‘You seem at home here.’ Ace’s eyes were once more fastened to her.
‘It’s not hard to find your way around a kitchen.’
‘So does the kitchen figure in your “womanly fantasies”?’ He made stupid quote-unquote signals with his fingers without letting go of his wine.
She made a good-natured pshaw noise and slid back on to her stool, taking the opportunity to move it six inches from him.
‘Watching you bending over the dishwasher, then, I had a little fantasy of my own.’
She poured coffee.
‘Ace–!’ began Martyn.
Ace refused to be diverted. ‘Come on, Honor, satisfy my curiosity. Rape?’
She looked at him over her coffee cup.
‘Bondage? Chocolate sauce? Animals?’
‘Stop it, Ace.’ Martyn’s brows had curled blackly over his eyes, reminding Honor of the fake tattoo Lily had applied to the small of his back. His stillness spoke of tension.
Ace smile’s slipped. She could almost see his mind ticking away behind his glassy eyes. ‘C’mon. Put me out of my misery and tell me what women want.’
‘OK.’ She let her voice drop like she used to do when she had told Jess and Zach stories at Halloween. ‘Right now, my fantasy is about a guy who doesn’t speak. Why don’t you try it? It’s particularly appropriate for assholes.’
Sweat bubbled afresh on Ace’s wine-flushed face as he totally missed the point. ‘And you’ve never found a guy who could do that? Well, my little American Hot, why don’t you try me? You can do anything you want to me and I won’t say a word–’
‘She’s telling you to shut up, Ace.’ Martyn was on his feet. ‘I’ll walk you home, Honor. No, don’t argue. It will give Ace the opportunity to drink a gallon of coffee, just in case Dr Zoë’s wrong and it will sober him up.’
Outside, the gulls had gone to bed – or nest or roost or whatever gulls did at night – and even the noise from the traffic had eased. The air smelled fresh off the ocean and Honor shivered as they rounded the Starboard Walk shops and turned into Marine Drive. Martyn strode silently beside her, hands jammed into his pockets but otherwise not showing any signs of feeling the chill up on the clifftop.
Maybe he was pissed with her because she’d been rude to his buddy. It was bad manners not to get along with a fellow guest. She could almost hear Karen: ‘Really, Honor. I did my best to raise you as a lady. A lady wouldn’t let some creep rile her. Couldn’t you have just quietly excused yourself, without the attitude and the cursing?’ She sighed as they turned into the drive of the bungalow. She could have. But the word ‘asshole’ had popped out. She never had been diplomatic with men who suddenly turned into slimy, scumbag sleazeballs.
She trod up the concrete steps to the patio, fishing out her door key. But Martyn’s long arm descended over her shoulder and his hand closed over hers before she could fit it to the door. She glanced up at him.
‘I’m sorry Ace insulted you.’ He gave an almost smile.
She made a face. ‘And I’m sorry I called your friend an asshole.’
‘I don’t think he even noticed, and he was. He’s not usually like this or I wouldn’t have invited you to meet him. I don’t expect my friends to hit on my other friends.’
‘Even best friends can be assholes.’ Stef – perfect example.
He laughed. ‘I hope the night air has helped cool you off. I certainly needed it – or I might have booted Ace off the balcony.’ He breathed in deeply.
Silence. He was frowning heavily. She peeped up at him from under her lashes, toying with her key. ‘So. Here we are.’
His frown lifted slowly. ‘“Here we are.” I’ve always wondered whether that actually means anything.’
She considered. ‘I guess it can mean a whole range of things. It can draw your attention to my presence, or that we’ve got to where we’re going. It could be an acknowledgement that it’s time to say goodnight. When my grandma says it, everyone just seems to get what she means.’
‘Right.’ He rocked back on his heels. ‘I know you’re here. I know we’ve got where we’re going and I suppose I’d better say goodnight and check that Ace doesn’t need a stomach pump.
‘So, goodnight.’ Pulling her jacket around her.
‘Yeah.’ He sighed, not going anywhere. ‘I hope that at least you enjoyed the shoot?’
