by Athena Dore
It turned out to be Nico. He was so eager for her to leave, he practically dragged her away. She thanked Xavier for the tea and for letting her stay.
“It was nice meeting you” she said.
“The pleasure was all mine”.
* * *
Rochelle was outside Xavier’s door again.
Yesterday, her mum had had a new key cut for her and when Rochelle went to add it to her key ring, she discovered her keys weren’t there; they were in Xavier’s house. Of course they were. She was being such a scatterbrain lately. It felt like her mind had stayed in Japan and refused to come back with her to England.
Rochelle could hear the notes of a piano. Forget tinkling with the ivories, he was hammering at them, playing something fast and furious. And loud. He couldn’t hear the doorbell and she’d already rung twice. If he could hear Mindy’s barking, he was ignoring her.
There was a sudden lull in the music. She rang one last time, thinking of coming back later. The piano stopped and the next moment. He opened the door.
“Uneventful indeed” he greeted her.
“Sorry, I think I left my keys here” Rochelle said, aware she was disturbing him yet again.
“You did”. He stepped aside to let her in.
She waited in the hallway while he fetched her keys. His fingers touched hers as he placed them in her hand. She looked up at him and he looked back at her. The colour of his eyes was so captivating she felt she couldn’t look away.
“You were playing the piano”.
“Yes” he said, still looking into her eyes.
“Would you play something for me?”
He turned and disappeared back into the living room. She followed him.
“What would you like me to play?”
“Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll be right back”.
She raced home.
The book was dusty. It had been a birthday present when she was a teenager. There was a piece she liked in there from a romantic Italian chocolate advert but she’d already given up playing by then.
Without the dust, the book looked brand new, which was unsurprising because of course, she’d never played it.
“Really?” Xavier scoffed when she got back.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“It’s ‘chick-sic’, isn’t it?”
“Chick-sic?”
“Chick music”.
But he played it anyway.
Compared to the piece he’d been playing earlier, this was slow and sentimental. The way he played it was beautiful. Rochelle sat next to him on the piano stool, admiring the way his fingers moved expertly over the keys, powerful yet soft. When he came to the end of a page, she leaned across and turned it over to the next but she was so engrossed in his playing that there were times when she nearly forgot and her shoulder brushed his in her haste. She could listen to him play all day, every day.
He finished the piece and stopped playing. They sat in silence as the last note died away. She felt mesmerised, like a cobra before a snake charmer. Not quite herself. Perhaps that was why she suddenly invited him out to dinner tomorrow evening.
“Dinner?” he asked. The way he questioned it made it sound like a ridiculous idea. As she returned to her normal self, she realised it was. Stupid. Stupid. What an idiot.
“To thank you for letting me stay yesterday”.
“That’s not really necessary…”
But luck must have been with her that day because he accepted nonetheless.
* * *
“You’re not going” said Nico the next evening.
“Well, too late because I am”. Rochelle applied the finishing touches to her lipstick. She was looking forward to tonight. Except for Xavier’s house, which didn’t really count because it was just up the road, she hadn’t been out anywhere in three days.
“And your skirt is too short”.
“Chill, Nico. It’s not like it’s the Victorian times”.
“I don’t want him getting any ideas” said Nico.
“It’s not about the length of the skirt; it’s about how it works with the rest of the outfit”. Rochelle thought she was dressed quite conservatively, considering – no plunging necklines or sheer tights or anything remotely sexy. However, she was quietly proud of her curves and what she was wearing made them stand out.
“I don’t trust him”.
Rochelle turned to her brother.
“Look, he hasn’t got his wife locked away in the basement…”
“I don’t believe that; it’s just a rumour”, said Nico, “But there’s something not right about him”,
The doorbell rang. He was here.
“Let’s have this conversation later” she said. She looked herself over in the mirror one last time, snatched her bag up from the dressing table and went downstairs.
Xavier was wearing a black suit and tie, which accentuated his tall figure, and his hands were in his pockets with a relaxed sort of grace. He was talking to her dad by the door. Awkward. She found many people were intimidated by the stern-looking black man, and had trouble seeing through to his funny personality. However, the awkwardness this time was only in Rochelle’s mind. Xavier seemed at ease. He was smiling. They even laughed.
As she got further down the stairs, they both turned to her. Xavier’s gaze lingered over her outfit before looking back up at her. He smiled.
“Shall we go?” he asked. He offered her his arm. She took it. He said his parting remarks to her dad and they left. So far, this was working out better than expected.
“To be honest, when I asked, I didn’t think you’d come” said Rochelle. They were sitting in the restaurant – Italian, since it was Rochelle’s favourite.
