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Page 45

by Donna Alam


  ‘I didn’t know you’d get serious about him.’ Flo makes serious with Dan sound something dirty. ‘And I assumed you’d know by now. Christ, Lou, I was going to ask if you could get me in next weekend.’

  ‘What’s your plan?’ she asks when silence falls again.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘When can we expect him to arrive on his rescuing steed or should that be spanking horse?’ Flo sniggers a little at her own joke, and even I can’t help but smile this time. It’s all so surreal.

  ‘It’s not likely to happen, considering he doesn’t know where I live.’

  ‘My God. Did the pair of you ever talk between fucking?’

  Not a great deal. And certainly not enough.

  ‘He knows where I work.’

  ‘Surely, you’re not going to leave this until after the weekend? Wait for him to turn up at the office?’ Flo sounds incredulous.

  I shrug, not quite decided, unsure of how this will play out. Other things I’m certain of. Like how decisions made in haste always bite your ass in the cold light of day. I need time to think, to work this all out in my head. Placing the glass down, I stand and pass the iPad back into Flo’s hands.

  ‘I have some thinking to do first.’

  In my cold bedroom, I open my phone to a dozen texts.

  Where are you?

  Please don’t leave like this.

  Please let me explain.

  The final text, sent ten minutes ago, reads, I’m sorry.

  The strangest thing is, so am I. It’s partly my fault things stand as they do. If I hadn’t been so closed off, maybe Dan wouldn’t have felt the need to hide. He said he loved me, and that was true. I feel it in my bones. But the rest? The things he hadn’t told me? What else was fake?

  Because a lie of omission is as damning as any untruth.

  I feel so sorry for myself. Sorry for a lot of things, but mainly, I’m sorry he isn’t here because I ache to be held.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  LOUISE

  ‘Your office still looks like the Chelsea fucking flower show, by the way.’

  On a gloomy Thursday afternoon, Flo collapses into the chair by the window, curling her work-tired legs to the side.

  ‘They’re still fresh?’

  Scowling, Flo nods. ‘And still beautiful. Maybe I should’ve brought some home. Might’ve brightened the place up. The atmosphere in here is like a morgue.’

  I send her a look that says what do you expect?

  ‘Bring some home if you want,’ I reply evenly. I don’t want his flowers here, but can’t help if she does.

  Dan’s reaction surprised me; I’d expected him to turn up at the building on Monday, and he had. He’d been informed I wouldn’t be in for the coming week. The part I hadn’t expected were the flowers preceding his arrival. It didn’t seem like his style. There were enough flowers to fill a hot house, apparently. Along with lengthy texts I’ve refused to read. Except that one time when his words made me cry.

  ‘Do I look like fucking InterFlora?’ she says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I think you’re being cruel. Pick him up or set him down for another line if you’re through.’

  ‘What? Line?’ My mind went immediately to coke for some reason. That’s Flo’s sometime drug of recreation, not mine. As it happens, I’m no longer talking to my drug of choice.

  ‘It’s a fishing metaphor,’ Flo says with an apathetic wave of her hand.

  ‘Well, maybe I will.’ Returning to my paperwork, I whisper one more word. ‘Eventually.’

  ‘And,’ Flo continues, pulling herself straighter in the chair. ‘When are you coming back in? You can’t hide out here forever like some hermit.’

  ‘This isn’t a cave, and I’m not hiding. I had vacation to take.’ And a plan to create. ‘I’ll be back in the office tomorrow.’

  ‘On Friday? Hardly worth it. Why not wait until after the weekend?’

  ‘Come in? Stay away?’ I tease, smiling. ‘Make up your mind. Besides, I’ve a meeting to attend.’

  And I have, but it’s not the kind of meeting I care to discuss.

  ~*~

  Dressing for work the next morning, I’m meticulous. If Flora’s privileged background is her armour, then mine is my work attire. Tasteful and understated, lots of blacks, buff tones, and muted greys. Pencil skirts and blouses, cashmere sweaters, and occasionally, pants. The only suggestion of vibrancy Monday through Friday are my painted toenails, which nobody ever sees, anyway.

