“Let me know if you need any help moving out,” he said, once he’d moved away, watching as her hand trailed in a sad arc to the floor. “Although I’m sure Rick will be on hand.”
“Rick? What do you mean?” she asked, frowning in confusion at the sudden change of subject.
“I saw you with him, last night. Kissing him. So I know you mean it when you say you’re well and truly ready to move on.”
“And how did you see that? It’s not as though you could have just been passing, is it?” she asked, honing straight in on the one question he didn’t want to answer. He’d rather break the rest of his toes than tell her the truth. It was too humiliating.
“It doesn’t matter how I came to see - are you denying that you kissed him?”
“No, I’m not denying it,” she replied, her tone starting to fizz again. He’d forced her back into anger. Good. Anger he could do, better than anyone. If she was angry, he could keep her at arm’s length. It was the empathy he couldn’t deal with.
“I have nothing to hide, Rob. We kissed. I’d been on a date with him. A date you told me I should go on, shortly before you donned your Cloak of Invisibility. I didn’t realise I was supposed to ask your permission before we did tongues.”
Leah felt his whole body tense next to hers, and saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped the fabric of his towel. Oh God, she thought, there weren’t even any tongues involved. But for some reason she needed to lash out. Make it clear he wasn’t her boss, or her father, or her moral guardian.
“You’re right,” he said, still refusing to meet her eyes. “I did encourage you. And I was right to. I hope you’ll be happy with your new boy toy.”
Even as he said it, Rob cringed inside: what he’d just said was utterly ridiculous. Rick was the same age as him, and a well-established legal mind. Hardly a boy toy by anyone’s standards. But like so many things when he was around Leah, it just came out that way.
“God, you are so infuriating!” she said, scrambling to her feet, not caring if she was dripping on him.
“You’ve made it crystal bloody clear, Rob, that you don’t want to have sex with me. You’ve made it just as clear you don’t want to be friends with me. You won’t discuss what you told me on New Year’s Day, even though any idiot can see it’s eating you alive. And now, after all that, you think you have the right to talk to me in that disappointed tone of voice? Like I’ve turned into the village bike because I dared to kiss another man, while you were off ignoring me? How dare you!”
Rob stood, unable to bear the sight of her bikini-clad body bouncing around above him while she yelled. He needed to concentrate on this, to have his mind switched on, but the jiggle-a-thon going on over his head was making it hard. Literally. Sometimes being a man really sucked.
“I don’t even know what village bike means!” he yelled back, his own anger kicking in. He knew she didn’t deserve it, but he welcomed it like an old friend – he wanted to feel rage and frustration and fury running through him. It was so much easier to deal with than the lust; than the affection; than the jealousy. It was the jealousy that really worried him – because to feel jealous, you had to give a damn.
“It means you think I’m a slut, Rob, to put it bluntly. Is that the case? Are you one of those men who’s happy to jump into bed with a woman, then judge her for it afterwards?”
“Not a slut exactly, but —”
“But what, Rob? What? Because I can’t figure it out. I care about you, I really do. But for some reason, that upsets you. And when I back off, that upsets you as well. You don’t want me, but nobody else should have me either? Is that what you’re saying?”
Her amber eyes were sparking with outrage, her blonde hair shaking wetly around her face. She looked… perfect. Too perfect. He had no idea what he was trying to achieve here. The sight of her with Rick had completely thrown him; the sight of her here, this morning, in hardly any clothes, was only making it worse. And if he was confused, how the hell did he expect her to feel? Jeez. He needed to go and live in a shack in the Himalayas or something, he wasn’t fit for normal human company.
“No. You’re 100% entitled to your own life. To your own relationships. You should get out there, you should date, Rick or anyone else. What you and I had at Christmas was great, Leah, but let’s face it, it was only a temporary distraction. It was sex, and nothing more. We should both be aiming higher than that. In fact, I’m seeing someone tonight. Who knows? Maybe she’ll be the one.”
