Undone

by Kristina Lloyd

  My instinct was to flounce off in a huff. I swiftly changed my mind.

  ‘Don’t I get an intro?’ I said to Sol. I smiled so nicely that my hot, angry cheeks ached with the effort. ‘Hi, I’m Lana. I’d shake hands but…’ I turned to flash my cuffed wrists and the brace of drinks I carried. You get it, doll-face? I’m his. He’s mine. These cuffs? They’re two-way, see, so keep your paws to yourself.

  ‘Hey, sorry,’ said Sol. ‘Lana, this is Lou. We were just talking about Misha. Lou was at Dravendene Hall as well.’

  My smile froze. Gah, how did I miss the most obvious explanation for their awkward intimacy? I was such a hotheaded, petty idiot. ‘Oh, all so awful,’ I said.

  ‘Apparently the body’s been flown back to his parents in Russia,’ said Lou.

  ‘Is it? Oh dear. That poor man. His poor family.’

  ‘A mate of mine heard he had a head wound,’ Lou continued. ‘As if he’d fallen before he … you know.’

  ‘Yeah, well, anyway.’ Sol shrugged, hooked his arm lightly in mine and gave Lou’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Let’s not put a downer on the night. Might catch you later, Lou. Talk properly another time. Good to see you.’

  Doll, I mentally added. I tottered alongside him, glass and bottle clinking by my buttocks, vodka tonic moistening my thumb as the liquid sloshed.

  ‘I thought she might be here,’ said Sol. ‘She seems pretty cut up about what happened.’

  Can’t be that cut up if she’s out on the razz, I thought bitterly. ‘Did she know him?’

  ‘Only by name,’ he said. ‘But she’s sensitive. Highly strung. Enjoys a good drama. I’m glad I’m out of there, to be honest.’

  I smiled to myself, pleased he’d made a point of distancing himself from her.

  ‘Weird that no one seemed to know him very well,’ he added.

  But we did, I thought. Or, at least, we did temporarily. During that night, we saw a side of him that his friends and relatives would never see. Yet since then we’d become complicit in depicting him as a shadowy figure at the party, exploiting his mystery status to keep our bedroom door locked to a prurient public gaze. The more time went by, the more the secret Sol and I shared became one we couldn’t even discuss together. We couldn’t look our past in the eye. The threesome had never happened.

  I’d begun to wonder if this calcification of our secret had a murkier rationale. Did Sol and I have different versions of events that night? Might that be the reason for our tacit silence? What else except guilt on Sol’s part could explain that damp towel in my en suite?

  Sol guided me towards the stairs, his hand nudging at the chain running parallel to my spine. One of the nipple clamps began to loosen, causing pain to throb.

  ‘Sol! The clamps! Ouch, please!’

  Instantly, he turned and pinched both clips wide open, freeing me. I howled and cursed as blood surged into the crushed tissue, flooding my nerves with pain. I threw my head back, half laughing and stamping my heel as I rode out the burn. My chain clanked behind me.

  ‘Well done.’ Sol thumbed around one sore nipple with a delicate touch. ‘Over here. Let me unclip you.’

  He ushered me away from the crowds and deftly freed me from the handcuffs and chain. He pocketed the objects and took his drink from me.

  ‘You OK with your tits on show like that?’ he asked. ‘Why, do you have some pasty adhesive about your person?’ I asked. ‘Or maybe a bra I could borrow?’

  He grinned. ‘I love that attitude. Makes me want to spank you.’

  ‘I think I’ve had enough public shame for one night,’ I said. ‘Come on. Tell me what you learned. We’ve been invited to a sex party, by the way.’

  Downstairs, in the larger ground floor bar, we loitered until a space became free on one of the few squashy leather couches. A couple were kissing and groping on one half of the couch so Sol sat next to them. I straddled his lap, face forwards, my skirt ballooning around us.

  I turned his peaked cap around. ‘You’re a Yank,’ I said. ‘You’re meant to wear your cap backwards.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s not a fucking baseball cap.’

  I took a sip of vodka through my straw. ‘Sol, is everything over between you and Lou?’

