Some Like it Hot

by Amanda Brobyn

  She stared at the montage of the morning’s events, watching as Darren’s red Fiesta pulled up outside The Tudors. She smirked as she witnessed the awkardness with which he squeezed his six-foot-four, broad frame from the tiny door-opening, and she suppressed a loud snort as he shook the gates before ringing the intercom, trying to gain access to ‘the lady of the house’.

  The cheek of it.

  She noticed how he took in the exterior of the house, scanning it with interest, from the slate roof down to the gravel. But mostly what Roni thought about was how nonchalant he was. Expressionless. How unmoved he appeared to be as he regarded her multimillion-pound exclusive home in Alderley Edge. And how strange it was that something so palatial and so obviously oozing practically criminal wealth could draw not a flicker of emotion from this young man.

  Roni watched the tape again and again. And again.

  Kath woke as the front door creaked loudly. It was in desperate need of oiling. Another job on James’ list. She called out to him. “James, is that you, love?”

  Prising herself from the sofa, she muted the television, waiting for a head to pop around the living-room door.

  “It’s just me, Mum.”

  Kath rushed out into the box-sized hallway and turned up the brass dimmer-switch which immediately lit up the small, square space.

  “Jason, where have you been, love? We’ve been worried sick about you.”

  Jason was armed with attitude. The chip on his shoulder weighed him down firmly. “Nowhere.” He stared down at the digestive-carpeted floor.

  “You can’t have been nowhere, love. You didn’t come home last night. Where were you, son?”

  Jason brushed past his mother into the kitchen. He yanked open the fridge, poking his head in deep to avoid meeting her eyes.

  “Your dinner’s in the oven.” Kath took Jason’s arm in a firm grip and he retreated from the fridge. “Jason, do you know anything about Gerry Fleming’s place getting burgled?”

  Jason shook off his mother’s grip and scowled. “Why would I know anything about it?” he snapped, making no eye contact. “I bet you didn’t ask our Neil the same question, did you?”

  Kath took a deep breath as she took in the handsome but troubled young man standing before her, eyes lowered.

  Neil had been such an easy child from the moment he was born. He still was. He was considerate, kind and loving, and both Kath and James were incredibly proud of him. Jason had been and still was a walking time-bomb on the verge of constant explosion. He needed to be treated with delicate care and Kath knew early on that her fears were truly realised – Jason, it seemed, had inherited her family’s bad blood. Still, he could have inherited the witch’s blood and that was far worse.

  “In fairness, Jason, I didn’t see Neil walking down the street yesterday afternoon with a black holdall across his back . . . did I?”

  Jason didn’t move a muscle.

  “I kept shouting out to you but you obviously couldn’t hear me,” Kath continued, “or perhaps you had other distractions?” She was shaking although she tried hard to stay calm and authoritative.

  Jason continued to stare at his feet. He said nothing.

  “What was in the bag?”

  He looked up at his mother with such a huffy glare that it unnerved her. “I stayed over at Scott’s house. I took some CD’s and my Wii. Okay?”

  He sulkily removed his dinner from the oven, put it into the microwave and banged the buttons angrily. The usual pinging sound seemed altered with his heavy-handed touch. As he waited for the sixty seconds to end, Jason slouched against the formica worktop, crossing one foot over the other, and Kath watched his arrogant posture from the grimace on his face to the position of his feet and an anger welled inside of her.

  “Where did you get the money for those then, Jason?” She pointed to the immaculate trainers on his feet. They were the latest Nike brand and were so immaculately clean that they bore the straight-from-the-box look. Kath knew those things didn’t come cheap. She also knew that Jason had no job which meant little money.

  Jason took his dinner, grabbed a fork, slamming the drawer closed with his hip and left the kitchen without a word. He tutted at the sight of his mother following him.

