The Writer and the Rake

by Shehanne Moore

  “Would you stop admiring the view and let’s go. It’s just down here.”

  She wasn’t about to get soppy. The weight of the sodden bin bags and cases flattened that desire. She’d just be damned glad to get to the foot of the path and into the courtyard, a five-minute trudge with the bags and the cases in the dark. Of course she should have worn flat boots.

  “Christ, Brit, slow down. Anyone would think you still fancied that shit.”

  “And anyone would think you didn’t want to help me after saying you would.”

  “These bags are heavy. What have you got in them? The kitchen sink?”

  “Not quite. Not Sebastian’s corpse either. Now, I’ll get the bell, why don’t I?”

  She dragged a breath and dropped the two bin bags and the suitcase. The fact the place was lit said Sebastian had paid the electricity, unlike that time they were in Greece. Her mum had phoned saying a ‘we are going to break your door down’ disconnect notice had landed on their rug. Sebastian blamed it on the man upstairs, breaking into their flat, running a wire to their meter. Sebastian was always doing things like that, lying to and about other people. Success and money? Her arse. This was her life. But soon it would be sorted. Having come this far she was not about to back out.

  She fumbled with the doorbell. Then she took another breath, smoothed the damp hair back from her forehead. She’d go in looking like she owned the place.

  Footsteps sounded. Someone was coming to the door. Not that that was exactly difficult since Sebastian inhabited what amounted to a box. Light flooded. Four years. Four years since she’d last seen his sallow face, the one everyone said had the look of a Roman emperor, with cross-eyes and a balding head.

  “Sebastian. Darling, how very nice to see you.”

  “Britny?”

  He had never gotten the pronunciation of her name quite right, one of many things on the list of things that annoyed her. Why quibble? There were far more important items.

  “Indeed it is. This is Rab.”

  Sebastian put out his hand, obviously thinking a quick handshake would see her and Rab off his doorstep. But it wasn’t just his doorstep.

  “Pleased to meet you, pal.”

  “See-bastian, what ees that woman doing on our doorstep?”

  Brittany cast a glance over his shoulder at the blonde hovering in the background. Not difficult. Height had never been one of his strong points. It was depressing how little was. Older, balder, thinner, mouthier than any man she’d gone with. Always able to get a woman though, even if this one was nothing like the accent suggested. Plain as a fence post, cropped hair, lined enough to be his older sister. Was he hard up? Not in the usual sense either?

  “Oh, it’s not your doorstep, Helga, isn’t it? Oh, God no. Hasn’t he told you about me and that little thing we have in common?”

  “Vot theeng?”

  “Oh the house, darling. You know. This little thing he owns. I do too.”

  She tightened her fingers around the neck of the bin bag. It gave her the impetus to drive forward like an express train onto the blue carpet of the porch.

  “Britny, what the hell do you think—”

  “Oh guess, Sebastian. My name is on the mortgage after all. And there’s a spare bedroom. Why shouldn’t I live here?”

  Sebastian grabbed the bin bag.

  “Because you know perfectly well, you’ve never paid that mortgage since you left me.”

  “And neither have you, so I don’t see what your quibble is. I’ll take my chances if the building society chooses to evict us and sell this place over our heads. In the meantime, since they’ve failed to act on your arrears and my name is stuck on them, I’m not going to lose any sleep. Rab, those cases.”

  Sebastian tightened his fingers. “But you can’t.”

  “So? Call the police, darling. I’m really quaking in my boots. I know you’ll argue that you lived here for fifteen years before I put my name on this dump. Let’s consider the fact I did it to help you consolidate your debt because I believed we were going to be married. Promise you that too, has he Helga?”

  She dropped the bag, pushed the living room door open. If ever she’d known how done she was with Sebastian, this was it. The bloody place even had the rug she’d bought for it on the floor, and stank, probably of the same fag ends.

  “But, this is our home. Helga and me.”

