No. I’ve got to grow up. I pretty much went straight from home to playing house with James, and then, in LA, the producers and Brad put me up in a hotel, got me to do what they wanted, convinced me to make terrible decisions, one after the other.
Well, I’m standing on my own two feet now. I’m putting back all the surgery I had, I’ve been brave enough to go and see my ex-boyfriend, and now the last thing I should be doing is running back home so my mum and dad can treat me like a little girl.
A black cab came past, its light off, but without a passenger inside; Melody stuck out her hand and it pulled up in front of her, the driver leaning over from his seat, staring in concern at her face.
‘You all right, love?’ he asked, grimacing at her bruising and the smeared make-up.
‘Yes – no,’ Melody said quickly, desperate to get away from here. ‘I just need to get back to Limehouse – Limehouse Reach, next to the Four Seasons – do you mind?’
‘Yeah, jump in,’ he said, nodding behind him. ‘Ain’t that far, there’s no one on the road.’
She could see him staring at her in the rear-view mirror, but he was kind enough not to ask any more questions, limiting himself to a friendly:
‘Take care of yourself, eh?’ as he deposited her outside Limehouse Reach. ‘And Happy Boxing Day!’ he called as the cab pulled away.
Holding her wallet, Melody paused outside the building, looking up at its rippling glass façade, the curving balconies that wrapped around the upper floors, the clear winter light pooling elegantly on the clean lines of the skyscraper.
It wasn’t home, or anything like it. But it was new, and bright, and shiny, and at that moment, it looked to Melody very much like a place where she would be able to make a fresh start.
Jon
Aniela was still asleep. Jon eased himself out of bed, not wanting to disturb her. It had been a hell of a long day yesterday; that crazy Christmas lunch at Grigor Khalovsky’s, his spilling his guts to Aniela afterwards, and then the sex. Jesus, the sex. He’d never known anything like it. Some of the women he’d been with before had been damn good at pretending that they were enjoying themselves; who knew, maybe they even had been, just a little bit. But there was nothing like doing it with a woman who wanted it just as much as you did. They’d done it again in the middle of the night, and Jon couldn’t have said whose idea that had been. He’d been spooning her, and he’d woken up with a stiff cock, that much he knew; but had she woken up first? Had she been arching against him, reaching back to stroke him? Had he pulled her towards him, or had she guided him where she wanted him, holding him, stroking him? It didn’t matter, of course. It didn’t matter a damn. But this was all so new to him, so unprecedented, that he found himself playing back all the details after each time they had sex, trying to remember every single moment, as if he were making sure he had a complete picture, storing it up in his memory...
He grimaced. That’s exactly what I’m doing. Storing it up for the lean years to come. Because soon – when his face healed – he’d be gone, off to Montana, to set up his ranch, lie low for the rest of his life. He was a loner, and he’d always be a loner; he hadn’t given a moment’s thought to the idea of having female company, certainly not full-time. He had needs, of course. He’d assumed that there might be some nice discreet escort in Butte. Jon’s experience of travelling the world had taught him that there wasn’t a place on this planet where you couldn’t find a woman who was willing and ready to trade no-strings sex for cash.
The trouble is, after this, it’s going to be a lot harder to settle for less. He pulled on his sweatpants, looking down at Aniela, her blonde hair covering her face, her skin as white as the sheets. Carefully, he pulled the coverlet up over her round shoulders, not wanting her to be cold, and padded out of the bedroom to make coffee. It was nine-thirty, and he knew she had to see the other patient in Limehouse Reach at eleven, that girl who’d had her face done; he should wake Aniela up, make sure she had a bite to eat before she had to head on out.
But what the hell do I give her? Coffee, for a start. That was easy enough. The apartment came furnished with one of those Illy coffee machines, big, shiny, red and chrome, which came with a bunch of pods that you dropped into a slot and threw away afterwards, no muss, no fuss. Hell of a waste, as far as Jon was concerned, and hell of a cost too. All those little plastic pods must cost a fortune. He was old-school American: nothing beat a good old drip coffee maker, stained a little from years of use, sitting on the kitchen counter so’s you could just pour yourself a mug whenever you needed one, giving you a slow steady buzz throughout the day.
