And Catherine joined her in hearty laughter.
“Anything he can do, I can do better,” Catherine cracked.
“Well… guess it’s truth or dare evening over at Catherine’s house,” Nancy suggested. “Truth from me? I’ve had the fantasies too… of being with women too. Just never been in a position or bothered to act on it.”
“So happy Nance… so happy you understand.”
They’d sat down in the open plan lounge.
“No… Thank you for trusting me. Why not show me a pic of this lucky girl. She’s not about to come through the door and scratch my eyes out?”
Catherine was jubilant, euphoric to have the burden off her shoulders. If she could play this right with Jacky, the three of them could become friends. Catherine obliged Nancy’s request and went upstairs to get her iPad with lots of pics.
As she reached the threshold of her darkened bedroom she hesitated, suddenly afraid to leave the light and Nancy’s presence.
“Ridiculous!” She admonished herself and resisted the urge to snap a light on. She crossed the shadow-drenched room by the light of the full moon streaming through the window. The room was peaceful, devoid of any negative impulse.
The battery on her iPad had recovered to thirty percent so she unplugged it and made her way back to the lit stairway.
“How much time have you got?” She called, descending the marble steps.
“All night. You’ve must have a lot of pics.”
Nancy detected a hint of plea in Catherine’s voice—the poor girl still rattled and wanting to stretch company
Catherine laughed.
Nancy knew it didn’t matter how late she’d get to bed, her only commitment the next day would be to Ken, and, in the Moscow time zone, he’d be asleep well into her afternoon. She had anticipated an all-nighter and had organized Jo, the security administrator to cover for her.
“She looks lovely. What’s her name?” Catherine took the liberty of flicking on into the album.
“Jacky….” There was affection in Catherine’s voice.
“Are these modelling shots?” The photos looked too professional to be snaps.
“Yes—pics of pics in her book. She used to dabble… now she’s on air-crew so there’s no more time.”
“Well that explains how you can have me to dinner,” Nancy winked. “How long’s she away for?”
“Till Thursday morning. She’s not really jealous… well… no more than a man would be.”
“A man would be jealous of me visiting his girlfriend?” Nancy poked fun.
“True,” Catherine conceded. “But then, they are rather naïve, aren’t they?”
They laughed a lot more as they flipped onward through the albums, some photographs of Catherine’s former male lovers.
“Jacky doesn’t mind this?” Nancy inquired.
“That they’re men? Or that they’re in the book?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“She’s also had boyfriends before, so there’s no room for complaint. In fact, she never had gay inclinations; they only came dealing with a situation with a photographer. She really doesn’t like men much. She’s got a real issue.”
“It’s sad.”
“And you…? Got a love of your life?”
“Alas… lost.”
“Oh dear.”
“Years ago… I’m well over it. Drunk driver.”
“Oooh, no,” Catherine grimaced, “the other evening?”
“Uh-huh… bad girl. You gotta stop that nonsense.”
“Sorry mom… I really don’t do it much, was just the company.”
“Enough of that already… You were going to tell me about her lack of jealousy… All these pics of lovers, and, shewee girl, you have some taste!”
“She doesn’t mind the pics they make me who I am, she says.”
“Mature… good. Nothing worse than a skeleton in a cupboard; it begs for blackmail.”
Nancy’s sober words catalyzed Catherine’s mind; she had to make it right with Jacky, she had to come clean about Ken. She’d make it her first priority come Thursday.
Whatever the consequences, she thought, …they can’t exceed having a man like Ken holding a gun to my head.
She told Nancy of her intentions;
“I didn’t mean it as a judgment.”
“I didn’t take it as one, Nance.”
“How will she take it?”
“Honestly… I don’t know. Probably not good… but it can’t be worse than this. I can’t live like this.”
“I’ll be here for you.”
“Thank you,” Catherine rose. “Coffee?”
“Please. I must use your facilities.”
