‘Aah, the condom . . .’ Riz complained. ‘Shit, I don’t want to move, but I’ve got to . . . sorry . . .’
Slowly, reluctantly, he rolled off her, sat up, and, carefully sliding off the condom, reached for the tissues by the bed to wipe himself off. This would be the cue, based on their previous encounters, for him to bend over, kiss her awkwardly, and say, ‘Nice one,’ before pulling his clothes on and returning to his own room for the night.
Now, however, he hesitated, still sitting on the edge of the mattress, his back turned to her.
‘Uh, that was good,’ he said tentatively.
Caroline, luxuriating in post-coital relaxation, stretched her arms back above her, her legs out, toes pointed. She had never felt sexy before, she realized. Not till this moment.
‘It was,’ she agreed.
‘It was cool that you told me, you know,’ Riz mumbled. ‘What you wanted.’
Finally! Caroline thought, amazed at how easy it had been, at how cowardly she had been not only with Riz, but the handful of men she had had sex with before him. Wow, what a waste of time and fucks that was!
‘You were great,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘You could maybe lick my nipples next time. Even bite them a bit.’
‘Fuck, yeah. I could do that. You have great tits. I just didn’t know if . . . I didn’t want to, in case you didn’t like it . . . but yeah, it was very hot to be squeezing them. It really got me off.’
Riz turned to look at her, the healthy glow in his cheeks from vigorous activity diminishing the visibility of his pimples, the light in his eyes new to her.
‘Uh, I could sleep here, if you like?’ he said very tentatively. ‘Then we could wake up and do it tomorrow morning as well?’
Caroline didn’t answer straight away, but it was not out of reluctance. She was first taken aback, then hugely flattered that Riz wanted to have sex again so soon. And then she was swept with excitement as she pictured them fucking as the grey light of dawn filtered in through her inadequate curtains. That would make waking up, for the first time in her adult life, something she actively looked forward to doing.
‘But not if you don’t want!’ he said, misunderstanding her silence and turning away, standing up, throwing the tissues in the bin. ‘Sorry – it’s too much – I just thought – but if you don’t fancy it—’
‘No, no! You can sleep here,’ Caroline said, sitting up and not even bothering to pull a sheet over her naked body to conceal her fat rolls. ‘It’s okay! I was just thinking that you could wake me up by, um, going down on me.’
Riz swivelled to look at her once more.
‘Oh!’ he said, his cheeks getting pinker. ‘Yeah! I could do that. Like in the films.’
This was exactly what Caroline had been imagining. It was the scene in romantic comedies where you first saw the heroine’s face in close-up, her eyes opening, looking briefly surprised before a smile blossomed on her face, the sheets pulled up to her neck; then the camera tracked down, showed the outline of a head between her legs, discreetly concealed under the sheet, as the music swelled and the camera coyly angled back upwards . . .
She was embarrassed to admit that her fantasy had such a corny origin, rather than the porn on which, in her generation, it was completely socially acceptable to base your sex life. More than that, actually: positively required, if you didn’t want to seem like a total prude.
Riz didn’t seem to mind the romcom scenario, however. He was picking up his T-shirt and stepping into his boxers with a grin plastered across his face.
‘I’ll go and shower, eh?’ he said. ‘So I don’t pong. And then I’ll get in my PJs and come back. We could maybe stream an episode of something before we go to sleep – that okay? I usually do that to get me nodding off.’
‘Yeah, fine,’ Caroline said; he seemed to have it all planned out. ‘Um, I’ll use the bathroom after you.’
‘Cool. I’ll bring my laptop, yeah?’
Caroline nodded. She had one too, of course, on which they could stream a show, newer and better than Riz’s. But she knew how much men liked to be in charge of technology. The male housemates got genuinely upset if she or Veronika even touched the projector.