  But not today. This morning, my armour is a wrap-dress in ruby red. Nude heels reveal another flash of scarlet from their peep-toe, my legs tanned and bare. I pin up my hair, creating a careless effect, a dozen bobby pins holding together a look that says, I’ve fallen out of bed like this. I keep my makeup light but for opt for lush, red lips.

  Today, I’m a siren, and every man I pass will hear my call.

  I rarely wear heels for work and find as I do so today, as well as slowing my gait and making me late, they also aid my sense of womanly power.

  Mid-morning, I seek out Luke in his office; my heels the cause of my saunter, my swaying hips the effect. Perching my bottom on the edge of a chair next to his, he doesn’t acknowledge my presence until I whisper his name.

  Looking up from his laptop, Luke’s head does an almost comedic double take, though I don’t find any humour in it. Instead, I bring his attention to a sliver of thigh peeking from my dress, then back to my face by ghosting my hand from my leg to my chest. I rest it against my collarbone, clasped lightly there as we chat about this and that. As I lean across his desk to grasp a pen, Luke’s attention becomes a little lost, falling from the path of our conversation, his attention dropping from my face to my breasts . . . travelling further to the parting at my dress.

  I inhale sharply because, believe it or not, the flash of lace between my thighs, though effective, is an accident.

  Sitting back, I pull my dress back into place with an oops for propriety’s sakes. We speak of work for a while longer while I try to gain the courage to raise the topic of this weekend, eventually asking Luke if he has plans. Before he has a chance to answer, I boldly ask him if he’s a member of the Lion’s Den. After all, he was the one who’d instigated our trip to the more public side of the club all that time ago. Asking carries a risk, a bit like exposing myself, but these are both risks I’m willing to take today.

  Disappointment blooms in my chest as Luke says he doesn’t hold a membership. Effort wasted, more plans to be sought. It takes me a moment to realise he’s still speaking. Not a member, he says, but he has visited, recently expressing an interest in joining their membership ranks. He’s confident he can get his hands on a couple of guest passes.

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ He looks a little astonished as he pushes both hands through his hair. ‘You’ve never shown me any interest before. I even asked you out.’

  ‘Well, that was before,’ I say, keeping my eyes on the pen, my stomach twisting as I prepare what to say next. ‘Before I knew you were like me.’ An abomination. Kinky. Fucked up. Take your pick.

  ‘I-I’ll sort my membership today. I really can’t believe it,’ he repeats, pushing his chair back from his desk. ‘The most gorgeous girl in the building likes me, and the way I like to fuck.’

  ‘Slow your roll,’ I reply lightly to conceal the wave of fear rolling through me. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. At least, not until we’re inside.’

  ‘Tell the truth,’ he says, a predatory smile growing. ‘You wouldn’t have mentioned it if you weren’t serious about playing.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I whisper, my eyes sliding from his again. ‘Or maybe I’m just curious.’

  He looks at me, and I just know he’s hoping I mean bi-curious. Some men can be so shallow in their intent. But plan or not, I’m not eating pussy for him. I want to ask what Scott said about last weekend, knowing a man of his ilk would’ve spouted some shit about the hot, freaky Yank and the things he knows. But I don’t ask. It’d just complicate
things.

  Luke says he’ll make a few phone calls, so we set a date for this evening and I move from the chair by his desk with a confident hop. While inside, my heart twists as though tied by Dan’s rope.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  DAN

  Being in the office this week is the only thing that’s kept me sane, even if my sanity seems to be hanging by a thread. I’d suffered the week from hell and had even been told by my bar manager that it looked like I’d had a holiday there. A glance in the mirror as I slip on my suit jacket, and I’d have to agree. But I have to pull my shit together. Today, I have meetings to attend and expansion plans to discuss. But all through the day, the networking and the questions, I know all I’ll be able to focus on is how I let everything go so wrong.

  As Friday evening dawns, I find I can’t bear to be alone.

