by Ashe Barker
“I need…”
“Okay. Can you manage?”
I nod. Letting him undress me last night was bad enough, but he caught me at a weak moment. I’m not about to let him take me to the loo. I may feel like death warmed up but I’ve had a decent night’s sleep, I’m thinking straight now. More or less.
Matt stands up to allow me to wriggle out from under the duvet, and I make my unsteady way across the room. When I come back into the bedroom he’s still here, this time wearing his suit jacket. I cast a quick glance over him, suited and booted and ready to do serious business. He looks sharp, smart, and incredibly sexy and he’s clearly about to leave. Probably just as well—sharp, smart, sexy men are way out of my league at the best of times. I shuffle back in the direction of the bed, and he turns back the duvet for me to clamber in.
“You remember what Sue said. You need to rest, eat, and take your medicine. So stay there, right.”
I don’t take any persuading and settle myself back under the quilt.
“If you fancy having a shower later on then feel free. Or there’s bath if you prefer that. I’ve left you a jug of fresh water, and your next dose of antibiotics is due at four this afternoon. I’ll see you later.”
“Thanks. I, Matt…” My voice trails off as I’m not sure just what I wanted to say. Thank you doesn’t really cut it.
Matt winks at me from the doorway. “Be good.”
And he’s gone.
* * *
I sleep solidly for the next six hours. I wake needing the toilet again, but feeling marginally more human. The effect of the painkillers no doubt. I do what’s necessary and climb back into bed. The next time I awaken it’s time for my next antibiotic so I take another tablet, follow it up with another dose of soluble paracetamol, and suitably fortified head for the shower.
The spray feels quite divine cascading down my bare back. I’ve become unaccustomed to such luxury—unlimited hot water and no one banging on the door demanding their turn. I stay in there long after the grime and stink accumulated during weeks on the street have been swilled down the plughole. I use the shower gel for my body and my hair—it’s all the same stuff after all, surely. I can’t find any hair conditioner, but I’m delighted just to be clean for once. I wrap myself in a large, thick towel, another opportunity for pampering, and make my way back to the bed. This time I don’t get in though. Instead I drag my holdall out from underneath the bed and rummage around in it for my comb. It’s one I’ve had for years, one of the few possessions I still retain from before.
Before I was homeless, that is. Before I lived on the streets, relying on charity and my not especially sharp wits to survive. This lump of deep pink plastic used to grace my dressing table, its wide teeth perfect for my thick mane of unruly hair. Now I sit on the edge of my bed, correction, Matt Logan’s spare bed, and take my time working the comb through my wet locks, teasing out weeks’ worth of tangles. Conditioner would have helped. Perhaps Matt has some. I’ll ask him. Later.
My gaze falls on the thermal cup which Matt said contained soup. It is untouched, still where he left it. I expect the contents are cold by now, but I’m hungry so even tepid tomato soup would be welcome. I’m not choosy. I unscrew the lid, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find the soup still considerably better than lukewarm. Certainly palatable. I drink the lot, and realise I did it a disservice. That was perhaps the most delicious, most welcome meal I’ve had in ages. Maybe ever. The flavour permeates my ragged senses, soothing and warming, sliding past my inflamed throat to settle in a comforting pool in my empty stomach. I lie back on the bed, still only loosely wrapped in the fluffy towel, and enjoy the sensation of being full as I stare at the ceiling.
This is the first time I’ve properly taken stock of my new surroundings, awake and in daylight. I look around me, taking in the mottled pale lilac pattern on the carpet and the curtains which seem to match. Come to think of it, so does the duvet cover. Very tasteful and coordinated. The furniture is minimalist, just a single wardrobe and small dressing table against the opposite wall. The bedside table is actually a small chest of drawers. On impulse I open the top one. It is empty, same with the two below it. I pad over to the wardrobe and find that similarly devoid of any personal items. Apart from my own tatty possessions there is no evidence of anyone else ever having occupied this room, though the place is scrupulously clean and I recall the bed was already made up when we arrived last night. Matt brought me straight in here and put me to bed. There was no fussing about finding sheets or a spare duvet. Maybe he was expecting a guest. Another item to add to the list of questions I should ask him.
