by Jenna Ellis
Maybe he’s telling her all about our evening together. Maybe that’s why she’s laughing, because he’s describing how the stupid English nanny made a pass at him.
Or maybe I just imagined the whole thing. There was no woman laughing. It was just in my head.
I pull the pillow over my head and roll onto my side. I have to get some sleep and work out what I’m going to do.
Then I jolt upright. There’s something outside. Right outside my room. I’m sure of it. Has someone just knocked? I listen, head half-raised from the pillow, my ears straining for a sound.
Could it be Edward? Has he come to apologize? Has he changed his mind? I scramble off the bed. I tiptoe-run to the door and quickly open it.
But there is no one there. I walk out into the corridor. Everything is still.
Then I see a shadow pass across the nudey bronze man at the end, as if a door has been opened further along the corridor, around the corner.
I creep soundlessly along the carpet, pulling my robe tighter around me. I’m not sure why I’m investigating. I’m in no fit state to introduce myself to Marnie Parker, if she’s here, but I just want to know where the light is coming from.
I press myself against the wall, like I’m in a spy movie, and surreptitiously peek around the corridor to my left. There’s a room at the very end and the door is slightly ajar, a thin sliver of light crossing the carpet.
I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, but even so, I check my reflection in the glass window opposite and make an attempt to smudge away my make-up again. I don’t have time to go back to my room and tart myself up, just in case I do bump into Edward.
I stare back towards my door. I should go back. I should. I should just go back to bed. There’s nothing to be gained from investigating. What if someone catches me snooping around? I’ve already got myself into enough of a scrape tonight.
But then again, what if it is some kind of sign from Edward? What if he’s given me the choice to clear the air?
I creep along the corridor, my heart racing. I look behind me, checking I’m alone. I feel absurdly frightened and yet adrenalized with excitement.
As I get nearer to the room at the end, I can smell cigarette smoke. I stop and sniff the air to make sure, but it’s definitely a cigarette. Why haven’t the smoke alarms gone off? It can’t be Edward, I realize. He is most definitely not a smoker. So who would be smoking this late at night?
The door is open just a tiny fraction and I tiptoe silently towards it. I can hear sounds now. Sounds from inside the room. I can hear two voices. A couple. A couple having sex.
My pulse races. I have accidentally stumbled on something that is none of my business. I have to run away before I get caught. But I don’t. Because my brain is working overtime.
Who is behind that door? It can’t be anyone other than Edward. Edward and Marnie. In which case, this can’t be an accident. Edward must have wanted me to see this. To know that he’s with his wife. If I needed proof, here it is. He wants her. Not me.
Still, I step towards the door. Closer and closer.
Do I want to see? Can I bear to see him with another woman? With his wife? But I can’t seem to find the strength to turn away. I’m just too curious.
In the room I can hear the couple now making out with a totally careless abandon. They are really going for it, judging from the oohs and aahs she’s making. She clearly has no qualms about the door being open. The woman makes an orgasmic sigh and I feel myself throbbing in response. It’s the horniest sound, and I’m instinctively responding in a way I can’t stop.
I press up against the door, putting my eye against the slit. I need to see them for myself.
But the room is empty.
There’s a perfectly made-up large bed with a gold brocade cover, a cigarette burning in the ashtray on the bedside table. On the wall opposite the bed there’s an enormous television screen, and on it a tastefully lit porn movie is playing.
I stare at the screen. It’s a close-up shot. I can’t see the woman’s face, just a bit of her dark hair. She’s naked apart from a suspender belt, and she’s arched back over a low ottoman, like some 1920s diva, her ample breasts pointing towards the ceiling. Her nipples are puckered and hard. She gasps in desire as the man, side-on to the camera, slides his large, plump cock against her glistening slit. She’s neatly waxed with a ruffle of dark pubic hair. He is glorious, his manicured thumb flexed against his straining curved cock, which trembles as the smooth head disappears and reappears.
He is kneeling and I see his taut buttocks flex. He groans and my insides flip over. I can’t move. I’m leaden with desire. She pulls her stockinged feet up and lifts up her pelvis, so that her arse is bared to the guy. Tantalizingly slowly, he slides the tip of his cock down and dips it into her perfectly puckered pink arsehole.
