by Freya North
‘Where are you?’ Abi called up.
‘In my room,’ Fen shouted.
‘’Kay,’ Abi shouted back. ‘Glass of wine?’
‘’Kay,’ Fen called down.
‘How was Derbyshire?’ Abi asked, settling alongside Fen on her bed and sipping wine as if her whole day had been geared to such luxury and relaxation.
‘Oh,’ Fen said lightly, ‘you know.’
‘Will that bloke part with his art?’
‘Have a look in that bag,’ Fen said.
Abi left the bed and went to pick up James’s bag. ‘Good Lord above!’ she remonstrated, as her skinny arm snagged against the weight of unseen and unexpected bronze. She looked inside and took the sculpture out. ‘Good God!’ she murmured. She turned to Fen. ‘Did you nick it?’ She was joking, of course, and turned back to the sculpture. ‘Jesus,’ she marvelled, ‘this is pretty damn horny.’ She brought the sculpture over and placed it on Fen’s bedside table. She took to the bed again and Fen passed her the glass of wine. They gazed at the sculpture. ‘You win, Fenella McCabe,’ Abi conceded, ‘you win. It’s bloody gorgeous and erotic and I’m going to have to phone Jake and tell him that he’s to take me to bed or lose me for ever!’
Fen laughed. Now that’s what she should have said to James. ‘Where on earth did you get that line from?’
‘Meg Ryan,’ Abi admitted, somewhat reluctantly.
‘When Harry Met Sally?’ Fen asked.
‘Top Gun,’ Abi elaborated. ‘She had a bit part as the zany wife of Dr Green from ER.’
‘Goose,’ Fen corrected, ‘Anthony Edwards played Goose.’
The girls chattered away, about movie stars and quoted classic lines; glancing every now and then at Eden.
Gemma arrived home at almost ten o’clock. Fen told herself not to be suspicious.
But Abi has tried to call Jake. He’s not answering land-line or mobile.
Just because he’s not with Abi doesn’t necessarily mean that every other moment will be spent with Gemma.
‘Wow!’ Gemma said, catching sight of the Fetherstone as soon as she came into Fen’s room, ‘did you steal it?’
‘Piss off!’ Fen laughed.
‘God,’ Gemma murmured, looking closely at the bronze, turning it, touching it, touched by it, turned on, ‘that’s pretty horny.’
‘Isn’t it just,’ Abi agreed. ‘It’s got me all dressed up with nowhere to go – as it were.’
‘Not seeing Jake tonight?’ Gemma asked Abi, while Fen tried surreptitiously to analyse her housemate’s body language and tone of voice. She could detect nothing untoward.
‘Any idea what time he left this morning?’ Abi asked her.
‘We left together – he took a taxi and dropped me off en route,’ Gemma said.
‘I’m tired,’ Fen suddenly announced not because she was, but because she didn’t want either girl in her room talking about the man they were both having sex with.
‘Poor petal,’ Gemma teased.
‘She’s lugged the Bronze Bonk all the way back from Derbyshire,’ Abi said in Fen’s defence.
‘I’m going back on Monday,’ Fen said, ‘to pick up two oil sketches.’
‘What’s he like?’ Gemma asked, her eyes drawn again to the sculpture.
‘I’ve told you a million times,’ Fen said, not minding that she was to say it again, ‘he’s greatly underrated and yet his oeuvre – in subject matter and execution – is absolutely seminal in the development of figurative sculpture of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century.’
Gemma and Abi regarded Fen a little blankly. And then with exaggerated pity.
‘I think Gemma meant the bloke in Derbyshire,’ Abi said, as if to a simpleton.
‘Oh,’ Fen said. Don’t blush. Don’t blush. ‘He’s nice enough.’
‘Rich?’ asked Abi.
‘No.’
‘Eligible anyway?’ Gemma pushed.
‘No, no,’ Fen breezed, ‘he’s old. I’m tired.’
‘She blushed,’ Abi remarked to Gemma in a whisper when they’d left Fen’s room.
‘I know,’ Gemma connived.
‘She says he’s old,’ Abi remarked, ‘but that could mean anything over thirty – if age is to be assessed in comparison to us.’
‘I want her to have Matt,’ Gemma said, ‘then it’ll be ever so cosy.’ She looked at Abi. They giggled.
‘Shall I call Jake again?’ Abi asked.