Still, if you made a double espresso shot, dumped it into a mug and topped it up with boiling water, he had to admit that you got a pretty good cup of joe. That was okay; if she wanted coffee, he could make her some. But for the rest? Jon was no chef. He’d never really cooked for himself in his life, never had a home in which he’d needed to; he’d vaguely assumed that, on the ranch, he’d throw together home-made chilli and pretty much live off that.
He opened the fridge and stared at its contents dubiously. A huge tub of margarine, another one of peanut butter, quarts of long-life milk. That was it. The freezer was crammed with ready meals, bags of mixed vegetables and pre-sliced bread; he’d stocked up before the surgery, to make sure he never needed to go out for supplies.
Briefly, he considered picking up the Four Seasons room service menu and ordering Aniela breakfast, but he had to nix that idea. If Dasha Khalovsky hadn’t been roaming the halls, swearing bloodthirsty vengeance on her husband and trying to drag him into her plans for revenge, he’d have done it, taken the risk of having a room service waiter come over. He’d been living on protein shakes till yesterday: Christmas lunch with Grigor Khalovsky had been his first taste of solid food in a fortnight.
But as it was, no way could he let anyone he didn’t know into the apartment, or even open the door to sign for the food. Dasha Khalovsky was complicating his life, big-time, and the only way he could see to deal with the threat she presented was to set up a meet with her, record her instructing him to kill her husband, and then turn round and take the information to Grigor Khalovsky.
Jon had been racking his brains to figure out a way round this dilemma that didn’t involve telling Grigor. Because he knew that the consequence would be Grigor promptly taking out his estranged wife. And Jon hadn’t made his vow not to take another human life lightly; he wanted to keep it in the spirit as well as the literal intent. If he went to Grigor Khalovsky with evidence that Dasha wanted him dead, he might as well shoot Dasha in the back of his head himself and save Grigor the trouble.
I still don’t see any other way round it. Once Dasha was dead, the threat she posed would dissipate. No way would her PIs go on digging up info on him after their client disappeared or died in mysterious circumstances. They’d assume, if they had any sense, that Jon had been at the back of Dasha’s death, and that he’d come after them if they didn’t drop the investigation into his background like a heavy stone. The last thing any investigators savvy enough to be hired by Dasha Khalovsky would want was a hitman with a slate to wipe clean targeting them as his next victims.
‘Jon?’
Aniela, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, stood in the doorway to the bedroom. She had pulled on a T-shirt of his, which came down to her plump upper thighs, and her fair hair was tangled around her face. She never wore any make-up as far as Jon could see; certainly she looked no different when she had just woken from sleep than she did when she came in to see him on her rounds, apart from the fact that her hair was loose. He liked that a lot.
‘Sure looks pretty like that,’ he said. ‘Your hair, I mean.’ ‘Oh!’ She blushed. ‘Thanks! I have to tie it back for work.’ She looked over at the clock projected on the living-room wall.
‘I need to be at Melody’s in an hour,’ she said. ‘Would you mind – if I go back down to the reception and then back again, they’ll know I’ve been sleeping here – if I
could get a coffee, maybe, and something to eat—’
‘I was just going to make one,’ Jon said quickly. ‘And toast?
Toast okay?’
She nodded.
‘Uh, with peanut butter or without?’
Her features softened into a smile. ‘Are those my only choices?’
‘Pretty much,’ he admitted. ‘Unless you want a protein shake? I got frozen fruit – I could rustle you up one.’ ‘No, coffee and toast are fine. No peanut butter. Thanks,’ she added. ‘I’ll just go and shower, is that okay?’
‘Yeah, sure. Feel free to use all the fancy stuff in there,’ he said, thinking that he must sound like the biggest idiot in the world. ‘You know, the stuff they give you with this place. Shampoo, conditioner, the works. I got them to leave me a whole bunch when I moved in.’
He was babbling. Thank God, she nodded, turned and went off to the bathroom, sparing him from any further embarrassment. He had no real idea how to talk to a woman who’d spent the night, for free. So far, he wasn’t doing much of a job. At least I said I liked her hair, he thought, turning to the Illy machine. That’s got to count for something.
