The Silver Chain

by Primula Bond

  I try the door of Gustav’s bedroom on the lower landing, but it’s locked. The excitement that has propelled me all the way from Devon today is still there, but it’s mixing now with that nagging voice of doubt I can never seem to silence. I go over everything he said at Burgh Island. That’s all I can hold on to. Until he’s standing here in front of me, until I can touch him again, I don’t belong.

  I lie on my bed in the attic room and stare through the arched windows. The moon is like one of those puffballs you see swelling in damp undergrowth. I reach for my camera and from my prone position take a couple of shots. Zoom in as far as my Leica lens will allow, right into the acne scars on its surface. The twigs from the little plant on my balcony are like fingers tapping at the window.

  As I roll over to put the camera back on my table I see Crystal’s neat carry case on the floor, packed with cosmetics. She came here earlier this evening with the prints of the Bleak House series, and asked me to sign them.

  ‘You can close that chapter for good now, Serena.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got all of you now. An odd lot, granted. Very eccentric. A bit like the Addams Family!’ I guffawed loudly. ‘Oh, don’t look so cross, Crys. Come and do my make-up for when Gustav gets back?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  She opened up this big carry case and balanced a couple of round containers of colour on the tips of her fingers. With a thin smile she painted two round red spots on each cheek. I looked just like her, in fact, with the two round spots painted directly under each of her two round eyes.

  ‘Wipe it off and do it more subtle,’ I laughed, slapping playfully at her. ‘I don’t want to look like a barmaid.’

  She pursed her lips tight as a button hole and held a lock of my hair in very hot tongs till it started to smoke.

  I watched the tendril bounce out of the tongs in a beach-babe-style wave.

  ‘You know, you’ve changed since I’ve been here,’ I remarked, feeling like a princess. ‘You look a little softer, for starters. You don’t pin your hair so tightly that it looks like it’s being pulled out, root by root. Maybe you’ve put on a little weight? Munched too many of Dickson’s cheesecakes?’

  Her mouth twitched reluctantly. Even her lips, still blood- red, looked plumper.

  I miss her spiky presence now. I don’t actually know where she lives, although she is often here. Perhaps she floats around this house at night, watching over us.

  I pick up her big blusher brush and flop onto my back. I stroke the brush down my throat, down between my breasts. I am wearing the lovely negligee Gustav gave me my first night here. The one I danced in. Why didn’t I just go ahead like Scheherazade and seduce him that night? He’s a man, after all, not a mirage.

  I run the brush over the fabric to see if the soft bristles can penetrate. They aren’t sharp enough, but the sensation is just as pleasurable, and my skin gives a little quiver.

  No need to close the shutters or draw the muslin drapes. I glance over at the balcony. The darkness and silence are spooking me tonight. No-one can see me up here. Unless they are one of Crystal’s cat burglars.

  I pour out a glass of red wine from the bottle I’ve nicked from Gustav’s cellar. Dutch courage, if he ever comes home. Maybe he’ll be angry. I hope so. I want him roused. I’ve seen what he’s like when threatened, or cornered. I may not want that violent reaction every time, but I want to make something beautiful happen between us. Something that is only ours. No-one else’s.

  I lie back again. So restless now. Where the hell is he? Maybe I should have gone out with Polly. She should still be gallivanting somewhere. I grope about but can’t find my mobile phone. She’ll want to summon me to whatever bar or club she’s in.

  Loser! Staying in with just a paintbrush for company!

  The wine, the bright moonlight and the soft Miles Davis music makes me dozy. Mustn’t sleep. The grandfather clock down in the hall wheezes, starts to chime, then for some reason thinks better of it.

  I flick the blusher brush up and down my neck. It’s quite thick, with a sturdy handle, but the bristles are soft as kitten’s fur. I twiddle it like a cheerleader’s baton before taking the handle delicately between finger and thumb. I touch the bristles to my leg and flinch when they tickle. How I long for Gustav’s fingers on me.

  I squirm as my skin tries to resist the hairy touch. I flatten the brush over my thighs, sweeping it down to my knees and back again as if painting myself, brush further up the insides of my bare thighs. I wriggle as my hands and the brush start moving of their own accord. The negligee rides up as my hands move about.

