The house was filled with fresh air; every window had been thrown open and the odour of stale fags and cats that had lingered there before was gradually fading. Bertie dutifully retrieved every empty glass and cup from around the house, emptied all the ashtrays, picked up all the papers and magazines, then filled up his boot with empty bottles and took them off for recycling. In the car park by the Scout hut in the village, he enjoyed posting the bottles in one by one and listening to the satisfying smash. It had been a very therapeutic morning.
By three o’clock, the house was sparkling like a new pin. Light flooded in through the now clean windows. Most of the curtains had been taken down and put into a pile to be taken to the dry-cleaners. Rows of sheets and towels were drying in the sunshine outside.
Bertie insisted they stop and have something to eat. Ginny accused him of being a lightweight – she forced him to go through all the piles of junk mail and unopened correspondence that were variously littered about the house and have a ruthless chuck-out before they were allowed to stop.
Then he opened a succulent bottle of Puligny-Montrachet while Ginny laid the Pembroke table in the kitchen – Bertie was surprised at what a nice little piece it was, and felt ashamed to have covered it in his bachelor debris for so long. With his bone china and sparkling Waterford glasses, and a vase of early roses that he’d plucked from the garden, Bertie suddenly felt proud of his home.
He’d abused it, ever since he’d lost Tor. He’d had no respect for the beauty of some of the furnishings which had been left over from the big house, that his father had insisted he have. He should know better than anyone their worth and intrinsic value, but he was a spoilt little boy, putting his feet up on the sofas and leaving coffee cups on the mahogany. It had taken Ginny to make him stand back and appreciate it. None of his London friends gave a toss – used to grand surroundings themselves, they were glad of the chance to be able to behave as appallingly as they wished and not face the consequences. They thought it was a hoot to act like savages, taking their lead from their host, squashing out fag butts in their saucers with considered insouciance. Because Bertie always served tea in proper cups and saucers. It was all he had.
Ginny was glad to sit down, and was astonished at how hungry she was, until she realized how long it had been since her bowl of cornflakes that morning. They ripped the chicken apart with their bare hands, pulled off chunks of French bread which they slathered in unsalted butter then topped with thick slices of tomato. A simple feast, but one which tasted fantastic after all their hard work. And Bertie was surprised at how appreciative Ginny was of the wine, letting it roll around her tongue and savouring every last drop. He drew the cork on the second bottle he’d had the foresight to put in the fridge, then popped another one in to chill just in case.
They chatted comfortably, and Ginny told him how happy she was in Honeycote and how well the business was going already. Bertie was horrified when she told him she’d actually had to turn work away.
‘You should get some outworkers. In fact, you should do that anyway. Put your prices up and get someone else to do the hard work. Just cream the profit off for yourself.’
‘I couldn’t do that.’
‘That’s what I do. I’ve got someone running the reclamation yard for me, doing the graft. I just do the bits I want, the buying and so on.’
‘You make it sound so easy.’
‘It is easy!’
Ginny didn’t look sure. He picked up her hand.
‘I think what you need is a holiday.’
She protested that she had only just started working.
‘It doesn’t matter. You’ve had a traumatic time of it lately. You’ve gone out of your way to make life easy for everyone except yourself. You deserve a treat. I’ve got some friends with a place in the Dordogne. I’ve got an open invitation. It’s right on the river, surrounded by walnut trees.’
Ginny wasn’t at all sure. Either how far the invitation extended, or what to say. But it was very nice, being made a fuss of, as Bertie topped her glass up again and produced a box of profiteroles.
By four, Ginny was positively tipsy and remembered with horror she was supposed to be meeting up with Keith later that evening. She couldn’t see him now! What on earth would he think? She was hardly capable of stringing two sensible words together.
She’d better phone him, before he went ahead and booked a table or something. She kept telling herself it had only been a casual arrangement; an ‘if you’re not doing anything else’ sort of a thing. Well, she was doing something else. While Bertie wandered off to find another bottle of wine, she surreptitiously pulled her phone out of her bag.
