‘But, what? Here to read the gas meter. Deliver post?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. He was … good-looking guy. Early forties, maybe. He was … hard to explain. He had something about him. An edge. Something mean. Not overtly aggressive. Just … coiled.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
‘Description doesn’t mean anything, then?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sure he’ll find me if it was important.’
‘Yeah. I think he will.’ She swirled the last of her drink. ‘Actually, you know what this colour reminds me of? Cock.’
I laughed, already able to see where she was coming from.
‘The head of a cock,’ she continued. ‘White guy. You know what I mean? Sort of mauve and blue-ish and a sort of non-colour. Cock has more pink tones than this but, yeah, that colour.’
‘You’re obscene,’ I said.
‘I vote we re-christen it. Knobulence!’
A clatter at the foot of the spiral staircase made me glance at the wall clock. Six p.m. already, and still tipping it down. Bruno entered, soaking wet and wearing a sinister black trenchcoat.
‘Pig of a night!’ He shook his head vigorously, scattering droplets. He removed his coat and underneath he was as neat as ever in black shirt and charcoal grey waistcoat, his clothes perfectly complementing his boxy, black beard. He headed for the galley kitchen to hang his coat. I silently congratulated myself for employing hot, handsome, well-dressed twins.
I twisted the top on my shaker and shook. ‘You want a drink, Bru?’ I called over the rattle of ice. ‘I’ve created a new goodie. Don’t think we’re going to get many in tonight.’
Bruno emerged from the kitchen and clapped his hands together, rubbing eagerly. ‘Cool, let’s make it a mixing night. I could give Raf a ring. He’d hate to miss out.’
I closed the bar at ten, by which point the four of us were seriously hammered. And still we continued. We created some excellent new cocktails and some real horrors, most with filthy names thanks to Kat. I texted Sol a couple of times and sent a selfie in which I was wide-eyed and sipping a bourbon-based cocktail through a straw, telling him he was missing out. Unusually, he didn’t reply. He hasn’t been in touch today either. Maybe his phone’s on the blink. I wonder if I should mention the towel. I’m not sure how to. Not sure I want to, either. I should probably bin it, put everything behind us.
Anyway, it was a great night but I’m paying for it today. My head’s woolly, and my tongue is thick.
I’ll feel better after a swim. I always do.
Monday 1st September
Sol’s been evasive and distracted recently, and a few days ago I learned why. I’m not sure how I feel about it yet. Concerned, at the very least, and while he told me not to worry, I remain unconvinced because he was less than emphatic in his reassurances. Breezy, almost. Dismissive. And since then, he’s begun to fade on me like a ship going out of range.
It was last Thursday. He texted in the afternoon, saying, ‘I’ll be over later.’
Because he hadn’t been spending as much time at mine as usual, and because when he was with me he’d seemed preoccupied, the text acquired greater significance than it might do ordinarily. Difficult to read between the lines when there’s only one, but, nonetheless, that’s what I wracked my brain trying to do. That curt, cool sentence contained so much silence and my anxious imagination is prone to feed on these things. Was it a silence born of coldness, indifference, laziness or any other of a number of issues to which I was blind? Was his interest in me waning? I hadn’t seen him since Monday and that was a long time for us.
I couldn’t identify any problem in our relationship, except perhaps that we’d quickly become full-on. But the tacit understanding was Sol spent a lot of time at my place because he was working at the construction site in town and staying over was handy. Acknowledging that convenience didn’t trivialise our feelings for each other. But we benefited from the emotional safety net of such a setup as it meant our apparent transformation into Romeo and Juliet, diving headlong into foolish love, was actually a considered choice based on pragmatic decisions. We were in control. Sure we were hot for each other but we weren’t behaving like reckless teens, throwing caution to the wind. No, we had the measure of this thing.
So what else might be the problem? Easily bored? Maybe he did this kind of thing all the time, rushing in then rushing straight out again. But that wasn’t the picture he’d painted of himself. He seemed solid and reliable, even in his wild, greedy eagerness for me. I’d thought we were evenly matched in that sense: mature enough to embrace our feelings for each other but smart enough not to over-invest.