“I wasn’t going to” Xavier admitted.
“What changed your mind?” she asked.
“Who can resist a free meal?” he said dryly.
“That can’t be the real reason!” exclaimed Rochelle.
Xavier smiled. He reached for his wine glass and took a sip but didn’t answer.
“You know”, she said, “I actually don't know that much about you. I know you like reading and playing the piano and you have the cutest dog, but what about your family and stuff?”
Xavier leaned forward in his chair and stroked his wine glass.
“I have a younger brother” he said, “We used to get into lots of trouble together when we were younger. We still do, occasionally”.
“No way!” cried Rochelle, “You seem much too sensible”.
Xavier chuckled. Even his laugh was attractive.
“If you think I'm sensible, it's because you don't know me well enough”.
“I'd like to know you well enough...”
Xavier toyed with the stem of the wine glass. For a moment, Rochelle thought she saw sadness, loneliness haunting his lovely eyes.
“If you knew me well enough, you'd stay far away from me”.
“Of course I wouldn't”.
“If I told you I had a dark past, that I was dangerous, that I was prone to violent outbursts, would you still want to get to know me?”
His eyes were piercing now. This was a hypothetical question; surely he was just testing her resolve... He looked down at the red wine in his glass and swilled it around once.
“Yes”, she said slowly, “they would all be things that happened before I met you. I'd only care about the ‘you’ now...”
He looked up, fixed her again with that penetrating gaze and leaned even closer.
“What if I told you I was still dangerous?”
He was joking; he had to be. But his expression remained serious, and perhaps just a little bit curious.
Rochelle stared back at him.
“Can I interest you in some coffee, signorina?” The waiter made her jump, breaking the connection between them.
“And for you, signore?” He poured the hot liquid into their coffee cups. The steam rose between them like an enchanted haze.
“I'd have
to know what kind of dangerous you are” she said.
“Oh, the dangerous kind, to be sure”. He took a sip of coffee.
He was teasing her this time. She could see the humour dancing in his eyes. It was a shame. Before the waiter had interrupted, she'd felt they were getting somewhere.
Going home felt a bit of a let-down – like going back to being a child in war-torn Britain after having been queen of Narnia.
He walked her to her door and she stepped inside. She turned round to say ‘goodnight’ and frowned as she saw the curtains twitch from the house opposite. Nosy Mrs Richards. Rochelle knew that she hated how her family ‘stained’ the road with their blackness.
She pulled Xavier inside quickly and shut the door.
“We’re being watched” she explained.
Everyone else was out. She switched on the lamp on the table by the door and turned back to him. The warm glow of the lamp glimmered softly, reflected in his eyes. Perhaps it was the wine casting a nice atmosphere over things.
“I didn’t tell you the real reason I agreed to come tonight…” he said suddenly.
“What was it?” Rochelle asked, her voice almost a whisper.
“I enjoyed your company; I found you intriguing”. He reached out and brushed the hair away from her face, never breaking eye contact. Rochelle stopped breathing.
“I wanted an excuse to see you again”. His gaze and touch made her heart flutter with the anticipation. He leaned in and kissed her, gently, softly. Rochelle could sense caution in him. Maybe he was holding back, unsure of the situation, or didn’t quite trust himself. But soon the intensity increased, as though his desire for her had just been awakened. His arms tightened around her and pulled her closer, his hands caressing circles into her back. Rochelle felt feverish and giddy. True, she hadn’t known him long, but she had no idea he could be like this. She ran her hands over his firm chest, felt his torso heaving up and down, his heart racing beneath her fingertips. He tightened his arms around her waist and lifted her onto the table behind in a strong, fluid motion that made the world spin. Locking her legs around his, she reached up and pulled him towards her, entwining her hands in his hair, letting the soft, dark strands cascade over her fingers as she stroked the curls at his nape. One of his arms loosened from her waist and his hand followed the seam of her skirt to where it ended, running along the material of her tights.
He pulled away abruptly.
“We shouldn’t be doing this”.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Xavier shook his head.
“This is wrong”.
“It didn’t feel wrong” she said. She knew he felt the same.
He sighed.
“I’m sorry” he said.
Rochelle thought she understood: he hadn’t intended to kiss her – goodness, she hadn’t meant to kiss him either. They had both been caught up in the moment and started getting a bit carried away.
He helped her down from the table and opened the door.
“Goodnight” he said without looking at her. She stroked his arm reassuringly and squeezed his hand.
“Goodnight” she replied.
Then, he was gone.