  Hearing his footstep behind her, she turned from her contemplation of the ugly bronze statue of Bonnie Prince Charlie in the fireplace. Propped against the electric fire because it was broken and no matter Sebastian’s love of Scottish heroes, it didn’t mean he was going to put his hand in his pocket to pay for the repair of their left leg. Dust it either.

  “With my name on the mortgage, darling? You know, I think not. And if it is yours and Helga’s, why don’t you both pay for it?”

  “See-bastian, vot does she mean? I geeve you monee—”

  “I did too, darling. Sebastian, don’t tell me you’ve drunk it?”

  “Britny . . .”

  She might pity him but she was done with that. Mort had said something about choices. This was hers.

  “The name’s Brittany. May I say I’m glad you’re living here with Helga?”

  “You may not. Now get the hell—”

  “Out? When you’ve no idea how much better your having Helga here makes me feel about bringing Rab.”

  “You what?”

  “Rab.” She widened her gaze. “Oh Sebastian, darling, don’t look so blank. You met him a second ago. What I didn’t say a second ago, was that he’s with me. Yes. In fact since my name is on that mortgage, we’ll both be living right here in the spare room from now on.

  To think I was in such despair over these letters from the building society, thinking how unfair it was I was being asked to pay for the roof over Helga’s head. But, there. Hasn’t it all worked out quite nicely?”

  Chapter 3

  Wasn’t this fun? At least, that was the look Brittany kept in place as she glided the two paces from the bathroom to the spare bedroom, keeping the towel wrap firmly in place on her three times shampooed hair. On a sliding scale of one to fifty, with fifty being the worst, spending ninety minutes in a four-foot wide bathroom had almost been that. But she’d managed by running two baths, using all the hot water and writing the next chapter of her new book, A Viking in Distress. Oh and when Sebastian attempted to follow her into the bathroom, retorting, ‘But I’ve only just arrived,’ to his, ‘Don’t you think you should leave?”

  Now, bed beckoned. The furniture was arriving first thing tomorrow. She needed to be around to greet it. There wasn’t anywhere to put it, but this small matter would be attended to when she filled up every available space in the living room.

  Sebastian would be getting the mortgage up to date and her name removed from it tout suite.

  “So?” Talking such things as ‘sweet’ she raised her eyebrows. Rab better get one thing straight. His place was the floor, the chair, not the bed he was sprawled on. “Are we forgetting something?”

  “What the bag with your makeup in it? Did I leave it in the car?”

  “Rab, you know perfectly. I’m tired. It’s been quite a night with all that business earlier. I want to lie down, even if that bedspread could do with a wash.”

  She dragged it from under him. Rab could also do with a wash. Hopefully she’d brought a clothes peg. It would spoil everything if she’d to go and ask Sebastian.

  “There.” The mattress sank as Rab squeezed to the other side of the bed. “That enough space for you?”

  She hadn’t gone through all the meticulous planning to hear that word enough. She reached forward.

  “Ouch, Brit. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Pushing you off the bed.
When I say I want to lie down, I mean now, on the whole bed. We agreed the floor for you.”

  He struggled to sit up. “But, that was before we got here, Brit.”

  “And something’s changed?”

  “Yeah. The fact I thought you were joking about the size of this rabbit hutch. Did Sebastian really keep hamsters in cages in here?”

  “Don’t attempt to change the subject. What we agreed is what we agreed. A roof over your head for the duration and all your food. What more do you want? I’m not exactly loaded.”

  “Yeah. Well—”

  She held up a warning finger. She had Sebastian on the run. His bedroom was beyond the kitchen, which was beyond the living room, but she hadn’t missed the slam as Helga almost took the bedroom door off its hinges, the shrieks of eediot. A fornicating one at that.

  Brittany inhaled deeply of the memory, adjusted the towel wrapped around her hair.

  “The floor. Or the chair. Take your pick. There’s probably blankets in that cupboard there.”

  “But, we could have—”

  “Only in your dreams.”

