Before We Fall

by Grace Lowrie

Having settled the bill and said his goodbyes, Bay emerged from the shop with a small bag in his hand, his gaze immediately seeking me out.

  ‘What’s up? Are you in pain?’

  ‘No, it’s sore, but it’s fine,’ I said, starting to walk.

  ‘What then?’ he said, falling in beside me and peering intently at my face.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did Gibbs say something?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know, something to piss you off.’

  I shook my head and he sighed. My fingers tingled with an irrational urge to fight him or grab him or something. Gibbs was right – I wasn’t his type – but that didn’t mean we couldn’t have some fun, did it? If I was honest I was haunted by Bay’s kiss and plagued by the way he’d made me come in the lift all those weeks ago. Memories of it assaulted me every night I stripped at the club, and each day while I slept in my bed he touched me again and again in my dreams. My body ached with the need to do or say something about it, but I couldn’t; I wouldn’t; it would be far too humiliating. And it was driving me slowly insane.

  ‘You’re not regretting your tat already, are you?’ he said.

  ‘No. I love it; it’s beautiful, thank you.’ I glanced briefly into Bay’s troubled gaze and then looked away again, for fear he would read my licentious thoughts.

  ‘Here’s your after-care lotion and stuff,’ he said, handing me the bag.

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  ‘So what do you want to do now? We can go get something to eat – I know a diner that should still be open – or we can head back to the flat, order a take-away…?’

  ‘Actually, I think I want to be on my own for a bit, if that’s OK?’

  Bay stopped and stared at me. ‘Suit yourself,’ he muttered, thrusting his hands in his pockets and sloping off without a backwards glance.

  I took my time walking home, wandering the dark streets instead of catching the bus. When I arrived at the top of TMC Tower I could hear thrash metal coming from inside Bay’s flat, but I resisted the impulse to check whether or not he’d left the door on the latch for me. What did it matter either way? What did it really mean? That he wanted to paint me? Why…?

  Safely inside my own flat, I took two paracetamol for the throbbing in my shoulder, grabbed a tub of ice-cream and a spoon from the kitchen, and crawled onto the sofa with a duvet. As the opening scenes of Pretty Woman played out on Sidney’s wide-screen TV, I resolved to push all thoughts of Bay from my mind. Again.

  Chapter Thirty

  What the hell was she playing at? I’d kept my side of the bargain – taken Cally out to a whole load of public places, just like she wanted; I’d been out more in the last three weeks than I had in the past three years. Admittedly it had not been as nauseating as I’d anticipated; in fact I’d even found myself enjoying it. Revisiting a few of my old favourite haunts and introducing Cally to London’s nocturnal delights was kinda fun. But fair’s fair – she was supposed to dance for me in return so that I could paint. So where the fuck was she?

  Guilt needled at my brain as I recalled how fantastic she had looked, sitting in Gibbs’ chair the night before. Majestic in a flowing red dress with a smile of serenity on her lips, as if it was nothing, as if she trusted my judgement completely. She didn’t complain once about the stinging discomfort that I knew for a fact she was feeling. While I was catching up with various guys I hadn’t seen in ages, I felt her gaze on my skin constantly, like heat from a flame. And I felt acutely sensitive to every nuance of her experience; each new puncture, each needle change and every wince she tried to suppress. I wanted to take her away, or take her pain away, or bear it for her. And yet each time, as I was about to say something, she would smile at me with warm assurance, disarming my fear.

  But then she had changed; something had shifted; there was emotion trapped in her eyes which she wouldn’t let me read. Regret had come crashing back, hitting me full force, like a kick in the guts. What was I doing to this poor girl? Why couldn’t I leave her alone?

  She hadn’t come over afterwards; she had returned to her flat alone and I had stayed away, swamped with guilt. But twenty-four hours on, there was still no sign of her. And a deal was a deal.

  ‘I thought you were coming over to practise,’ I said as Cally opened her door. She was still in her pyjamas, or more accurately, my Alice In Chains T-shirt, but her eyes looked red and swollen.