‘Yes,’ Gemma agreed, ‘good idea.’
Jake’s phone rings in the pub. He sees it’s Abi’s – or Gemma’s – home number.
‘Hullo?’ he answers, not quite sure which girl it’ll be and not minding.
‘Hey,’ says Abi. The line is bad.
‘Dodgy signal,’ Jake says, rising, ‘I’ll call you back in a mo’.’
He leaves the pub to return the call, and then returns to his pint not long after. He drains his glass. ‘I’ve been summoned,’ he says to Matt, eyes glinting.
‘By whom?’ Matt enquires, with mock disapproval, wondering what could have the urgency to take Jake away so willingly from last orders.
‘Abi,’ Jake says, licking his lips. ‘She said something bizarre about Fen bringing home some porn.’
‘Porn?’ Matt says, startled. ‘Fen?’
‘Porno art was Abi’s precise term,’ Jake says. ‘Come with me, Matt. Sounds like they’ve been quaffing the Chardonnay whilst we’ve been enjoying our civilized pints.’
‘Come with you?’ Matt asks.
‘Yeah,’ Jake shrugs, ‘why not. Surprise Miss McCabe.’
Matt drinks the last third of his pint. Art? Porn? Fen?
Jesus. Abi. Gemma. Jake.
‘Come,’ Jake says, rising.
‘Sure,’ Matt says, following him out.
There’s a knock on Fen’s door. She’s reading a paperback, she’s cleaned her teeth. She’s sitting on her bed in a vest-and-boxer-shorts night set.
‘Yes?’ she calls, wondering when Abi or Gemma has ever bothered to knock.
Oh God, don’t let it be Jake trying to seduce me!
‘Fen?’
Oh God! It’s Matt! Oh Jeez!
Matt pops his head around the door while Fen is rooted to the spot, be-vested and blaspheming.
‘Hullo,’ he says.
Oh my God, she’s practically naked.
Fen is too stunned to close her gaping mouth.
‘Jake was coming – I thought I’d just pop in. You know, just for a minute or two.’
Fen nods blankly. Matt is still mostly in the hallway, just his head in her room, and his hand steadying the door.
‘Bloody hell, Fen – did you nick it?’ Matt exclaims on catching sight of the Fetherstone on her bedside table.
‘Of course I didn’t nick it!’ Fen laughs. ‘How amazing is it?’ She caresses Adam’s head between her thumb and forefinger.
‘May I come in?’ Matt asks.
His manners touch Fen. ‘Of course,’ she smiles.
Matt concentrates very hard on the Fetherstone because he knows that unless he keeps his eyes trained on the forms of Adam and Eve, they will gravitate over to Fen in her vest. He doesn’t want to notice that her toenails are neatly varnished the colour of aubergine, he doesn’t want to acknowledge that her bare legs are just as toned and smooth as he’d imagined they’d be. He starts to discourse on Julius Fetherstone and cross-references this particular sculpture with Rodin’s Adam and Eve.
‘Of course, the figures of Adam and Eve were never entwined,’ he said, ‘they were to stand to either side of the Gates of Hell.’
Fen nods. She knows all that. ‘How was the Whitechapel yesterday?’ she asks because kissing James has put a perspective on Matt.
‘It was OK,’ Matt answers honestly, ‘nicely curated – but I didn’t like any of the exhibits. There wasn’t one piece I’d have had in my home.’
‘And Judith?’ Fen probes.
Did they? Shall I? Shall I ask him if they did?
/> Matt looks fleetingly a little alarmed. ‘Judith really liked the show,’ he says diplomatically. Fen nods. ‘She’s odd.’ Fen raises an eyebrow and cocks her head encouraging Matt to elaborate. He doesn’t.
‘I think she has the hots for you,’ Fen says, with an edge of mischief to her voice.
Matt groans. ‘You may as well know—’ Fen puts her fingertips to his lips. She does know. Quite enough. She doesn’t want to hear any more.
Matt takes her fingertips from his lips and kisses them. He holds her hand. ‘Fen McCabe,’ he drawls huskily, ‘do you know how horny you look, in that white, semi-see-through vest?’
Fen giggles. ‘They’re my jim-jams, silly!’
‘Could we take it off, please?’ he asks. Matt’s manners delight her, as do his slightly glazed eyes. Fen knows from James’s example that such a gaze at such a moment is caused by blood flow and energy being focused down to the groin. She glances at Matt’s lap.
