‘My intentions were to get you to sleep with me.’
Whatever I’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that. I must have looked shocked, my cheeks flushing.
He laughed at my discomfort. ‘You can’t have been surprised. Not in the line of work you do. I mean, your other work, of course.’
‘If that’s the end of the meeting,’ I said, ‘I’d really like to go and finish off what I was working on.’
‘You’re a very hard worker, Genevieve.’
‘You know you shouldn’t be saying this. How do you know I’m not taping this conversation?’
‘Because you’re not as clever as you think you are.’
I was getting angry now. I wondered if he realised that he had found the right button to push to get a reaction. ‘You’re a shit, you know that?’
‘Yes, probably. So, are you going to do it?’
‘Do what? Fuck you? In your dreams.’
‘Not that. Are you going to drop your complaint against me?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Why should I? If anything you’re just giving me more to report.’
‘I think you should drop your complaint before everyone else finds out what you do on the side.’
‘You know what? Tell them. I really don’t give a stuff. In fact, I might well tell them myself. I might just invite them all to the club as my guests and see what they think. Shall I do that? I could invite everybody – except you.’
I stood up abruptly, the chair rocking behind me, and left the room, slamming the door behind me.
We’d finished the first bottle of wine and were a quarter of the way through the vodka before he kissed me again. We were on the sofa together, laughing about something that wasn’t even funny, and somehow I collapsed against him and mumbled, ‘Sorry,’ as he took my face in both his hands, as though he might miss otherwise, and that made me laugh too, and then I couldn’t say anything because his mouth was on mine.
While he was kissing me I climbed on to his lap and sat astride him so I could control this, even though I was so drunk I was having trouble balancing. He held me steady, his hands on my waist.
At last I stopped to give him a chance to breathe.
‘I seem to remember saying this couldn’t happen,’ he said.
‘Well, I’m not very good at following instructions.’
‘Even more so because we’re both drunk.’
‘You’ve never had drunken sex before?’
‘Of course I have. Is that what’s happening, then?’
‘What?’
‘Drunken sex.’
‘Well, maybe we’ll sober up eventually. Then we can have sober sex too.’
It was dark in my bedroom, and chilly: the heat from the woodburner had warmed the saloon and the alcohol had warmed us from the inside, but going into the cold room I found myself shivering. I undressed as quickly as I could and got under the clean duvet. Carling took longer to get undressed, folding his clothes and leaving them in a neat pile on the chair on to which I’d already thrown my clothes with far less care. He was thinking about it too much, and maybe I wasn’t thinking about it enough.
He had a good body. Even in my drunken state I could tell: he was warm and solid and had kept himself fit, athletic rather than muscular, long-limbed, taut. He climbed in bed with me and immediately pulled me against him. The skylight over our heads bugged me. I still remembered the shock of seeing that face, framed against the dark sky. Was that only last night? It felt like a long, long time ago.
It was drunken sex, but it was still good. Tangled in the darkness, unfamiliar bodies reacting in unfamiliar ways; breathing hard, and sweaty limbs against each other in a sort of desperate dance to which neither of us were certain of the correct steps. The conclusion of it was something of a relief for both of us. He fell asleep straight away, not snoring but breathing heavily, his body firmly between me and the door of the bedroom. If they came for me tonight, they would have to get past him first. Even if it took a lot to wake him from his drunken sleep.
I liked him, that was true. Was it enough? Was it wrong of me to have fucked him when my feelings for him amounted to less than for most of the people who lived on the marina? God, I was even fonder of Malcolm than I was of Carling – but I wouldn’t have fucked Malcolm if he was the last man alive.
I thought about Dylan, wherever he was. What he would say if he knew what I’d just done. I could almost picture myself saying it. Him standing there in front of me with his arms folded across his massive chest.
I fucked that policeman.
He would raise one eyebrow at me as if to say, So? And he would pull that face that implied he had somehow expected better.
I was still angry hours later, when I finally got to the Barclay.
The club was busy, packed out: more than one stag group by the look of it as I wove my way through the throng of people towards the dressing rooms. I saw no sign of Fitz but that meant nothing; it was early. Maybe he’d show up later.
Dylan was talking to Nicks, by the largest stage. They seemed to be deep in conversation, but Dylan looked up as I passed, gave me a nod.
I got changed for my first dance and did some stretches to warm up. Not for the first time, I wished I could choose my own music. I needed something fast, brutal. Something to work off the aggression a little bit, so that I could calm down for my routines later in the evening. When I got on to the stage for my first dance, fortunately it was ‘Sexy Bitch’ by David Guetta and Akon. That would do the trick. Not exactly girl power, but I would embed my stilettos into the crotch of any man who felt like challenging me about my attitude tonight.
Fifteen minutes later, and my first routine was over. I’d put effort into it, done some high twirls and spins and an upside-down split against the pole that I’d only tried a couple of times before. It looked inelegant if it wasn’t done properly. The last time I’d tried it had been at Fitz’s party.
