by Adele Parks
‘On my own,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m a bit sticky from the car journey.’
They both knew that normally he liked to be sticky with her but Kirsten decided not to push the point. She allowed him to shower alone while she turned her attention to the room. She drew the curtains on the evening rain and dimmed the lighting. She fished about in her bag until she unearthed the massage oil that she’d brought with her and she placed it on the bedside table, within convenient reach. She stripped down to her underwear and then carefully positioned herself on the bed. The pose she struck was a little artificial and uncomfortable. She wanted to pretend she was reading, so she lay on her stomach but it was hard to keep her arse raised at the exact angle so that when Jules emerged from the bathroom the first thing he’d notice would be her two peachy cheeks and a slight hint of lacy gusset. Then, as he was significantly longer than expected in the shower, her right thigh became numb. She got up and walked round the room but there was nothing new to look at and tedium started to run through her veins. She touched up her already perfect make-up, finished off the champers, reapplied her lip gloss again and then ordered a second bottle. She got the room service guy to take away the empty one so that Jules wouldn’t know she’d knocked it back, at least not until it came to paying the bill. Frustratingly, even after the effort she’d put into getting everything right, Jules appeared from the bathroom just as she was rooting through his jacket pockets.
‘What are you doing?’ He looked miffed.
‘Erm, I was just looking for a label. I was wondering who’d made it. I was thinking of buying you a treat and wanted to know which designers you like,’ she replied without pausing for breath. Obviously, this was a total lie but she was quick like that. She’d been scrabbling about for items undefined. She’d flicked through his wallet countless times so she knew which credit cards he had, she’d seen his picture of the boys and sometimes, if he was carrying loads of cash, she helped herself to a twenty (today there was only a single tenner, which was no use at all). She’d been poking about in his pockets hoping to find something – anything – interesting. She didn’t know exactly what. A new photo, a notebook, a condom? His pockets were empty. Jules took the jacket from her and flung it over the back of a chair. Kirsten pouted, not like a sex siren but like a seven year old. She felt scolded and exposed and she didn’t like it.
‘I don’t want you spending your money on me,’ he said flatly.
No worries, not much danger of that, thought Kirsten sulkily. She couldn’t remember when she last bought a present for someone else although she did like to buy herself little gifts from time to time, just to cheer herself up or reward herself if she’d done something really good, like stick to her diet for the entire day. Kirsten sighed. This evening was not panning out as she’d expected. Yes, the room was just as lavish and trendy and big as it had ever been but something had changed. Kirsten couldn’t enjoy her reflection from the heavy gilt mirrors or the feel of the silky, luxurious bed throws quite as much as she usually did. Suddenly the beautiful room, so solid and – well – rich, had an angsty, really negative vibe to it. The room and everything in it seemed a bit intimidating and unreal, including her relationship with Julian. Kirsten felt huge waves of panic swish around her body. Fuck it. Fuck it. She hated it when she wasn’t in control of stuff. She liked to call the shots. She liked to be the one making people drop to their knees. This was all fucking wrong! Jules had a white towel wrapped around his waist and normally he strode around their room naked. On some level Kirsten understood that the white towel was like some sort of yellow warning card. She didn’t like it.
‘Come and lie down. You seem really tense, babe. How about I give you a really long massage? Hey?’ Kirsten flashed her best smile.
‘No, I’m fine. We need to—’
‘I’ll start with your shoulders, then work down to your back, your buttocks and then—’
‘If you want. OK.’ Kirsten couldn’t help but notice that Jules’s manner was akin to a man being led to a torture chamber, not one being offered a handjob. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with her?
