Just then, Mr R turns a sharp left and we cross a dark square, then another road and take another turn along a small street that’s lit only by one lamp burning orange in the night. It’s like stepping back in time: it’s lined by tall Regency houses set back from the path behind iron railings, each with a metal staircase leading down to a basement. I can’t tell if these are private houses or hotels or businesses, their elegant paned windows are mostly shuttered, some with a golden line showing there is light and life behind them.
The couple in front of me go straight to one of the houses of dark red-brown brick and descend the stairs, their steps resounding on the metal, and a moment later a door opens and they disappear inside. When I’m sure that they’re well and truly in, I go to the railings and peer over. Below are two large windows, not shuttered as they look out below street level, and I can see that the room beyond is dimly lit and figures are moving inside. What place is this? A bar? A private house?
I have no idea, and I’m far too shy to find out more. When a deep voice says ‘Excuse me’ and a man in a smart suit goes by me, marching smartly down the stairs with absolute purpose and going through the door, I step back, feeling foolish. I can’t follow them any more and I can hardly wait around for them. I’m going to have to find my way home on my own, but I have a feeling that Oxford Street is nearby and if I can locate that, I’ll be able to get home from there.
You’re acting really strangely, I tell myself sternly. But I can’t help it. I have the sense of a world of adventure existing somewhere very close nearby which I long to be a part of. It’s closed to me, but open to Mr R and his girlfriend. Somewhere, they’re living a life a thousand times more exciting than mine, than anything I’ve ever known during my quiet, provincial life. I ought to leave them to it, but I can’t. It’s as though I’ve stumbled on a small shining thread and I can’t help pulling it, no matter how much it might cause my life to unravel.
I take off my raincoat.
It’s time to go home.
I walk back the way I’ve come, looking at street names until I see some I recognise from looking at my map earlier. As I follow the way I believe leads back to Oxford Street, I see a shop that is still open alongside some small cafe bars and restaurants. It looks like a bookshop but with pretty knick-knacks as well, and on impulse I step inside.
A smiling grey-haired woman greets me as I come in and then makes a point of leaving me to myself as I begin to browse. I can see why: the books cover all manner of topics but principally they are erotic – saucy novels, pictures and poems. I wander about, glancing at titles and resisting the impulse to open the covers. I can’t, not with someone here to see what interests me. I move away from the books and inspect the beautifully drawn sketches on the wall, then gasp and flush, casting around quickly to see if I’ve been noticed. The pictures are graphic depictions of sex. The bodies are headless, the artist concentrating only the torsos of the subjects and the way they are joined together: a woman sits straddled on a man, her back arching and her hands on his chest; another is kneeling forward on a divan, a man engulfed in her bulging sex and thrusting into her from behind.
I’m scarlet. Wherever I look, I see something else: hands holding a huge erection, a woman bending over it as if in worship; the most intimate parts of a female spread open and inviting, fingers parting it to give full access. A woman and two huge penises, one penetrating at the front, one at the back . . .
Oh my God. What is all this?
I look about for something else to focus on and move towards a large walnut glass-fronted cabinet with beautiful objects on the shelves. I can see carved marble and jade and crystal, fine leather and velvet.
I gasp again. I’m so many different kinds of fool. I’m looking at a wide variety of obscenely beautiful sex toys. I can see handwritten cards beside each one:
Jade pleasure-giving dildo £545
Crystal butt plug £230
Marble eggs £200 for the three
A string of onyx love pearls £400
On the shelf beneath is a collection of slender leather riding whips and an antique walking stick with a carved handle which, as I look harder, I can see is the long shaft of a phallus, its testicles tucked up at the base.
At the bottom are some metal implements that baffle me until I see the little cards beside them: they are nipple clamps and vices for seizing the tenderest parts of the body. Beside them are handcuffs in black leather lined with white fur, and slender plaited ropes in different colours.