But perhaps we weren’t evenly matched and the scales of our desires were starting to tip. What did he mean by ‘later’? Later but at the usual time? Or later than usual? And why no ‘x’ at the end? He usually signed off that way. Usually or always? I couldn’t say. I might not have noticed a previous omission if it hadn’t felt like one. Should I torment myself by going through hundreds of old messages?
By half five, he still hadn’t shown up at the bar. No text either to say he was en route. By that point, I’d practically convinced myself that when he did arrive he was going to finish it between us. ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ he’d say, and I’d try not to reveal my pain as we agreed to part as friends.
I recalled sprawling on the steps after Club Sybaris, post-coitally languid, and he’d asked me if I ever felt guilty. ‘Do you?’ I’d asked. ‘All the time,’ he’d said. I’d thought it was a covert reference to Misha, to our denial of the threesome or to whatever had happened at the pool. Or perhaps it was deeper than that, a reference to his family members who’d died before their time, leaving him with the guilt of being alive. Or maybe it truly was the Jewish guilt he’d half joked about.
But recently I’ve been thinking I’m barking up the wrong tree on all those fronts. He has something else he needs to hide, and it’s about sex. When he’d talked about sensing a peculiar atmosphere at Dravendene, something ‘underground’ about the people, was he actually projecting what he felt about himself? Perhaps this change in his behaviour has something to do with his past. And I’d never find out because there was a side to him he’d always hide. Maybe he’d met someone else and I’d soon be joining his ex, Helena, and nameless other lovers who were part of a kinky history he wanted to perpetually erase. Was he ashamed of what we did together? Could he only sustain DS relationships for a limited amount of time before moving on and presenting himself as a newbie?
All this speculation was buzzing in my head as I mixed drinks and put on a happy face. I had a birthday party in, around a dozen lively people, evidently fresh from the office, so I was fairly run off my feet. I didn’t immediately notice him; he was just a newly arrived customer in the corner of my eye. I was carrying a tray of tiki cocktails over to one of the tables, sparklers, umbrellas, big hunks of fruit, and so on, when I noticed this figure enter the room. The customers were oooing and wowing as I glided over to them, balancing a mini Mardi Gras in my hands. They’d asked for ‘the works’ so I’d obliged by going overboard on the gimcrackery. I swear I nearly dropped the tray when I realised the newcomer was Sol.
Crazy, but I started to shake. I lowered the tray to table height, resting it on the edge, and very nearly spilled as I set down a Mai Tai on a black paper mat. I glanced over my shoulder at him. He was full of smiles, proud as fuck, and barely recognisable in a well-cut, brown, herringbone suit and fat, floral, burgundy tie. His authoritative stance unnerved me. Who was he, all of a sudden?
‘Hey,’ I called, grinning. Then, turning back, ‘OK, so, who’s for a Painkiller?’
My heart thumped, and the sight of him was seared in my mind: tall, cool and sexy, with his hands thrust in his trouser pockets, his collar undone, his tie loose. He stood motionless, all cocky and expectant as he watched me work, waiting for me to spot him in his whistle and flute. You didn’t turn up with that attitude if you intended to dum
p someone. We were safe: safe as houses, solid as a rock.
I wanted to rush over to embrace him, tell him about these awful fears I’d been having, and listen to him soothe me back to security. ‘Get a grip, Cha Cha,’ he’d say. ‘I’m going nowhere.’
When I’d set down all the drinks, I wove my way back to the bar, tray by my side. He came towards me, a cool, ironic grin on his face.
‘Hey, how’s it going, barkeep?’ He pressed a mildly salacious kiss to my lips, his hand sliding onto my arse, groin nudging at my thigh.
‘Looking good, mister,’ I said, giving a tweak of his tweedy lapel. ‘What’s the occasion? You in trouble?’
I withdrew and returned behind the counter, selecting bottles for the next lot of drinks. Sol perched on a stool and leaned his arms on the bar’s radiant blue surface.
‘Nope,’ he said, gaze lingering deliberately on me. ‘But you might be, the mood I’m in tonight.’
‘Is that a threat or a promise?’ I poured a stream of rum into my shaker.
He grinned and sat back a fraction, glancing about the room. ‘We’ll see. Busy in here.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Not sure when I’ll get a break. You OK to stay awhile?’
