by Annie Dyer
I sit in my seat, watching the audience as they assemble. It’s a circular stage, the set minimal and the place is casual; this isn’t where you come to be seen, this is where you come to see.
Ben slides besides me as the lights start to dim and a final announcement is made that the play is about to start. His legs are spread and he demands the space, so I angle myself to my right where the chair hasn’t been taken.
The theatre darkens. Music starts. I want to lose myself in the production, This Grave is Too Small for Me. My degree was in history and this is my favourite period: The First World War and what led to it.
The introduction is marred by the need for people to stand as a latecomer sits. I move my legs, facing forward rather than the twisted being I’d taken comfort in, as the man takes the seat next to me.
His scent is familiar. His profile one I know. I don’t see the actors on stage because my sight is filled with a memory of rain and the loch and his laughter.
I face forward, feigning concentration. Feeling a lock between us. I am rooted to my seat, frozen, pretending to watch the players on stage.
Ben is steel, unmoving, his whole body rigid. The lights occasionally flicker across his hair, lightening it, highlighting his face.
I don’t think he’s watching the play. In the time I knew Ben, he didn’t read. Instead, he watched the sky, the trees, the blades of grass as they moved with the breeze. Not the pages of a book.
I daren’t let my leg touch his; I’m scared of the bite that I’ll feel, so instead it tightens up, not wanting contact with either of them.
Isaac is the almost-stranger next to me, engrossed with what’s on stage. There’s no acknowledgement of my presence. Instead, there’s an assumption that I know who he is. That I remember us.
The play is lost and I barely breathe until the interval, eaten up in the distance between the two men who are or aren’t watching the production.
Lights turn on, the audience applauds. We stand and I function.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you.” Isaac looks at me and I try to make only the minimum eye contact required.
Ben is at my side, my back and I can feel his heat and impatience. He hates being trapped; when we were in the maze he knew every short cut his father had created. Here, he has no way out apart from to pass us and he won’t leave me.
He has his job.
“No, I’m just glad you got to see the play. I didn’t realise you were coming.” Because no one had thought to inform me.
He nods, smiles, his black hair curlier than usual. “I was in Manchester on business and I knew you were due to tour here. I contacted your office and they offered me a seat. I’m glad I made it.”
I know behind me Ben is now standing a foot taller and a metre wider. Isaac isn’t looking at him; too much of his focus is on me because he doesn’t want to see Ben.
“Shall we get a drink?”
It’s an out that works and we head to the section of the bar that’s been cordoned off for us, for me. When I was younger, I used to dream of fitting in, of being a ghost in the city who could filter through crowds without a stream of security or eyes analysing every thread I wore. Now I’ve come to accept that’s never going to happen, unless I’m wearing a mask and I’m in the bowels of some taboo club where everyone wears a secret identity.
No one can pass through to get to me, and this isn’t a place where this should happen, but I’m in enemy territory and we know that terrorists don’t wear signs on their foreheads stating their intention. Everything is for my own safety.
The two men walking with me do not make me feel safe.
“I’d offer to get you a drink, but I’m pretty sure that every possible concoction’s been ordered in for you.” Isaac smiles, gestures to the bar.
It will have been. Even though they will have been given the usual list of things I like to drink: tap water, pineapple juice, chardonnay that can be bought from a supermarket, prosecco… They will still have brought in champagne and cocktails that have been designed for the occasion.
“Probably.” There’s no point denying it.
We’re served, Ben shaking his head and taking a bottle of water. Isaac asks for a bottle of beer and I opt for the chardonnay. Our other guests swarm round, asking how I like the performance so far and the theatre. I know what to say, how to compliment without it being too much, what to mention about the actors we saw this afternoon so they might get more funding, and to compliment the city which is one I love anyway.
Ben stands at the edge, watching. There’s no question about who he is. My minder. My security.
Protector.
But he’s not watching me.
He’s watching Isaac and I don’t know why.
“William wasn’t able to attend tonight.”
I overhear Isaac. He’s talking to the mayor for the city, a woman who is effervescent and attractive, containing more charisma in her little finger than most of the male politicians in this room. Except Isaac.
“Why’s that?”
“A few issues with his family. Nothing serious. He’ll be okay.”
She nods. “We’re only human. Or at least I am after coffee.”
That makes me smile. I head over to them, the bell ringing for the second part to begin.
“After coffee and not before eight in my case.”
She smiles at me. “Your Highness.” There’s a slight bow, just enough to acknowledge my rank without it being obvious.
I blush. Or maybe it’s the chardonnay. “It’s Melonie, isn’t it?”
“Thank god you didn’t use my title. I save Worshipful for when there’s alcohol.”
“So please don’t use mine. It’s for Sunday use only.”
“Blair then.” She offers me her hand.
I look at it and recognise a ring on her finger, silver and thick, patterned intricately. Unique.
The last time I saw her hand, it was wrapped around the cock of a man who was demanding his punishment and asking to kiss her feet. Melonie has been to one of the same clubs as me.