He lay face down and she straddled him, careful not to put any of her weight on to him. Even though she only weighed eight stone one (seven stone nine, if anyone asked) and he probably weighed about thirteen stone, she didn’t want to squash him. She deliberately brushed her lacy panties against him, though. She massaged him for ages and ages, her thumbs had begun to hurt with the effort of working out the tense knots. She didn’t get it, normally if she was straddled across him, in her scanties, she only had to be working the oil for five minutes – tops – before he flipped her over and they started shagging. After shagging they’d go for a treatment in the spa and/or dinner. If he didn’t get on with it, there wouldn’t be time for either one, let alone both. That wouldn’t be fair. She wasn’t operating a charity here! She expected something back for all her effort. Besides, she was starving. She hadn’t had time to eat at lunch because of her hair appointment, fat lot of good that had been. Jules hadn’t even noticed her new and wanton style.
What was that sound? Kirsten became still so she could listen properly. The combination of no food and quickly glugging the champagne meant she wasn’t as sharp as usual. Was it the air conditioning or the wind blowing against the windows? No, it was Julian. That was more like it. Kirsten grinned as she registered his groans of pleasure. Now things could get moving at last. She clamped her thighs a fraction tighter and waited for him to respond. But he didn’t respond. The groans continued at exactly the same pitch and rate, they were not deeper or longer. It took her a moment but then suddenly she understood. Julian was not moaning in ecstasy. Julian was snoring.
21
It had started to rain again. April showers, a little earlier than due. This shower was the most ferocious of the day and neither Steph nor Subhash was carrying an umbrella. As they ran from the café towards her car, spiky raindrops fell down his collar and caused her hair to frizz into an unflattering nest. She fingered the ends shyly. He didn’t care. He hardly noticed that sort of thing. To him she was a presence, not a tangle of details. She allowed him to hold her hand as they dashed through the wet streets. They had once or twice held hands before, that much she had permitted, although never more than that. This time it seemed she really was going to allow more. Allow it all? Everything? Would she be his? He hardly dared believe it.
He was thinking about where to take her. Not his house. Paadini was in Mumbai, so theoretically the coast was clear but it wouldn’t be right. He could not take Stephanie to be amongst his family photos, he couldn’t take her between his matrimonial sheets. Not that he and his wife had had sex for nearly three years now. It wasn’t that sort of marriage anymore. Subhash didn’t really mind. There were many sexless marriages all over the world, he knew he wasn’t alone in this and such things could work. It had worked, until he met Stephanie.
He scrabbled around his head for alternative places they could go to be together. An in-town hotel was far too risky. Someone who knew either one of them might spot them coming or going. They would draw attention. Even nowadays, when such things shouldn’t justify a second glance, they did, and a mixed-race couple was always noticed. He wouldn’t want to take that gamble. If it was up to him, he would be comfortable taking out an advert in the local newspaper declaring how he felt about her but he knew she would not think this was the time to announce their love to the world. Or even if it was, being spotted sneaking into a B&B was not how the announcement should be made. He was sincere when he said he’d leave his wife for her. Men sometimes said such things to seduce a woman. Subhash said it because he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Steph. He’d been the happiest man in the world when she called this evening. And one of the most surprised.
Damn, he wished he’d had more notice, he’d have liked to have had time to consider the details and make everything perfect for her. That’s what she deserved, perfection.
They could drive to
Highview Hotel. It was beautiful there. A stately home set in elegant groomed grounds, not more than a few miles out of town. It was secluded and elegant, just the sort of place he thought she deserved, the sort of place he’d imagined making love to her. It was a nuisance that it was raining, in the rain it might take half an hour to wind through the country lanes and he didn’t want to waste a moment. Part of him was worried that by the time they got there she might have changed her mind, again, like that time last summer when he’d tried to persuade her to meet him there for lunch. He’d planned on booking a room as well as a table because, yes, he’d hoped for afternoon delights, after all he was only human, but she only ate one course, wouldn’t even stay for pudding. At first, he’d thought she didn’t like the restaurant but it was only weeks later that she admitted that she’d celebrated her previous wedding anniversary at Highview. Of course she was going to be squeamish about his hints that they might take coffee in his room.