  ‘Yes, sorry, I—’

  ‘You’ve been crying.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, pausing to blow her nose in a tissue. ‘My Mum called from Spain to wish me a happy birthday and she got a bit teary, which always sets me off…’

  ‘It’s your birthday…?’ A tidal wave of fresh guilt sluiced my soul. ‘Why aren’t you out celebrating with Marguerite?’

  She shrugged, wincing slightly. ‘She suggested it but I don’t really feel like it.’

  ‘How’s your shoulder?’ I instinctively reached out and touched the hem of her sleeve, but then stopped, unsure. ‘Can I see?’ She nodded but looked away as I gently pushed back her sleeve and inspected the raw skin beneath her bandage. ‘It looks like it has stopped bleeding and there’s no sign of infection. Where’s your lotion? I’ll put some on.’ Cally perched quietly on a stool by the breakfast bar while I gently applied a thin layer of cream. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere for a drink?’

  ‘I’m a bit tired… and it’s raining out,’ she said, gazing out of the streaked windows into the speckled darkness beyond.

  ‘I’ll drive.’

  ‘Drive? You have a car?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s parked in the basement. I pay someone to keep an eye on it and keep the battery charged.’

  ‘Why do you have a car? You never go anywhere.’

  ‘My brother gave it to me. He probably hoped I’d wrap it round a tree or something.’ Cally paled slightly and I regretted the comment.

  ‘You don’t get on then, you and your brother?’

  I shrugged. ‘I never see him – he lives in LA. So are we doing this or what? You can’t stay in moping on your birthday – it’s sad.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, granting me half a smile. ‘Give me a few minutes to get changed and I’ll meet you downstairs.’

  *

  ‘Holy crap!’ she said, emerging from the lift and stepping into the underground car park.

  Her expression amused me, but I couldn’t get my facial muscles to work. As Cally stood there openly admiring my DB9, I openly admired her. She was wrapped in a spectacular, figure-hugging dress that clung provocatively everywhere, and stiletto heels that showcased her long, elegant dancer’s legs. Standing in the cool air of the ventilation, it was clear she was wearing no bra, and I stifled a low, involuntary groan as I hardened instantly.

  ‘Is this really yours?’ she said turning to me and then doing a comedic double take. ‘You dressed up!’ she said, her searing gaze travelling over my shirt, tie and trousers, right down to the black leather shoes on my feet. The look on her face made my balls ache and my whole body vibrate with need.

  ‘So did you,’ I said, my voice strained. This was a bad idea. I’d wanted to cheer her up, but now I was starting to feel like a horny teenager on a first date. ‘Come on, get in,’ I said, opening the driver’s door and surreptitiously adjusting myself, before sliding behind the wheel.

  ‘This is an Aston Martin, isn’t it?’ The girl knew her stuff. She wriggled in her seat and pulled on her safety belt. ‘I feel like I’m in a Bond film.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘That would make me a villain, then,’ I muttered as I pressed the ignition and the engine snarled into life.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I tried not to chew my lip as I perused the smart cocktail menu in my hand – it was a short list of just ten drinks, but I imagined that each and every one would be balanced to perfection and absolutely sublime – they certainly ought to be at the price. And I had never wanted a drink so badly in my life.

  Today I had fi
nally bitten the bullet and called Liam – I’d been concerned he might be worrying unnecessarily about me, and equally confident that nothing he could say would persuade me to go back to him. I still cared about him – we’d been friends a long time – but I was no longer in love with him, if I ever had been. Hearing his voice again after three months was tough. Having wished me a happy birthday, he asked me what I’d been up to, and I rambled on about some of the more mundane sights I’d seen. He was calm and composed, and he didn’t once suggest I come back. “Are you happy, Cally?” he’d asked near the end of our call. I’d automatically said yes, and only allowed my tears of self-pity to fall after hanging up.