Now though, I am exhausted. The effort of taking a shower, drinking my soup and crossing the bedroom twice has wiped me out. I’m starting to shiver despite the central heating. I retrieve Matt’s T-shirt from where I left it hanging on the inside of the door to the en suite and tug it over my head. I notice the garment falls nearly to my knees as I climb back into bed. That’s the last thing I remember before I drift off to sleep
* * *
I’m awakened next by the sound of a door closing, then footsteps. I stiffen, momentarily startled, then remember where I am and that Matt must be home. Sure enough, a few seconds later the door opens and he pops his head around.
“Are you awake?” His tone is low, so as not to rouse me if I am asleep, I daresay.
“Yes. How did the meeting go?” I push myself into a sitting position as he comes into the room, shoving a handful of dark blonde curls out of my eyes. The texture is soft and light, such a change from the usual lank fall, and it’s a treat to see my normal, natural colour emerge undimmed from beneath the off-grey coating of dust, pollution and grease it usually wears.
“Fine. Got the deal all tied up. You’re looking better. How do you feel?”
I nod. “Yes, better. The antibiotics are kicking in I think. And I had a shower.”
“I can see that. Did you find everything you needed?” He perches on the edge of my bed and shrugs out of his suit jacket. He drapes that over my knees as he loosens his tie. Even with my still sore throat I can’t help but notice my mouth has gone dry. He has an opposite effect on my pussy.
Oh. My. God! Where is this coming from?
“Er, yes… Everything. Except conditioner.”
“Conditioner?”
“For my hair.”
“Ah, right. I’ll get you some. Did you take your medication this afternoon?”
I nod. “Is it time for the next lot yet?”
“No. Not till midnight or thereabouts. It’s not nine o’clock yet.”
“Oh. Have you been at work all this time?”
“Not all of it. We finished this afternoon then went for a meal, and a few drinks. By way of celebration.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Which reminds me, I brought you something. I hope you like Chinese.”
“Chinese? You brought me a take away?”
“Of course. If you want it. I thought noodles would be good for your sore throat. No sharp edges…”
My stomach growls and I look up at him, embarrassed. The truth is, I’m famished. “That sounds wonderful. Shall I get up?”
His cobalt eyes crinkle ever so slightly at the outer edges as he smiles at me, an expression that would melt the polar icecap. Who needs global warming? “No need. Stay there and I’ll bring it in here on a tray.” He stands and makes for the door.
I use the time he’s away to rush to the loo again, and I’m just getting back into bed as he returns with the food. The metal foil containers are arranged on a tray, noodles with beansprouts and sliced onions, and two smaller ones containing meaty, spicy concoctions.
“There’s a beef thing, and a chicken thing. I hope you’re not vegetarian.”
I shake my head. I’m an omnivore, through and through, and my previously dry mouth is now making up for its earlier arid state. The aromas are delightful, utterly divine.
“Y
ou tuck in then. I’ll come back later for the empties.”
“Don’t you…? I mean, aren’t you eating?”
“I ate earlier, remember.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I…”
“You want me to stay?”
I nod. He doesn’t even have to talk to me, just to be there for me to ogle would be fine. Naturally I don’t say any of that.
Matt settles himself on the end of my bed. There’s nowhere else he could sit, come to think of it. He gestures to the food, still untouched despite the mouth-watering smells. “Dig in.”
I do as I’m told, and for the next few minutes neither of us speaks. I occupy my time scooping noodles onto the spare plate he supplied and piling first the beef then the chicken onto it. The spicy flavours are an explosion against my tongue after weeks on a diet which varied between bland and non-existent. Even the slurping sounds I make as I suck stray noodles through my lips don’t put me off. The soup earlier was heavenly, but this is better.