Riz shut the door quietly behind him, as if their housemates might be disturbed by the sound, as if he and Caroline hadn’t just made enough noise in the last fifteen minutes to be audible to everyone under this roof. Caroline stared at the ceiling for a moment, processing everything that had just happened. Then she jumped up and started tearing through her chest of drawers, looking for a pretty nightie she could wear to sleep in, already picturing Riz pushing up the hem and getting to work on her with his mouth the next morning. She would shower after him, trim her pubes, maybe even shave them so he wouldn’t get hairs caught in his mouth. She’d slather on her Clinique Happy perfumed hand and body lotion so she smelt nice to sleep next to as well – she should put some on her hand first and lick it before she applied it anywhere near her crotch though, in case it tasted funny . . .
As she extracted from the back of a drawer a silky polyester strappy babydoll nightie she had owned for years, bought for a previous sort-of-boyfriend who’d never even seen her in it, because she hadn’t had the nerve to present herself as overtly sexy in case he laughed at her aspirations, Caroline fretted that she might turn into a monster. All those years of pent-up desire, now surging up! She’d better be careful, she decided, not to ask too much of Riz all at once, in case she put him off . . .
But the next morning, the silky nightie balled around her waist, her hands clutching as much of Riz’s hair as she could grasp, her cries of orgasm rising as Marko, woken early by the racket, started to bang on the wall in protest, no such worries preoccupied Caroline. Riz was not very experienced at giving head, but he was undeniably enthusiastic, and did not seem at all put off by the way Caroline was thrashing her crotch against the lower part of his face.
When, finally, he lifted his head, breathing hard, licking lips smeared with his saliva and her juices, he was delighted to see her roll over, grab all the pillows on the bed and raise her hips to shove them underneath her belly.
‘Fuck me from behind,’ she said. ‘Do it hard and pull me right onto your cock.’
‘Wow,’ he groaned in anticipation, grabbing a condom off the bedside table and unwrapping it. ‘What the fuck’s happened to you? It’s like we’re in a porno all of a sudden!’
And Caroline, bare arse raised in the air, the nightie inelegantly tangled around her breasts, her face shoved in the mattress, her panting breath dampening the sheet as she waited for him to do what she had told him, not caring that her stomach had by no means been flat while he ate her out, nor that his belly was about to slap against her wide bottom with every stroke, could not have imagined any higher compliment.
Chapter Seven
Caroline had noticed very smugly that Riz had not said ‘Nice one’ after their morning bout either. Instead, that grin back on his face, he had wiped himself off, dropped a much more enthusiastic kiss than usual on Caroline’s lips, and left her room with the words ‘Congrats again on the book job, yeah? Very cool. Um . . . see you later?’
Caroline managed a nod. She was lying splayed on her mattress, her chest still heaving from their exertions. As the door closed behind him, she realized that she was shaking her head gently from side to side in sheer disbelief at how swiftly her life had changed. Yesterday she had a boring full-time job and regular bad sex. Today she was self-employed, with a book to write and, presumably, regular very satisfying sex.
Lexy’s ‘novel’ was not going to make Caroline rich. She would be paid, Lexy had told her, five thousand pounds on delivery of a manuscript, if it were deemed of suitable quality to be published. Caroline had not noticed the flickering glance of amusement that Miranda had exchanged with Gareth on this announcement; it was common knowledge in the publishing world that if the client negotiated the ghostwriter’s pay, they were much more stingy than the editor would have been.
>
A thousand would be advanced to Caroline as soon as she signed the contract. She had managed to negotiate travel expenses, too, after pointing out how much of her pay would otherwise be eaten up by them. Bailey and Hart had agreed to pay for a season ticket for her between London and Bournemouth for the next four to five months, plus local taxis in Bournemouth, if someone in Lexy’s entourage couldn’t give her a lift to and from the station.
It would be a scary few months for Caroline, living as cheaply as she possibly could, working all hours of the day and night with no assurance that she’d manage to pull off the feat of writing a novel in such a short time, and only four thousand pounds awaiting her if Gareth decided it was good enough to be published. She was anticipating doing a lot of writing on the train, as the words had flowed so freely on her initial trip to see Lexy.
At first she would be travelling to Sandbanks almost every weekday, interviewing Lexy intensively to get as much material as possible. Although Lexy had a show to film, promotional events to attend, photoshoots to do – a whole raft of her usual activities – she had committed to carving out a morning or afternoon for Caroline each day. They would also meet in London when Lexy visited for work. Frank and Lexy maintained a pied-à-terre in Chelsea Harbour, and the interviews could be conducted there.