‘It was an education. I had no idea what being a model was about or that guys like you did it. In fact, if I thought of it at all, I guess I thought all male models were gay. You know, the make-up, the posing, the interest in fashion – woop!’
His arm hooked her by her waist and yanked her up against the firmness of his body so that her toes just touched the ground. She gasped and his mouth found hers. Hot mouth, hot body, heat flooding her. He adjusted his stance, cupped her buttocks and picked her right off the ground, letting her feel his hardness against her through the thin cotton of her dress.
His velvet tongue stroked hers and her breasts tightened against his chest, his heartbeat, and he made it something longer, deeper, hotter. The kind of kiss she and her high-school friends had called a ‘soul kiss’ – like your souls were communicating through your mouths. They used to giggle and hypothesise over how it would feel. And, wow … It felt like heaven – if you were allowed to feel this turned on in heaven.
Slowly, slowly, he put her down.
‘I’m not gay.’
Breathless, she shook her head. ‘I got that.’
He nodded. ‘Good.’ And then, ‘That didn’t cool me off at all.’
She shook her head again. Her heart was pounding as hard as it had on that run when Martyn had amused himself by letting her try and keep up.
Slowly, slowly, he backed away, his hair lifting in the breeze, his eyes very black in the moonlight. Honor felt words flying up towards her mouth, words like, ‘We could go indoors …’
He paused, as if waiting for her to say them.
Struggling, she kept the words in.
He let out a long sigh. ‘I’d better go.’
Tung. Tung. Tung. Martyn made his way up the metal stairs on legs that felt as if they belonged to someone else. Whoo, she’d tasted like fire, pressing close as if heaven was just a heartbeat away. Those bare legs beneath her dress. He’d always had a thing about bare legs. Could imagine skimming his hands over, up, up … Watching her eyes turn hotter and more liquid as he went past the point of no return.
He let himself into the flat.
And let the door slam, stalking the length of the open-plan space to where Ace was slumped on a sofa, feet up, an empty wine glass on its side on the carpet. The TV blared. ‘Would you like to explain why you turned up drunk and hit on a friend of mine, like a sad old tosser?’
Ace turned slowly from the TV screen. ‘Was I a bit over the top?’
Martyn snatched up the empty glass.
Ace flinched. ‘I’ve had a shitty day.’
Carrying the glass to the kitchen, Martyn refilled the coffee machine. In silence, he emptied Honor’s cup and stuck it in the dishwasher.
When he returned, Ace was still staring blankly at the television. It got Martyn’s attention. Something was wrong. Because Ace wasn’t usually … well, he wasn’t an asshole. He let his voice soften. ‘What’s up?’
With a long sigh, Ace dropped his head on to his hand. ‘Seems like Shelli’s dumped me. Got home last night and she’d cleared out her stuff and left me a note – the classic one-hundred-reasons-you-don’t-make-me-happy note. She didn’t answer her phone. Then, this morning, I got an email from the agency’s new talent, that young black guy I’ve been working with for a few months, telling me that in the circumstances he’s sure I won’t want to represent him any more. He’s sorry that things have worked out like this but he and Shelli …’
Martyn dropped down on the sofa, aggravation draining away. ‘Shit. I’m sorry.’
Ace picked up the coffee. ‘Me, too. Sorry I got out of hand with Honor. I did realise that you l
ike her but I’m in a crazy place. I hope things work out for you.’
He did like her. He liked her a lot. The memory of that kiss was like a demon breathing down his jeans. But Martyn sighed, forcing himself to remember why he shouldn’t have begun that kiss. ‘No. You know – husband.’
‘Ah. Is he over here, too?’
‘I don’t know where he is, to be honest. She just told me she’s sort of married. She wanted to tell me more but I kind of … didn’t listen. After Rosie.’
Bitterly, Ace laughed. ‘At least you let the husband cross your mind. That’s more than Shelli and her lover boy have done.’
Chapter Eighteen
It was a busy week at the Teapot, the last of July and the English school summer holidays in full swing.
Sophie decided to like her pink hair, humming David Bowie songs as she clattered around the steamy atmosphere.