  “But, I thought—”

  “What? That I wake up in strange beds? No, Rab. The reason I chose you is I don’t want to be tempted. Now, if you don’t mind?”

  “You want the lights out already? I’m not ready.”

  “Then get ready. I need you. Oh, Rab.” Gesturing for him to play along, she dropped onto the bed. “That is so good. Oh, yes . . . Yes. Yesssss.” She bounced on her backside. “Keep going. Keep going.”

  Rab reached up and smacked the headboard off the wall. “How many times does madam want me to do this?” he whispered.

  “Make it thirty and we’ll call it quits.”

  “Thirty times. You want me to do it thirty times?”

  “Shh!”

  ”What’s wrong?”

  “Will you keep your voice down? You’re shouting.”

  “Ocht, if thon wee shite hears me he’ll think I’m super stud the wonder shag. Fine. I’ll do it fifteen times then.”

  “Whatever,” she whispered. “The deal isn’t how many times, the deal is the intrusion on their space, just don’t go on all night. I need to sleep. I won’t get that if you keep banging the headboard.”

  “It’s all I’m getting to—”

  “Shh.”

  She drew the duvet over her legs. No doubt her heroines would die laughing when these situations flung them and her heroes together. Then they’d be tempted. Then they’d be stupid. Fortunately she wasn’t like her heroines. Real life was big idiots like Rab. Or ugly ones like Sebastian. Or men who were just idiots. All she felt was mildly harassed.

  Chapter Three beckoned. She’d taken three days off work to move from her rented flat. It was a golden opportunity to catch up with her writing.

  She lay down. Closing her eyes with the light blinding her and the headboard knocking lumps out of the wall, inches from her head, thud, thump, judder, was hopeless. Rab was like an overgrown puppy who did everything with an enthusiasm as massive as himself. There was an airline sleep mask in her toilet bag that would do the trick. She slipped out of bed, raked for a few moments, then climbed back in, closed her eyes.

  A Viking in Distress. A Viking in Distress, Chapter Three. Ruaf had just kissed Orla for the first time. The bed creaked. Not in her story. Not because the headboard thumped the wall, either.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Rab. Go lie down elsewhere, will you?”

  “But you look sexy like that.”

  “While I’m glad to hear it, and it’s certainly very kind of you to say so, just . . . go away.”

  His warm, suggestive breath brushed her cheek. “But, think of the fun—”

  “Not with you, darling. We’ve already agreed.”

  “The fun you could have with my sexy body.”

  “No. I don’t think so. I mean, you don’t have a sexy body, Rab. Let’s face it. So take your hand off my left breast. Thank you.”

  Ruaf and Orla. Where was she? Ruaf had just drunk warmly of Orla’s willing lips. Mort had had a sexy body, hadn’t he? A pound to a penny he had the kind of biceps you could eat too. Imagine if she’d waltzed in here with him, so now he was lying on the bed. He’d said choice. Although ‘choice’ wasn’t what she’d want him to say here, what a good one that would have been if she’d told Rab to get lost, a dangerous, hardened man like Mort. Silk with a raw edge. Not a single complaint despite nearly going up in flames, unlike most men these days, dying of man flu, every five minutes, if not ten seconds. ‘You are interrupting a process here,’ he’d said. Too bad. Her love life had been barren as a geriatric virgin’s lately. She could have had a wonderful time. She sighed. Think of his lips on her skin, of the kind of thigh muscles he’d have, his mouth on hers, hot, demanding. Think of clattering that headboard for real. Thirty, forty, fifty times. Think of his hands on her breasts. Think . . .

  “Is there some reason you’re sounding like a flipping demented seal, Brit?”

  “None.”

  She cleared her throat. Why the hell was she thinking of Mort? She didn’t like men with close-shaven, tattooed heads, so there would be no struggle to tell him to get his hands off. What was more she didn’t want to be tempted enough to tell Rab to get up here.

  “I just wondered.”