  “Jason,” Kath said softly, “I love you so so much that it takes my breath away . . . and no matter what you have done I will never disown you like that old witch did to your father.” She touched his hand as he turned to go upstairs. “Talk to me, please – I can help you with whatever is going on in your life.”

  “There is nothing going on in my life, Mum. I did a bit of manual work for a mate and I bought these with the money. End of.”

  Kath relaxed a little and she reached out to touch his face. To her he was still a child in need of protection and even in that moment where she wasn’t truly convinced that all was well, she continued to wonder how Elizabeth could have turned her back on James. He was a good son, a decent man all round and he could have provided her with the joy of two grandsons. It made Kath all the more determined that no matter what was thrown at her, she would never ever abandon her own child despite the challenges Jason brought to her home.

  His odd behaviour had gone from bad to worse since he left school with no job in hand and a set of unimpressive GCSE results. Kath had used all the contacts she knew of to secure work for him. But for some unknown reason he couldn’t hold down any of the jobs. He either didn’t enjoy them or he found them too physical or they just didn’t ‘float his boat’.

  Something was troubling him and as such it was troubling her. Kath knew that, whatever it was, it needed to be fixed sooner than later, before the boy she had watched grow up over the years turned into someone unrecognisable.

  Roni didn’t hear the front door close nor the sound of Peter’s stomp as he took the stairs two at a time. Why would she? The thick red carpet absorbed much of his weight and the front door was so far away from her she wouldn’t have been able to hear it open, hard as she might have tried. Her thoughts were far from Peter anyway.

  Roni watched the monitor flicker. Darren continued to retain his close-up pose. He was paused and static and Roni could do nothing but stare at him – her lips slightly apart, a look of longing on her face.

  She didn’t hear Peter’s deep strides as he went from room to room looking for his wife. Similary she didn’t hear him calling out to her, so focused was she on the youthful vision before her.

  Peter hid the oversized bag behind his back. He was excited. He loved to please Veronica and he couldn’t wait to give her the gift and break the news to her. While he already knew that her reaction would never be the one he would have liked, he knew his wife well enough to be able to capture her appreciation, deeply buried and in need of excavation. He wasn’t an archaeologist but he knew it was there alright.

  He pushed open the door to the security room and saw his wife, standing facing away from him, her hands on her hips. He took in her pear-shaped roundness and noted how the ends of her hair looked dry and in need of a little attention. Still, he loved her for better for worse, like she him.

  “Roni, love, I’ve been calling you for ages.”

  Roni froze, averting her gaze from the screen in front of her. She flipped round to face Peter, perching on the desk in an attempt to hide the screen image behind her. Her plumped-out broadness covered the monitor sufficiently. What it could not hide was the surprised look which was painted on her face.

  “I didn’t hear you, Peter, sorry,” she lied effortlessly. “I was cleaning away in here.”

  Peter tutted in frustration. “Will you let me get you a daily help, love? Even someone who can come in once a week?” He implored. “I hate to think of you stuck here when you could be out enjoying yourself.”

  He winced as the stiff paper of the gift bag brushed against the back of his jeans. “Look at all the friends you’ve got now.” He beamed proudly. “You could be at the gym with Kath or out shopping with Jude.”

  Roni was
desperate to be removed from the precarious situation. She would be terrified until she had led him firmly from the room. “I’ll give it some thought,” she humoured him.

  Peter stood tall, puffing out his chest. He had that look which Roni recognised.

  Pulling the bag from behind him and holding it with one hand, he used the other to prise Roni away from the desk.

  “I’ve got you a present.”

  The bag was swung around and Roni took the expensive package by its handles, peering deep inside. She loved gifts and she really did appreciate them, so much so that most of her gifts remained mummified in their original tissue paper or plush packaging – they were just too good to use.

  Roni delved in until her short arm was buried in the purple bag. She pulled out a swimsuit, gasping as the label stared at her, bold and bragging.

  “You spend three hundred pounds on a swimsuit? Are you mad?” were the first words from her mouth.