At last I glance up from my food to catch Matt’s amused grin. It’s alright for him, Mister Three Square Meals a Day. I just shrug and return to my plate.
Eventually there is nothing left. My stomach feels like it could burst. I’m sure he bought enough for a family of four but I guzzled the lot—the ingrained habit of someone who is not entirely sure where the next meal might come from so leaves nothing.
“I’m guessing you like Chinese then?” He lifts the tray from across my lap and places it on the floor.
“I do. Thank you.” I wipe my mouth with the clean-up towel so thoughtfully supplied in a little plastic sachet. “You’ve been very kind. I… I don’t think I could have…”
He raises his hand to stop the flow of words. “You’re welcome, Beth. I’m just glad I spotted you sneaking into the car park.”
Me too. I’m only now beginning to appreciate how likely it is that by the time anyone else saw me I would have been a cold, still corpse. Matt saved me. I have no idea why, but he did. And I need to say something, anything, in acknowledgement.
“Thank you. For helping me. Not many people would have done that.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“I know. You were going to just throw me out again.”
He nods, his smile wry now.
“So why didn’t you? What made you change your mind?”
“You collapsed in my arms. I couldn’t dump you after that.”
“You could have called an ambulance. That’s what most people would have done.”
“I thought about it.”
“But?”
“But here you are instead.” He shrugs again. “The hardest part was putting you in my Range Rover. Then when we got back here I intended to let you stay for just one night. By the time Sue said you couldn’t go back on the streets until you were well, you were tucked up in my spare room and I thought you might as well stay here. I have the space, and at that time I was still under the impression you wouldn’t eat much.” He eyes the empty tray at his feet. “I can see I was wrong about that.”
“Am I in your way? Just say if I am and I’ll leave; I’ll find somewhere.”
“You’re not in the way.”
“Well I’ll just stay in here, and…”
“No you won’t. When you’re well enough feel free to use the kitchen. Help yourself to food. Watch television, listen to music, whatever. It’s a large apartment and I like my home comforts, but I’m hardly ever here. Most of the time you’ll have the place to yourself and I want you to make yourself at home.”
“I can’t do that. I can’t just wander around, even if you’re not in. For one thing I don’t have any clothes.”
“I’ll lend you some stuff. More T-shirts. I don’t think my jeans will fit you though.”
“Where are my own clothes?” I peer around the room, though I know they aren’t here.
“Packed up to go to the laundry. They’ll be collected tomorrow and be back in few days. Until then you’ll have to make do.
“But I don’t even have any underwear.”
“You didn’t arrive wearing any, as I recall.”
The heat starts at my neck and rises up my face as I recall the peremptory way he undressed me last night. He stripped me naked, seemingly noted that I didn’t have any knickers on, but was so little impressed he just covered me in his T-shirt and put me to bed. I was right. Out of my league. Totally.
“I’ll sort out some stuff for you to wear, and I’ll make sure there’s food in the fridge. When I’m here, I’ll cook for you, but most of the time you’ll have to look after yourself. I’ll leave you my mobile number, just in case. And Sue’s.”
“Right. Okay. Well, maybe I could help out a bit. Clean up, or… something.”
“No need for that. I have contract cleaners who come in every week. You’re a guest, and you’re ill so just take it easy.” He cocks his head to one side, regarding me with concern. “Talking of which, you look knackered again.”
I yawn, conscious suddenly of the crippling fatigue which seems to arrive out of nowhere just now. “I am tired. Maybe I’ll just…”
“Good idea. I’ll wake you when it’s time for your next slug of penicillin or whatever that stuff is.”
I cough at him as he bends to collect the discarded tray. I’m already drifting off to sleep again.