‘Like that,’ he mumbles, his voice heavy with passion.
A voice I recognize. That isn’t . . . that can’t be . . . oh my God. Is it Edward?
Now the camera pulls back and I realize that this is a proper movie, not a home movie. There’s a cameraman operating the camera. Still the camera pulls back and I see more of the woman, but her face is turned away from the camera. Is it Marnie? Or someone else? Has Edward filmed himself having sex with someone else?
I stare. Unable to breathe. My legs are trembling uncontrollably.
It’s Edward. I’m sure it is. Younger, but my God, he’s gorgeous.
I watch his face, his eyes closed, his hands coming to the side of his head, his stomach rippling and flat as his long shaft slides into woman’s arse.
Then I hear a sound along the corridor. I gulp. Terrified I’m going to get caught, I take flight, running along the corridor, my robe flying out behind me, like a ghost.
A voice. A woman’s voice I don’t recognize. A door opening and closing. Has she seen me?
Jesus!
24
I feel bone-tired the next morning. I’ve dozed on and off since the discovery of the porn room, but it took me ages to stop shaking. I still can’t make any sense of it or what it means. Was it Edward in that movie? It can’t have been. And if it was, then who was he with? And who was watching it? Who did the half-smoked cigarette belong to?
I feel deeply jangled that I perved in on something I wasn’t meant to see. Even more jangled that I nearly got caught.
In the cold light of day my humiliating pass at Edward when we got home last night comes flooding back in vivid bursts, my shame doubling and trebling, the more I think about it.
I study the map Gundred gave me and see that the room is a red room. Even so, when I get dressed, I go down the corridor to check it out. Laura is cleaning the windows at the end.
‘Whose room is this?’ I ask her.
She turns, surprised by my tone. I cough, embarrassed that I’ve been so abrupt.
‘No one’s,’ she says with a shrug. ‘Why?’
‘I . . .’ I begin, but run out of words. What can I tell her? That I stumbled on a porn movie in the middle of the night? I’ve already been warned off the red rooms. They are out of bounds and none of my concern. If the Parkers want to play porn in the middle of the night, then that’s their business. They didn’t leave the door wide open. They – whoever they are – thought they were alone. It was totally wrong of me to spy.
I still feel deeply unsettled and scared of what I’ll find downstairs, but soon I can’t put it off any longer. If I see Edward, I’m going to be contrite and apologetic and try and clear the air, if at all possible.
As for the porn movie? I’m just going to pretend it was a dream, and park it. I was drunk and confused. I can’t be sure of what I saw. There’s no point in even trying to analyse it any more. Because if I ever dared mention it to anyone, then I have no doubt that I’d be instantly dismissed, and I’m on thin enough ice as it is. Maybe they’ve already decided to fire me.
I hope not, because I can’t face the shame of having to go home and explain what I did wrong, or t
hat I didn’t even get so far as meeting the kids. I can’t face Tiff’s disappointment, or Dad’s joy that my foray into the outside world didn’t work out. But most of all, I can’t face Scott. The dreadful certainty that I will have to break up with him for good this time and that I have no reason to break his heart, other than my own stupidity and vanity.
But grovelling to stay isn’t exactly an easy alternative. However, I have practised my speech to Edward. About how I overstepped the mark and foolishly misread the signals; that the glamour of the evening went to my head and I got completely carried away. How I understand if the Parkers want me to leave, but that, on my life, nothing like that will ever happen again. It’s no excuse, but I was a lot drunker than I realized. I know that now, from how colossal my hangover is this morning.
I take a breath, trying to stop my spinning head and fighting the nausea down as I walk into the kitchen.
I brace myself, expecting to find Edward, but a woman is sitting at the kitchen counter. She laughs as she stares at the screen of an open MacBook laptop, peering through trendy black-framed glasses on the end of her nose.
It’s her.
It’s Marnie Parker.