She glared at him, eyes the size of saucers suddenly swimming with tears. She gulped, as though swallowing down her words, and Rob could see small tremors running through her body. Emotion. Anger. Or maybe she was just cold.
“Fantastic!” she said, her voice as icy as the goosebumps on her wet skin, rising to a shrill crescendo as she continued: “I’m thrilled for you – who is the lucky woman? Have we met?”
“No,” he snapped back. “You haven’t met, unless you served her hors d’oeuvres at the party!”
Right. Fine, thought Leah. That was her well and truly put in her place. She was a slut, a temporary distraction, and a servant. Why the hell had she ever thought she could be friends with this man?
“Staying in or going out?” she asked, hands on hips, lip the very definition of ‘stiff’ and ‘upper’. Managing to drag an air of dignity around her despite the sopping bikini and shivering flesh.
“Staying in,” he said, “in case I get lucky.”
“Great. I’ll cook you both something truly special, it’s the least I can do – a special thank you from me. How about oysters, make sure the night goes with a swing? And I’ll throw in a side order of arsenic for free!”
Chapter 16
Leah spent the rest of the day doing things she’d been putting off for far too long. Like emailing her friends, and finally having the dreaded conversation with Doug. They’d messaged each other for the last couple of weeks, but she hadn’t felt ready to actually talk to him.
He apologised, and she told him it was okay. Because it was. The last few weeks had taught her something very important: what she’d felt when she caught Doug doing the dirty with Becky wasn’t painful. It wasn’t even close. In fact, it was a pale imitation of the way she was feeling right now, like catching a splinter in the thumb compared to having a stake driven through her heart.
‘It was sex and nothing more.’ Rob had said. More than the snubs; more than the silences; more than the aggression, that’s what had hurt her the most. She didn’t quite understand why – it’s not as though she expected to marry him and raise little Cavellis together. But somehow, it had stung, like an emotional bitch-slap. And, to top it all, tonight he had a date. Undoubtedly with someone skinny and appropriate and highly unlikely to be caught snivelling over a man who didn’t want her.
God, she was a mess. And she only had herself to blame.
She dialled the next number on the Rebuilding Your Life list. Fred Larsson, slum landlord extraordinaire. Well, hopefully not, she thought, as she told him over the phone that she’d take the apartment he was offering sight unseen. Andersonville, the ‘Swedish ghetto’, as Marco had jokingly called it. She’d seen the neighbourhood on her journeys on the Red Line, and liked what she’d seen. There was a Farmer’s Market, which would be useful, and a big gay scene, which would be comforting. If she never met a heterosexual man again, she’d be happy. From now on, she’d be a friend of the friend of Dorothy, and lock her libido in a cupboard where it belonged. It was only likely to get her into more trouble.
She glanced at her watch. It was almost 7pm. She’d left a message for Rob saying to expect dinner at 8. She was, after all, the kind of woman who served hors d’oeuvres at a party. He’d replied with his usual charm telling her not to be so stupid, he didn’t expect her to wait on them. Them. Him and the mystery woman. Her response had been super-polite: “Tough titty. Payment in kind against the money I owe you.”
So she’d been out to the fish market, and bought the oysters, wh
ich were chilling in the fridge downstairs. She’d keep it simple, lemon juice and ice. She’d baked a cake, in the shape of a love heart. And she’d bought a few props, which were now hanging on the door of her closet.
Was she really going to do this? Yeah, she was, she thought, pulling down the hanger and getting ready. Time to go out in style.
***
Rob was up in his apartment, wondering if there was any way he could get Amanda off his lap without using a Taser.
It was his own fault, he knew. Telling Leah he had a date was a big, fat lie, one he then had to back up with a real life woman. If he hadn’t claimed he was on a promise, he could have been spending the night alone, getting drunk, watching the Cubs on TV. Instead he was here, wondering if he should be checking his glass for rohypnol.