Additionally, Lexy’s manager would be sending Caroline what would probably be an avalanche of press clippings about Lexy. The book was to be a slightly fictionalized romp through Lexy’s wild life and times; as many of Lexy’s affairs as she was willing to spill the beans about, the birth of Laylah, the rebound into Frank’s arms and the pregnancy with London. It would end triumphantly on Lexy and Frank’s star-studded, very over-the-top wedding at a stately home, for which Lexy, naturally, had worn an eighteenth-century hoop-skirted dress and full powdered wig, her breasts spilling over the top of her corset.
She had made Frank wear breeches. He had not been happy, but he had done it anyway. And Wow! magazine had paid half a million for exclusive magazine rights to the photos, so, as Lexy had pointed out, he’d got paid plenty for it. Naturally the photographs would feature in the book, including a very tasteful black and white shot of Lexy breastfeeding one-and-a-half-year-old London after the ceremony, with one boob hoicked entirely out of the corset.
The song ‘These Words’ by Natasha Bedingfield started to play by the bed. For a moment Caroline, still sex-dazed, was baffled as to why, before she remembered that in her elation yesterday at having pulled off the incredible feat of being hired as Lexy’s ghostwriter, she had downloaded the song on the bus home to celebrate. It was about writing, the struggle to get the right words down on paper; Caroline had sung along to it many times working on her blog. After all, it had been Bedingfeld’s debut album, and both ‘These Words’ and ‘Unwritten’ had chronicled the scary and exciting process of getting her first creative project out to the world. What could possibly be more inspirational?
She grabbed for the phone and answered the call. The man on the other end of the line identified himself briskly as Jason, Lexy’s manager, needing Caroline’s address for the courier to send over the stack of Lexy’s press clippings.
‘There are boxes and boxes,’ Jason said. ‘And boxes. Be prepared. I’ll send you the link and password to our online archives too, but Miranda told me you’ll work faster going through them on paper. I’ll book the courier now – that’ll give you enough time to get them into your place before you meet Lexy this afternoon. She’s having a facial and she wants you to go along to make notes. Says you think readers will want to read all about her beauty regime.’
‘Her skin’s really good,’ Caroline said, feeling that Jason might mean this sarcastically. ‘You realize it when you meet her. I thought her fans would be interested in—’
‘Oh yes, it’s a great idea!’ Jason said quite unironically. ‘Considering how much she drinks and smokes, it’s a miracle how good she looks, trust me!’
Lexy was already at Skin3, the salon, when Caroline arrived. Caroline had taken the overground to Swiss Cottage, walking down from the Finchley Road, and the change in atmosphere during the short descent was palpable. Once she turned away from the chain stores and charity shops on the parade, the ugly 1970s council flats above them with their heavy steel doors and graffitied balconies, the architecture shifted almost immediately into huge and beautiful, wedding-cake, white-painted mansions with pillared entrances and charming modern mews-style houses, set back from the road behind tree-lined drives.
Many were as pretty as New Orleans carriage houses, with their little balconies and cascading greenery reminiscent of Louisiana Spanish moss. Caroline couldn’t even imagine how many millions each house must cost, but the BMWs, Mini Cooper convertibles and Range Rover Evoques, all as gleaming as if they were fresh from the dealers’ forecourts, indicated that the homeowners had considerable disposable incomes.
The Skin3 salon was very clearly the latter rather than the former, its facade sleek and expensively designed, transparent glass with pops of deep pink and white, intended to both attract and reassure its female clients. Look, it said, how smooth and clear I am! This is what your skin will look like once you step through these doors and let my skilled beauticians go to work on you! Ranks of cosmetics and creams were arranged in illuminated recesses inside the salon; lavish orchids stood in an elegant vase on a side table. Beside the flowers were two jugs of water, one full of lemon slices, one of cucumber, the pale yellow and green refreshing against the pink and white of the salon. And on a smart grey sofa Lexy, wearing a cashmere onesie, was holding court.