  I remember how Gustav pushed it up, over my thighs and hips, how he studied me in the candlelight the first time he invited me here, and how he bent forward and licked me right here.

  The brush flicks it, ruffling the neat cluster of curls. I let the brush explore.

  There’s a tiny creaking sound. Nothing new there. The whole house creaks, especially at night. But I notice that one of the three glass doors opening onto the balcony has swung ajar. The little tree in its big terracotta pot scratches again, as if trying its luck. I should close the door against the draught, but instead I close my eyes and rock back into my soft duvet, dancing about on my bottom as the music murmurs around me and the paintbrush strokes faster and faster up my legs, over my stomach in circles, and down again, straying away from where I want it to go, the part of me that’s yearning and burning for attention.

  This is what a cat burglar would see. Stop him in his tracks. Make him stand there with his swag bag, his coil of rope, maybe a weapon or two, crouched in the attack position, dressed all in black. My head starts to sway and I play my tongue across my lips. It makes me feel sexy like a starlet. I rotate my hips on the cushions, thighs moving further apart as the brush plays.

  I am only flicking and stroking, but with each stroke of the brush my hips rock more wildly. I slide both hands between my white thighs and part my legs, wider and wider, all the time imagining Gustav here with me, remembering his tongue, the feel of his hands strong and rough on my hips and thighs, pulling them open.

  Remembering the promise of it. The thought that we had all the time in the world.

  He talked about addiction to that life with Margot. I push away her shadow. Well, I think I’m addicted to Gustav. That’s the madness keeping me here. Why I’ll keep flipping back to him like a boomerang no matter what he chucks at me.

  There is another scraping sound, and I glance at the window. The breath catches in my throat. Be careful what you wish for. Because somebody has decided to answer my prayers. Or maybe realise my worst fears. Either way I’m not alone with this make-up brush after all. Someone is out there, watching me. A man, all in black, standing on the balcony.

  His mouth is moving. Is he demanding something? My money or my life? I’m not stopping now for anyone. I bend my knees, relax into the pillows, close my eyes. The brush travels to the top of my legs, up over my smooth mound. The bristles pick up the tight curls, and I sigh out loud. Wonder what he is thinking.

  It’s not Dickson, and it can’t be Gustav. Why would he break into his own house? My fingers waggle over the soft patch, I try to keep them back, try to tease for a moment longer, but the foreplay with the brush and the idea of the man watching are irresistible. I burrow in, crowd my fingers in for a moment. Everything is exquisitely sensitive and exposed, visible to the man outside and anyone else for that matter, no doubt about that, but my legs are aching now. I hear the moist kiss as my lips press closed.

  Let him look for a little longer. Did he see what I was doing? Did it make him stiff? Or scare him off?

  The brush starts again. Up and down, the bristles bending softly into my contours and making small circles round the emerging bud. My fingers follow the brush, probing until either the brush or my finger, I can’t tell which, scrapes that hidden kernel. It blazes into life and starts to throb.

  I wriggle again, really into this performance now, throwing myself backwards as my fi
ngers guide the brush, or rather the brush guides them. I ache with suspense as the brush dips delicately. I gradually increase the tempo until like an electric shock the brush hits its mark again.

  Why isn’t the man crashing in through the open window, finishing the job off himself?

  Figment of my imagination, that’s why, and if he isn’t, then the security in this house is better than I thought. In any case I can’t stop now. The brush works furiously until I raise my buttocks off the bed, knees flopping wide open as I moan in private frenzy.

  My hair tumbles across my face as I come, blocking out the room and the moonlight and the motionless presence out on the balcony. The CD goes back to the beginning track. The warmth of the brush on me and its friction subside. I open my eyes blearily. The grandfather clock downstairs clears its throat again. It was my imagination. There was no-one there. Time to sort myself out. My face floods with heat, contrasting with the cold, and I draw my legs slowly together. Then I stand up stiffly and wander to the window. Bang my forehead wearily on the glass. ‘I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’

  ‘Either option would be appropriate.’