Amanda had made it perfectly clear at the party on New Year’s that she was interested, and in a parallel universe, he might well have taken her up on her offer. Now, he felt vaguely trapped beneath the elegant lines of her body. Like one of those gazelles being stalked by a lioness in wildlife documentaries. Except he was the gazelle, and he didn’t much like the feeling.
On the one hand, he was thankful. It was Saturday night, she was gorgeous, she had to have had plans – all of which she had dropped to come round and have a fake date with him. On the other hand, she clearly didn’t know it was fake, and had arrived with a loaded agenda. An agenda that involved getting him naked as soon as possible.
For some reason – well, a reason that began with ‘L’ and ended with ‘h’ – he wasn’t interested. Amanda might be beautiful; she might know tricks in bed that would make a porn star blush, and she might be 100% available, but he knew he couldn’t go through with it. Casual sex had been a regular part of his life for a long time now. Casual sex with women just like Amanda – sophisticated, stunning and single. It had suited him fine, until Leah came along and spoiled everything. Made him realise that not only was he bored with the shallow connections he made, but that the sex wasn’t even that good. Not compared to what he’d experienced with her. All of which was scary shit, and part of why he lied.
He’d lied about having a date to make himself feel better, and to make her feel bad. Bad enough to drop all interest in being his friend; bad enough to hate him. Bad enough to walk out the door without a backward glance. And this, he thought, grimacing as Amanda nibbled on his ear-lobe, was the price he had to pay. She tried to slip a hand inside his shirt, and he held her wrist firmly to stop her. Jesus. Subtle, she wasn’t – in fact he had the awful feeling she saw him as a challenge, and the more he resisted, the more determined she became. He looked up at her intent gaze; could so easily see her face morphing into that of a roaring lioness.
He heard the ping of the elevator doors, and the thought ran through his mind that he’d been saved by the bell. He stood up, holding Amanda around the waist and steadying her back onto her feet, ignoring the pout. He’d been pouted at by the best, and it really didn’t bother him. Not as much as it would bother him for Leah to walk in on him being date-raped, anyway. Which was ironic, as the whole point had been to flaunt the fact that he had his own love life. One that didn’t involve her. This was his chance to do that to perfection, but now it came to the crunch, it felt forced, empty. Cruel. Seeing him there with Amanda would be enough, he didn’t have to rub it in by virtually having sex in front of her as well. Even he couldn’t stoop quite that far. Plus he didn’t know if he was even capable. The way things had been going, he could add erectile dysfunction to his list of woes.
“Coo-ee! Anyone home!” Leah shouted as she made her way through to the lounge area. She was doing something strange with her accent, something that made her sound like an extra from Oliver Twist, or the servants in Hollywood costume dramas. He heard the wheels of a trolley being pushed through, and steeled himself for her arrival, trying to look calm, in control, and utterly thrilled to be on a date with another woman.
It was a good plan, but it failed the minute she strutted into his line of vision, bending low to push her silly little trolley. Nothing, nothing at all, could have steeled him for the way she looked as she burst through that door in a blaze of comedy glory. She was dressed in the most outrageously slutty French maid’s outfit he’d ever seen, complete with a frilly white apron and a minute black satin skirt that revealed lacy stocking tops and suspenders. Perched on top of curled blonde hair was a tiny white maid’s cap, tendrils escaping around her face like golden cobwebs. Skyscraper stilettos meant that she tottered towards them, her décolletage wobbling as she moved, dangerously close to escaping a top so low-cut it almost hit her waist. He felt his jaw dropping, and suspected he’d never get it back up again without medical assistance.
She looked ridiculous. And gorgeous…And angry.
“Cor blimey guv’nor,” she said, in that fake Cockney voice she never usually had, “don’t you both look fine tonight – if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, that shade of lipstick is just lovely on you!”
Rob realised belatedly that yes, his mouth, his neck, his cheeks – everything - was covered in Amanda’s bright red lipstick. His hand went automatically up to wipe it away, but on cue his date giggled, and clasped hold of his fingers. Staking a claim he didn’t want her to have.