Ru, almost silent, a baseball hat on back-to-front as his nod to hair hygiene, stood at the steamy, soapy sink washing the eclectic white crockery and stacking it in the wall racks to drain. Kirsty made a short appearance each day, scarily skeletal and snapping at everybody, then clutching her forehead and apologising.
Honor got right into her waitress’s stride of rapid and economical movement, taking orders, serving, clearing tables, sanitising, watching the tables fill and empty, fill and empty. She was astonished when Sophie, having organised a Finnish student, Aletta, to help serve, opened a door that Honor hadn’t really noticed at the rear of the inside seating area to reveal a whole other room. The twenty tables in there began to fill and empty, too.
Very beautiful, with apple-round cheeks and soft full lips, Aletta’s English only failed her if a customer showed any hint of irritation, when she would smile gently and drift away, leaving one of the native English-speakers to get yelled at instead of her.
Through the bustle, Robina serenely made cakes, whipping up sugary frostings or boiling glistening jams to sandwich together layers of moist sponge or crispy meringue. Her drunkenly risen scones were treated by many customers as a meal in themselves and so many were baked that Honor was sure that she went home at night smelling like a steaming trayful.
On Tuesday, Clarissa dropped in for lunch. ‘Hello, Honor. Baked potato with cheddar cheese and crispy bacon, please. This place can’t be good for me. What jam has Robina made? Plum? I’ll have a jar, then.’
Honor reached for a stubby jar with its white cotton cap. ‘I’m sure you can work it off. You Mayfairs are never still.’
‘True.’ Clarissa glanced at her watch. ‘Martyn says you run, so you’re pretty active, yourself?’
Honor wrote the jam on Clarissa’s bill and dropped it back on to the table. ‘I used to dance and stuff, too. But I haven’t got into that here, yet.’ The instant the words had left her mouth she wanted them back. Clarissa’s face lit up.
‘But I take dance classes – tap, ballroom …’
‘I’m more hiphop, these days–’
‘And Zumba,’ Clarissa finished, triumphantly. ‘Zumba sounds right up your street. It’s tonight, at the community centre.’
‘I have taken Zumba classes back home.’ Honor made as if to move on to the next table but the hope in Clarissa’s eyes made her pause. The economy was bad and Clarissa was probably finding her numbers falling. And then the classes would end and Clarissa wouldn’t have a job and that would be awful … ‘I’ll try to come,’ she promised.
By the time she’d finished at the Teapot her feet burned and Zumba class didn’t sound like a good cure. She’d just jump in the shower and veg out with a meal from the freezer and a magazine. She liked English magazines. They made room for Z-list celebs who’d never done anything more noteworthy than appearing on a reality show and having their picture taken – bizarre but somehow fascinating.
Even though she could hear Karen saying, ‘A promise is a promise,’ she wrapped herself in her robe and flopped on the sofa with Heat magazine. Russell Brand – nobody’s Z-lister – was on the cover, his smile assuring her that he didn’t give a rat’s ass for what anyone thought of him. An attitude she recognised. From Stef.
She tried not to think about Stef.
But it must be about time for a message to come through cyberspace.
Her laptop was sitting on the table, its baleful blue eye winking at her. She sighed and flipped it open. Tapped a key and the screen sprang to life, already logged into her Yahoo account.
Inbox (3).
One email from her father, asking her to touch base and reassure him that she was OK. I’m good thanks, she typed rapidly, enjoying having only myself to worry over. Hope you are doing fine, too.
She sighed again. Both the other emails were from Stef, through Billie.
I’m getting real tired of you blanking me. I may have fucked up but I don’t think I deserve to be forgotten or ignored. Come on, babe. Lighten up on me and let me know how you’re doing.
She opened the second.
Well, guess what! Jessamine, who obviously has a whole lot more heart than you have, came to see me today. And it seems you don’t mind replying to her emails or your dad’s, or Zach’s. So you’re really not speaking to me? Thanks a lot. You always find out who cares when you’re in a bad place and I’m not only in a bad place, I’m having to worry about my wife. What the fuck are you doing leaving your life behind?