  Gustav steps through the window, wearing a black leather jacket, jeans and biker boots. He casually pulls off a black woollen hat which has left his hair slicked over his head. Then he starts to unzip one of his black gloves for all the world as if I’ve just invited him in for tea and cucumber sandwiches.

  I move away from him, stand back against the window, the glass cold on my back.

  ‘Forgot your key?’

  He nods, looking me up and down with undisguised lust flickering in his eyes.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. Sent Dickson back to the gallery to check.’

  ‘So he still has a job, then?’ I laugh. ‘You could have rung the doorbell.’

  ‘I did, my darling. Frantically. You obviously didn’t hear it. I was worried you might not be here after all.’ He chuckles and picks up the brush. ‘But you were obviously otherwise engaged.’

  I tug at the flimsy negligee. Feel traces of moisture seeping through.

  ‘So you thought you would, what, scale five floors of sheer London brick and leap over my balcony like Spider-Man?’

  ‘Batman’s more my style. More of a dandy, don’t you think? And it’s not your balcony any more, Serena. You’re moving rooms tonight.’ He unbuttons the neck strap of the jacket and cracks his neck to ease it. ‘Thought I’d use my old free running skills to get up here, actually. I could have waited for Dickson to get back, but I wanted to get into my house. I wanted to get to you as soon as possible.’

  I smile and go to sit on the bed. This is like treacle flowing over me, this new Gustav with the fierce face and the soft words. ‘You’re talking about parkour, then. You’re a traceur.’

  He takes off the other thick glove. Stretches his long white fingers. Clicks each knuckle thoughtfully. So no weapon, but he could easily have been out wringing the necks of foxes. Or burglars. When is he going to come and sit beside me, here on the bed? I press my knees together, bone against bone to stop me leaping at him.

  ‘How do you know about free running?’

  I examine my fingernails. ‘I’ve given it a go, as a matter of fact. In Paris. I fell in with a group of free runners near Notre Dame and climbed up onto a roof with them. I came to a sticky end, unfortunately. I nearly broke my elbow.’

  ‘Horses, rooftops. You little urchin. You should take better care of yourself.’ He goes to sit on the white rocking chair in the corner. ‘And you should close these curtains, Serena. Anyone with climbing equipment and evil intent could have seen you. I could have been up to no good.’

  ‘Promises, promises.’ I smooth my hands up and down the goosebumps on my arms. ‘Maybe I want you to get up to no good.’

  ‘This is my house, Serena. You could have been courting real trouble disporting yourself like that for all the world to see.’

  I feel reckless and tired. ‘So. How did you really get up onto my balcony?’

  ‘I am serious about the free running. I’ll show you one day. But I’m too rusty to risk it just now. Which is why I climbed up the fire escape. God knows but I have to think of health and safety in a house this size, with you lot leeching off me day and night.’

  He unzips one of his heavy biker boots. Then the other. Honey, I’m home.

  He sits back in the chair and stares at me. I follow his lazy gaze down my body. My negligee has fallen back down to cover my legs with reasonable modesty, but where it clings the dampness is clearly visible.

  ‘What am I going to do with you? A half-naked Serena pleasuring herself without me. Though even the thought of that makes me horny. You are wilful, rebellious, disobedient–’

  ‘And bestselling. Didn’t you know? We’ve only got four more pictures to go.’

  I kneel down in front of him and pull his boots off. Throw them with a thumping clatter across the room. He grips the arms of the chair tightly. Very slowly I start to peel off his socks, too.

  ‘A tough week, Gustav?’

  He laughs. ‘A tough month, if you must know. It’s this damned woman I’ve met. She’s wearing me to a husk.’

  I get up abruptly and walk to the bedside table. Pour out some more wine and hand it to him. He holds it up to the light, smiles at me, and then drinks it. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like a ruffian.

  He looks beautiful sitting on the chair in my bedroom. The stoniness in his features softening despite his best efforts. A flush of colour in his lean cheeks. His hair long and glossy, the blackness of his eyes deepened by his burglar’s clothes.