  On Monday, I’d gone to her office just to be told she wasn’t there and wouldn’t be all week. I’d returned home and pretty much stayed put. Waiting. Because she had to come back, didn’t she? As the week progressed, my anger had grown. I’m angry with myself, obviously, but also at Louise. Angry that she’d seen fit to reveal parts of her life by drip feed. Devastated that she’d taken me inside her heart and body while avoiding some of the more usual intimacies. I don’t even have her address, and that’s just fucked up.

  I’d resorted to searching for her on the internet, finding no trace. No listings in the phone book, no hints to her address. I’d even briefly considered hiring a detective but hesitated at the level of intrusiveness. No. I had to trust she’d seek me out. Hadn’t she invested some part of her heart?

  I see her everywhere—in the coffee shop, on the street—even convincing myself twice she’d been in touching distance, my hand on a stranger’s shoulder, a face turning to me that wasn’t hers. I’m so obsessed, I’d even thought I’d caught a glimpse of her downstairs in the club earlier on. Ridiculous.

  Dragging a hand down my face, I return to the one-way window overlooking the bar and the cabaret room. It’s still early; couples drinking, mingling, and with the exception of one or two, fully clothed, but all are wearing masks tonight for the evening’s theme.

  My gaze drifts over the staff, those meant to be seen at least. Two redheads in French maid’s outfits serve shots along with a man with slicked-back hair and a handlebar moustache. Later, there’ll be a pair of contortionists to titillate, but for now, drinks will be consumed. Later, clothes will be shed. But by then I plan to be long gone. I may be lonely, but only for her company.

  LOUISE

  After consuming half a bottle of Flora’s best viognier, I meet Luke in a bar near the club. It isn’t that I plan on getting wasted, but more that I think I’ll need lubrication for later. For what I have planned. Besides, it isn’t like people just kiss then immediately drop their clothes. Usually. There needs to be bits in between, and for me, this means cocktails in an overpriced bar where Luke won’t let me go dutch.

  It isn’t a great sign, but one I haven’t fought too much.

  ‘So you were saying?’

  I slide into the seat after a moment alone in the bathroom, a moment Flo would call having a word with myself, bad decisions being only mine to make. I look on for a blank moment, his question late in making much sense, my thoughts focussed elsewhere.

  ‘I think I was asking how you’d heard about the club.’

  ‘It’s not a secret, Lou.’ I hate his cockiness and the faux endearment, but I try not to make a point of either as he hooks his elbow around the back of his chair. ‘That would be bad for business.’ I didn’t know where he worked, I’d still be able to tell he sells advertising. He’s the epitome of the stereotype. ‘Besides,’ he carries on, ‘it was in all the newspapers last year. Tales of the debauchery for those with plenty of cash. Tales of how the other half lives splashed across the tabloids.’

  My stomach lurches quite suddenly. Media? An outing?

  ‘It was mostly guesswork. The journalist didn’t get it. The Den’s vetting process is first class.’

  Of course it was. Members might not be short of cash, but they also had to have other qualities and attributes. Certain commonalities . . . like an interest in kink. Or public fucking. Group sex, in some instances, I’d guess. But mainly, they seemed to want to keep their proclivities secret.

  I repress a shiver, the thoughts taking up so much space. Dan had been so against fooling around in public. Other than the bathroom last weekend, all our sex had taken place at his house.

  Maybe he keeps all his secrets at the club.

  ‘Have you been on the waiting list long?’ I ask, desperate to curtail that thought.

  ‘About six months.’

  Luke tells me that once he was promoted, he’d earned enough to meet the application requirements. I don’t miss how he slides his hand under the table, adjusting himself, though not quite discreetly enough. I feel nothing but tension, yet he’s excited.

  I finish my iced tea, the long, alcoholic kind, before adjusting the neck of my blouse. The thing is uncomfortable. High necked and billowing sleeves clasped at the wrists, it offers full coverage but is almost sheer. I know the skin coloured bra I wear underneath gives the impression of nakedness. And that was the whole point of wearing it. Luke’s eyes seem unable to hold my gaze, and I hope my outfit has the same effect on Dan. And I want him to hurt.

  I’ve teamed the blouse with a leather skirt I’d found in that underwear-cum-fetish shop. It’s knee-length, though anything but demure, with a silver zip running its length at the back, currently fastened from my waist to my knees. It looks the part, though is difficult to walk in. And of course, I’ve teamed the outfit with heels. Spiked this time.