Chapter Three
The next few days are uneventful, unless you count the appearance in my room of an entire new wardrobe. It started when I found a Marks and Spencer bag on my dressing table on Monday morning, my third day here. Inside were half a dozen pairs of knickers. Brand new ones, sexy, lacy creations. Not the serviceable sort that the shelters for the homeless occasionally issue, but I don’t suppose Matt Logan ever purchased a pair of serviceable knickers in his life. Why should he start now?
Next came two pairs of jeans, this time from Next. Matt came home on Monday evening with the carrier bag, which also contained a six pack of ladies socks, a large bottle of hair conditioner and a box of tampons. I hadn’t mentioned needing the last items, but somehow Matt knew and provided them.
The socks are more practical than the knickers, extra warm with thermal fibres. Matt knows the way to my heart, though I doubt that is his planned destination. He hasn’t said or done anything in the least suggestive during the entire time I’ve been here. I feel more than a little ashamed of my initial suspicions regarding his motives in bringing me to his apartment.
I thanked him for the jeans, expecting them to be a size or two on the large side as my old clothes that he sent to the laundry were. Not so. Size ten, a perfect fit. It’s been a long time since I had clothing I actually loved to wear, but my sexy panties and skinny jeans are a joy. Even if they are almost completely covered up by Matt’s T-shirts.
By Wednesday I have tops of my own, also in a size ten, two warm sweaters and a pair of trainers. I’m still without bras, but have no intention of mentioning this - he’s already been more generous than I could have imagined.
Matt’s clothes are now just for sleepwear, but they still get plenty of use. I sleep a lot, take a shower each day, and help myself to the microwave meals which seem to keep appearing as if by magic in Matt’s fridge.
He wasn’t kidding when he told me he wouldn’t be here much. He tends to be gone by seven in the morning and is often not back until late in the evening. He always wears sharp business suits, which he fills to perfection. His shirts are pristine, and invariably he chooses blue ties to match his eyes. His hair is dark, almost black, and never out of place. It is expertly styled I suspect so that whatever the wind does it always falls back where it should be. I may be biased, but to me he is perfection on legs, a gorgeous specimen of male beauty. I’ve never seen him looking less than perfectly groomed, the contrast between us startling at times.
Even so, I enjoy his company when he is here, and he seems to like mine. He always asks how I’m feeling, and once my course of antibiotics
was completed he started offering me a glass of red wine most evenings. We sit together, on his long black leather sofa. Matt watches the news on television, and I watch him. We both sip our wine and the silence is companionable.
Matt likes books. He has lots of them, in every room except mine. His tastes range from bestsellers by the likes of Clive Cussler and Andy NcNabb, to autobiographies and the classics. Dickens, Shakespeare, even Jane Austen. His non-fiction tends to be scientific, and in answer to my query he explains that he studied environmental sciences at university and now works for a firm specialising in renewable energy research so he likes to keep up with the current thinking. He assures me he has read all his books, or most of them at least, and for the best in fiction he recommends I try the Brontes.
Much to my amazement, I am now a third of the way through Jane Eyre, and loving it.
It’s been ten days since that night Matt scooped me up from the underground car park in Leeds and brought me here. Ten days in which I have slept for twelve hours in every twenty four, eaten enough to nourish a small army, made free with his hot water, his toiletries, his CD collection and his satellite television, and gradually recovered my health.
Doctor Sue called in this morning and did a final check. She says I’m fine again now, though she doesn’t really recommend sleeping rough as a healthy lifestyle choice. Unfortunately I’m short of other options, and however comfortable I might be feeling here, it’s time to be moving on. Matt offered me temporary respite, not a permanent home. I’m not eager to leave, but I resolve to raise the matter with him this evening, when he gets back.
Except he doesn’t come home. It’s after midnight when I finally give in and go to bed, and still there’s no sign of him. I know he’s a big lad, and it’s really none of my business, but I’m disappointed not to see him and perhaps a little worried, but more than anything I’m relieved to be able to put off the conversation for another day.