  And now, here I was a few hours later, in another life entirely with Bay – who seemed to be on his best behaviour. The brief ride in his swanky car had been surprisingly comfortable. I’d assumed he might be a bit of a hot head behind the wheel, but he was impressively confident and relaxed; gently easing through the traffic, shifting smoothly between the gears and caressing the legal speed limit with steady patience. And the first-floor cocktail bar he’d brought me to was utterly charming.

  We sat close together on a red velvet sofa in the corner, surrounded by antique wood panelling, understated glamour, and a smattering of London’s elite who chatted politely amongst themselves. Raindrops dripped behind me from the open leaded windows into pretty planted boxes, and a waft of cool air tickled my skin. I was grateful for the breeze, as my body was positively suffused with unnecessary heat.

  It was Bay that was having this effect on me; he looked incredible all dressed up. He’d even scrubbed his hands clean of any traces of paint. With his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a dark expression on his face, he looked handsome, roguish and good enough to eat. It was taking all of my will power to keep from biting him.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked, and I tried to focus on his question and not the feel of his thigh pressed against mine.

  ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t seem fair that we’ve come to a cocktail bar when you’re driving.’

  ‘I can have one and still drive you home safely – anyway it’s your birthday, not mine. Tell me what you want.’ His last five words made my brain stall. What did I want? Being alone with Bay in a place like this made my stomach flip. But that was wrong. I didn’t want to date and I certainly couldn’t afford to fall in love – that would be disastrous. So what did I want? ‘I’ll have a Dry Martini,’ I said, picking the first drink my eyes alighted on.

  ‘Good choice. Two Dry Martinis coming up – stirred, never shaken.’

  There was a large ornate mirror mounted on the wall behind the bar, but Bay stood to one side of it, as if to avoid his own reflection. I feasted my eyes on the tight muscles of his glorious backside, and then admired the way his broad shoulders tapered down to his narrow waist and hips. I could just make out the dark shadow of death through the thin fabric of his shirt and suppressed a shiver. It was obvious what I wanted – I wanted Bay to finish what we’d started in that lift. I wanted to go back in time and beg him to fuck me, like he’d told me to. He’d lit a fuse inside me that day and it had been smouldering away ever since. It was shocking to admit, even to myself, because I’d never been that kind of girl, but I needed to have sex with the man and get it out of my system once and for all. The big question was, had I already missed my chance? Would Bay still take me if I asked him to?

  Setting two full, elegantly frosted and garnished glasses on the table, Bay sat back down beside me, the close heat of his body and the tantalising smell of his skin making me ache.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ he softly tapped his glass against mine.

  ‘Thank you.’ His gaze held mine as we both took a sip, his eyes so dark that I could no longer detect the green in them. ‘Delicious,’ I admitted, once I’d managed to swallow. I smiled, but he didn’t smile back. ‘This place is amazing, how did you find it?’

  Carefully he set down his drink – the glass already half empty. ‘The restaurant downstairs is the oldest in London – more than two hundred years old.’

  ‘Gosh, that is old.’

  ‘Edward VII used to bring one of his mistresses here,’ he added with a smirk. ‘Really?’

  Bay nodded. ‘Lillie Langtry,’ he said slowly, drawing out the Ls with his tongue.

  I found myself silently testing out the name myself, tasting it, my eyes loitering on Bay’s lips.

  ‘She was a real beauty in her day; dark hair, pale skin, large eyes. She sat for several great British artists: Millais, Poynter, Burne-Jones. The Prince of Wales used to bring her up to this room so that they could dine in private.’

  ‘Wow.’ I dragged my eyes away and gazed around in wonder, trying to picture the scene and tingling with the exciting sense of being so close to history. But I could feel the weight of Bay’s look and turned back to him, intrigued by his smile. ‘What?’

  ‘Apparently the Prince once complained to Lillie “I’ve spent enough on you to build a battleship”, to which she replied: “And you’ve spent enough in me to float one”.’

  I laughed, delighted by the wicked and highly-infectious grin on Bay’s face. ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’

  ‘Yeah, you can.’

  I shook my head, basking in the rare glow of his smile. ‘How do you know all this stuff?’