Unmistakable.
But still it surprises her. And arouses her. She doesn’t quite know what to do. She plucks self-consciously at the straps of her vest and stares awkwardly at her knees.
‘Can I?’ Matt whispers, running his fingers over hers over the straps of her vest. ‘Let me,’ he suggests, easing a strap over her shoulder. Fen lets him gently lift her vest over her head.
Can he see my heart thuddering?
‘Je-sus,’ he whispers, ‘you are absolutely gorgeous.’ His hand reaches out and then stops, hovering, inches away, as if he is politely waiting for the go-ahead. Gently, he cups his palm over her skin. He gulps. She gasps. His breathing is quick. The feel of his hand on her skin, the sensation of her perky nipple at the centre of his palm, is lovely. Matt kisses her throat, at the exact location James had wanted to when Fen had woken up. Matt raises his face to Fen’s. The deeper he kisses her, the more insistent his fondling becomes. He eases her down, flat on to her bed, and his face hovers over hers, half his body pressing over her. His hand travels along her ribs, over her stomach, his fingertip dips in and out of her navel. Lightly, he traces the curve of her waist and trickles his fingers back up to her breasts. He is tonguing her with some abandon, every now and then nipping her bottom lip with his teeth. Her hands are enmeshed in his hair. Her eyes are closed. Her mind is empty of anything other than savouring this moment.
Matt stops kissing her. He takes his face away so they can look at each other. ‘More?’ he asks. Fen doesn’t know whether her heart is beating so fast on account of apprehension or arousal. ‘I’ll be gentle,’ Matt says. To answer, Fen lets her eyelids close gently while she touches his chin and pulls his face close so that their lips meet again.
‘OK,’ she whispers.
Matt slips his hand down the elasticated waistband of her shorts and skims over her pubic hair. He cups her entire sex in his hand. Fen moves, to catch against his finger. He stops kissing her but the feeling of his breath on her face is just as lovely. Without preamble, he suddenly and deftly has a finger between the lips of her sex. The feel of his hot smooth finger against her clitoris, and at the wet opening of her sex, turns them both on immensely. He alternates between dabbing her clitoris and slipping his finger deep inside her. She is on the verge of coming. As his finger is working magic on her, she kisses him, forcing her tongue deep into his mouth. She is close to climax. Now she is moving enthusiastically. She is almost there. Not quite. Excruciatingly close. Wait! Almost. Almost. Nearly there!
Matt pulls away from her mouth and his finger is suddenly still. Fen stares at him.
‘God I want to fuck you,’ he whispers, staring back, his face close.
Fen comes. Ultimately, Matt’s words brought her to orgasm.
When her sex has finished its spasms of pleasure, he takes his finger away and feeds it into her mouth. The release of sexual tension, pent up from her feelings for Matt, her feelings for James, leaves Fen languid and exhausted. Glazed, she gazes at Matt’s handsome face. Glancing to her left, she sees Eden. James’s face comes into her mind’s eye. She closes her eyes.
‘Sleep,’ Matt demands, ‘you look spent. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.’
He kisses her forehead sweetly. Though her feet are at the pillow end of her bed, she allows him to place the duvet over her. Her eyes remain closed. Her lips are relaxed into a satisfied half-smile.
Matt made his way through the house. All the bedroom doors were closed. He had no idea which was Abi’s room, which was Gemma’s room, and which room, exactly, his rakish flatmate was in. Matt caught the tube home to Angel. If he licked his lips, he could taste and smell Fen.
It’s not just sex. Not now. It’s more. Now I want the whole her.
‘It’s not just sex,’ James told Barry, ‘I’ve had plenty of good sex in my time. It’s her.’ Barry’s eyes twitched to show his master he was considering his words very carefully. Beryl sauntered over, sat by the armchair and sighed. ‘I want her back here now.’ James got up and went to the kitchen. Aimlessly, he looked in the pantry and the fridge. He wasn’t hungry. He made milky coffee but he wasn’t thirsty. He stood with his back to the stove. Barry and Beryl were hovering in the doorway, looking concerned. ‘I can’t be falling for someone her age – not at my age.’ It was midnight. James presumed she and her housemates would still be up. Drinking wine, no doubt; gossiping and theorizing, probably. He picked up the phone and dialled Fen’s home number.