Would that anniversary dinner stand in the way now? Things were different now but still in flux. He knew she wasn’t yet firmly committed to him. She belonged elsewhere but it appeared she was his for the moment. It was enough, he’d take it. He’d take whatever she offered him and cling on to it.
She was parked behind the town library in the doctor’s car park. No one used that space at this time of the night. As soon as it was permissible to park on single yellow lines, people preferred to settle directly outside the off-licence or under a street lamp in the high street. The car park was dark and gloomy. There was a solid line of trees and bushes that were lush with fleshy leaves which acted as a curtain against the light. The tarmac – framed by nettle patches and a cracked path leading to and from the high street – was strewn with dented drink cans and litter.
They paused beside her car, hesitant in the pelting rain. He didn’t know whether she wanted him to take control and drive them somewhere, or ought he to get in the passenger seat? Maybe she had worked out where they could go. Maybe she’d thought through the details and consequences of the offence that they were about to commit, the transgression that he could only regard as a celebration. He studied her. She was clearly nervous and agitated, he could tell by the way she continually played with the strap of her shoulder bag, but her mouth was set with a new determination that he hadn’t come across before. Oh God, he wanted to kiss that mouth. He’d waited so long.
‘Shall I drive?’ he asked.
She glanced from left to right, recognising that the dusky evening was fading into a much more solid black now, soon they would disappear behind the night’s shroud. ‘No. I will.’
‘Are you sure you’re not too upset to drive?’
‘I’m OK. Get in.’
He did as she asked him. It was good to be out of the rain and a moment’s calm shrouded them. Subhash watched a raindrop slide down Stephanie’s nose and splash on to her lap. From the clean smell it was clear that it was a new car, luxurious and roomy with grey leather seats and a shiny walnut finish on the doors and dashboard, a car for the plush and wealthy.
‘Where shall we go?’ she asked.
‘Highview?’ he suggested because he hadn’t come up with anything better.
Stephanie flinched, then nodded her head – just once, a brittle movement – and then she started up the engine.
22
A sleep! Asleep! Kirsten couldn’t fucking believe it. Her first instinct was to punch him in the back. That would wake him up. The cheek of him. The fucking cheek of him. She’d never had a man fall asleep on her before. It was unbelievable.
Blow him! Well, not literally. Not now! Not a chance. What she meant was sod him, just because he wanted a nap didn’t mean she had to miss out. She was incredibly hungry but she could go to the restaurant or order room service anytime, what she needed now was something to calm her down. Tequila? Maybe not. She didn’t fancy drinking alone in the bar and, truthfully, experience had shown that tequilas didn’t exactly calm her down, more likely she’d end up dancing on the tables. Then the answer came to her. She could go and have a full body aromatherapy massage and charge it to the room, she had earned it. She had to salvage something from this crap night.
Kirsten had thought her evening couldn’t get much worse, which only went to show how little she knew because it did get worse when the snooty woman at the hotel spa’s reception said that there were no available appointments.
‘I recommend that in future you book in advance to avoid disappointment.’
The snooty spa bitch smiled as she said this but Kirsten wasn’t fooled for a minute, she knew that all the women in the spa hated her. Over the past few months she’d noticed their jealousy. When she floated into the spa, on Jules’s arm, she’d seen the nasty looks that passed between the therapists. She didn’t give a toss. They were just jealous because her boyfriend was rich and distinguished and because while she was about the same age as most of them, they had to work for her.
‘Would you like to book an appointment for next Tuesday?’ asked the snooty spa bitch. ‘Tuesdays are your day, aren’t they?’
There was something in the way the bitch had phrased the question that caused Kirsten to hesitate. It was as if she was saying Tuesdays were her day and on a Wednesday Jules brought someone else to the hotel and someone else again on a Thursday. That couldn’t be right, could it? No, definitely not. She was the one who juggled different partners on every night of the week, not Jules. Jules only had his wife to worry about. Even so, the thought was unnerving. Besides, there was something else. Kirsten would have liked to have had the confidence to say yes and to have booked the works – facial, manicure, pedicure, massage and Hopi ear candles – but something niggled. She had a vague, hideous feeling that Jules was about to break up with her and that there might not be a next week, at least not for them. The thought was sickening. She’d put so much effort into him. What had gone wrong? Why did everything always go wrong for her?
