by Leick, Hera
"God, I thought you'd never get here. Nice outfit. Didn't know wrinkled is the new look for July."
I yawn. "Sorry, I had a late night."
"Is that what they’re calling multi-hour sex marathons these days? Your shirt is inside out."
I glance down. "Crap. Why are you in such a bad mood?"
"Oh God, I'm sorry, I haven’t gotten laid in six weeks and three days and I'm just jealous of you and your perfect sexy boyfriend that still hasn't moved Victory, by the way. Although I can't say that it's hurting you any." He opens a binder and slides an envelope to me. "Two more sold this week, including Pleco."
"Really?" I open the envelope and check the amount on the checks inside. "That one was practically growing mould."
"Really," Steffen assures. "Victory has a SOLD tag hanging on it, people see that it's in demand, that you're in demand, and suddenly you're the new hot artist on the scene and everyone wants a piece of you. It's like, the basis for our entire society. Do you think people actually want iPhones and flashy white SUVs and velour tracksuits? Hello. We want to have what everyone else does—I don't. I just want your boyfriend, is he queer yet?"
I drop my hands to my lap and think for a moment. "This is really happening."
"What is?"
"Everything." I look at him. "Everything in my life is suddenly really not sucking. I can't remember a time when everything just seemed to work in my favour." I squirm in my seat. "I wonder how long it will last."
"Stop with the negative. Can you just enjoy your success and your sickeningly happy relationship without thinking that everything's going to fall to shit?"
"That's the thing. Everything in my life usually does fall to crap eventually."
"Please. Cut. The stupid bullshit." He grabs my hand. "Adelaide, I know you've had a lot of crap happen to you. I saw your relationship with that. . . creature, crash and burn and you trying to dig your way out of that. Please stop thinking all of these good things happening to you is the exception and not the rule."
I sigh. "I know you're right, but I don't want to listen because it puts me out of my comfort zone."
"At least you're honest."
I pull my latte cup over and take a sip when I notice the familiar petite woman pop in the front door, carrying a briefcase. I wave her over. “Camilla. Hey."
“Adelaide, it’s good to see you.” Camilla smiles at Steffen and pulls up a chair. "Hi. I'm Camilla."
Steffen is utterly enthralled. "Why, hello you little ball of sunshine. Love the Louboutins."
Camilla giggles. "Thank you. I have to wear heels all the time or else I'm really short. I got the short gene in our family."
"This is Steffen." I gesture to him, internally grumbling that Camilla is dressed to the nines on a Tuesday morning, and I’m wearing last night's clothes with an extra side of wrinkles. "Steffen, this is Camilla. James’ sister."
Steffen leaps like he has just been run through with an electric current. "You're his sister? Oh honey, style runs in your family." I groan. Steffen is really laying it on thick for his audience, but Camilla looks rather flattered as she smoothes her hair down. Steffen continues. "If you don't mind me asking, babe, I know this one here and your brother have a thing going, but growing up, did he leave any hint or suggestion that he might—how do I put this. . .? Prefer lollies to donuts, if you catch my meaning?"
I sink my head to the table, wishing a bottomless pit would suddenly open in the middle of the floor so I can chuck Steffen into it. Or not a bottomless pit; maybe a pit filled with church ladies and polyester clothing. Yes, that would be more like Steffen's version of Hell.
Camilla starts giggling uncontrollably. "Um, I don't mind you asking, and no, I don't think so. I found a porn folder on his computer once, and there was no, uh, lolly-loving in it. Well, actually there was, but it was donuts that loved the lollies. And some donuts that loved other donuts. But nothing that was lolly only. Sorry, I think."
Steffen frowns. "That was my last attempt. I give up. I'll find some other straight guy to convert. Ladies, enjoy your lunch. Adelaide, I'll see you later. We need something to fill the blank wall. And just between you and me and Little Miss Alexander McQueen here, some other gallery is going to call and ask for one of your works to hang."
"Which other gallery?"
"One that has fake foetuses in jars. I'll tell them you're out of London."