She has short spiky blonde hair and the most incredible high cheekbones. She’s not wearing any make-up, but her skin has the kind of radiance that can never be bottled or bought. She could have had work done, of course, but she’s naturally youthful, like she’s in her early thirties, although I know she must be older.
But my overriding shock is that, in the flesh, she’s just plain beautiful. Jaw-droppingly beautiful and, in the sunshine-filled kitchen, she sort of radiates this aura.
But of course she’s beautiful, I mentally kick myself. Why wouldn’t she be anything other than beautiful, if she’s married to a man like Edward? Seeing her throws the humiliation of last night into even greater relief. My mountain of shame just trebled in height. I’m now experiencing Himalayan humiliation.
It can’t have been her in the movie. The woman in the movie had dark hair. Actually, it can’t have been a movie of the Parkers at all. I’ve been so obsessed with Edward, I realize that my whole judgement has been coloured. I feel myself blushing furiously. Oh God, I’m such a fool.
‘There you are,’ she hoots in delight, clapping her hands as I shuffle into the warm, sunny kitchen, shrinking inwardly. Unlike Edward, she has a thick American accent.
I grip the cuffs of my woolly cardy and pull it tightly around me and approach her. I feel shivery and cold in the heat of her presence. I smile weakly. I want to die.
She takes off her glasses and slides off the stool. She’s wearing a white sleeveless vest, which shows off her impressive cleavage, as well as her long, toned arms, which host wristfuls of cool bangles. She’s wearing ripped skinny jeans and her feet, with their perfectly manicured pink nails, are bare. She has a pretty silver ring on her second toe.
She’s possibly the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. She’s not thin, but kind of peachy, in a curvy, womanly way. She reminds me of those old pictures of Marilyn Monroe. She’s a real woman, I realize. The kind Edward was talking about. I bet there were a dozen artists falling over themselves to paint her.
‘Let me see you. You darling girl,’ she says, grinning widely at me. Her teeth have a slight gap in them in the front, but somehow this little imperfection only adds to how flawless she is.
She stands in front of me and grabs my shoulders. She’s taller than me and she kisses me warmly on both cheeks. She smells gorgeous, too. A fresh, zesty scent that tingles my nose.
Then she pulls back and looks at me more closely.
‘Oh, my poor baby,’ she soothes, her eyebrows knitting at me, clearly some kind of realization dawning on her.
Do I really look that terrible?
She protrudes her bottom lip in sympathy. ‘Did you get Edwarded?’ she asks.
Edwarded. Like that’s a thing.
Not waiting for an answer, she puts her hand on her hip. Some rings sparkle and her bangles jangle. She puts the other hand up to her face and pinches her eyes.
‘Don’t tell me, don’t tell me,’ she says, as if she’s divining a memory. ‘So, probably – let me think . . . ? Margaritas or Martinis. Oh my God, yes, Martinis for sure. Daiquiri, probably. Champagne, definitely. Am I close?’
She opens her large Persian-cat grey eyes and stares at me. She’s not being horrible, but quite the reverse. The fact that she knows how dreadful I’m feeling, and seems to be implying it’s not my fault, feels so comforting.
I nod. ‘And whiskey.’
She slaps her forehead dramatically. ‘Whiskey! Oh my GAHD. That, too.’
She gasps and grabs the top of my arms. ‘Sweetie. Lesson one. Nobody can drink with that monster at his speed. Nobody on this Earth. He has a liver from the Devil alone.’
I smile weakly, warmed by her kindness.
‘He wasn’t mean, was he?’ she asks, peering into my eyes and stroking my cheek tenderly. ‘He’s an old shark for trying to wrong-foot people.’
She doesn’t know. She can’t possibly know what happened. Which means he can’t have said anything. Which means that maybe it’s not so bad after all.
I shake my head. It’s all I can do not to throw myself into her arms. I just want to cuddle her. I’m so grateful that she’s being so nice.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her. Because I am. About everything. About making a fool of myself with her husband. About being a hungover wreck, when I wanted to make the best first impression. ‘I wanted to be—’
‘Oh, darling, darling, darling,’ she interrupts, smoothing my hair, shaking her head to refuse any confession I’m about to make. ‘You, sweetie-pie, are my star. My star,’ she gushes, leaning in and grabbing my cheeks and planting a huge kiss on my forehead. She pulls away, all wide eyes and teeth. ‘Come see! Come see!’ she says, grabbing my arm and pulling me over to the counter.
