Temptation Close

by Scarlett Rush

Five weeks going on six. Strange how relative time could be - someone clever needed to concoct a theory about it. For Nesta, life was generally galloping by, the days merging into weeks. Yet some moments seemed to drag with infinite agony, those desperate instances when you need to see someone but you can’t. The ache embarrassed and shocked her. It made her feel it must have been put there, rather than being at her body’s own instigation. You cannot yearn to see somebody you know nothing about - it doesn’t make sense. It was shameful to think of all those idle trips she had made to the village, just on the off-chance, all the times she had tarried in the street when bringing her children back and forth, just in case he emerged. It was laughable at best and pitifully adolescent at worst. She should be way beyond such fragile-hearted nonsense. But the more she didn’t see him, the more he occupied her mind.

  Perhaps it was the fact they had seen so little of him that made them want it so. They had the initially introductions and then his welcoming party but after that what excuse was there? If he stayed behind closed doors then how were they to get to him? He was already drifting off the radar, proving immune to the efforts of the residents to keep the street one big, happy family. He’d even missed the second Boys’ Night Out, having attended his first. This was considered a cardinal sin. Much more of that and there was little chance of the guys wanting him to mix in any other social gatherings.

  Since there was little new to add, the old snippets had to be re-hashed - like the fact that he still hadn’t had anyone come visit, and still hadn’t brought any girls back, or at least none that had been spotted. They spoke of his impeccable dress sense and his nice car and his prison sentence and what he was doing there at all, but it was all assumption. In essence they knew him no better than they did after his first few days there. The rest was just supposition and Nesta realised that each of her neighbours, just as she had, would have privately sketched out a character for him in full, based on little more than guesswork and wishful thinking. There was something glorious in not knowing a person’s true self, of painting them exactly as you wanted them. Yet, perversely, the mind seemed to demand the truth, needing the facts and reality, even if that did mean breaking the spell.

  So they talked about him, as if doing so made him more real to them, although they all secretly wanted to keep him as the stranger of their fantasies. They divulged their theories or pieces of genuine information, talking in conspiratorial whispers, their eyes flashing with mischief - a coven of ever-faithful wives flirting with the idea of the scintillating danger he personified. And no one hushed Maria when she went off into her rude flights of fancy because all of them wanted to hear the words spoken out loud for once, and not just in the privacy of their own guilty minds. By the time they were onto their fourth drink of the night, even Roni and Alicia - normally such reserved characters - even they chipped in with their thoughts on how delightful he just might be, how nice it would be to see him dripping from the surf, his wetsuit down around his waist, or bare-chested and sweaty as he washed his car on a hot summer’s day. Then, somehow, their whispered sorcery summoned him.

  ‘Isn’t that him?’ said Roni, her hand hovering near her mouth as if ready to stifle any scream. They all followed her stare and saw him, standing at the bar with his back to them but instantly recognisable nonetheless. When six pairs of eyes are trained on you there is no way you won’t feel them and, sure enough, Hunter turned on instinct to be met by the collection of familiar faces. He was in his pristine black motorcycle leathers, the jacket unzipped to reveal a thin sweater in purple. Even like this he looked smart, too special for his surroundings. It reminded Nesta that this, the only wine bar in town, wasn’t quite as sophisticated as one might have hoped.

  He stood for a while, registering the recognition, his eyebrows rising and his smile widening. They sat silently awaiting his approach, drawing in breaths through tight chests, squeezing their thighs together penitently from the shame of the things they had said about him so recently. Nesta could almost feel the electricity of nerves and excitement coming off her friends to mix with her own. What a thing to be able to make hearts flutter. It gives you such power.

  He brought his wine to their table: a glass of white. ‘So this is where you girls hang out,’ he said. He must have known this, Nesta thought. He couldn’t be there by accident. With all the joy and energy of their conversation before he arrived, with the Dutch courage their own drinks had given them, it was odd that none of them now seemed able to offer any conversation. His presence had silenced them all. Without Eva there to lead them their confidence dried up. Shelley might have been the favourite to show them the way but she seemed barely able to take her eyes off the tabletop - such uncommonly bashful behaviour for her, especially given the amount of alcohol in her system. Instead it was up to him to make the running, to prevent an awkward silence, and Nesta thought with sudden clarity, that’s what he does: he saves people.