Rochelle didn’t sleep well that night. The kiss. Even if it was a mistake, even if it was the wine, it was all she could think about – that and how he’d told her he was dangerous. Rochelle wasn’t into bad boys but the way he’d said it made him sound mysterious. She felt like a moth to a flame.
As soon as it was morning, she called him. And called him again. But he didn’t answer. She sighed. It was so difficult. He was so aloof and guarded. Occasionally, she’d see a glimpse of the man behind all that, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, but all too soon – all too easily – he’d hide away again. She wanted to know the man who had made fun of her musical tastes, had laughed with her dad, had told her he wanted to see her again, who had kissed her…
Her phone buzzed. It was from him.
It’s best if you don’t come round today.
Rochelle stared at the text. So, he was avoiding her? Somehow, she felt suddenly annoyed. She tossed the phone onto her bed. Idiot.
She tried to distract herself. She went out shopping and bought some cute outfits and then came home and dosed off watching episodes of programmes she’d missed while abroad.
When she woke up, it was dark in her room except for the orange streetlight peering in, scanning for life like a Martian from The War of the Worlds. She must have fallen asleep but she wasn’t sure whether it was during or after the last episode of whatever she’d been watching.
She stretched, sighed and got up to turn on the light. As she pulled the curtains closed, she glanced up the road. His house was still in darkness but his car was there. Perhaps he was asleep? But it was far too early – not even 8pm.
She got ready to go out. She wasn’t annoyed any more but she did feel entitled to answers. The more she’d thought about it, the more she realised the kiss was not a mistake; it had translated her jumbled mass of feelings into something clear and concrete she could understand: She liked Xavier, like really liked him. Xavier. The thought of him, of the way his hands had touched her as they’d kissed, the sensation of his lips on hers, the intimate heat radiating between their bodies made her heart beat faster all over again. She had to know for her own sake, for her own sanity, where they stood. And if she was completely honest with herself, she wanted to be in his arms again.
His front door was open. The latch was on as though he’d stepped outside for a moment to put the rubbish out or something, but he was nowhere in sight.
“Xavier?”
She went inside.
“Xavier?”
The door next to the living room that was always locked opened. Something rushed out and aimed straight for her. Rochelle gasped and tried to step away but the creature was too fast. Its paws reached up to her, its tongue lolling.
Mindy. It was Mindy. Relieved, Rochelle hugged the dog and fondled its ears.
“Where are the lights?” she wondered aloud, half talking to Mindy. If it was anything like her house, the light switch would be… She traced the wall on the right side of the front door in the darkness. Here. Light streamed through the hallway.
“Where’s your owner?” she asked. Probably in the room Mindy had run out from. She opened the door. She’d finally get to see what was behind it.
Steps. Leading downwards. So this was the basement? Her house didn’t have a basement so this was new territory for her. She had no idea where the light switch was. It wasn’t to the side of the door or hanging as a chord.
If she left the door open, the light from the hallway would at least guide her part of the way.
Some of the steps creaked as she went down them. This time, Mindy didn’t seem to want to go back. Surely it was a bad sign if a dog didn’t want to go down there? She pushed the thought aside.
“Xavier, are you down here?” she called. Only silence answered.
The final step. Now, she was in the basement.
It was a large room, like a bedroom. The wall-mounted lights were switched on but they were dim. In their soft glow, Rochelle could see a hardback book resting on the bedside table next to a bed. Like everything in Xavier’s house, it was immaculately made, with large, fluffy, white pillows and a duvet that rose like freshly-baked bread. The wife in the basement rumour pierced through to her conscious thoughts. She pushed it back. It was nonsense…wasn’t it?
A dull, metallic glint to the left of the room caught her eye. Manacles. Large manacles, attached to thick, dark chains. In the wall where the chains were secured were angry gashes, like something had been so desperate to escape it had scratched into the plaster. And was that a stain of blood on the wall?
Rochelle recoiled, horrified. Her blood ran cold. For a moment, it felt as though her heart had stopped. She turned to leave and then she saw him.
“Xavier” Idiot! Why say his name when she could have escaped undetected? He l
ooked up.
He was sitting in an armchair on the far side of the room, wrapped in a blanket. There was a bowl of soup next to him on the table under the lamp, though he didn’t seem to have touched it.
He looked like Xavier, like the way he had when he’d brushed the hair away from her face and his fingertips had danced along her cheek. Part of her wanted to stay and listen to his explanation. The manacles belonged to the former occupant. Of course… But the part of her that wanted to run screaming from the house didn’t believe that for a moment. How would an elderly woman make such deep gashes in the wall?