What the fuck?
She twists around the laptop. There’s a full-length picture of me at the gallery last night. I’m on the stairs, looking over my shoulder. It looks like the kind of shot they use in the glossy mags after Oscar night. Except it’s me.
She claps her hands together and presses her forefingers against her lips, watching me closely for my reaction. ‘Isn’t is just fantastic!’
She’s obviously beside herself with excitement, but I can’t see why. I stare at the picture, hardly recognizing myself. I’ve been to hell and back since that naive girl was photographed. I was expecting Marnie Parker to be upset, so I don’t understand at all her overtly joyful reaction at seeing me.
‘You don’t mind?’ I venture. ‘You don’t mind that I was there?’ With your husband, I nearly add, but before I can say it, she cuts me off.
‘Mind?’ she guffaws loudly. ‘Mind?’ She shakes her head at me as if I’m crazy. ‘You, my darling girl, are a genius.’
I don’t feel like a genius. I feel like an idiot. What’s going on?
Marnie slides her perfect vintage-jeans-clad buttocks onto the seat. She smiles at me and laughs, astonished that I haven’t cottoned on.
‘That dress is the centrepiece of my secret collection,’ she says, tapping away at the keys on the keyboard. ‘And Edward knows – I mean, he knows, right . . .’ she glances at me over the top of the screen, in a show of seriousness, ‘how stressed I’ve been about it. So when I went to LA, he got Roberta to steal the dress,’ she says, giving me wide eyes. ‘And then got you to out it at the gallery. He told them that you’d run away from my private show!’ She claps her hands and laughs. ‘It’s a PR triumph.’
She twists around the screen. This time, it’s split into four. Four different images of me. But I see now that she’s not looking at me, but at the dress.
Oh.
It was always about the dress.
I stare now at the screen, but I’m not looking at me, but at Edward in the next picture. The one where he’s just given me a Martini on the high bridge. I thought he was being i
ntimate, but actually, in each shot, he looks like he’s being a protective bouncer. Like he’s waiting to be caught out any second.
He was playing along with the ruse, too. He was staging it all.
I feel a lump in my throat. What an idiot I’ve been. I have no claim on Edward. What must he think of me? No wonder he cut the evening off, the second it looked like it was getting out of hand. He used me all along, and I was too stupid to realize it.
‘He is so naughty,’ Marnie continues, her voice high with delighted mirth. ‘You wait till I see him.’ She raises her eyebrows in mock-threat. ‘The phone in the office has been ringing off the hook. I have twenty orders already.’
‘He’s not here?’ My voice cracks.
‘Gahd, no. He left – I don’t know . . . early . . .’ she says, flapping her hand dismissively and turning back to the laptop. ‘I was fast asleep.’
So she wasn’t watching a porn movie. And neither was Edward.
She must have been here last night, then. When we got back. Perhaps she was asleep, whilst I was trying to get off with her husband downstairs.
What happened? Did he go upstairs and crawl into bed with her? Did they talk about me?
But no, they couldn’t have, if this revelation on the Internet was his romantic big surprise for his wife. The realization hits me with full force. They haven’t discussed me, because I don’t matter. As in, at all. I am nothing to Edward Parker, except a naive clotheshorse. And nothing more.
‘Sweetheart,’ Marnie says, suddenly gauging my non-reaction to all this. ‘You look terrible.’
I nod. I’m fighting back tears.
She claps her hands together twice, as if she’s made a decision.
‘OK. Sit,’ she commands, taking my shoulders and forcing me into her place on the stool. She taps my shoulders decisively with her fingers. ‘I’m going to fix you.’
Five minutes later, she’s got a juicer out and she’s piling vegetables in it until she’s concocted a sludgy brown smoothie, into which she tips sachets of powder. I know she’s going to make me drink it, but even the thought of it makes me want to puke.