  ‘Yeah, totally. We’re just good friends. Not even good friends, to be honest. Just friends, part of a small group. Not even a group. A bunch of loosely connected people. You know how it is.’

  Ludicrous that him bumping into an ex bothered me more than him putting me through the discomfort of being humiliated in front of a bunch of strangers.

  Sol wedged his beer bottle between the seat cushions and slid his hands under my skirt. ‘I reckon we could fuck like this and no one would even notice.’ He grazed a thumb over my knickers, hand resting on my thigh.

  I smiled down at him. ‘I think they’d notice. Unless we were very, very still and quiet.’

  ‘You OK about that little scene upstairs?’ he asked. His thumb edged past the elastic of my underwear and my wet flesh parted in welcome. He stroked along my slippery groove but made no comment. Arousal thumped there, and I thought maybe he could make me come like that. If I buried my face in his chest and kept my cries low, we wouldn’t attract attention. Not that anyone would care in this hedonistic atmosphere. But it wasn’t about the place, it was about me. I’m too shy to orgasm in front of an incidental audience. Or possibly too concerned about maintaining self-control.

  ‘Sort of OK,’ I said. ‘Although I would have preferred more notice, and I didn’t feel the performance was warranted.’

  His thumb nudged at my wet opening. ‘No?’ he teased, as if he didn’t believe me.

  ‘No,’ I breathed, edging forwards for more of his fingers.

  The kissing couple next to us left.

  ‘Hey, quick!’ said Sol. ‘Grab that space.’

  I protested, laughing, as he bucked me off his lap. Vodka splashed onto my stomach and I flung myself back onto the sofa, legs over his thighs.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said, grinning. He swivelled around and hunched over to lick vodka tonic from my belly. Desire pounded between my thighs.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the Gents’ then slipping out for a smoke. Don’t move, OK?’ He stood, gesturing to the cushion he’d just vacated. ‘That’s some prime real estate we’ve got there, best seat in the house. Guard it carefully. I’ll get us a couple of drinks if the bar’s not too busy. Be good.’

  I didn’t move from the couch. I didn’t move for the next thirty fucking minutes, and now I really wish I had done.

  I’m tired. Sol’s sound asleep in bed next to me. Sporadic early morning traffic is rumbling along Brighton’s seafront road, the noise dulled by the hotel’s double-glazed windows. A slit of dawn light gleams where the heavy curtains don’t quite meet. A straw-gold glow from the dimmed bedside light cocoons me in the dark.

  We visited some unpleasant places last night. At times, I thought it would be better if we went our separate ways. But we’ve come back from those places with a renewed understanding of each other. I think it’s made us stronger as a couple.

  I’ll write more later. I can hear people along the corridor going down for breakfast, as if this were an ordinary day. Which it is, of course. It’s always an ordinary day, for someone, somewhere.

  Sunday 13th July. Again

  I give up. I fucking well give up. Is it possible to be too tired to sleep? My mind buzzes and I know it needs to rest before I sleep. Then I start worrying my thoughts will never rest and frustration rises at the prospect of not being able to sleep. Which, of course, makes sleep even more unlikely. I can’t get out of the loop. Tomorrow’s going to be tough. No, not tomorrow, today. It’s close to 9 a.m. Just as I was nodding off earlier, some bastard-little children went hurtling along the corridor followed by parental voices, yelling for them to be quiet. And that was that. Awake, alert, frustrated. And, next to me, Sol snoring gently.

  Writing helps. I feel calmer when I’ve got my thoughts safely down o
n paper. Without that, my brain keeps tossing the memories about as if to ensure they won’t be forgotten.

  So anyway, at Club Sybaris Sol had been gone for around twenty minutes, leaving me stuck on that leather couch. I was growing bored, restless, and feeling vulnerable without any possessions. If I’d had my phone, I would have texted or called to find out where he was. When I craned forwards, I could see most of the bar. No sign of him there. I had to inform a couple of people who’d asked about the spare seat beside me that it was taken.

  Might he have bumped into Lou again? Or someone else? I told myself not to get jealous and irrational; he was simply gone a long time. There was bound to be some innocent explanation. But, given that I was alone in a strange place with my tits bared and zero possessions, I began to wonder what that explanation could be. If Sol was going to play the dom and limit my ability to function independently, wasn’t it his duty to take care of me as promised? To make sure I wasn’t in need of anything? That I was safe?