  For all his hardness - which must have been in him to have lived the life he had - he only ever showed a warm front. He didn’t belittle or sneer. He didn’t show impatience or boredom. He saved you from feeling mundane and wasted, plain and one-dimensional. He instilled a glow. He made you feel sexy at a pivotal time in your life, when you might have been ready to be at your sexiest, if only you could receive the confidence that confirmation of your allure via someone else would give. He made you feel sexy at a time in your life when your husband’s sexual interest and enthusiasm towards you appeared to be on the wane. He brought excitement. He saved you from dullness and the relentless effort of life.

  He did all this just by being open and warm, witty and self-effacing. It just seemed like a privilege to be talking to him and each time he smiled or laughed in that creased-face, lively-eyed way, each time he let you tease him without comeback, it just swelled your heart. It was ridiculous, really, to think that just because he was so attractive he wouldn’t be a nice person. But that was reality. The Beautiful Ones are often bastards or bitches because they can be, because they are already winners. They don’t have to use any other means to be liked. They don’t have to mix with mere mortals. Here was a man who looked like he could handle anything, who had served a jail term, yet was quite happy to chat to a bunch of half-drunk mums without any cajoling. Here was a man who looked like he had enough passion inside him to burn an entire forest down, who disguised the inferno with gentle approachability, yet still somehow let you know that he might just take you - simple, normal, safely married you - and fuck you until you were hanging off the edge of the world. There was something so wonderful about him, so inexorably magnetic, it was just plain scary.

  Nesta let the shiver run through her and then took a mental step back, to watch him engaging with her neighbours. She realised the new flush within was one of pride - of knowing him, of seeing what he could do. In five minutes he had drawn the girls out of their apprehension. Shelley, despite still looking a little pale and shaken, even she was beginning to open up and become more her usual self. Only Bethan hadn’t joined in, sat there eyes down, looking nervy and flush-faced. She must really have had it bad over him. Still, muteness was always par for the course with her.

  Hunter had them all dangling on his every word and because Eva was not there to deflect the conversation, it hadn’t dissolved into one big suggestive flirt-fest. Nesta zoned back into the chat to hear him talking about a girl, a flaky hippy-sort, whom she was relieved to realise was not a current conquest but a professional artist’s model. She had been sitting for him on a couple of his latest portraits. She lived here in a flat in town, overlooking the harbour, and apparently he had been coming out a couple of evenings a week to paint her. Now she, the only experienced portrait sitter he had been able to track down in the area, had decided on a whim to spend the whole winter away in Goa.

  ‘Anyway, I rather unexpectedly find myself in need of a model,’ said Hunter, and then with his trademark half-smile, ‘so if any of you lovely l
adies want to step in, feel free.’

  Maybe it was a flush of subconscious excitement at the thought of this, maybe just an act of warning for the other girls, but Nesta found her voice. ‘Except that all you paint are nudes,’ she said. She almost checked her sentence before finishing it, suddenly scared she had revealed information she shouldn’t be privy to. It was like being a spy in enemy territory, or perhaps more like a protagonist of an extra-marital affair, where just the tiniest slip could blow one’s cover.

  ‘Well, yes, I am only doing nudes at the moment. However, with you ladies, your clothes would naturally all be on.’

  ‘I’ll do it then!’ exclaimed the usually reserved Alicia.

  ‘No - I’ll do it,’ said Maria, feigning to throw Alicia off her chair.

  Hunter gave a little laugh at their over-dramatised eagerness. ‘You interrupted me. As I was saying, with you ladies your clothes would naturally all be on -’ he paused slightly for the punch-line, ‘- a chair in the corner of the room.’

