickers.
It’s just that I don’t want to walk back into the bedroom naked – I’ve never especially been one for parading around in the nude, not even in front of my husband. I am the person that you will see on the beach in a one-piece, and I would die before I ever went topless. Not that you would ever catch me sunbathing, given my pale complexion, but that’s besides the point.
I am not getting straight into the bed as I intend to brush my hair first, hence I wish for some kind of coverage, seeing as my boar-bristle brush is on the dressing-table. If I don’t run a brush through my mane tonight, it’s going to resemble a rat’s nest in the morning.
Taking a deep breath, irritated at myself for being so irrationally nervous and shy, I push open the bathroom door.
Luke is lying in bed in the softly-lit room, the pale green duvet wrapped around his middle, exposing his impressively pumped chest, his hands laced behind his dark head.
“Hello, beautiful, come here,” he says, unlocking his hands for a second to pat the empty side of the bed next to him.
His smile is predatory – sleazy – and not in a way that I find sexy. I resist the urge to wrap my arms around myself. Instead, I manage a small smile.
“In a moment. I just have to brush my hair first.”
As I speak, I tug my hair free from the sloppy ponytail, and make my way over to the dressing-table on the far wall, parallel to my side of the bed. I pull out the long, padded stool – which is so long, presumably, so a lady can do her toes if she so desires, and not have to ungainly hoik up her foot onto the edge of the dressing-table. I sit down in front of the mirror and reach for my hairbrush.
I love this dressing-table. It is arguably a little tacky, with the way the large, square mirror is ringed by lights. It is perhaps the type of dressing-table that would look more at home backstage at a strip-club, but I adore it just the same. I mean, my personal style and taste in home décor is so proper and classy, and if I can’t be tacky in my own bedroom, then where can I be tacky?
But I certainly don’t want to be tacky tonight. I am wondering if I can feign a headache, when I see movement in the mirror behind my reflection.
I gasp, twisting my torso on the stool, and there Luke is, wearing only his snug-fitting, black underpants, hovering over me. He sits down next to me on the long stool, his legs facing outwards into the room and his torso twisted in my direction.
Once sitting, he appears a few inches taller than me, as I am all legs and Luke has a longer torso. I continue to brush my hair, but move the brush to the right side of my head so that I do not hit him with it. Luke gently lifts the curtain of hair from my left shoulder, pushing it with the rest of my hair. Gently, he traces patterns on my shoulder with his fingertips.
Our eyes lock in the mirror and I shiver. I don’t stop brushing – I’m not in the mood for such intensity.
“You’re very beautiful,” he says, ceasing his gentle exploration of my skin to flick the switch.
The line of bulbs that ring the mirror flare into life, and I blink, momentarily dazzled. Now his hand is back, but this time it has snaked around to the bare skin of my chest, where his thumb strokes the prominent line of my collarbone.
“So elegant. So classy,” he murmurs.
The eyes of his reflection bore into me, and I feel every inch the proverbial deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car in the dead of night – a meeting that can only end in carnage.
But not sexy, I think. He didn’t call me sexy.
His fingers trail the full length of my collarbone, then wrap around the shoulder furthest away from him. I cease brushing my hair, for his hand is obstructing the course of the brush.
He nuzzles the side of my neck, and I watch him in the mirror.
“Jessie’s very pretty, don’t you think?” I say to his profile in the mirror.
I’m not sure why I asked that. It is partly genuine insecurity, and partly an attempt to stop his amorous advances in their tracks. It’s just, the sight of my brightly-lit r
eflection is making me feel uncomfortable.
He raises his head, his grip tightening on my shoulder. His other hand sweeps up and down my spine, out of sight.
The eyes of his reflection bore into my own, and I feel my cheeks burning. Thanks to the stage-lights, it is all too obvious that I am blushing. The hard lines of his full mouth lift at one corner, and his dark eyes sparkle dangerously.
“I hadn’t noticed. You’re not jealous, are you? I am insulted that you would think I would want a child. She’s a kid, Tanya.”
In my head, I answer that there are fifteen years between us, so what’s another fifteen years between friends? Or between lovers, perhaps?
“She’s still very attractive,” I say softly, averting my gaze and suddenly taking great interest in the hairbrush that I clutch in my right hand.
“Tanya.”
His voice is a low caress, making me shiver. He plucks the hairbrush out of my hand, places it on the dressing-table and eases his fingers under my chin, where he gently tilts my face in his direction. I feel myself pinned in place by his dark gaze, my head twisted awkwardly on my neck.
“Yes, she’s a pretty girl, but that’s all she is – a girl. She’s pretty in the way that children and babies are pretty. I would die before I was sexually attracted to a child.”
His eyes blaze and I feel as if he is telling the truth. I’m starting to feel ridiculous for even suggesting such a thing, like I’ve let him down, somehow. Him and myself.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
For some reason, the image of Jessie leaning over Bella’s cot slams into my mind, and I all-too-vividly remember that sickening, fleeting moment when I had been so sure that she was smothering my baby…
I close my eyes, because Luke’s intense gaze is just too much, for it feels like he is reading my mind, that he can see the image as well as I can.
“Open your eyes, Tanya,” he commands. “Look at me.” Gently, he guides my face forward so that it is facing the mirror, forcing me to confront my reflection. “Just look at yourself. You are beautiful. And even if Jessie was a grownup, she still wouldn’t be a patch on you. No woman even comes close to you. You are exquisite, like an angel. So delicate, so ethereal, so perfect.”
From the Inside Page 9