I watched the faces of the men gathered around the stage when I finished and I knew I’d done a good job.
In the dressing room I drank water and dabbed the sweat off my skin with a towel. A proper workout to start off with. I scarcely noticed Dylan until I’d finished, and only then because Chanelle called out, ‘Dylan! You’re perving over Viva – stop it.’
He wasn’t perving, of course; he was standing in the doorway like a brick wall, his face impassive. When he’d finally got my attention, he said, ‘Fitz wants to see you.’
I checked the clock over the dressing table. I didn’t want to waste time; I could be out there in the club, earning money.
Dylan walked up the stairs to the offices and I hurried after him, tottering on ridiculous heels. ‘What’s it about, do you know?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ he said.
I was half-expecting to see several blokes gathered in the office as usual, but today Fitz was alone. Despite the warmth I’d generated by dancing, I felt a shiver. I wondered what it meant, that he was on his own, and if I had any cause to be afraid.
‘Viva. Can I get you anything?’
I wasn’t really thirsty but I needed a reason for Dylan to come back. ‘Water, please.’
Dylan was dismissed from the room with a nod from Fitz. He crossed the room and shut the door.
I smiled at him.
‘Have a seat, my dear,’ he said, indicating the sofa.
I did as I was told. No wonder I was shivering. The window was open behind me, the heavy curtain moving gently as the breeze stirred it. I could hear the noise of the traffic in the street below.
‘So,’ he said at last, ‘you enjoyed the party the other week?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was a good night.’
‘Fancy doing it again?’
‘Sure.’
‘Next weekend?’
Was that it? He could have asked at closing time, or sent a message through Dylan.
He was standing in front of me, his legs slightly apart, hands thrust into the pockets of his expensive silk su
it. There was a knock at the door and a few seconds later Dylan opened it. He brought a tray with water on it, exactly as he had done last time. Ice and a slice of lemon on a silver dish. He set it down on the table next to the sofa and left the room again without a word, or a look at Fitz, or at me. He shut the door behind him.
Fitz cast a glance behind him at the door and turned back to me, head cocked to one side as though he were considering something. ‘He likes you,’ he remarked.
‘Could have fooled me,’ I said. ‘He never so much as gives me a second glance.’
‘You had a nice long chat with him last weekend,’ he said. ‘What was that all about?’
‘He was asking me for advice on some girl he fancies,’ I said, without missing a beat. Whatever I’d said would have been a lie and I was sure he would have seen straight through it, but I wasn’t about to drop Dylan in the shit.
To my profound relief, Fitz laughed. ‘Sly old dog,’ he said. ‘I still think it’s you he likes. Maybe it was some kind of double-bluff.’
I laughed too, and Fitz went to his drinks tray. He poured himself something that could have been whisky, a tumblerful.
He came and sat next to me on the sofa. Next to me, but a respectful distance between us. ‘See,’ he said, ‘I have a problem with that.’
‘With what?’ I said, feeling uncomfortable again.
‘With him liking you.’
‘Why’s that?’
Fitz drank from his glass, downed the whole tumblerful as I watched, one gulp after another. Then he sighed heavily and put the glass down on the table, reaching across me as he did so. ‘Because, my dear Viva, I like you too. And that big bastard is better-looking than me.’
I smiled at him. ‘You like me, Fitz?’
He was watching me coyly from his end of the sofa. ‘Come on. You know I do.’
I drank my water to give myself a few seconds to consider how to play this. ‘I didn’t think you had any free time for girls,’ I said at last. ‘You’re a very busy man.’
He looked at me steadily, as though he was evaluating my response. ‘You’re different from the others,’ he said. ‘That’s why I like you. You’re not going to piss me about, are you, Genevieve?’
‘Depends what you mean by that,’ I said. ‘I work for you and I’m very proud of what I do. If you want to fit me in around my dancing, then that’s fine. But I don’t want to stop dancing, Fitz. And if anything happens between us, then I don’t want that to interfere with work. Do you understand what I mean?’
‘You mean you wouldn’t mind a fuck every now and then, but you don’t want a relationship?’
‘To put it crudely, I guess that’s probably about right.’
He nodded slowly, as though I’d given the right answer.
‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘You are different from the others. You really are.’
‘I need to go,’ I said. ‘They’re busy downstairs.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t want to come between you and your dancing.’
He stood and held out a hand to help me to my feet.
At the door he kissed my hand gently. ‘I don’t do casual fucks, Genevieve,’ he said. ‘If I can’t have your heart I’ll have to make do with having you as a valued employee.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
I half-walked, half-ran back down to the dressing room, feeling a little as though I’d been in the lion’s den and come out again without so much as a scratch. Could that have gone any better? Only if I’d managed to renegotiate my payment for the next private function – the question of my remuneration had somehow failed to come up in the light of the other revelations.
Dylan was waiting for me outside the dressing room and he walked back with me to the door to the club. ‘Well?’ he said.
I smiled at him. ‘He thinks you fancy me,’ I said.
Dylan laughed, and I went off to find some nice gentlemen to chat to.