  ‘Hunter!’ the mock chiding chorus came from about four of them at once, pretend anger mixed with flirty giggles. Nesta even reached out to slap his arm, again instantly wondering whether it would be construed by the others as over-familiarity.

  It was a shrewd piece of seduction on Hunter’s part, she thought. Such an offer gave an open invitation for something to happen. It didn’t matter that you were been given an apparently good reason, you can’t just strip off in front of a man like him and not have it lead to something more. Any of them who wanted him therefore had a way in. He was practically offering himself on a plate. It was disconcerting that he had said it to all of them but then suddenly Nesta saw the subtlety of it.

  It was a clever game. You have an undeniably attractive man - aesthetics are one thing but this guy appealed on different levels. He looked like an adventurer, like he had been tearing it up since the day he was born. He looked somehow mean and hard and yet displayed only warmth and humour. For all his ruggedness there was sophistication and grace. He was smart in both senses, comfortably off and apparently comfortable in himself. His obvious flaw was that he wanted you only physically and was resolved never to love you. He might make the time with you special and precious but he would not give you his heart. He wanted you on his rules, with no ties. He might look like a risk-taker but you could just tell that everything would be calculated and executed with a mind to keeping you safe. He understood the dangers and how to minimise them. It was quite probable that he had never given up a single secret in his life. There weren’t many females alive who would not be attracted in some way.

  Regarding women, he might have had the pick of the bunch. However, for some reason, without actually saying so, he was offering himself to half a dozen married women, all with kids. It was their lucky day! All they had to do was pluck up the courage and take him on. All that stopped them was the ring on their finger and everything that this meant. Of course they knew each other and knew how strong each marriage was. But what if they were wrong? What if one’s next door neighbour was actually tempted? Do you wait around and lose the prize or strike first and get in there? Secret, no-ties sex with this beautiful man and only your conscience to make it wrong.

  Of course you would have to go to him, so it was not like he seduced you at all. You couldn’t then argue if he wanted it all on his terms. He wouldn’t have to make you any promises. If things did go bad he wouldn’t even have anything to lose. But why would things go bad? Why wouldn’t they all just go fabulously? Clever Hunter! Nesta knew the others might not have seen the true genius of his off-the-cuff remark but later, when they were all abed and the lights safely out, they would mull it over in full. They would wonder what was stopping them from going to be his model, how long they could wait before one of their neighbours stepped in to beat them to it. He had created a kind of Darwinian struggle amongst the girls to surrender to him, the fittest being the one who had the guts to do it. What had he said at the gathering - I want the one who wants me most? This was the test to decide who that would be, who would have the courage. He had almost made it a competition. All this just from one casual remark, said only light-heartedly, that he was in need of a new model to sit for him.

  So, Nesta thought, who would act? Perhaps he had even weighed this up and realised which ones were eliminated from the outset. Roni was too shy for it, even if the idea appealed. Despite Alicia’s surprise offer, she was the last one out of them to want to do it. She was kind of non-sexual. Nesta didn’t think that in a bad way. It was just how Alicia was. She had produced kids so sex had occurred between her and her husband, but she never talked of such things. She rarely swore and she kept her input into their Night Out smutty conversations to a minimum.

  Shelley lived for her man, which is maybe why she had remained the quietest after Hunter’s arrival, displaying quite uncharacteristic reserve. To outsiders she might seem the obvious choice but if you knew her as Nesta did you would know there was little or no chance of her cheating. As for Bethan, she just didn’t have the oomph. She was just too quiet, too concentrated on her kids. She didn’t seem able to even bring her head up and look her newest neighbour in the eye. A get-up-and-go man like Hunter surely wouldn’t even notice someone so one-dimensional?