Keith was browsing in Austin Reed. It had been so long since he’d worn a suit that when he came to look at his ties he’d found them all boring and unimaginative, plus they reminded him of all the occasions on which he’d worn them in his former life. He needed a new tie to go with this new beginning.
He was disproportionately excited about this evening. Originally, he’d thought he and Ginny could go for supper at the Honeycote Arms, to show a bit of loyalty as well as enjoy the food, and do a bit of clandestine market research. But a contact of his had left a message on his answerphone that morning, offering him last-minute tickets to Romeo and Juliet at the Birmingham Royal Ballet. He’d hesitated, not knowing if it was Ginny’s scene or not, then reasoned you’d have to be mad to pass up the opportunity. It wasn’t like forcing someone to sit through a heavy, obscure opera or a lesser-known Shakespeare play. It had had rave reviews and the tickets were like gold dust. It was, he decided, a romantic gesture without being too presumptuous.
He was very anxious to get things right at this stage in the proceedings. He looked at his watch and decided he would phone her at four to tell her. That would give her an hour to get ready – he didn’t think Ginny was the sort to need any longer; a judgement that was not a criticism – and he could pick her up at five. That would leave enough time to drive into Birmingham and sneak in a couple of glasses of wine and some tapas at a little place he knew, to fend off their hunger till dinner afterwards.
He’d just chosen a splendid navy silk tie with a discreet yellow spot, and was queuing to pay, when his mobile went. It was Ginny. She sounded dreadful; her voice was rather thick and subdued.
‘I’m sorry. I feel rotten. I’m coming down with something. Do you mind if we call this evening off? I just want to go to bed…’
Keith’s heart plummeted to the bottom of his boots.
‘No. Of course not. You get yourself better. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t have anything special planned.’
No point in making her feel worse about letting him down. Or making himself look a prat. Keith tried to be philosophical, but the taste of disappointment was more bitter than he remembered as he rather sadly put the tie back without paying for it.
He went out into the street. He passed a chemist and an idea struck him. He’d put together a little get-well gift basket for her – some Lemsips, some Lucozade, some of those scented wipes to mop her brow if she had a fever. She’d sounded very sorry for herself and there was nothing worse than being poorly on your own. He’d drop it off on the way home.
Ginny dropped the phone back in her handbag, leaned her elbow on the table and rested her head in her hand. She was, she knew, utterly plastered but in the nicest possible way. She still knew what she was doing, but she felt totally free, floating on a little cloud with no inhibitions.
Bertie looked at her with mock gravity.
‘You look exhausted.’
‘I am.’
‘I think what you need is a Bertie special.’
She raised a querying eyebrow.
‘A what?’
‘A massage. To soothe your aching muscles.’
Ginny gulped. She knew this was the moment; the moment she had fantasized about though she would never admit it to anyone, not even herself. She knew she should stop right now, that what she should do was ask for a nice
cup of tea to sober her up.
But then she’d never know, would she?
Keith pulled up outside Tinker’s Barn. He lifted up the basket carefully, slipped out of the car and went up to the front door. He tapped gently on the knocker. He’d just give her the basket, see if there was anything she wanted. There was nothing worse than feeling rotten and wishing desperately for something you really couldn’t be bothered to get yourself.
He waited, then knocked again a little louder. There was still no reply. Perhaps she was fast asleep in bed and couldn’t hear. Well, he wouldn’t disturb her. He left the basket in the porch, scribbling a get-well wish on the back of one of his business cards and tucking it underneath.
Then he got back in his car and drove home. He’d see if Mandy and Patrick wanted to go to the ballet. If not, he wouldn’t bother. He wasn’t going to drive all the way to Birmingham on his own.