‘So I said, I don’t care if her clothes are all classy now, I remember her back in the day with the fake boobs and the fake hair and the fake voice – ’cause she can’t sing and she knows it – and for all those tabloid pics of them playing Happy Families with their kids, that husband of hers’s been shagging around forever. And not just with the ladies either, like she wants to make you think!’ she was saying to a couple of beauty therapists, who were giggling at Lexy’s salacious gossip.
The therapists were young, very pretty and utterly intimidating. Skincare employees at department stores could look eerily perfect, but Caroline could always console herself that they had plastered on so much make-up that morning that it was impossible to tell what they really looked like. With the Skin3 beauticians, however, that excuse wouldn’t work. Their skin was, magically, both luminous and matte, which seemed impossible until you saw it for yourself; and they were wearing very minimal make-up.
Additionally, they were both very slim and immaculate, with elegant dark uniforms and smooth hair. Caroline could only be grateful that she had the memory of the excellent sex she had had that morning to bolster her confidence. If not, with her self-consciousness about her skin and weight issues, it would have been very hard for her to feel that she had any right to be in a place like this.
‘Oh hey, Caroline!’ Lexy said as her ghostwriter entered. ‘Don’t get comfy, I’m just getting up. You wanted to see what I do to get my skin all glowy and gorgeous, yeah? Well, brace yourself. You’ve never seen anything like this before, trust me.’
‘Lexy was just telling us about the book you’re writing together,’ one of the young women said, smiling at Caroline. Her eyes were wide-set, her nose delicate and with a slight ski-jump tilt at the tip: she looked like a Disney princess. ‘Hi, I’m Davina. It’s so exciting. I really wish I could write.’
‘Caroline writes amazing filthy stuff,’ Lexy said gleefully, standing up and reaching for her Birkin bag. ‘You wouldn’t think it to look at her, but she’s got a dirty, dirty mind. The book’s going to be scorchio.’
‘Ooh, that sounds brilliant!’ the other young woman said. ‘I can’t wait to read it! I’m Eva, by the way.’
She held out her hand for Caroline to shake.
‘I do Lexy’s treatments,’ she said. ‘Feel free to ask me anything you want about them for the book – I’m more than happy to answer any questions you h
ave. Lexy asked me to tell you what I’m doing as we go along.’
As Eva led Lexy and Caroline downstairs to a treatment room, Caroline was given yet another lesson on how the top one per cent lived. She had, with online discount vouchers, bought plenty of facials in an attempt to tame her rosacea and her period spots. But she was used to cut-price high-street salons, decorated with cheap flock wallpaper in baroque curlicues of silver, black and fuchsia; so cramped that you had to wriggle past a drying rack of towels imperfectly concealed behind a screen if you needed to use the tiny, not very clean loo; the treatment rooms narrow and partitioned by MDF sliding doors which swung and rattled loudly in their cheap channels every time they were opened or closed.
None of the facials, unsurprisingly, had worked. But she could see why. They had been the Poundland version of the beauty salon world, while this was Harvey Nichols. Its white paint was immaculately clean, its walls hung with huge black and white photographs of women’s flawless faces; outside each treatment room was a bud vase affixed to the wall, each filled with a single perfect yellow rose. The bed in the room into which Eva ushered Lexy was not a rickety massage table with a flimsy paper cover and a lone towel which was never big enough to cover both boobs and bum if you were getting a full-body treatment.
No, this looked like an actual, proper single bed, the kind you got in First Class airline seats – white leather, with wide adjustable arms. It was made up with a dark grey bottom sheet, with matching towels laid on top; it had not only a proper pillow, but an actual duvet, all in the same elegant shade of charcoal. Caroline’s eyes were wide. A duvet! She couldn’t begin to imagine how much all of this would cost. And when Eva started Lexy’s facial, explaining to Caroline the scientific research behind the salon’s approach, the reasons for the various supplements Lexy took daily, Caroline realized that she should have brought a Dictaphone, or whatever recording device journalists used. This was the Rolls-Royce of beauty regimes, and there was simply too much information for her to process, even making frantic notes. She had been going to buy one for her interviews with Lexy; she’d bring it back next time Lexy visited Skin3.
Killer Affair Page 7