He heard the water running in the bathroom and pictured her, naked, skin as white as milk, with generous curves but small breasts, like an oil painting he’d seen somewhere. I should look that picture up on the net, he thought. Tell her she looks like a painting. Can’t go wrong telling a woman that, can you?
He was hard again at the thought of her nude in the shower, the water pouring down on her, remembering them going at it yesterday, watching her face as they did it, feeling her wet slippery skin beneath him, her wide hips filling his hands very satisfyingly. The escorts Jon had been with in the past had been built on very different lines to Aniela. Most men, it seemed, wanted women who were too skinny for Jon’s taste; he liked women who had more than a handful of flesh to hold onto, who’d keep you warm at night. And the escorts, without exception, had had their boobs done. He didn’t get that either.
A woman shouldn’t mess with what nature gave her, in his opinion. Those fake boobs looked and felt just that – fake. Why a guy would want that instead of the real thing, he had no goddamn idea at all.
But if women didn’t do unnecessary stuff to themselves, Aniela wouldn’t have a job here at the Clinic, he thought. So she wouldn’t be in my shower right now, soaping herself, running her hands all over her body—
His erection was painful, rubbing against the seam in his pants; he was dying to go into the bathroom, drop the sweatpants, step into the shower and kiss her and touch her until she melted and parted her legs and let him in. Shit, I can’t. I’ll make her late for work. Dammit.
Briefly, he actually considered tossing himself off into the sink, the pressure in his dick was so intense, his balls heavy and swollen with spunk. But what if she came in while he was doing it? How could he explain it? Closing his eyes, he pictured Dasha Khalovsky, with her dyed hair, big fake tits, bright gaudy clothes, her faceful of make-up and puffed-out, over-filled lips: that image was enough to soften his cock, disperse the bursting, urgent need for Aniela.
He distracted himself further by making coffee, and was taking out frozen slices of bread and dropping them in the toaster, putting together a place setting for Aniela at the breakfast bar when she emerged from the bedroom again, dressed once more in her uniform and those funny white shoes, her hair washed and scraped back from her scalp, looking all professional once more.
‘I guess you don’t need to come back after,’ he said as she climbed up onto the white leather stool and took the coffee mug between her hands gratefully. ‘To check up on me, I mean.’
She froze for a moment, her light eyes meeting his above the rim of the mug, and then dropped her gaze to the surface of the coffee instead.
‘Fine,’ she said flatly. ‘No problem, I leave you alone.’ ‘I just meant—’
Yeah, what did you mean? he asked himself. Why did you just tell her not to come back, when ten minutes ago you were desperate to fuck her?
It just seemed really fast, he realised. She’d go, sure, but then she’d be back in an hour – I wouldn’t even have time to catch my breath. And yeah, we’d fuck practically as soon as she walked in the door, but then what? What would we do after that?
Horribly, he remembered a joke another guy in the Unit had told him once, years ago: that you didn’t pay a hooker to have sex with you so much as you paid them to leave afterwards. He didn’t want to think of Aniela like that, as if he were using her for sex. It was more that he didn’t have the first idea what they would do if they weren’t having sex or sleeping. What would we do – talk? I have no idea how to talk to a woman.
Be honest, Jon, he told himself. With this one, you pretty much rattle away. You may babble on, but you have no problem talking to her.
So it’s not that you worry you won’t get a word out. It’s something else, isn’t it?
Aniela was eating her toast now, washing it down with sips of the long-life orange juice. He looked at her head, bent over her plate to avoid meeting his eyes, at the precise parting she must have made with his comb, straight as if she’d used a ruler to measure it, running down her scalp, the skin delicately rosy white, a few short fine blonde hairs coming free at the roots. The feelings that rose in him, staring at her so intently, were a mass of confusion: but one thought pierced through, more painful than the rest, like a stab right through his heart, skewering it with exact precision.
I can’t seem to control what comes out of my mouth when I’m around her. So sooner or later, I’ll end up telling her about my childhood. My cosy, loving family and my sweet, caring mom and my big, strong, protective dad, white picket fence and all...