  Noticing Luke’s wandering eyes again, I tap the table with my knuckles to get his attention.

  ‘I am actually wearing a bra under here.’ God. I sound so very schoolmarm.

  Luke’s cheeks pink as he murmurs an apology, very unlike the cocky man who strode into the bar earlier. His change of tone and demeanour is a little startling.

  ‘Anyone looking close enough would see that,’ he mumbles. ‘But from where I’m sitting, there’s some stellar nippleage.’

  ‘Ground rules,’ I blurt, immediately folding my arms. ‘It seems like a good idea to have, you know, some sort of plan.’ Other than the one I have in mind for Dan.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  LOUISE

  When Flo had said the mysterious den was at the back of the club where I’d first met Dan, I assumed that was where the entrance would be; a dark curtain and burly minders, watching the entry at the rear somewhere. Not so, it seems, as Luke leads me into a different street and another entrance. A huge black door flanked by topiary bay trees that stand sentry. Tall sash windows sit on either side of the door, the heavy drapes inside drawn closed. For the world, it looks like nothing more than a genteel Edwardian home.

  Inside, in the vast hallway, we’re encouraged to hand over our cell phones to a hugely built dark-suited man. Each is then receipted and locked away. Relief washes over me, the implications of a camera phones suddenly obvious. It’s true I’m here to expose myself in some way, but I’d be glad for footage not to make the internet.

  I sign a waiver, my hand shaking, my mind unable to process the fine print. Next, in the black and white tiled hall, is a large table adorned with masks. Some are elaborate, some no more than a scrap of leather or lace. The attendant mentions that this isn’t standard form, more a theme for the evening. I find I’m glad of it as she encourages both Luke and I to choose a mask. He opts for one that covers the upper-half of his face, something oddly feline about the thing. I choose something in silver with rhinestones, something completely against my usual tastes. It occurs to me that I’m trying to disassociate myself; a mask, my clothing. And though I’d admit it to no one, anticipation of the evening causes a pulse to beat between my legs. Will I fuck this evening just to spite him? Make myself known, ripping off my mask to let him see that I’ve m
oved on?

  An arched doorway stands open, and we enter, my heart seeming to try to escape from my throat. The room looks like an elegant drawing room. Lots of tactile fabrics; velvets and brocades. A little Parisian bordello in theme, a small bar situated discreetly at one end. Edwardian style sofas are dotted around the room, maybe two dozen guests already making new acquaintances inside. The lighting is low and intimate. Candelabras stand at intervals, providing the major source of ambience, and a fire burns in the large hearth.

  We stand by the fireside, carefully avoiding areas where others stand in small groups. Soft music plays in the background while champagne and oysters are served. I drink but don’t eat, my stomach overcome with nerves. At one point, Luke says I look a little pale and laughingly suggests I swallow a little zinc. It’ll help my colour. Though he hides behind his laughter, it doesn’t take much to realise he isn’t talking about the salty molluscs being served. The possibility of me fucking him becomes more distant each time he opens his mouth. So I tell him.

  Obviously, he protests; he hadn’t meant it that way at all. Sure, asshole.

  Champagne hits the spot, though doesn’t quell my nerves, especially as two couples—no, make that one couple and a ménage à trois seem on the verge of making an early start.

  ‘Wanna have a wander?’ Luke asks, expectance lightening his tone.

  ‘Why? What will we see in other rooms?’ I grip the stem of my glass tighter in anticipation, my eyes avoiding his and scanning the room. I feel a little expectant myself. But not for what, but for who. Maybe it’s a little silly to expect Dan to be here on this night of all nights. But I’m resolved now. I’ll carry on regardless. And I’m more than a little curious to see what he’d hidden from me. Chalk tonight up to revenge or to moving on. Either would do. Because how dare he expose me—bring to the surface the things I’d tried hard to ignore. Things that would’ve safely remained theory, if not for him. Some people don’t want the moon on a stick. I fear being one of them. Some people prefer the stick alone. And once that knowledge is free, there’s no restraining it.

 

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