‘No, it’s OK. I have a very busy work schedule. I’m not certain that I’ll have time to be here next week,’ replied Kirsten coolly. She wanted to save face. Saving face mattered. Really mattered.
But she wasn’t sure she had when the snooty spa bitch bit down on her lip, as though she was trying to suppress a smile and commented, ‘Whatever you say, Mrs Blake.’ Kirsten had never said her name was Mrs Blake. Obviously, when Jules booked the room or paid for treatments and room service, he gave his name and the snooty spa bitch had no doubt noted this. She’d put two and two together and come up with four, she was just pretending she had calculated to three. Kirsten looked at the woman behind the reception and knew that she knew Kirsten was not Mrs Blake. She probably also knew that there was a Mrs Blake, sitting at home with a gaggle of kids. She was trying to make a point. No doubt the bitch got a kick out of reminding Kirsten of Mrs Blake’s existence. Probably she was trying to embarrass her. Well, shows what this silly cow knew, Kirsten didn’t do embarrassed.
There had been that time she’d got so drunk at her mate’s house party that she’d performed a pole dance on the pool table, using a cue as a prop. She couldn’t remember the actual incident at all. The first she knew of it was when her brother had gone ape and shown her the video on YouTube, he’d been all narky and was mortified, saying she’d made a show of him. She pointed out that it had had over fourteen thousand hits in less than a week, which Kirsten knew was something to be proud of, not get arsey about. Imagine, fourteen thousand men admiring her performance.
‘Jacking off to your performance, more like,’ her brother had shouted angrily.
‘Well, I hope you didn’t,’ she’d replied. That had shut him up.
After the disappointment about the massage, Kirsten confirmed their dinner reservation. She was pleased to be told they were booked for nine and less pleased when she discovered that it was already five past.
Fuck. This really was turning out to be a crap night.
23
When Subhash touched her hand she thought it was almos
t unbearable, not because she didn’t want his touch but because she burned for it. Part of her, a part she had tried to ignore, had been thinking about this for months now. Thinking about Subhash had meant that she didn’t sleep soundly, the deep and insistent curiosity about him had sometimes made it hard for her to ever finish an entire meal and it meant it was often difficult to follow the plot of the latest Sunday night costume drama – her mind could not stay focused but preferred to wander into her own fated romance. She’d frequently reminded herself that she hardly knew Subhash (how could a handful of lunches and telephone calls amount to knowing someone?). She hoped that reminding herself that their relationship was in its infancy and would never grow to maturity would make him less real and vital. She told herself that this tremendous excitement she felt was only her imagination playing tricks on her. The passion she felt did not really exist. She was simply flattered.
Her strategy hadn’t worked. Her certainty that she would stop thinking of him was as solid as it was misguided. The inevitable result of haughtily demanding, ‘So what do I know about him, after all?’ was simply that she’d stay awake all night counting the things she did know.
1) He was forty-three. 2) His name meant softly spoken, which he was. His parents had invested in elocution lessons in order to ensure that his English was perfect. There was no trace of an accent, but he still sounded somehow foreign. His perfect speech and grammar, which he’d learnt from a well-to-do old lady, seemed to draw attention to his foreignness, rather than away from it. As his teacher remembered and championed a gentler past, Subhash spoke in a way that that did not so much root him in another country, more in another time. 3) He ran his own, incredibly profitable but niche business, something to do with solar power (silicone wafers and supply chain management to Germany occasionally cropped up in his conversation). 4) He had just one nineteen-year-old son, who lived in LA. His son was studying at UCLA and he wanted to be a film director in Mumbai after he graduated. 5) Subhash was married.