  That left only Maria and herself. Maria certainly talked a good fight but when it came down to it she was forever in the shadow of her husband. Even if she wanted it, her other half would ensure it never happened - that and her work and home-life commitments. So there was only Nesta left. Did he know this already? Crucially, almost tantalisingly, he had chosen to make his plea when Eva, the prime candidate to take him up on his offer, was not present. It seemed like an intentional effort to open the door only to them, the married ladies of the street. Why he would do this was a mystery but more pressing for Nesta was the plain fact that she had Mondays off, alone. In theory she could just saunter down to his house and knock on the door. He had made it just so easy, and she guessed he was very aware of this.

  To even be pondering it was a shock to the system, although it was impossible not to having had the idea implanted by him. She knew all the other girls would be thinking about his offer. What was his game? Perhaps it was just a bit of thoughtless fun for him, a bit of nonsense to pass the time, to exert his power and see how easily he could leave the silly mums with their tongues hanging out. Just as simple as that: knock on his door; go in; pluck up the courage to slip out of your clothes; let him take it from there; go home again as if nothing had happened. Even if you had completely misjudged him and he did only want you to sit as a model, even those moments of illicit nudity under his gaze would leave memories to savour.

  You had to admire his style, the way he put it all on a plate for them all with such apparent innocence. No flirting or seedy propositioning for him. If he was a serial killer he would never be short of victims. He’d just have to give them one of these little hints and they’d be queuing up at the door for slaughter. And that was the thought that brought Nesta back down because she had no way of knowing that he wasn’t actually a serial killer. She didn’t know anything about him. Was he even an artist? She had never seen him prancing around in a loose smock, or with a canvas under his arm, or even with paint under his nails. Was he even human at all, or actually some devilish fiend, there to tempt them all into the fires, just for a bit of fun?

  Who knew if this was not all some blood-thirsty ruse to lure them in, to get them when Eva was not there because she was the only girl in the street who wouldn’t have to go secretly to his place, who would go there heralded by trumpets to make sure everyone knew what she was about to receive? Nesta got a dim image of her own naked, ravaged, lifeless body being pulled from a river. Roni, her closest friend would give the interview, a girl who would never allow such a man to corrupt her innocence and principles. She would say what a nice, honest, warm gentleman their newest neighbour appeared to be, how disarmingly wit
ty and charming, how they couldn’t believe he could do anything so vile. The interviewer would nod with sympathetic understanding, all the while thinking: so what the fuck did you think a single, hugely attractive ex-convict was doing there amongst you, fraternizing with you lot of silly, easily flattered, easily swayed, bored, slightly disillusioned, attention-starved young mums?

  She knew nothing much about him at all. She knew what she thought she knew about him, what she hoped she knew about him, but all was just a projection of her mind. All these girls here would be the same. He would be all things to all of them but none of it would have had much substance. He was everything they wanted him to be, a product of their fantasy. Perhaps it was all part of his Great Ploy. Or perhaps it was simply her and her neighbours wanting to imagine the perfect specimen was amongst them, and interested in them, because such thoughts enriched their days and nights.

  He put his empty glass on the table and made to leave, shrugging and holding up his crash helmet to indicate why he couldn’t accept the girl’s offer of another drink. He was going and Nesta felt that same sense of lurching disappointment, that urge to grab him and hold him fast. He never even did much, really. He just talked calmly and politely and smiled and laughed and it threw her completely and utterly out of kilter. It mixed her up inside. It was nice to secretly feel such things, to remember the kaleidoscope of joy and emotions that young love and courtship once gave. But under the fluttering excitement something darker lurked. It was a feeling of being drawn towards treacherous waters she had no hope of keeping afloat in.

  Next Best

  Eva rang the doorbell for the third time. Where the hell was Hunter? It was Girls’ Night Out. There was no excuse for him not to be in, to be wasting this opportunity whilst the prying eyes were absent. The car was on the drive. The light in the hall was on but that seemed to be the only one. She couldn’t see or hear any sign of movement within when she dropped to her knees and lifted the letterbox. She thought briefly about trying to unlock and open his garage, to check if the bike was there, but that was too madly stalker-ish even for her. He was going to have to change his ways. It was ridiculous that she couldn’t come down here and fuck him whenever she got the urge. How was he still managing to defy her?