Amanda didn’t know Leah. Didn’t know that she wasn’t always like this; that the Hollywood version of sexy serving girl was purely for his benefit. A dig at him, and the things he’d said earlier. The way he’d reduced her to the hired help, insulted her and the part she played in his life. Hurt her feelings. Again.
Well, if she’d wanted revenge, she’d got it – he was incapable of speech, possibly of breathing. Even if he had been interested in Amanda, his desire would have wilted like a sun-starved flower the moment Leah walked in. He could never even conceive of another woman existing when she was standing there, looking like that.
“Now then, sir, milady, I’ll just leave this here for you. Careful with those oysters, mind, slippery little buggers and no mistake! I’ll be in my hovel below stairs if you need me at all, just ring the bell and I’ll be right up – I’m at your service, Lord Cavelli, sir. Will that be all?”
Rob nodded curtly, not trusting himself to speak. There was simply no safe way to respond, not when he was simultaneously annoyed and aroused. She was bursting out of the stupid dress, and apparently he was still very male when it came to Leah. All she had to do to get him going was stand there looking like a wet dream, when his dinner date had left him cold despite her attempted tonsillectomy.
Leah glared at him, eyes shining, then dipped her knees into an actual real life curtsy. She turned to leave with a flounce, and the skirt bobbed up to reveal matching frilly white panties, inches of creamy flesh spilling out between their edges and the tops of her hose. He was fairly sure people in the next building must have heard him gulp.
The elevator doors pinged closed behind her, and he was dragged back to reality by Amanda, saying something dry about the British really going the extra mile in the name of service. Amanda. The woman he was supposed to be having a date with. She was running her fingers over his arm, sidling into him, her smile wide with anticipation. Anticipation of a something that he knew he couldn’t do, even if he wanted to.
“Amanda,” he said, pulling away from her, “I’m sorry, but there’s been a change of plan.”
***
Downstairs, one floor below, Leah was sobbing as she packed her bags. She’d slammed the door behind her, tugged the maid’s cap out, clips still attached to her hair, and thrown it to the floor. Within minutes she had her suitcase on the bed and open, and was haphazardly throwing in everything she could lay her hands on: tops and jeans and underwear and moisturiser and ear-rings and iPods and toothbrush, all piled up on top of each other, like the Bad Girls Guide to Disastrous Packing.
Tears were streaming down her face, and she knew she must look like a demented panda. No mascara on the planet was waterproof enough to withstand that torrent. She was cryin
g so hard she could barely breathe, forcing herself to gulp in tiny mouthfuls of air between sobs.
Way to go, Leah, she thought. Great plan. The plan to go in there and give as good as she’d been given. He’d belittled her, made her feel like nothing more than paid help who offered benefits on the side – and she was rubbing that back in his face with her whole routine It had sounded like a good idea at the time. She’d look gorgeous and sexy, make her point, and leave triumphant – with him salivating in the background. Show him she still had her spirit, that he hadn’t broken her and never would.
Except…Except when it came down to it, that’s not how it felt. She hadn’t felt sexy, she’d felt desperate. She hadn’t felt triumphant, she’d felt humiliated. And he had most definitely not been salivating – in fact he’d barely registered her presence, just stared at her, silent, covered in that woman’s lippy. The same woman who’d been draped all over him at the New Year’s party.
They’d obviously been getting down and dirty, and who could blame him? She was tall. Skinny. Stunning. Nothing at all like her. Not, for example, wearing fancy dress and flashing her knickers in an attempt to look hot. Oh God. It was so embarrassing. And painful – devastatingly painful, seeing him there, smattered in lipstick, holding her hand, obviously waiting for her to leave so they could pick up where they left off. She’d wanted to show she wasn’t broken. And now she felt like she was shattered into a million tiny pieces. It had all been a lie: a stupid attempt at humour, at bravado, at provocation. And now she knew – she needed to leave. To sound the retreat, and lick her wounds, and one day find the will to live again.
Cold Feet at Christmas Page 14