I woke up and my head was splitting with pain even before I opened my eyes.
I was alone – Carling was gone. My head fell back on to the pillow and that hurt, too, the bump on the side of my head jarring with the impact.
I needed water.
I dragged myself upright and found a T-shirt on the floor, pulling it over my head as I went next door to the bathroom. I drank from the tap, ran my hand under it and over my hair, holding a cupped hand of cold water against the bump on the side of my head.
I washed my face and finally looked in the mirror. I’d looked worse, I thought. It would have to do.
It was cold, so I went back into the bedroom and pulled on some jeans and socks. Then I went through to the kitchen.
He hadn’t left, after all. He was at the table in the dinette flicking through a copy of Waterways World that he must have found on the bookshelf, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He was sitting in a shaft of sunlight from the skylight overhead, almost as though he was about to be transfigured. He looked a hell of a lot better than I did.
‘Morning,’ he said cheerfully.
I cleared my throat. ‘Hello,’ I said.
He put the kettle back on the stove while I sat down on the other side of the dinette. I thought about the painkillers in the drawer, and wondered if I could be bothered to stand up again to get them.
‘You look as if you need to go back to bed,’ he said with a laugh.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll be alright in a minute.’
‘Oh,’ he said, pouring the water into the mug, ‘I just met your neighbour. Again. I think he was quite surprised to see me.’
‘Which one?’
‘I remember seeing him last weekend. Fiftyish. Mad grey hair.’
‘Malcolm? What did he say?’
‘He just said, “Oh,” and I said you’d be around later if he wanted you. And he said, “Thanks,” and then he went away again.’
We sat sipping our coffee for a few minutes. I wondered why he was still here, torn between liking the feeling of not getting up to a lonely, empty boat and not enjoying the thought of having to make conversation. Although I liked that he stopped reading now that I was here.
‘I’m glad you stayed,’ I said.
He looked surprised, and pleased. ‘Oh, good. I was hoping I hadn’t outstayed my welcome.’
‘Don’t you have to work today?’
‘I’ve got a rest day today, and tomorrow. I was going to head off and do all the stuff I don’t get a chance to do during the week, you know, shopping, laundry, all kinds of exciting stuff. How about you? What do you have planned?’
‘I was going to go and look at baths,’ I said.
‘You mean like in a DIY shop?’
‘Not unless I have to. Reclamation yards, that sort of place. If I can’t find an old bath I like I’ll have to go for a new one. Most of them aren’t really designed for boats, though.’
A pause. I wondered if he was hungry, and if I actually had any food in the house that hadn’t gone off.
‘I wanted to ask you something,’ he said.
‘That sounds ominous.’
‘I’m going to ask once, and if you don’t want to give me an answer you don’t have to. Alright?’
‘Sure.’
‘What happened to your wrists?’
I looked down at my hands on the table of the dinette. I hadn’t even thought about it, stupid cow. I hadn’t even thought to put a jumper on, to cover up the marks. Thin scabs had formed in arcs around both wrists, not all the way round but in those sections where the skin had been broken by the cable tie. It looked almost as though I was wearing bracelets, threads of pink.
‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Try me.’
I shrugged, still a bit drunk, and too tired to argue or fight it. ‘Some men broke into the boat when I was asleep. They tied me up. That’s about it.’
‘When was this?’
‘Night before last.’
‘Didn’t you ring the police?’
He was staring at me.
‘What?’
‘I can’t believe you’re so casual about being attacked.’
‘What am I supposed to do – lie down and cry? I’ve got to get on with it.’
‘Aren’t you afraid they’ll come back?’
‘Of course I am,’ I said. ‘But what can I do about it?’
‘Genevieve. You can’t not report things like this. If anything happens again, you’ve got to promise me you’ll dial 999.’
‘Sure,’ I said, feeling a bit chilled that he’d suddenly come over all official.
He rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this.’
‘I’m not keeping you prisoner,’ I said, turning my back on him and heading for the bedroom. ‘Shut the door on your way out.’
I stretched out on my bed again, listening for the sound of his feet on the steps up to the wheelhouse, waiting for the sound of the door slamming behind him, and hearing only silence. At least the room wasn’t spinning any more. There was just a hint of nausea, and the headache grinding behind my eyes. If I could catch up on some sleep, everything would be fine. An hour or so of sleep, and then I would go out in the fresh air, get on my bike and go and look at baths.
He appeared in the doorway a few moments later. I turned my head to look at him, thinking that I should apologise, maybe; thinking that I should get up, or at least say something. Instead I watched as he came back into the room, pulling his shirt over his head as he approached the bed. This time he didn’t bother folding up his clothes, putting them in a neat pile. He got them off as quickly as he possibly could and left them where they fell.
I bumped into Caddy on the way back down the stairs. ‘What did he want?’ she asked, an urgent whisper above the thumping bass from the main room.
‘Another party,’ I said.
She looked miserable.
‘I thought you didn’t want to do them?’ I said.
Revenge of the Tide Page 18