"Thanks, Steffen."
Camilla is smiling at me. "Fake foetuses?"
I nod. "I’m considering giving one to Preston for Christmas since he loved my painting so much that he gave it to James. Anyway,” I say, opening my bag and pull out a sketchpad. “Here's what I threw together from what you sent me. I haven’t started working on the story yet, I just want to see what you thought of the design before I go crazy." I spread some loose pages out, head sketches of a long-lashed girl wearing a crown.
Camilla studies them for a long time. "These are beautiful," she says. "But a little too happy. She’s smiling in most of them."
"I can fix that. You're going to keep the ending to the story? The princess is still waiting in her palace on the moon for her prince to return? All the princesses of her court fade away and turn into jewels? It's kind of sad for a children's book, don't you think?"
Camilla never takes her eyes off the pad. "That's all I can see right now, for her and him, and the other princesses. Maybe they haven't told me their whole story yet, but maybe they will. And then I'll write it for them." She finally looks up. "I know that sounds a little mad, but these stories, it's like I don't really write them, you know? I see parts of the story and then I report them. Sorry, I know I sound like a lunatic."
I cross my arms and lean across the table. "Then I'm mad too, because I know exactly what you mean."
"Is that how you felt when you made that big painting? The one that my brother bought?"
"Yes."
"Then you do know what I mean." Camilla sighs and settles back in her chair. "So what were you up to last night? Your shirt is inside out."
I receive a text message right as I step through the doors of The Coffee Hole. He never uses any shortcuts, I think to myself, sipping my takeout coffee.
James: Are you busy? xxx
Me: Busy drinking. Wud u like sum lovin? x
James: Hell yeah. I’ve had a beast of a day. xxx
Ah, that meant that deal or merger or whatever he was stressing about had gone flawlessly. He will be in a much better mood for at least a couple of days. Maybe he’ll even take a day off.
I accumulate some stares on the way to the financial district, but that really can’t be helped. Everyone else is wearing some variation of the same suit and tie, and walking really fast. They shoot me dirty looks when I stop to snap a picture of some interesting graffiti that someone had scrawled on a bus shelter.
His company's building is one of the newest and tallest in Canary Wharf. The lobby is crowded with suits, running back and forth, barking into mobile phones or tapping away on them. It actually has a lot of potential, I think, as I wait for the glass lift. There is at least forty feet to the ceiling of the lobby, and the bare black marble walls call for something more than the ugly brass and stone fountain sitting in the middle. Maybe one day I can come down and sketch it out, find something else to do with the huge expanses of bare wall.
James’ office door is shut and the blinds are closed. "Hi," I say to James’ secretary, Diana. Nice enough woman in her early forties with pretty auburn hair, but she never remembers my name.
"Hello Mi. . . Miss. Is Mr Hatter expecting you?"
"Yep." I never break stride. "Is he in with anyone?"
"No he's not, but—"
I ignore her and knock. "It's me," I call, letting myself in.
James is seated at his wide Italian office desk, his suit jacket and tie thrown across one of the black leather sofas.
"Hey you." The weight that has been burdening on his shoulders in the last two weeks seems to have evaporated. "
Your shirt's inside out."
"Yes I know. Don't get up," I tell him, crossing the space and coming round to his side of the desk. I bend down and kiss him lightly. "Guess you had a pretty good day."
"You could say that." He isn’t exactly smiling, not yet, but I have a plan for that. "We should celebrate. Want a drink?"
I hoist myself onto his desk directly in front of him, undoing the first two buttons of my white cotton top. I part my knees a bit and start swinging my legs. "Not yet. I’m thinking of another way to celebrate." He reaches out and starts rubbing one of my knees. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.
"Like, going to my parents' house in Berkshire this weekend? Great idea."
I kick at him. "No, you're forcing me to do that anyway. Take another guess."
He puts one hand behind his head and reaches underneath my skirt to stroke my thigh, his pupils darkening. A ribbon of longing unfurls deep inside of me and I place my feet on the arms of his chair.