  He’d said he’d only get drinks if the bar wasn’t busy. Why the delay? I felt abandoned and stuck. I didn’t dare go looking for him in case we ended up losing each other entirely. All I could do was sit tight and wait. I was no longer the contented dormouse basking in his protective leaves; I was trapped in a cage of invisible bars.

  My indignation began to burn. So, when a cute, out-ofbreath guy in rock ’n’ roll leather trousers, studded belt and an excellent bare chest strung with silver pendants asked if he could sit down, I said, ‘Sure.’

  That’ll show you, Sol Miller, I thought. Assuming you do actually deign to return at some point.

  The guy plonked himself down, and my seat cushion lifted with the force of him. With him came a scented wave of body warmth, sweat and a hint of patchouli, a perfume I detest. Doubly so when I’m in a foul mood. His skin and trousers squeaked against the leather upholstery.

  ‘Sorry!’ he hollered. ‘Phew.’ He leaned back against the seat and tipped a beer bottle to his lips. As he moved, his damp skin juddered on the couch. The reverberations quivered in my own body, the faintest vibration travelling from him to me through our shared seat. I let my leg rest nonchalantly against his, twisting briefly aside to disguise the deliberateness of my action. I wanted to flirt and make Sol jealous. I’d long thought I was too old and smart for game-playing and yet, all of a sudden, I wasn’t.

  ‘Haven’t danced like that for months,’ said my neighbour, calling out to the space in front of him rather than addressing me directly. He gulped more beer and then sat with his head back, knees wide, his shoulders rising and falling. He clasped his beer bottle between his open thighs. I forgave him the patchouli oil.

  ‘You mind if I have a tiny sip of that?’ I asked. ‘I’m spitting feathers and my friend’s got my purse.’

  He sat bolt upright. ‘Go for it! Have a big sip!’ He passed me the bottle and raised his arse from the seat to dig into his back pocket.

  I took a swig as he withdrew his wallet. ‘I’ll get us both a drink if you save this seat. Need to chill out awhile. I’m fucking wiped! What’s your poison?’

  I laughed. ‘No, really. I’m fine.’

  ‘I’m not asking how you are. I’m asking what you’re drinking.’

  ‘Honestly—’

  ‘You’d be doing me a favour.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes! Quick, before I change my mind!’

  ‘Vodka tonic,’ I said, smiling. ‘Ice and a slice.’

  ‘Coming right up!’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As the guy wove his way through the crowds, I smiled and sat back, feeling myself relax. He was far too young for me; or, rather, for my taste. But he was cute and the distraction would be welcome. I gazed at people milling about, chatting and dancing. A woman walked by with another woman on a leash, the latter wearing fluffy bunny ears. I spotted a guy getting his cock sucked in an ill-lit corner. I wondered what Misha used to get up to at nights like this, assuming he attended them and we weren’t barking up the wrong tree.

  Moments later, I saw Sol, face like thunder, shoulders twisting stiffly as he side-stepped between people until he was there by my side.

  I made a watch-checking gesture. ‘Hallelujah.’

  He bent and seized me by my upper arm, forcing me to my feet. ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘Oi! What the fuck? Do you mind?’

  He ushered me forwards with a deft shake, fingers digging into the sinews of my arm. Was this part of our act? A staged row?

  ‘Sol! What’s the urgency? Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘I saw you,’ he said, teeth gritted.

  ‘What?’ I stepped back a pace, rotating my shoulder to escape his grip.

  He glowered from under his peaked cap, his face ruddy with heat. ‘He was about to buy you a drink. I saw you so don’t try denying it.’

  I gave an astonished laugh. ‘I’m not denying anything! He was only—’

  He made to grab my arm again but I recoiled from him, apologising when I bumped into someone.

  ‘Don’t you ever dare try and humiliate me like that again,’ he warned.

  ‘Humiliate? You don’t know the meaning of the word. Where have you been? He was buying me a drink because I’ve no cash on me. You left me stuck on that fucking sofa—’

  ‘Yeah, I leave you alone and you start hitting on someone.’