  His smile faded. ‘I’m not a complete pleb – I do read.’

  ‘I never said you were. You just don’t strike me as bookish.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first person to see the tats and assume I’m a moron.’

  ‘Hey, I have my own now, remember? Anyway, I’m surprised you care what other people think about you.’

  ‘I don’t. I care what you think,’ he said, bluntly.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Fuck, it’s warm in here,’ he muttered, downing the rest of his cocktail. ‘Another?’

  ‘No, thank you… let’s head back.’

  Bay looked relieved. ‘Are you sure? We haven’t been here long.’

  ‘I’m sure – this is lovely, but I think I owe you some dance practise.’

  ‘Yeah, you do actually,’ he said, rising to his feet and offering me his hand.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  ‘I don’t have any gin, how about a Vodka Martini?’ I said, already sloshing vodka into a pair of mismatched wine glasses. ‘It won’t be up to Rules’ standards but…’

  ‘I’d love one, thank you,’ Cally said, setting her handbag down on the kitchen counter. Now that I’d got her back here to dance for me, I was restless, almost nervous with anticipation.

  ‘I don’t have any olives either.’

  Amusement flickered around her mouth as she regarded me, her eyes indigo in the low light.

  ‘Cheers!’ I clanged my glass a little too hard against hers and took a swig.

  She pulled her phone out of her bag. ‘Do you mind if I put my music on?’ I shook my head, kicking off my shoes and tracking the beguiling swing of her hips as she crossed the room to hijack my speakers. ‘I realise Nichole Alden probably isn’t your thing, but this song is perfect for pole dancing,’ she called back.

  ‘I don’t care what you dance to,’ I said, dragging off my tie and unbuttoning my shirt.

  She did a double take. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I don’t want to get paint on my shirt.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Once I’d secured a primed canvas to an easel, I grabbed the nearest trolley full of acrylics and selected a long-handled, round-tipped Da Vinci brush. Still wearing my black suit trousers I settled on a stool. Why did I feel so damn impatient?

  As I looked up, Cally’s dress dropped to the floor, pooling around her feet and leaving her standing in nothing but heels and a small pair of lacy black knickers. My brush slipped from my fingers, landing with a clatter. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘My dress is too tight to dance in,’ her voice was level, no hint of any awkwardness. Having queued up the music she took a long
graceful step up to the podium.

  Was she messing with me? Could she really not dance in that dress or was she deliberately trying to punish me for something? As I retrieved my brush from the floor, a female voice sang out across the space accompanied by a piano and Cally began to move; slowly, sinuously, her eyes trained on mine. And I stared back, helpless and captivated as she danced in a way I’d never witnessed before – with hunger and overt sexuality. The music was unashamedly seductive, the rhythm hypnotic and the lyrics provocative as Cally silently called to me with her body, touching herself as she moved, and reclaiming me over and over again with her eyes.

  I recognised many of her steps; the spins, transitions, gymnastic-style stretches and bends, but they were woven together so seamlessly, her movements so fluid and erotic that it was like beholding something else entirely; something dangerously intimate. It was intoxicating; more stimulating and arousing than any drug; too much to bear. And I hated her for it.

  I’d never allowed myself to dwell on Cally’s job at The Electric Fox; always refused to picture her like this; refused to consider all the undeserving bastards that must get to see her naked each week. It wasn’t really her – not the sweet, demure Cally I knew – and I’d never wanted those images in my head for fear of what they’d do to me. But now here she was dancing for me the way she must dance for them – shoving her job in my face – taunting me with it – seducing me. How dare she do this to me?

  As the song drew to an end, my anger took over and I abruptly stood up, knocking my easel aside. It crashed to the ground as I stalked towards her, trembling with rage. Stepping down she backed away from me, but calmly; her shoulders back and her gaze glowing with heat.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I loomed over her, my fists clenched at my sides, forcing her back until she was pinned against the windows. ‘I’m not one of your fucking punters.’

  ‘No, you’re not—’

  ‘You want paying, is that it? You want money?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said, her eyes flashing.