  “Well don’t. I’m working actually. In my head. It’s where I do my finest stuff.”

  Rab’s shoes thumped off the laminate. “Well I could do with some kip. I’ve got to get into the barista bar tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “Got to open up.”

  “Fine.”

  “So I’ll put the light out.”

  “Good.”

  The click said the room was dark. Thank God. Her head felt like a broken bottle, every pore in her body was on edge. Drift. She needed to, just lie here and drift slowly, let the knots unwind, herself unfurl. Forget Mort. Sebastian. Rab. Dream. Fame. Success. Riches. Mort. Choice. Mort. Kiss Mort. Drift. Drift into a world where a breeze billowed around her and a hardened shape lay just against her. Drift through the strange shapes, blurs, noises, as if she was drowning in a swimming pool and there were blurry, unnatural voices all around. Voices she couldn’t reach. Voices, worse than her characters speaking in her head at nights. Voices . . .

  The pillow. Sebastian’s were flat as his wallet on a good day. Flatter. She hugged it closer, trying to anchor herself. Mort. Mort. Hmm. And his warm, bare, suggestive, leg right there beneath hers. His body, much thinner than she’d imagined. Maybe his coat was padded? His stomach quite bony beneath the flat of her palm. A bit like curling up to a coat stand. Unless that skinny runt Sebastian had crept in here? He could barely get in their bed when they were an item though. No, this was Rab. Rab?

  She remembered one thing as she pinged her eyes open beneath the mask. To keep her voice to a piercing whisper.

  “For God’s sake, what the hell did I tell you? If you can’t keep your damned end of the bargain, darling, you can get out now and I’ll get someone else.” Like Mort. “Go on.”

  Her heart thudded. Was that clever though? She’d left Sebastian over another man. There was nothing in it, apart from the fact he’d been everything Sebastian wasn’t, enticing, interesting, different and gorgeous, tall, dark, enigmatic. Until she’d left. Then what he’d been was dust. At least that was what she hadn’t seen him for. Bring in another man and Sebastian would be vindicated. The most she’d done was kiss Mark once. All right, maybe three times.

  If she didn’t threaten though, Rab might take more liberties. That would be worse. She’d enough on her plate without having to fight him off at every turn. She shoved her shoulder against his back. “Get out of this bed this instant. Now. You know what we agreed. Go and lie on the floor. That’s t
he place for you.”

  A voice spoke. Low, gravelly. Quietly cultured. English. Sexy.

  “You know I’ve been telling him that for years. And if you can get him to obey, it will be a first. But, before we come to that, would you care to explain who you are and what exactly you are doing in my son’s bed?”

  Chapter 4

  Brittany froze. His son’s bed? Sebastian didn’t have a father. Unless his father had risen from the dead? Or that was another of Sebastian’s lies? As for Rab? She reached desperately for the sleep mask. Whatever lies Rab had told his father, maybe his mother too, about her about this situation, she must nail them. Not have it around Newport-On-Tay any more than it already was, she was a slut. This arrangement was meant to be secret. How had they gotten in here?

  Unless they hadn’t? Unless she’d done it again? Slept with some man who was nothing to her? When she hadn’t even smelt a drink last night. How could she? Was she so out of control she couldn’t stop herself? The voice spoke again.

  “Although I must say, I don’t disapprove of your choice, son.”

  “Oh really, darling, that’s as maybe but I don’t see that it is any of your damn business whether you approve, or—”

  Her trembling fingers pushed the mask upwards, as far as she could, anyway, when her hair was still turbaned in a towel. My God, who was this man, here in Sebastian’s spare room? Rab’s father looked like a film star. Dark hair—short. Liquid blue eyes, soft black eyelashes, cheekbones to die for, lips too. Cheekbones that made her jaw hang open. How could Rab have kept this dark as pitch? Bear absolutely no resemblance to him either? She’d thought Rab’s father was a binman, a weegie from Glasgow. Not some gorgeous lord of the manor.