  Incredulous, I laughed again. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘Anyway, time to go,’ he said. ‘I’m done here.’

  ‘Good! Because so am I.’ I began walking away, skirt swishing grandly. He quickly followed. ‘And I’m done with pretending to be your bitch for the evening,’ I called, not caring if I blew our cover.

  ‘Tough shit.’ He grasped my wrist and I flung him off. ‘Because I already threw you out of the kennel, baby.’

  His insult knocked the breath from me. For a moment, all I could do was stand and stare as he continued for the exit. My heart thumped, my face ablaze. Keep a grip, Lana, I told myself. Don’t stoop to his level. Count to ten.

  I glanced around, self-conscious and wondering if anyone was observing us make idiots of ourselves. Having a public row is bad enough but a public row when you’re half-naked and preposterously dressed was the height of uncool. Thankfully, no one seemed aware of us. I drew a deep breath and headed for the exit, edging apologetically past people. I moved with deliberate slowness in a bid to regain my dignity and composure.

  I felt bad for the guy buying me a drink but didn’t want to risk a scene by seeking him out to explain, not when Sol had my cloakroom ticket. At the counter near the exit, Sol was being handed my jacket. As I approached, he tossed the garment into my arms.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Cover yourself up.’

  That’s when I saw red. That’s when I lost it. His attempt to shame me for being sexual, when earlier my breast-baring liberty had been a delight to him, infuriated. I was so enraged, I became icily controlled. I was head-to-toe steel.

  I tipped my chin high, looked him straight in the eye, and emphatically said, ‘Fuck you, Sol Miller.’

  I turned and left the building without a backward glance. Outside, I kept walking, pushing my arms into my jacket and wrapping it tight around me. The night was warm and the jacket was light. I wished I’d had the courage to remain defiantly bare-breasted but didn’t fancy getting arrested for indecent exposure. On the street, the rules were different.

  The venue was behind a main road and bordering a desolate patchwork of tarmac, cobbles, pavement and unused parking spaces. Ahead of me, the rear of a line of old stone buildings faced a block of squat, derelict warehouses. Streetlights were few and far between, each one breaking up the darkness of the broad, empty street with a feeble amber haze. Metal shutters covered the entrances to the warehouse units, all bearing layers of dense, elaborate graffiti. In recent years, I’ve come to regard Brighton as a hip, stylish resort for young, wealthy people; a place for clubs, cafes, music and art. London-by-the-
sea is its nickname. If I’d had more money, I might have set up a cocktail bar in Brighton rather than down-at-heel Saltbourne. But as I stumbled out of Club Sybaris, I knew we were in an area that the town forgot.

  I glanced back. At the nightclub doorway, Sol had stopped to light a cigarette. Damn him! Damn him for bringing me here and making me wear this stupid, fucking, disco-witch costume. I tugged at the hairgrips securing my beret and tossed them away. I flung my hat to the ground. Turning, I saw him inhale deeply as he frowned into the sky. Bastard. I kept walking, sticking to the centre of the road and avoiding the shadows. The road was marked for deliveries, the vestiges of paint defining old loading bays on the stony, broken tarmac.

  When I next looked over my shoulder, I saw Sol snatch his hand from his lips, standing stubbornly stock-still, save for angry little twitches. His foot tapped rapidly and his RAF cap was tucked under his arm. Smoke rushed from his lips. I had no money on me. The hotel was probably a thirty-minute walk away. Reception would be unlikely to issue me with a replacement key card if I had no ID.

  On the uneven road, my heels clicked, sharp and hollow in the derelict street. Sol wouldn’t let me make my own way back, would he? He wouldn’t be such an irresponsible cunt. I wished I smoked, not that I wanted to keep company with him but because it always looked a great way to handle anger, all that furious sucking while pointedly not talking.

  Cover yourself up. Cover yourself up. I already threw you out of the kennel, baby.

  From the club exit came a muffled blast of music. Voices and laughter spilled out on to the street; then the noise of the club became a faint deadened beat again. I could hear the people heading for the main road. I should have done that. Much safer. Was he still smoking?