  Peter smiled. He knew she liked it and any reaction was a good one.

  “There’s more,” he said, preening.

  “What is it?” Roni smirked. “Complimentary armbands!”

  Peter threw back his head and belted out impulsive laughter. If only people knew this side to his wife. The dry, witty side to her which was tidied away in its relevant compartment, coming out for special occasions – weddings, christenings and bar mitzvahs.

  Peter kissed his wife hard on the lips and surprisingly she kissed him back. He was feeling amorous at the thought of seeing her in the high-legged swimsuit which he knew was a little young for her – but still. He longed to see its blackness wrapped around her curvaceous body, lifting her breasts until they spilled out, and he was desperate to see the outline of her feminity as it clung to all the right places.

  Roni too was feeling strangely lustful. As a rule, daytime sex was banned, she was usually far too busy and her mind was elsewhere, but today her chemical reactions were too strong to be ignored and she longed to lubricate Pete’s manhood – impressed with her ability to deliver the goods without the support of K-Y this early in the day.

  Roni removed her made-up lips from her husband’s abruptly.

  “Where’s the rest then?”

  “Rest of what?” Peter muttered, pulling her back towards him.

  “The rest of my present,” she said.

  He released his grip as he pointed past her. “It’s behind you.”

  Roni turned to the display of monitors and technical-looking switches.

  “Hey?” She could see nothing.

  Peter pointed again in the direction of the CCTV screens, singling one out in particular. He shoved his finger at Darren. “Swimming lessons, love! Darren is going to teach you to swim!”

  Roni was instantly chilled to the bone. Good God, this couldn’t be happening.

  “No. Absolutely not, Pete.”

  “It’s okay, love, this time it will be better. That other guy was useless but Darren is young, patient and he’s properly qualified plus you won’t even have to leave the ho –”

  “But I c –”

  “I won’t take no for an answer this time, Veronica. You won’t come on the yacht because you’re afraid of drowning, I can’t get you in the sea on holiday which is just sacrilege – and you know why else, Veronica?” Peter was unusually fierce. “Because it might bloody well save your life one day.”

  Roni was shocked at his outburst.

  The truth hurt. Twice.

  Roni nodded, giving in to him. A rareness in itself but she had seldom heard him speak with such passion and conviction.

  “He starts on Thursday at 10a.m. and then every consecutive Thursday, same time.”

  Peter’s contorted expression softened as he sneaked up behind her and placed his hands one on each breast, massaging them. Frustrated with the barricade of material, he slid his hands beneath her baby-pink V-necked sweater, yanking up her bra, catching her breasts as they fell into his hands. His fingers made a beeline for her saucer-like pink nipples, big and for the moment soft in his pen-pusher hands.

  Roni could do nothing else but watch Darren on the screen – Pete had her in a fixed position, facing away from him.

  As he held each nipple between finger and thumb, he tugged away at them, stretching them before allowing them to contract and he felt each nipple become harder and more alert. Roni let out a loud groan which delighted him. She felt a gush of wetness soak her La Perla ivory-silk pants. Responsively she grabbed Pete’s hand and thrust it amongst her bed of dark pubic hair. She had yet to experience the joy of waxing.

  Peter bent his wife over the desk. He lifted her A-lined skirt, yanking at her pants and he thrust his fingers deep inside her, one first, then two, and then all bar his thumb.

  As Roni gasped for breath, she lifted her head to see Darren in his fitted white T-shirt, noting how it clung to his firm pecs, outlining the perfect shape of them. His thickset muscular arms symbolised his hardworking, no-nonsense approach to life and Roni found herself wondering how his boyish but brute strength might be different to Peter’s touch.

  Was Darren inexperienced in that department? Would his strength be detrimental to his providing her with anything bar a heavy-handed touch? Would she feel like she were having sex with a giant or would it feel illegal like having sex with a minor?