Bertie ordered Ginny on to the chaise longue in the drawing room and gave her a feather pillow. The linen was still crisp and fresh from where it had been dried outside on the line. She buried her face in it while he put Roxy Music on the CD player.
‘Take off your top.’
‘What?’
‘How can I give you a massage otherwise? Don’t be silly.’
‘This is such a bad idea.’
‘Rubbish. It’s purely therapeutic. I give all my friends massages after we’ve been skiing. I’m not called Magic Fingers for nothing.’
Obediently, Ginny took off her sweatshirt and lay back down as quickly as she could so he couldn’t see anything. She tensed as he unhooked her bra, then told herself not to be so uptight. Of course it needed to come off. She wriggled out of it as discreetly as she could, then clamped her arms by her sides in case one of her boobs betrayed her and decided to pop out. She wasn’t that drunk.
She gasped as he dripped ice-cold lotion on to her back, then began to rub it in with long, strong fingers. He certainly knew what he was doing. She could feel all the little knots in her back and her shoulders dissolving; little spots of tension that had developed from all the ironing. She could feel herself drifting away on a cloud of Puligny-Montrachet, Bryan Ferry singing sweet nothings in her ears. She was so relaxed that she didn’t protest when gradually his hands crept lower and lower, down to the base of her spine, and then lower, till he hooked his fingers into the sides of her jeans and slid them off in one smooth, expert movement… along with her pants. Ginny tensed with self-consciousness at first, but when he hadn’t burst out laughing at her cellulite or commented on her saddlebags, she relaxed. He traced little tiny patterns on her buttocks with his fingertips that made her nerve endings tingle. She shivered with delight, never knowing quite what to expect next, lost in the luxury of this undivided attention, attention she wasn’t used to.
Eventually, his hands slid down to the tops of her legs and parted them. Ginny swallowed hard with expectation. Her veins were by now throbbing sweetly: she felt sure he could hear the pulse that was pounding inside her. Feather-light, he stroked the inside of her thighs, running his thumbs along her bikini-line – thankfully still smooth – until she nearly screamed with the frustration. She wanted him to touch her – there – desperately. It was more desperate than any need she’d ever felt – the need for food, or water, or air. She gave a pleading whimper.
He turned her over and looked into her eyes with a wicked smile: ‘What? What is it you want?’
She couldn’t speak – couldn’t say it. She’d never asked for anything sexually. What was she supposed to say? Suddenly she gave a gasp. A light finger had brushed the top of her clitoris – barely perceptible, so fleeting she couldn’t have been sure he’d actually made contact if it hadn’t been for the shockwaves it sent through her. He laughed with pleasure at her pleasure. He’d relented. He was no longer teasing her, and she gave herself up.
She didn’t know what to focus on. His fingers inside her. Or his fingers on her. He was playing her like a virtuoso plays a violin – just the right amount of pressure here, a light touch there, then a pause, an agonizing pause that only increased the pleasure when he started again. As she floated away on the sensations he was giving her, she felt she was someone else. An Egyptian princess being anointed by her slaves; a damsel no longer in distress, at one with her rescuer. She was in a world of her own, a world that she alone was the centre of.
She’d always enjoyed sex with David. It had always been… nice, she supposed was the word. She’d always enjoyed the warmth and the closeness. And she’d always climaxed – or she’d thought she had. At least, there’d usually been a warm, whooshy feeling in her tummy at some point. And if she’d suspected that there might be a little more to it than that, given that entire multimillion-pound industries were based on the pursuit of that supposed ecstasy, she’d never felt the need to seek it.
This, however, was different.
Suddenly, all the sensations she’d been experiencing joined up, from her breasts to her loins to the tips of her fingers. A white hot current shot through her, shattering her into millions of tiny particles, glittery snowflakes of ecstasy replacing the blood in her veins. At the height of the intensity, she thought she couldn’t bear any more; that she might die from the extreme pleasure. In the depths of her consciousness, she thought perhaps she was already in heaven.