"What do you have in mind, love?" I hitch up and pull my knickers down my legs in one smooth motion. His stare is so intense it’s practically burning my flesh. "What else?"
My body turns away from him as I sink down onto his lap with my back facing him. "First, you can kiss me," I whisper, reaching back to grab the back of his head while I rub my cheek against his. He bends his head and crushes his lips against mine, the heat starting to run through my body, settling in my chest and between my legs.
"Did you lock the door?" he breathes raggedly, yanking my skirt up and stroking at my centre. I gasp and nod, working at the difficult task of unbuckling his belt while facing away from him. He makes a noise like a husky growl and goes to work at my neck, moving my hair round to the front to suck on more of my skin. Finally, I’m able to free him from the buckles and buttons, and after a second of adjusting, slide down—
The door bursts open and Diana enters the room just as James enters me.
I sit up as James shoves the chair almost flushed with the desk, so that hopefully Diana will see nothing more than me innocently sitting on his lap behind the desk. Thankfully, we are both fully clothed, at least from the waist up.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but you asked for these." She places a file folder on the desk in front of me.
"Thank. . . you . . .” James murmurs. I can tell he’s trying to keep his breathing regular. I smile at the other woman who seems a little suspicious, but still clueless.
"Thanks, Diana," I chirp, and at the same time, tighten, so that I’m squeezing him. I hear a soft gasp escape his lips, and a ripple of pleasure shoots through me as he shifts inside me slightly. "Can you do me a favour?" I ask Diana.
"Yes, of course." I start flexing again and feel James’ cock go haywire.
"Can you lock the door behind you?"
"Of course." She makes a hasty exit, the door clicking shut behind her.
James reaches up and turns my face so that I’m looking directly into his heavy-lidded eyes. "That wasn’t nice," he rasps in a ragged breath and then suddenly thrusts hard into me as punishment.
"Which part?" I say innocently, rising up a few inches and then sinking down in return. He shoves me off abruptly, accidentally using a bit too much force, and stands, bending me over the desk, face down.
"All of it," he rasps, thrusting himself even harder inside of me. I bury my scream in my arm as he grips my hips and starts rocking. "But especially when you forgot to lock the door, you bad, bad girl."
15
Queen
“I SWEAR I’D locked the door," I insist for probably the tenth or eleventh time since we’d started this conversation.
I reach over and turn the air conditioning off. James seems to exist in some bizarro world where freezing to death is fun.
He presses some buttons to pull the windows down as he drives. "You're not going to convince me easily. Diana came right in without breaking and entering."
"Maybe she McGuyvered something without you knowing." He’s giving me a look. "Okay fine, I forgot to lock the frigging door. I couldn’t help it. You were in a good mood and I was horny, I’d just sold two paintings in one day, which beat my previous record of one." I slouch down in my seat and enjoy the wind in my hair against the soft heat of July. He reaches over and strokes my hair.
"I don't blame you. Have you seen my body lately? I’m benching nearly twice my body weight."
I move my head into his hand and bite him lightly on the finger. "It’s the only reason I’m with you. Are we there yet?"
"Definitely not. Unless my parents sold their house and now live next to the. . . Bob’s Burgers and Chips trailer."
"I hear that's a hot real estate these days," I joke. "That burger place is next to an emergency call box." I pull an elastic band off my wrist and tie my hair back. "Okay, you promised you'd brief me before we get there. Now's the chance."
"What’d you want to know? You've met my sister. She’s the weirdest one we have."
"Tell me everything. I warned you about my family."
I had brought James home to St Albans last weekend, giving him the heads up that he would probably be exposed to cheap beer, burnt apple pie, and probably a fight or two. The beer was slightly better this year, but my mum’s pie was so dry, it was like taking a mouthful of burnt crackers. And the fight was actually between Bailey and I over who had fed the dog too much ham. Poor Dormouse had vomited, spectacularly, Preston-style, all over the dining-room carpet.
"Your family was fine."