‘Are you looking for something in particular?’ asks a voice. The woman is standing near me now, looking friendly, but I am immediately full of confusion.
‘Oh . . . no, thank you . . . I’m just looking.’
‘Okay.’ She looks at me as though she completely understands my embarrassment and at once I feel a little more relaxed. She gestures to shelves on the other side of the room. ‘There are some other bits and pieces over here if this is a little pricy for you. This really is our objets d’arts range. Those are more affordable.’
She leads me over to them. There are a huge variety of rubber and latex toys here, some like enormous rockets with all manner of projections, some smooth and slender like stylish pens in bright greens, blues and pinks. ‘You’ll probably have heard of some of these before.’ She sees where I’m looking. ‘Those thin ones are more for anal use, if you’re wondering. The traditional vaginal ones are these larger ones. This, for example’ – she picks up one of the monsters – ‘is quite famous, and one of our bestsellers.’
I stare and draw a loud intake of breath without meaning to. It’s so long and thick. Can it really be accommodated in . . . in there? I’ve never used a sex toy, never even really imagined it, and now I can’t envisage how it would fit anyone, let alone me. I’ve only ever had sex with one man and though he was perfectly well endowed, he certainly wasn’t anything like this size.
The woman indicates one of the larger protrusions on its shaft. ‘This is the clitoral stimulator. You can leave it just as it is, or . . .’ She flicks a switch on the base and the little thumb-like swelling starts to hum and move in a grinding motion. It also flickers with little lights inside it, as though it’s dancing at its own personal disco. She smiles at me. ‘This works a treat. It’s one of the reasons it’s our bestseller. And look at this.’ She presses another switch and the whole shaft begins vibrating, a large inner ring pulsing up and down it, bulging in and out. It hums in a low, rhythmic way that reminds me of De Havilland’s purring, which makes it seem like rather a happy thing. It looks strangely alive, especially with the lights glowing inside it – like some extraordinary and dense jellyfish. I can’t help almost gulping at the sight. After a moment, the woman switches it off and puts the monster down. ‘We’ve got plenty of others as well. Just ask me if you’d like any more explanation. I’m here to help.’
‘Thank you.’ I stare at the range of vibrators and feel a strange sense of excitement building in me. People do this. Normal people. Not perverts or nymphomaniacs, but normal women with sexual urges. The truth is that sex is one of things that I’ve been mourning over. Without Adam, I’ve lost not just my friend and the man I’ve given my heart to, but my lover, the man who touches me, kisses me, hugs me. The man who desired me, who longed to caress my breasts and run his hands over my hips, who wanted to know my intimate places and love them, with his tongue, his fingers and his cock. Now he’s gone and my body is already crying out for his attention. When I’ve cried into my pillow at night, weeping over Adam’s betrayal and the knowledge that he’s now doing all those things with someone else, I’ve also been grieving for the loss of physical love and the pleasure it brought me. Could these things – the little buzzers to be held to that most tender nub, the bobbled, battery-powered rubber shafts with G-spot tantalisers – be the answer?
You could buy one. There’s no one else here. The woman is friendly and anyway, you’ll never see her again. She doesn’t care what you want to do with it . . .<
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If there was ever a place to explore and experiment, then the solitude of Celia’s flat is the place to do it.
Then I remember. I came out without my money. I don’t have any way of buying anything. All the deliciously enticing thoughts disappear and suddenly I feel that I want to be at home.
‘Thank you,’ I call to the shop lady, and I turn, thrusting my hands deep into the pockets of my overcoat, and hurry out, the shop bell chiming behind me as the door closes.
I concentrate on finding my way back to Randolph Gardens, but even as I stride towards the busier street, I’m aware that something has changed. I’m alive in a different way, tingling, aware even of the breeze against my cheek and the way it tickles. Beneath my coat, I’m hot and needy.