Bile rose in Jon’s throat at how different his upbringing had been from the perfect fantasy one of his imaginings. He choked it down with a huge effort.
How can I ever tell her what I did when I was seventeen, back in the Hollow? How could any woman hear that and want to spend another moment with me?
No. Better to push her away first. So I never have to see the expression of contempt on her face when I blurt out the truth about my past.
I can’t be anything but honest with her. I’ve figured that much out by now. But I can’t tell her the truth about myself either. So where does that leave me?
He knew the answer already, had lived with it his entire adult life.
Alone.
He just hadn’t realised how sad that damn word sounded before.
Andy
‘Andy! My friend!’ Grigor, overcome with happiness, threw his arms around Andy and hugged him as closely as he could in the Santa suit he was wearing.
Does he sleep in it? Andy wondered; Grigor loved the suit so much it was hard to imagine him taking it off at night. Despite
Grigor’s expensive aftershave, the fur-trimmed wool was beginning to smell faintly of oligarch sweat. Certainly, after today’s partying, it should be sent off by courier to a specialist dry cleaner and given a thorough laundering.
‘This is the best Boxing Day party I have ever had, thanks to you, my friend!’ Grigor bellowed. ‘It’s the most wonderful time of the year!’ he sang: Andy was so used to Grigor bursting into song now that he didn’t even flinch as Grigor’s bass rang out right next to his ear.
Zhivana, in a cream silk Lanvin dress trimmed with guipure lace, drifted by like a droopy little ghost: Grigor caught her, enfolded her in an equally enthusiastic hug and placed two smacking, avuncular kisses on each of her hollow cheeks.
‘My pretty little fiancée!’ he said happily. ‘What is your favourite Christmas song, pretty little Zhivana Fyodorova?’ Zhivana didn’t need to think this over; it was clear she knew immediately. Her muddy brown eyes lit up with rare pleasure as she said with relish:
‘“The Cat and the Mouse”. I love to listen to it. Do you know this song?’
Grigor shook his head, smiling down at her indulgently. ‘It is very sad,’ Zhivana began, and Grigor’s
expression crumpled in comic disappointment. Andy bit his lip, trying not to smile, as Zhivana continued:
‘The cat cannot get into its house at night, and it is snowing, so it is cold, but then a mouse comes along—’
‘And the cat eats the mouse!’ Grigor suggested, patting his tummy. ‘And that makes him feel better!’
‘The cat protects the mouse,’ Zhivana said coldly. ‘It curls around the mouse all night, in the snow, to keep it warm. And then Santa comes—’
‘Ho ho ho!’ Grigor carolled.
Zhivana’s narrow brows drew together in a frown. Andy, greatly daring, elbowed Grigor in the ribs as a signal that his responses were not going down like a house on fire with his fiancée, but Grigor was oblivious. High on the Christmas spirit, Andy thought with a sigh.
‘Santa comes,’ Zhivana continued firmly, her mouth set in a straight line that matched her eyebrows, ‘and they find the cat is dead. It is frozen to death – it died to protect the mouse, keeping it warm.’
‘Oh no!’ Andy exclaimed, shocked. Zhivana nodded, a little smile playing around her lips.
‘And all the reindeer cry,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘They cry a lot, because they are very sad to see the poor dead cat, all cold and frozen. They put the mouse in the sleigh, and then Santa lifts up the cat, the dead cat, and puts it in the sky like a star, and says that every Christmas the cat star will shine brightly to remind the mouse that it still has a friend—’ ‘Please! Stop!’ Andy was sobbing by now. ‘Please! No more!’
‘I told you it was very sad,’ Zhivana said, nodding seriously. ‘To me this is the true feeling of Christmas. Sacrifice. Death. Jesus Christ died to save us, and Christ is like the cat, who dies to save the mouse, so cold there in the snow, frozen to death—’
‘Please!’ Tears were falling down Andy’s face. He rubbed his face on his sleeve, but since he was wearing his felt elf uniform, the fabric didn’t do anything to absorb them.
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