‘Sure.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m happy if you’re happy. Always.’
I selected a bottle of beer from the cooler, flipped off the top, and placed it in front of him. He drank about half in one go. I love seeing him drink when he’s thirsty. The bob of his Adam’s apple in his bristle-speckled neck stirs my desire. I don’t even know why, except that it looks so … him. And he’s drinking so I can’t touch him and he doesn’t know I’m watching. For a moment, he’s like a moving image. Seeing him in a suit was a curious pleasure. He was simultaneously familiar and unknown, the clothing creating an enticing distance. He was a mysterious stranger, a villain, tycoon, man-about-town or lord of the manor. Who knew? But whoever he was, he was an adventure I wanted to go on. I imagined he would come on strong and do unspeakably hot, nasty things to me because we’d only just met and would never see each other again.
‘Listen,’ he said, setting down his bottle. ‘You mind if I pop back to the flat? You got your keys handy?’
‘Oh, don’t leave.’ I pouted childishly. ‘I haven’t seen you for—’
‘No, I’ll be right back. Just want to grab my book. Need something to occupy me while you work off that cute little butt of yours.’
‘OK, cool. They’re in the—’ I stopped. I’d been about to direct him to the keys in my bag in the adjoining kitchen but, recalling the incident of the towel in the laundry, I thought it might be advisable to observe some boundaries. ‘Hang on.’
I went to retrieve the keys and then placed them on the bar. Sol scooped them up as he stood and slotted his beer bottle in his jacket pocket.
‘Do me a favour, cowboy,’ I said, unable to contain my smile.
He raised his brows, ready to oblige.
‘Don’t change.’
He frowned, perplexed, his amusement fading. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Out of the suit.’
He laughed and wiggled his tie. ‘You approve?’
‘Damn right, I do. And I’m itching to know what the occasion is.’
He grinned then tossed and caught the bunch of keys. ‘Got me a swish new job, Cha Cha! Things are on the up.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Start next week. Back to the whizzy world of IT. Data analysis, doing what I do best. Working for a mobile phone company but then you can’t have everything.’
I smiled and smiled, and though I acted excited and intrigued, all I could think was: I knew it; it’s over between us; he has no reason to stay here now; I’ve lost him. There are no swish jobs in Saltbourne. Our feelings for each other are no longer convenient.
‘So are you going to be rich on your own merit?’ I asked.
Before he could reply, a brash young woman from the birthday group approached, wanting to know how much the snacks cost. Which snacks? I thought irritably.
‘Back in five,’ said Sol, whirling my apartment keys around his finger.
I worried about him snooping, poking around in corners where towels the colour of dead salmon were hidden. But he returned swiftly, still suited and booted, and sat at the corner of the bar. He draped his jacket over an empty bar stool, unfastened his cufflinks and briskly rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbow. His shirt was off-white and threaded with a faint caramel check. He looked damn good, and accustomed to the clothes he wore. He put on his stern, heavy-rimmed glasses and swigged from the bottle as he read, apparently unbothered by the music and chatter. More friends joined the birthday party and we didn’t get chance to talk properly until a while after Bruno had arrived for his shift.
Sol removed his specs and folded them onto the counter. He leant across the bar and I tipped forwards so we could exchange a short kiss of greeting. ‘Wish we could go someplace and celebrate,’ he said. ‘I want to wine, dine and fuck you.’
Those simple words made my clit spark up. ‘So go on. Tell me everything.’
And he did as I listened, my arms resting on the lit, blue counter. He claimed he hadn’t wanted to jinx the interview by mentioning it to me. The work entailed travelling around the south-east initially and then he’d probably be doing more work from home. He didn’t need the money, he said. The inheritance from his grandmother would see him good for several more years. And if he invested wisely, longer than that. But he missed doing a job that gave him satisfaction, a sense of fulfilment and personal pride. He didn’t want to be a bum or a builder. He wanted to work. And on Sunday he was off to the Midlands to attend a week-long training programme. Training. More like trying to indoctrinate him in the company ethos. In at the deep end but they needed people urgently so he just had to suck it up.