Chapter Four
I’m still buzzing the next day. It’s a rather luxurious feeling, as though I want to rub myself against the sheets on the bed, or stand naked at the open window and feel the breeze on my skin. For a moment, as I lie in bed, my hand brushes down over my belly to the patch of soft hair between my legs. The tip of one finger strokes gently over the small but intensely sensitive spot that protrudes slightly from the lips there. The effect is electric. It springs to life, swelling under my fingertip as if begging for attention, and a pleasant sensation spreads outward from my belly.
The image of that throbbing, pulsating shaft with its tantalising grinding little thumb placed exactly in the right spot, and the pictures I saw last night, float into my mind. I swallow hard and pull in a deep breath. A hot wetness is spreading through my groin. I see Mr R first in his tennis kit, damp with sweat, and then naked to the waist, wrapped in a towel. My fingertip sinks deeper into the warmth and I twitch just a little in response. My clitoris is stiff now, making its presence known, every nerve ending wanting stimulation.
Shall I?
I’ve brought myself to a climax before, of course. The long months at university without Adam had taught me the merit of that particular solitary pursuit. But since that night, I haven’t been able to bear it. I can’t touch myself. I’ve felt too rejected to be able to lose myself in the pleasurable imaginative space that would allow me to come.
But now? Can I . . .?
I flick my fingertip back over my swollen bud and this time a shudder ripples down my legs and up over my belly. My body is longing for it, begging me to give it release. I rub again and then again, gasping a little at the intensity of feeling it creates.
Then, it happens. I see that goddamned awful picture in my mind again: Adam turning to face me, revealing Hannah lying below him. I see his flabby belly with the rough patch of coarse brown hair at the base, and I see Hannah’s spreading legs, the triangle of damp and flattened hair. I see again, with horror only a little dulled by repetition, the way they are joined together, his dark red shaft poking deep into her glistening ruby lips.
I groan. The desire that a moment ago was racing through me vanishes.
Why the fuck did I have to see that? Why the fuck can’t I forget it? That image will always haunt me. The vision of their panting, animal desire kills my own arousal. The sight of Adam’s cock, once my own prized possession, our shared joy, plunged into Hannah’s body, has made my desires wither up and disappear.
I touch my clitoris again and it buzzes hopefully beneath my finger. It’s no good. My flesh might still be willing, but my spirit is crushed. I get quickly out of bed and wash away all that hot arousal in the shower.
Despite being unable to satisfy my body’s evident longing for an orgasm, I can’t shake the sense of luxuriousness. I had a very worthy day planned, one of cultural sightseeing in the art galleries and museums, and I’d planned to wear sensible clothes and sneakers and take a picnic lunch with me so I didn’t have to eat in a high-priced tourist-trap cafe. But today, I don’t feel quite in that frame of mind after all. In fact, the huge department stores along Oxford Street keep appearing in my imagination. Just a few days ago, when I arrived, I would have been far too intimidated to consider going in to such places on my own, but now something has subtly changed.
I chatter to De Havilland as I make some coffee and put some cereal in a bowl. In response, he saunters over to a scratching panel that Celia has put on a cupboard door and spends a happy few minutes ripping it to shreds with his claws while I bore him with my witterings.
‘Do you think London is really making me brave again?’ I ask him, as he digs in and then tears out his claws. ‘I used to be brave, believe it or not. I went off to uni on my own, knowing absolutely no one and ended up making loads of friends.’ I think wistfully of Laura, a fellow student who became my closest pal. She’s travelling in South America, spending her last few months of freedom there before starting a job in London with a management consultancy company. She promised to send me emails whenever she passed an Internet place, but I haven’t picked up my emails for a while now. It’s strange that I’ve barely thought about them either. Usually I’m glued to my laptop, surfing the net, catching up with what everyone’s up to, getting gossip. Now it’s sitting abandoned in a bag in the bedroom and I’ve forgotten all about it.
Today I’ll see if I can get a connection, or at least take the laptop somewhere I can log on. Every cafe has Wi-Fi these days, after all.