  He at six-foot-four and she at five-foot-two were hardly the perfect match. Then again, surely being horizontal would remove the height differential?

  Suddenly, the strength of her emotions took over and she longed to feel his hardness against her, imagining herself riding him with wide-open legs and a tight, wet pussy. A wave of animalism clawed from within her as she roared to an orgasm so loud and so greedily taken that Pete too could wait no longer. He thrust himself inside her, desperate and on the verge himself. His wife had created an impetus which he could not compare to any other sexual occasion, and in a few short thrusts he too had come with a desperate hunger.

  Unsatisfied with the short duration of his pleasure, Peter grabbed Roni’s hand and led her across the gallery landing to the bedroom where he forced her down onto the white four-poster bed, brushing off a mass of pale-blue cushions. He had never witnessed his wife orgasm like that before, nor had he felt her come with such a flood that he felt its pressure as it squirted against his fingers which were still inside her. His wife was alive on this grey Monday afternoon and he was determined to live as though it was his last day on earth.

  It never occured to him to question her sincerity and the authenticity of her actions. Daytime sex? Orgasms? That was not his Veronica. But Peter didn’t care who she was – this stuff was too good to turn down.

  But Roni knew the truth behind her heightened sensitivity. That young man was an aphrodisiac like she had never known before. His youthful torso was the perfect antidote to his almost aloof and detached exterior and it was this that drove Veronica Smyth wild. For once, she was being treated like the girl next door and, for once, it never occured to her to challenge it.

  Clive jumped aboard The Trophy which he jointly owned with William Cavanagh – aka Will – an ex-client of his law firm. The sailing season had recommenced now that the dark nights had lifted their depressed and endless winter mask, allowing him once more to indulge in his ultimate passion of yacht-racing. And winning.

  Clive ducked his head as he unlocked the cabin to the eight-berth area below and flung in his sailing bag. He was, quite rightly, anal about safety on board the yacht and anything that could result in a man overboard, or a stumble, or even worse – a lost race. Plus, his insurance demanded that the surface area of the entire deck be cleared from obstruction and debris in order that the premiums be kept to a minimum.

  But damage limitation didn’t come cheap. Yachting didn’t come cheap as a hobby. The insurance was hefty even with all the safety checks. The mooring fees were plentiful and if the boom broke or the sails tore, twenty thousand pounds would barely cover the cost of any second-hand replacement.

&nbs
p; That was why when Will had suggested they become joint owners of The Trophy, Clive had nearly bitten off his right hand. So Will paid his way and the equity was shared fifty-fifty. It made sense all round. One yachtsman alone could not sail a boat – it took a skilled team of people to operate her.

  Will was a property developer working in the south of England during the eighties and nineties, moving to the midlands post-millennium – his focus primarily on Birmingham, the next capital outside of London he had heard – he had won tenders for some of the world’s largest hotel chains, government buildings, and more recently, his firm had been awarded the contract to rebuild the UK’s most exclusive public school which dated back to 1870.

  The guy was filthy rich beneath his unkempt exterior but his unbrushed dark-blonde hair and stubbled face provided the suitable financial disguise that Will desired. He hated gold-diggers – heaven knows they saw enough of them at the yacht club – plus he was paying ludicrous amounts of maintenance to his ex-wives. He could spot a money-grabber a mile off and he despised them.

  What Will wanted was an equal.

  Clive sprang off the boat on to the pontoon which paved the way like a child’s puzzle from the marina to the boathouse. He listened to the water slosh beneath as it lapped against its timber structure which was impaled deep into the water bed, underpinned by concrete foundations. He smiled a happy, content smile from the inside out. He was home, this place was where all his troubles dispersed as quickly as the waves broke, pulling back into nothing but calm waters and open seas.

  This place gave Clive the clarity to be himself and not some pompous lawyer in the courtroom delivering an Oscar-winning performance filled with lies and exaggerations. But if that’s what it took to win then so be it. Winning meant everything to him.