  ‘Can I take a photograph to remember you by? The moonlight suits you. Makes you look younger somehow. It must be your natural lighting.’ I lift my camera, all my movements very slow, as if he might vault back over the balcony at any moment.

  He remains in the chair, rocking very slightly and holding the glass of red wine. This is me at my best. Stepping round the room, stepping round him, framing and clicking. Trapping him forever in my little glass window.

  ‘What do you mean, remember me by?’

  ‘Well, the show’s nearly sold out. Technically I’ll be free to come and go as I please.’

  He picks up the brush I’ve just been playing with and strokes it under his nose. Heat surges through me, through my body, up into my face. He can smell me on the bristles.

  ‘Your heart won’t let you.’

  I remain standing, but I’m cold now. ‘We’ve fulfilled most of the clauses of the agreement in principle. And I’m grateful for your faith in me, the gallery, and the room here, and your contacts and your help.’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  He leans forward and takes my wrist. There’s a new silver chain, glinting in the moonlight. He hooks it onto my bracelet. I’m hooked onto him. He tugs hard on the chain and as I stumble towards him he scoops me up into his arms and carries me out of the room, down the stairs, past pre-Raphaelite Rapunzel, then he kicks open the double doors of his own room.

  This is like falling through the looking glass. I haven’t changed or gone crazy, like Alice. This isn’t a nightmare, or even a dream. I’m still Serena Folkes, the girl in the nightie who has this terrible addiction. But in this moment Gustav has carried me into my new life.

  He throws me playfully onto the huge bed which is pushed up against the enormous windows and then goes to stand by the wall opposite. An oblong of light edges in from the landing, but apart from that the room is in darkness.

  A tiny spotlight pings on to illuminate a framed picture.

  ‘You asked me why I went to Milan. I carried this all the way out there from London and then decided to frame it properly. I was going to give it to you in Switzerland.’

  It’s the sketch he did of me at the private view, small but perfectly formed. It’s been set in the centre of a wide pale green mount and a beautiful silver frame. Instinctively I glance round the room, up at the ceiling. The other walls are totally
blank.

  ‘That was the first drawing I’d done for five years.’ He gestures round the room before coming to sit beside me on the bed. ‘Maybe one day your face will fill all these other spaces.’

  ‘Just one picture’s enough, Gustav.’

  I nod quietly, my heart banging in my chest. He switches the light off again and he’s right here beside me. We’re in his room, on his bed. All I can do is sit as prettily as I can in my sheath of silk, try to ignore my nipples pricking up with the cold, the dampness seeping still between my thighs.

  ‘I think I’m falling for you, Serena.’

  He winds his fingers through my hair, tugging me towards him. I let him pull me closer. My stomach clenches with terrified excitement. The heat is beating off him. His eyes smoulder with lust, not anger. His mouth splits into a grin, gradually, as if it is out of practice. All at once he pushes me back onto the bed, my wrists trapped easily in his hands as he snaps the silver chain onto the bed post.

  ‘You don’t need to tie me. I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Old habits.’

  ‘Tell me more about the woman who’s wearing you out.’ I jingle the silver chain playfully, throw my arms back over my head.

  He chuckles, and runs his fingers down the inside of my arms where they’re outstretched, making them tingle. ‘I wasn’t aware I was missing anything or anyone in my life, but I realise I was. There’s a big hole sculpted for her when she’s ready to fit. She’s impossible. Beautiful, talented, wilful, rough round the edges. Slippery, like an eel. And much younger than me.’

  He makes the silver chain tighter around my wrist. The little bite in my wrist thrills me.

  ‘Is she your prisoner?’

  ‘I just want to make sure she never runs away again.’

  I wriggle and lie back. The lamb to his slaughter. Little Red Riding Hood. He tugs off his jumper and shirt. I see his arms, sculpted and muscular, and at last I see his torso. Naked. His chest is broad enough to sleep on, tapering to that slim waist and sexy hips, just a strong line of black hair running from his solar plexus over his smooth, flat stomach, wandering like a tease down into his jeans. Skin so pale and vulnerable yet warm and muscular from climbing onto balconies and carrying country wenches down stairs.