I don’t smile and my face slips on its mask of regal purity. Micky would be proud. “I love your city.”
“Thank you. It’s pretty special. I love your country.”
She’s a sympathiser, one of those who wants us to re forge the ties between our two countries. I know this from my research and her tone.
“You should come visit. See our theatres and cities.” And clubs.
Ben is by my side, dwarfing me and everyone else. “Can I escort you ladies to your seats? Show’s about to start.”
Melonie eyes him appreciatively, subtly. “That would be kind.”
I get the feeling that she’d rather be enjoying something else.
We sit back down and this time I don’t try to restrain myself to the space Ben and Isaac allow me. I claim it, letting my knees fall where they wish and stretching my legs out. I’m bookended by their heat, their musky smells of cologne, a million darts of chemicals and something more.
The play is good. The direction thoughtful and creative, and the actors would normally captivate me, but I can’t concentrate. I keep seeing Ben naked in the showers, wondering what his body would feel like under my hands, what his cock would taste like in my mouth now. When we were younger, he wasn’t gentle. He tried – the first time he fingered me, when I told him no one had done that before, he was almost scared, but after that he realised I wasn’t made of material that would break easily. I feel my nipples harden and the warmth between my legs grow. It’s been months since Cuba, since I’d had a man inside me or even kiss me.
Isaac’s leg brushes mine and the awareness I’ve been trying to ignore suffocates me. His swarthy skin and dark hair and permanent stubble reminds me of a pirate and I sense beneath his poised elegance and political charm, there’s something dangerous.
And Ben doesn’t trust him.
The play ends and we stand to applaud, the audience appreciative. There are drinks and a recepti
on straight after, with the actors attending also and I need to keep my smile fixed and my words polite even though I want to go back to my anonymised hotel room and hide in sleep.
“I enjoyed that more than I thought I would.” Isaac’s words are candid. He looks at Ben. “How about you? Was that your thing?”
Ben doesn’t stiffen, not like I thought he would, because I know that theatre and anything that involves being cooped up in a building tests Ben’s patience.
Isaac’s words aren’t loaded. There’s no dig, no assumption that because he’s my security, he isn’t intelligent.
“I have other preferred ways of spending an evening, but that was better than I predicted. And Blair’s enjoyed it.” He glances at me, almost smiling.
“That’s the whole point, I suppose.” Isaac nods at me. “I saw the same play in London last year; this was a better production though.”
It’s a generous comment. He’s a southerner, a Londoner by career, yet he’s praising the north. I don’t hear an agenda.
“There are lots of good things above London.” Ben’s words are telling. A dig. He seems to have grown again now we’re standing, although Isaac competes with him in height. “You shouldn’t be surprised.”
“I’m not. I think I’m past the point where I am surprised by anything now, let alone that other good cities and towns exist.”
We head up a set of stairs to a room that is traditionally English with panelled walls and brown leather winged chairs. There’s an open fire that’s not lit and a table laid out with canapes and treats.
I’m not hungry, but the second glass of wine suggests I need something to line my stomach.
“Tell me about yourself, Mr Everleigh.” Ben’s words are surprising. “You’re the prime minister’s advisor, that’s correct?”
“I’m sure you’ve done your research already.” Isaac’s eyes show amusement. “But yes. That’s my role. I’m not a politician. Just an advisor.”
“But you’re going to be a candidate in the next by-election in three months?”
I did know this. Lennox had mentioned it briefly.
“That’s the plan. But let’s not talk work. Let’s pretend we’ve just seen a good play and that’s all this evening’s about.”
I think that was the first time any of us hinted at lying.
I worked the room, leaving Ben and Isaac to talk, accepting the nibbles and profiteroles, just enough to look polite and discard any talk of me having an eating disorder which was what was usually speculated if I didn’t eat something in public. I spoke again to Melonie and the director, to the man who played Gavrilo Princip, the leader of the Black Hand Gang that had been responsible for the assassination of Franz Ferdinand and to the costume designer who was sweet and tiny and couldn’t keep her eyes off Ben.
The night swims in the thick summer air and the city hums with energy. We slip out of the stage door into a limo with blacked out windows and head to the hotel, Isaac in conversation with a tall woman with dark hair and I wonder whether he will take her back to wherever he’s staying.
I didn’t want him to.
The thought bothered me more than it should. As much as Ben’s silence.
“If you’re planning on staying on as my security long term, we really need to start to communicate with more than just grunts and looks.” I fixed my eyes on his face to see if I could read his reaction if he didn’t speak.
“I’m your security, Blair, not your friend.”
I managed to keep the pain from my eyes. His words stabbed.
“It’s easier if you can at least try to be my friend. Then I trust you more.” Like Micky. Micky knew me; he could predict the risks I’d want to take, so when I made them, I was safe.
“Maybe you shouldn’t trust me.”
“I’ve never trusted anyone more than you.” It was true. He’d never betrayed any secret, told anyone. Up until the end he was as constant as the tide, even in a storm.
Ben shakes his head and looks out of the window. “There’s been a dinner planned for tomorrow. With the Prime Minister.”