She tried to stem the sour swell of indignation, to delay any response until she’d reflected and cooled down. But … she clicked reply. OK, she typed. Here I am. Fine – on my own. You don’t have to worry. I’m so mad at you, Stef. Your stunt wrecked my life so that there wasn’t a whole lot of it for me to leave behind. The bad place? You got yourself in it. There’s no law that says that I have to go there, too.
You’ve left it a little late to worry about your wife.
Quickly, she pressed send, snapped the laptop shut and rolled restlessly to her feet. Damn him. The sofa and Heat had lost all power to relax her. No longer hungry or lazy, what she needed was to get out and get busy and her watch told her that there were only thirty minutes before the start of the Zumba class.
Quickly, she dressed in blackberry-coloured capri dance pants, an exercise bra with a camisole and fleece over, grabbed a bottle of water and set off power walking towards the community hall.
Clarissa beamed over her little cash tin when Honor marched into the wooden hall and paid her fee – and the reason for the warm welcome was pretty clear. Apart from herself, there were three people in the class – plus a whole lot of Mayfairs: Clarissa, Zoë, Beverley and Nicola. And, she saw with a hop of surprise, Martyn, at the back, performing hamstring stretches. She waved at the Sisters of Mayfair but skipped over to where Martyn was folded over to hold his feet, stretching alternate legs.
‘You’re kidding me! You dance, too?’
He gave an upside-down grunt. ‘If guilted into it by Clarissa. It’s exercise.’
He was the only man in the class. Most of the women had dressed bright, tight and dancy in sizzling colours of lycra. One looked as if she’d come directly from a hiphop dance-off with slouch pants riding low on her hips, displaying an expanse of bare flesh between the waistband and her tiny brilliant turquoise top. Martyn’s Zumba gear was pretty much like his running gear – plain, dark and roomy – but, at least he could wear a T rather than a sweatshirt, indoors.
‘I resisted for a while.’ Honor unzipped her fleece and tossed it on a chair. ‘But then I wanted company. And I like to dance.’ She hesitated about whether to hang out with Martyn at the back. But he appeared to be in one of his remote moods again, eyes distant, as if his thoughts were too intense to be shared. And then she was beckoned forward by Clarissa to discuss her fitness, health and dance experience. By the time that was over, the only space left was in the front row between Beverley in green and peacock-blue, and Zoë, who had abandoned her dark doctorly suit for scarlet chevron stripes.
The community centre had an OK wooden floor and high ceiling but was
lacking the mirror array of the dance studio back in Hamilton. Still, the Latin rhythms of the music were the same and Honor fixed her eyes on Clarissa as she warmed them up then talked up the class energy level through the opening bars: Zumba ah ah ay oh! Then, on Zumba ah ah ay ah, shouted, ‘Okay-six-seven-eight,’ and danced right into the routine. The class went with her, side-step right, right, dot the toes, side-step left, left, dot. In swung the arms, arcing up together, wrists crossing above heads as the feet side-stepped again, Ay oh, ay oh oh, wrists down to cross behind, ay oh, ay oh oh … head turn right, look up as wrists curve up, left and down at the floor. Zumba ay oh! Zumba ah, dadda dadda dadda dadda Zumba ah, dadda dadda dadda dadda Zumba oh.
With a surge of pleasure and a release of tension, Honor felt the music take charge of her feet, easily following Clarissa through a weight and direction change to allow the class to flow back across the room. Zumba ay oh!
Suddenly, it didn’t matter that she was in a pretty basic amenity in England with no mirror wall, dodgy lighting and windows that needed cleaning, or that the instructor had to pressgang her family into attending the class in order to keep it going. Zumba ah ah ay oh. It was just good to be dancing, to be moving in time with everyone else, rhythm quickening, hips rolling, body stretching.
At the end of the first routine her heart rate and adrenaline levels were on the way up, making her whip off her camisole and flip it to the side of the room. If the woman with the slouch pants could show the world a bare midriff, so could Honor.
She was going to dance so hard that there would be no energy left for sour feelings like anger and regret.
On the odd occasions that he allowed Clarissa to drag him to venture into the otherwise, all-women Zumba class, Martyn generally made space for himself by virtue of the length of his stride and the reach of his rotating arms.
Love & Freedom (Choc Lit) Page 16