"Yeah, that's because you watched football the entire time with my drunk uncles and they didn’t know—" I stop myself.
"Didn't know. . . what?"
I’d almost blurted ‘how much money you have’.
I had instructed James to park his car round the corner and had kept the description about his occupation intentionally vague. If they’d known, first of all, my mother would have started grilling me, and my father would have been stupidly nice to James instead of shooting dark looks whenever James touched me. And if the drunk uncles had gotten a hint. . .
I change tracks. "That their darling niece is bonking you every chance she gets."
The corners of his mouth lift. "And that she’s kinky as hell and gets off on my secretary watching me fuck her."
"Jeez, cut me a break, already."
I try to keep my cool as we arrive at his parents' house, but I can’t stop my jaw from dropping as we turn up the driveway—a misnomer, since it really is practically a road—and catch sight of what can only be described as a mansion, resting between budding trees on an estate, the size of my entire neighbourhood back home. Chloe had tried to prepare me by showing me Google Earth images, but seeing the house in person, as opposed to a sixteen-inch computer screen, is a very different experience.
And, again, I start to get very nervous.
Camilla is waiting outside, waving us over. She’s wearing white jeans and a light pink top, but no shoes. She jogs up and opens the passenger door and practically drags me out by an arm.
"Oh my God, finally you guys. What took you so long?"
"Are we late?" I ask. This is unusual. James was probably on time to his own birth, down to the second.
"No no, I was just bored waiting for you. Preston's been on the phone the entire time because God forbid he actually took a day off, and I've been sitting around making small talk with my Aunt Catherine and she is kind of a bitch. And not really my aunt. She is my dad's cousin and is really into psychics right now and I just can't handle that. Come with me, Adelaide."
When we reach the foyer I stop dead in my tracks, my eyes darting around, unsure of what to settle on and admire first: the sweeping staircase; the absolutely insane chandelier; the marble lining the walls; the mirrors that stretch to the cathedral ceiling; or the pillows and candelabras and the sculptures set in alcoves. All of it together makes me feel like I should have been charged admission to enter this place.
This can’t be someone's home. Homes have carpet that still
have marker stains ground into its fibres from a toddler self-portrait, and mail cluttering the counters, and pot holders that don’t match, and stacks of magazines hiding under the coffee table. I remember now that my father's favourite recliner is patched together with duct tape.
"Mother," Camilla greets.
An older woman enters the room, pale and blonde, wearing pearls against her cardigan set and carrying a half-empty wine glass. She stops when she notices me standing there, gawking with my mouth open.
"Hello dear."
"Hi," I murmur.
I don’t know what to do with my hands. I clasp them and hold them together in front of my waist before remembering how freaking stupid that looks, then drop them to my sides, which doesn’t seem right either, and then smooth my hair down and immediately regret indulging in such a vain, nervous motion.
Camilla grabs my elbow and pushes me forward. "Mother, this is Adelaide. You get to finally meet her.” Camilla turns and smiles. “Adelaide, this is our mother."
The older woman places her wine glass down and extends her hand. It’s cold to the touch. "Pleasure to meet you, finally."
"You too."
She is slim and tall; her hair trimmed neatly at the jawline, and her face is smooth save for a few lines, and glowing. Her clothes are simple but every part of her is polished. No hair strays out of place, her makeup is perfect, eyebrows neatly groomed, nails manicured. She turns to her daughter.
"Where is James, dear?"
"Parking," Camilla replies. "Mother, she is an artist, remember? Preston and I have a couple of her pieces."
"Oh how nice." Her piercing blue eyes never leave mine. I look at the floor and try to keep the blush from creeping up my neck. "Everything in their collection is so nice. Except there is one picture, in the bathroom I think, it clashes horribly and it is very disturbing. Very unfortunate."
Camilla coughs. I swallow and try to keep from running out of the house—palace. "Um, that one is mine. Unfortunately. Sorry."
Mrs Hatter has the good manners to look guilty. "Oh dear, I apologise."
I force out a fake laugh. "Thanks—no sorry I mean it's no big—"