As he talked, his thick paperback lay spread open on the bar, a bird poised to take flight, its wings patterned with gold.
I began to wonder when our last night together might be, and would I even know it was our last? Supposing it was now, tonight? What if he met someone in the Midlands and never returned?
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I’m just excited for you,’ I said.
‘Liar.’
‘Am I that obvious?’
‘Yes. What’s wrong?’
‘I am pleased for you,’ I said. ‘It’s just that … it means we’ll be seeing less of each other, doesn’t it?’
I saw him blench, I’m sure of it, a look of horror so brief my perception of it was practically subliminal. ‘Course not,’ he said, grinning. ‘Once next week’s over with, we’ll work something out.’
‘It’s happened so quickly,’ I said.
‘It’s a fast world out there, Cha Cha. You know what would help slow it down?’ He reached casually across from where he sat, elbow propped on the bar, and brazenly, firmly, ran his hand down the side of one breast. He didn’t even attempt to disguise his action.
I grinned, glancing around to ascertain if anyone had seen us. ‘You’ll get me sacked.’
‘Ah, I’m sure your boss will understand. I hear she’s a bit of a goer.’
‘Yeah, but she’s not too keen on me shagging the customers.’
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s quit this joint. I need to fuck your brains out.’ He stood and upturned his book, folding the corner of a page to mark his place. Then he slotted his specs in his shirt pocket.
‘Hey, hang on,’ I said. ‘I can’t just leave. We’re busy.’
‘Then phone the other one. Tweedledum. See if he can work. People love seeing double in a bar.’
He took his jacket from the nearby stool and slung it over one shoulder, finger crooked in the collar, book tucked in his armpit, waiting. His erection pushed at the fabric of his crotch. I adored how he was momentarily trying to take over managing the bar so we could fuck. Not that I’d let him. My bar. My business. I was the one in charge here. And yet I wanted what he wanted.
‘Ack. I dunno. I’m always doing this. It’s not fair to keep asking—’
‘Then close the goddamn bar, Lana. Or I will. Holy hell, I’ll turf them out on to the street with their drinks, and I’ll say, “I hope you don’t mind, folks, but this hot little piece of ass needs fucking.”’
He tossed his jacket onto the stool again, dropped his book on top of it, and reached across the bar for me. He grabbed my hair at the nape of my neck. My entire body was instantly his, my nerves zinging, my heart palpitating, my cunt swelling; and all because he’d immobilised me with such a swift, sexy action. To an observer, his gesture might have seemed vaguely affectionate but it was the opposite. It was hot, controlled and threatening. My scalp stung as he clenched his fist tighter, inching me closer to him. I smiled, loving the challenge. Sensation thickened the tissue of my cunt, pulses slamming. I slanted across the counter, trying to avoid the drip tray by my legs, and doing my damnedest not to wince as heat crawled across every millimetre of my skin. I gazed at his open collar, and the fat knot of his loosened tie. Wisps of chocolate-brown hair curled around the hollow of his throat. My face burned but still I smiled.
He dropped his voice to a low, slow whisper. ‘And this hot little piece of ass is going to do everything I say. Isn’t she?’
He tipped my head back, forcing me to look at him directly. We held the stance, silent for a moment. Between my thighs, arousal pounded in a liquid flood. I swallowed. ‘Yes. Yes she is, you bastard,’ I said. ‘I’ll phone Raf.’
He released his grip and stroked a finger along my jawline. ‘Good girl,’ he said tenderly.
I swear, my legs nearly gave out. I turned to see Bruno studiously tidying the jiggers, his face bright red, his body tense. When I asked about his brother’s availability, he acted surprised, as if I’d jolted him from a daydream.
‘Oh, yes! He might be free,’ he said eagerly. So I phoned Raf, wondering if they talked to each other about us. I was so horny I was prepared to pay them double-time but fortunately didn’t need to. Raf was happy with the extra hours.
‘So now we have to wait for him to show up?’ exclaimed Sol. ‘Jeez, Cha Cha. I could club a baby seal with this boner. Now what? How about I fuck you over that table in full view of everyone? Because I’m not sure my dick’s prepared to wait any longer. I’ve missed you. Did I tell you that?’
Undone Page 19