As I get dressed, I wonder what Laura would make of my break up. She’d be sorry for me and sympathetic, but I know that, deep down, she’d be glad. She tried to like Adam for my sake but when they’d met on the one occasion Adam had visited me at college, staying over in my shared student house, she’d not taken to him. I’d seen that look in her eyes while they talked, the one that showed she was barely keeping in her irritation. Afterwards, she’d tried to bite her tongue, but eventually she’d said, ‘Don’t you think he’s a bit . . . a bit boring, Beth? I mean, he talked about himself all night and never once about you!’
I defended him, of course. All right, Adam could be a bit egotistical, he could ramble on a little – but he loved me, I knew that.
‘I’m just worried that he doesn’t love you quite enough. He takes you for granted,’ she said, concern in her eyes. ‘I don’t know if he deserves you, Beth, that’s all. But if he makes you happy, then fine.’ Laura hadn’t said any more about what she really thought of Adam, but when a third-year law student had shown a bit of interest in me, she’d urged me to spend some time with him and see what happened. Of course I hadn’t. I was taken.
Thinking about Laura makes me yearn for some company. I’ve been alone for a while now and I need some interaction. Instantly my plan takes shape. As for wandering alone in galleries – well, that can wait for another day.
‘Oh, that looks wonderful on you, really wonderful!’
I’m sure it’s just sales patter – the assistant says it to all the customers, I expect; no doubt everyone looks marvellous in her company’s clothes – but there’s something frank in her gaze that makes me believe her.
Besides, if the mirror can be trusted, I do look surprisingly good in this dress. It looks like nothing on the hanger, and even on it’s a fairly ordinary black dress, but it seems to bring my hidden charms to life in the way it fits so well across my bust and follows the curve of my waist and hips in such a perfect smooth line down to my knees. The fabric is some kind of silk mix that means it’s clingy but substantial at the same time, with a subtle shine.
‘You’ve got to get it,’ breathes the assistant, hovering at my shoulder. ‘I mean it, it suits you soooo perfectly.’ She smiles at my reflection. ‘Is it for a special occasion?’
‘For a party,’ I lie recklessly. ‘Tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ Her eyes widen. She senses some kind of interesting story of why a girl would be shopping for a party dress on the very day of the event. ‘Are you having a makeover day?’
I stare at myself. The dress is so pretty. I feel amazing in it, sexy and sophisticated. What’s bringing it down is my bare face, undone hair and lack of shoes. A makeover day? How much would something like that cost?
Why not live a little? asks a voice inside my head. Why not be reckless for once?
‘I suppose I could,’ I say slowly.
The assistant claps her hands with glee. This kind of thing is clearly right up her street. ‘Ooh, let me help you. First, you’ve got to get the dress, and I’m not just saying that. You look beautiful in it. You can leave it here and I’ll look after it. You know we’ve everything you could possibly need in this place – beauty spas, treatments—’
‘Let’s not go too far,’ I say hastily.
‘—the hair salon, the nail bar.’ Her eyes are shining at the thought of moulding my imperfect body into something worthy of the dress. Then her expression becomes concerned. ‘But they might all be booked up. I’ll make some calls for you, I’m sure I can pull some strings.’
Before I can stop her, she’s hurried to the sales desk and picked up the telephone. I semaphore that I don’t want any beauty treatments but she waves me away and books a facial. ‘You’ll love it,’ she says confidently as she dials another number, ‘and I was thinking your skin is fabulous but it’s looking a bit dry. Do you use night cream? You should, I know a lovely lush one that will really restore inner moisture and replenish sub-epidermal hydration.’ Before I can say anything, she’s connected to the salon and is making me a cut and blow-dry appointment, her gaze flicking over my hair as she says, ‘I do think a few highlights would help, actually, Tessa, if there’s time.’
Fire After Dark Page 5