“Straight up the stairs into the bedroom, use the en-suite,” Catherine could just as well have directed Nancy to the guest toilet on the ground floor and closer, but she wanted Nancy to feel like family.
Downstairs alone, she felt comfortable, not a hint of paranoia anymore. “Thank God,” She sighed softly to herself. “The nightmare’s over, it’s over!”
That night the two friends lay together, embracing like sisters; in Catherine and Jacky’s bed.
There’d be no need to tell Jacky about it—it was meaningless. If Jacky asked, she’d not deny it, but there was nothing to report.
She was certain Jacky would see it that way.
Chapter 22
Her nipples were erect buds of desire. The curve of her back as arched, as achingly beautiful as an arch could be. Her carefully trimmed pubis jutted with all the pride that the human form could offer.
Altogether she projected an appeal more alluring than lust could accommodate.
She held the pose of confidence for long seconds; “Just look at me,” her stance exclaimed. It was not an arrogant exclamation, just a self-assured one.
Her audience was three, one by her side and two transfixed by the screen, all leered, spellbound by the visual feast. The man by her side and the man ogling the scene that unfolded on the monitor were the same individual.
The plush hotel room was equipped with a giant flat screen monitor that auto-detected Ken’s MacBook, and wirelessly displayed its bidding.
A betrayal of trust was rolling across the screen.
Ken had his feet up on one armrest, his body stretched across the sofa and his head reclining on the opposite side. During the seven days that divided the event from tonight’s parade, he’d watched the secret recording more times than he could count; it consumed him.
Watching her take pleasure was his fantasy of the moment, a tonic to a flagging libido corroded by chemical abuse. Convincing her into it a stroke of genius enjoyed twice; the event and it’s recording.
Ken had stood the staff down for the event, sowing different assertions, orders and claims into different ears to ensure the operations block was private for just Catherine and himself.
The CCTV was a problem; he couldn’t have any possibility of footage with a naked service provider performing nefarious deeds with him ogling and shooting his own footage, leaking onto the Internet and social media.
“I can’t risk anything into the tabloids, Anton. Just one leaked frame and the press will be all over Saudi Royalty and his concubine in our facility.”
Before leaving that evening, Anton had cancelled the recordings to that sector of the building and physically pulled the plugs on the cameras into the recorder. Ken had watched and rechecked that they were disconnected right before Catherine arrived.
Ken had shot it high definition with his iPhone—it was all he could risk. The footage danced, shook and shuddered from beginning to end; adrenaline an unsteady base.
The re-watching of it had haunted him, waking him early each morning, like a drug, urging him unrelentingly to watch it.
“Ahh… my favorite part,” he pointed.
The girl stared, her eyes bulging, unblinking in disbelief; “This client must be an actor! Look how he appears on the film.”
The girl had rarely
seen a television monitor before; there was only one in her small village in Siberia. Her eyes were glued to the screen, transfixed on the beautiful woman actor who was kneeling naked, this man doing something to her rear end.
What a funny sight for a child to see—it made her giggle.
Ken checked the time; it was nine-fifteen. Jetlag still had its grip on him, he’d wake early again, so he’d limit how much of his obsession he’d watch—just enough to excite the girl.
Tonight he’d sleep well… she was such a pretty little thing, she’d be a great help.
No doubt his slumber would be filled with dreams of Catherine again; Dear, sweet, uncooperative Catherine.
Chapter 23
It was Thursday evening and Catherine’s troubles returned with a vengeance.
Tuesday night she’d slept alongside Nancy with no hint of a problem, and Wednesday afternoon had also been without incident… just for a brief moment alone in the private toilet adjoining her office, she’d suddenly felt a walked-over-my-grave shiver, and then it was gone.
She’d tested the air and there seemed the slightest fleeting whiff of him, “probably just a memory,” she’d mused, a memory and a paranoia; “…toilet spray,” she’d said aloud to herself “…shit smell,” and laughed.
Wednesday night she’d returned home alone and caught up on admin, then slept alone. She was relieved.