‘Don’t they have an answering machine?’
He let the phone ring on.
‘Isn’t anyone in?’
The phone rang until it rang off.
‘Where is she, I wonder?’
He tapped the receiver against his chin contemplatively. He was disappointed. It was suddenly very obvious that he was alone in a leaking house in Derbyshire with two dogs.
‘I’ll call her tomorrow,’ he said quietly, taking the dogs outside for a last pee. ‘I’ll suggest she comes to me sooner than we’ve arranged.’ The dogs seemed reluctant to come in. It wasn’t even a particularly nice night, with heavy cloud-cover blanketing stars from view. ‘God, to have her in my bed tonight.’
TWENTY-SIX
Whoa. Time Out. Calm down, cool it a little. It seems that everybody in this book – whether male or female, flesh and blood or bronze and marble, has sex on the brain. They are either having it, wanting it or simply spending far too much time in pursuit of it. They think about it while journeying into work by tube, or whilst driving Land Rovers down Derbyshire lanes, or when sipping absinthe with fellow artists at Les Deux Magots on the Boulevard St Germain.
Fen’s sister Cat, and Matt’s ex-girlfriend Julia, go to bed lonely and alone, trying hard to pretend that the last time they had sex with their exes was wonderful. In truth, both girls’ sex lives diminished rapidly in the last months of their relationships. Lovemaking had been a contradiction in terms; because the love was no longer there and all that had been made was an effort to provide or achieve some level of physical gratification. Both women are struck with horror at the thought of their ex-boyfriends being with other women and yet both women had ceased to fancy their partners in those last horrible months. It hasn’t yet occurred to them that one day, perhaps sooner rather than later, they will actively want to sleep with another man, that another man will desire them and take them to bed. Both women are even mourning the children they will never have by their exes, though babies had never been on their agenda.
Jake is physically exhausted. Sleeping with two different but equally insatiable and sexually adventurous women leaves him with little time for musing; whatever spare time he does have he uses to rest up and prepare for the next session with whomever. He has no preference. Sex is incredible with Abi and Gemma. It would be impossible to choose.
Judith St John can’t sleep. She’s too wound up by work, and works even harder at relaxing. When she arrives home, she flicks on classical music, opens a bottle of good wine and cooks for one, healthily and colourfully, in her designer kitchen. She’s seen people on A
merican TV series and films behave like that in their apartments after work. It works for them. They are successful at home as well as at work. They are also successful at being single or having casual relationships. It is not Matthew Holden whom she wants and desires; but control and superiority. What she had enjoyed about sex with Matt was not the physical sensation, but the sense of conquest. It wasn’t about Matt. It was about Fen. If it hadn’t been so obvious that Matt had designs on Fen, Judith would never have made a move on him. She was appalled that she should feel remotely unnerved by the mousy archivist. But she was, not so much because of Fen’s intelligence, her suitability for the job, her prettiness; but because almost on sight Matt had had eyes for her and yet he had never looked twice at Judith. Matt had been an easy lay, that first time, plied with alcohol and compliments, her hand thrust uncompromisingly down his trousers, her tongue stuffed into his mouth.
But it didn’t work yesterday. I had the bait laid but he didn’t even sniff or nibble. What can I do? What can be done? It’s not the sex I crave, nor his person – it’s the success of my little project. It’s as if Fen is proposing a takeover bid. I want it to fail. I cannot have anything at all operating behind my back and beyond my control.
Matthew doesn’t regret having sex with Judith. It makes him cringe when he thinks back on it – but only at himself. He is pretty ashamed that, at nearly thirty years of age, a combination of alcohol (for which he had a strong, well-trained constitution) and a grope (which he was well experienced at giving and taking) could have been persuasive enough for him to have taken leave of his senses. But back then, he hadn’t yet kissed Fen. And once he had, everything changed. The ex-girlfriend at last became very much part of his past. Judith became something daft that happened after too much booze. Last night, at the private view and then hip Hoxton, Matt was neither flattered or amused. He just felt awkward. Judith was on the verge of making a fool of herself with all her unbuttoning and pouting and bedroom eyes and fondling of pepper-pots. Tonight, he could smell Fen and taste her and see her gorgeous breasts clearly in his mind’s eye. He wants a relationship with this girl. And he wants to consummate it soon.