Before her tremors had died away, she felt Bertie slide into her. With long, firm, confident strokes, he recharged her, and the feelings began again, deeper, more subtle, less intense but still exquisite, and this time she found having him inside her gave it another dimension. Instinctively she pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around him in her need to become part of him, in her need to share the experience, wondering how you could feel so close to someone you barely knew.
In a flash, she understood. If this was what David had gone to Faith for, if she’d been able to supply him with this sort of experience, then it all made sense. You’d give up everything for this. If there was any point to life, thought Ginny as she gasped for breath, then surely this was it.
That evening, Damien was having his weekly meeting with his managers at the bar in Cheltenham when his mobile rang. He snatched it up. It was Kelly, who was babysitting for Anastasia. He’d been planning to cook her a meal when he got back. Steak and salad; something simple that didn’t look as if he’d given it too much thought. Which of course he had.
‘What is it?’ There was panic in his voice, because he knew Kelly would only phone in an emergency.
‘There’s a woman at the gates. She won’t go away – she keeps on ringing the bell.’
Damien’s heart was in his mouth.
‘I’ll be right back. Just take the entryphone off the hook. Does she know Star’s there?’
‘No. I said I was the cleaner.’
‘Good girl.’ That’s what he liked so much about Kelly. She used her initiative and didn’t ask too many questions. He stood up and looked at his managers.
‘Got to go. I’ll call by tomorrow. Phone me if there’s any problems.’
The two of them nodded. They were good blokes. He paid them well, because he didn’t want them to walk. And he knew they wouldn’t have their fingers in the till, because he made sure his reputation went before him. They knew he’d have their fingers chopped off without asking any questions.
He put his foot down all the way back to Honeycote. He knew it had to be Nicole trying to get in, but his heart still sank into his boots when he saw her. He thanked God that no one else had come in or out of the compound in the time it had taken him to drive home. She’d have sweet-talked her way in, he was sure of it.
He parked outside the gates, hiding the remote control in his pocket so he could get back in later. She was leaning against a beaten-up old Ford Sierra with different-coloured panels. Inside, it had furry seat covers and Damien could smell the sickly air-freshener that was doing battle in vain against the stale smell of cigarettes.
Her companion was sitting in the driver’s seat
with his legs out of the car, obviously ready to leap to his feet at the first sign of trouble. He was anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five, with pock-marked skin, greasy swept-back hair and a distrustful, foxy gaze. Each ear was pierced, with a silver skull hanging from a ring. Damien knew he was scum, lowlife – the type that would do anything for a pitiful amount of cash. Which was, of course, what made him potentially dangerous. He’d have to be careful. He might have a gun. He’d certainly have a knife.
Was this how low she’d sunk?
If he hadn’t known it was Nicole, he wouldn’t have recognized her. Would certainly never have looked at her twice. How could he ever have thought her beautiful? She was so thin, so wasted, and her nose looked huge against her ravaged sunken cheeks. Her eyes were spiteful slits, eyes that he could have once drowned himself in. She looked, he thought, like the picture of Baba Yaga in the story book he’d read to Anastasia the other night.
She dropped her fag on the ground. He could smell the cheap tobacco on her breath. It repulsed him. He hated smoking. She looked at him defiantly as he approached.
‘I suppose you thought I’d never find you. Well, you’re not that clever.’
Her companion gave a self-satisfied grin. It was obviously him that had run them to ground. Damien shrugged and smiled, feigning insouciance.
‘The only thing I’m surprised about is you didn’t find me sooner.’
Nicole scowled in annoyance.
‘I want to see Anastasia.’
‘You can’t. She’s staying over at a friend’s.’ Nicole looked suspicious and Damien stood his ground. ‘You can wait here till she comes back, but you might be moved on. As you can imagine, the residents of Honeycote aren’t too keen on loiterers.’
She looked mockingly in at his house.
‘You have done well.’
Making Hay Page 31