Thursday had been without incident.
Jacky was due home by six and Catherine had decided to surprise her with a three course meal and for once cooked it herself.
She’d stolen some hours from work and was home cooking by five o’clock when she heard Jacky.
“Hi Baby… you’re early,” she called, silently cursing the spoilt surprise.
No answer, so she called again.
Nothing.
Battling her worst fears she walked toward the entrance hall where a Roman Centurion was admiring his own image in the mirror.
She dropped the earthenware bowl she was holding and fled back to the kitchen.
A little before six, Jacky came through the door to find shards of pottery and liquid contents spread across the hallway. Her noisy entry prompted a fresh round of terrified sobs from the kitchen.
Catherine was a twitching mass of anguish, beyond tears, her face a swollen red tomato with two pig-eyes too terrified to open.
The doctor shot her up with a maximum dose of benzodiazepines, a potent sedative.
“That’ll take her through till morning,” he assured. “I’d like you to bring her in to the Santa Clara tomorrow, I’ll meet you at psychiatrics, floor 6, around eleven. I’ll need to keep her under observation for a few days I’m afraid.”
He scribbled the details onto a prescription leaflet to ensure that Jacky wouldn’t forget.
“This is important Jacky, she may resist, force her to come.”
Catherine woke at nine on Friday morning.
Both women looked like they’d been in the same scrap, their eyes were similarly puffed, their complexions similarly drawn.
“I don’t need observation Jacks. I’m not nuts! There’s something more than hallucination going on here. You’ve felt it too… Come on… you’ve even smelt him! Christ, I…”
Jacky was at the end of her tether, strung out and explosive; “Smelled WHO?” Jacky cut her off, her tone threatening. She knew something was up, she’d known for weeks, she could feel it.
Catherine startled; “Th… the smell that you’ve smelled… The person.” She hadn’t intended for her confession to be uncovered in this way, she wanted to break it boldly, building up to it with perspective, feeding Jacky information one fact at a time.
Bolts of furry were jagged sparks in Jacky’s eyes; “What-person?” she spat it. “You said him. Who is he? Who is this man?…!”
Catherine was weak, buckled, emotionally destroyed and woozy from the sedative. She was outgunned but she tried to slow and divert the pace of the deteriorating situation; “Jacky, please darling. Please come and sit down, I’ve got something to tell you.”
Catherine’s call for reason was the trigger, and Jacky exploded. Sleepless nights of her own and the sickening suspicions of what she assumed was to come detonated in the most primitive part of her brain.
The more Catherine struggled the deeper she sank into the quicksand of conflict. With every defense she offered, with every context she appealed for, the more devious and sly her position appeared.
When Ken’s name was mentioned into the conversation, Jacky snatched it up and ran; Catherine had slept with him… she’d been sleeping with him for months.
An hour later Catherine was no closer to defending her innocence. She’d admitted to everything that she had done, but Jacky was not interested; “It’s the weakest excuse I’ve ever been insulted with.”
Catherine would not admit to it. Would not admit to the month or more of working late to fuck the guy. Eventually she collapsed from the accusations into a blathering heap, sliding to the floor, crumpled against the skirting board with her will emotionally kicked out of her.
“You are a real stupid little bitch…” it came like a growl, Jacky’s voice as low as a panther in a dark wood. “You think I haven’t seen this all before? Hello…? Darling… I fly with pilots every day of my life… in a different port every night. You think I don’t know every story? That when I’m in the other port you… well…” She stood over Catherine and lashed her with her tongue; “His smell’s on your clothes, his stench in our bed! You’re being stalked! Bullshit! The cover’s blown, baby… he’s in and out of here… in and out of YOU… every time I turn my back!”
With every breakable ornament within reach already hurled across the bedroom, Jacky began throwing personal belongings back into her travel bag.