“That’s sudden.”
He nods, just once. “He should’ve been there tonight but cancelled a couple of days ago – Franklyn didn’t tell you?”
I shake my head. “It must’ve slipped his mind.” Mainly because he knew I wasn’t fond of Goldsmith.
“Fair enough. Goldsmith sent Isaac instead. The dinner will be in your suite at the hotel, then we’ll head home immediately after.”
“Any idea of what his agenda is? If he was meant to be here tonight and has rearranged for a dinner instead, I’d guess there’s something he’s wanting to talk about?” I have an inkling that this is more about the Prime Minister trying to get into my good graces.
“There doesn’t seem to be much behind it, other than he wants to make links. With you.”
“William does?” There’s a bleed of disappointment seeping into my veins, because I wanted it to be Isaac. He’s chocolate brown and dark navy blues. I close my eyes, remembering his smell, the feel of his leg against mine and his energy. He bubbled and he was trying continually to keep it simmering. What would make him explode?
“William does. You know he’s single?”
“You think that’s the angle?”
“He made a comment about you in the media.”
I don’t ask what. I don’t want to know. “My brother…”
“Is keen for you to meet him.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Then don’t.” He turns to me, eyes full of cold steel. “No one fucking tells you what to do, Blair.”
In my room I brush my hair and strip my face of the make-up. The shower is hot and fierce, the pressure perfect, almost brutal against my breasts and nipples. I close my eyes and let the water soak me, caress me, its touch craved for. Ben is next door, a door from his room leading into mine. It isn’t locked. I imagine him entering, coming in to check everything’s okay and finding me in the shower, the steam thick and hot, my body curvier than when he last touched me. I imagine his eyes on my breasts, looking at their roundness, my nipples hardening for him. I spread my legs, thinking of him looking there, where I’m now waxed clean and on view for him. I pinch my nipples, thinking of him watching, push my tits together, an invitation for him to touch, suck. My hand drops between my legs and I feel my own wetness there. The rhythm of my fingers is practised; I don’t have to think about the act. Within a few seconds I’m coming, thinking about Ben fucking me, holding me against the shower wall while he pounds into my cunt and makes me orgasm on his cock while he ejaculates inside me. My moan is loud and low and I wonder if he can hear it.
I hope he can. I hope he knows what I was thinking.
I don’t see Ben until late afternoon when I’m back at the hotel and getting ready for my dinner with the Prime Minister. This isn’t an official engagement, it was never on the itinerary and there have been no press releases about it. It’s a secret, or so it seems.
I wear trousers and a blue top that reminds me of Isaac, my shoulders and back exposed, the trousers tapering just above my ankles and my heels are high because I’ll be able to kick them off when I want.
“We’re due to leave at ten pm.” Ben walks into my suite without knocking.
“If I’d have been naked would you have still said the same thing?”
He doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Yes. But I couldn’t promise that my eyes wouldn’t be on your tits.”
There’s no one else here. We’re alone.
“Did they teach you how to speak to me on your training?”
He doesn’t reduce the scowl on his face. “Micky told me to treat you like you were any woman; that you don’t like pomp and ceremony.”
“Micky never talked about my tits.”
“Micky had never seen your tits.”
I tip my head to one side, smelling victory. “Micky saw them plenty of times.”
“I didn’t think you were his type.
”
“I’m not.” But his type was at the places where I liked to watch. Didn’t mean I never participated.
I see darkness creep across him, maybe realisation.
“He kept me safe, Ben. Always.”
“You’re here, so I know he did.” There’s no judgement in his tone, no sarcasm.
“Don’t you want to know any more?” I head towards him, mainly because he’s near where I’ve left my phone and I’ve heard it vibrate.
“No. I’ve killed enough people.”
And that tells me everything I need to know right now. I stretch my arm out to take my phone and he takes hold of it, his grip firm, then he runs his fingers over my skin. It’s the first purposeful contact we’ve had for decades and the effect is richer than it was back then.
My phone rings and I know it’s Lennox. There’s an undercurrent to this dinner with William Goldsmith and I’m not sure what is actually being served – food or me.
“I need to take this.”
Ben moves his hand away, but doesn’t give me any space as I answer. He seems even larger standing here, watching.
“Lennox.” I don’t offer a greeting.
“Tonight – your dinner with Goldsmith.”
I know he has a list of instructions.
“I’m not talking politics. I’m not discussing anything personal. I’m not doing this again.”
My brother sighs, just like he used to when I was a kid and refused to play the game he wanted. Usually because I’d get hurt or left behind.
“He likes you. We could really do with…”
“I’m not a whore for you to pimp out, Len.” I know he doesn’t mean this. He hasn’t thought it through, too blinded by his vision. I wonder if our father knows I’m seeing William Goldsmith for dinner tonight.
“That’s not what this is. You know that’s not what I mean. Just be approachable. Friendly. Do you know why he couldn’t make the theatre last night?” Lennox is starting to calm now, going into organiser mode.
“A family issue.”
“His sister was admitted to hospital. Her husband put her there.”