Catherine was beyond arguing. She lay facing the skirting board, her tear-soaked mat of hair piled over her face, but it was no protection from the merciless tongue that pulverized her;
“Oh yes, dear, there’s not much I don’t know!” Jacky latched the case, snapped the telescopic handle up and made for the door where she paused a moment. “And by the way, slut… a ‘Nancy’ called,” Jacky’s voice was suddenly honey and roses with sarcasm. She said, ‘Why aren’t you at work today, bad girl? And… thanks for dinner Tuesday’,” she laughed; a nasty, cruel and scornful laugh. “…oh, and, ‘you’ll be pleased to know,’ your Nancy said, ‘Ken will be back tomorrow’.”
The door slammed closed for the final time and a deathly silence seeped throughout the house.
The phone rang at ten thirty.
It rang again at eleven.
By eleven thirty Catherine had peeled herself off the floor. She was the living dead, her voice no more than a parched groan, “H… hello.”
The barely human croak triggered Nancy into panic. “Catherine! What’s the matter? Are you all right?”
Nancy careened along the highway, burrowing through traffic snarls and running streetlights; the trip a blur all the way from the office.
Catherine was on the front steps, outside of the house at high noon sitting in her nightgown.
“I’m not going in, Nance. He’s in there.” She was calm, dangerously calm, punch-drunk calm and dumbly accepting whatever fate threw next.
Nancy went through the house in a savage mood; “Show yourself, you bastard! Be anything like a man and show yourself!”
Her challenges bellowed with more than a voice; the sound of it a weapon, a projection of her spirit that bounced off of the cold stone pillars.
Only Ken’s smell remained as testimony to his presence. Nancy’s reconnaissance took her through the scenes of the earlier battle; the bedroom a shambles knee deep in remnants of once beautiful artworks.
Catherine’s bedside table was the only corner of the room not destroyed. It stood out as an island of neatness in an ocean of Bedlam. On it stood the two pill bottles where Nancy had seen them on Tuesday night. One of the bottles was weighing down a leaflet, it beckoned
Nancy’s attention. She picked through the debris and discovered on its page the instructions that the doctor had left.
A few minutes later Nancy came triumphantly out the front door carrying a hastily assembled overnight bag, Catherine was still sitting on the steps, hugging her knees to her chest, gently rocking. “I’ve spoken to Doctor Johnson at the hospital, he’s waiting for us. Come on.”
“I don’t need psychiatric help,” Catherine’s protests were emphatic but trailed to nothing as Nancy took her firmly by the arm and lead her to the car.
With her cargo stowed and buckled in, Nancy returned to lock the house. Curiously it seemed fresh, the scent of spring blossoms on the air.
“You’ll never hurt her again, you bastard. Never!” She shouted into the emptiness of the structure as an oath.
Back in the car and pulling out of the driveway Nancy patted Catherine’s leg. “We’re meeting Leon there,” she reassured. “He knows these things better than anyone.”
Chapter 24
The evening traffic was choking the city’s arteries and Nancy was in Leon’s car.
As they joined the river of steel snaking its way homeward for the weekend, they’d both accepted that this would be a frustrating crawl.
“Ken’s back tomorrow, there’s a lot we should talk about before we see him. Is there any chance for us to have dinner tonight?” Nancy had suggested to Leon as they were about to depart the hospital.
“Today is…?” Leon had queried.
“Friday,” Nancy could never be sure whether he was serious about being bamboozled by the task of keeping track of life’s trivia.
“Ah-ha!” Leon had clapped jubilantly, “Not a problem then, not a problem at all. We’ve got a date.”
It had puzzled her that the day of week factored into it; as far as she knew, Leon was a bachelor with a limited social life. It seemed unlikely that any other day would be more convenient or less so.
She’d just shaken her head and chuckled; “It’s almost five, perhaps we go in one car? It’s not far and the traffic’s horrible.”
Without answering, Leon had been brusquely off, heading for the exit. “C’mon Luv,” He’d called to her in a loud and fake Yorkshire accent. “The train’s bloo’y leav’n.”
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