The Blue Guide

by Carrie Williams

  I smile up at Carlotta from my comfortable leather armchair. I’m having a relaxing afternoon; she can take all the time she likes. She’s brandishing a scrap of reflective lilac material at me that, on closer inspection, reveals itself to be a strapless dress with crisscross lacing on the back and a deep slit at the back of the already breathtakingly short skirt. It’s deeply horrible, but I smile and nod encouragingly.

  ‘Very chic,’ I say, trying not to sound a note of irony. Carlotta’s taste can only be described as Eurotrash, yet that doesn’t stop her from looking fabulous. In fact there’s something incredibly sexy about a woman who has the confidence in her body to wear such risqué things.

  ‘Not for me,’ she grins. ‘I thinking of you. Come with me and try it.’

  And before I can say another word, she’s marching off to the changing rooms, remarkably steady, I notice, on those spindly stiletto heels.

  Inside the changing room, she flings open the curtain to one booth and steps inside, then beckons me to follow her.

  ‘Plenty room for two,’ she says. ‘And I need your advice on this dress, on which colour suit me best.’ She pauses, musing. ‘Unless I buy many,’ she adds, and flashes me a coy smile.

  She starts undressing, unwinding the straps from her ankles and kicking her shoes off, then turning her back to me.

  ‘Untie strap will you? I always get Paco to do. He not mind, of course. He not need reason to undress me. That man an animal.’

  I frown, glad that she can’t see my face, trying to concentrate on loosening the knot of her halterneck. It finally gives way, and the straps fall forwards over her shapely shoulders. Like this, without her heels, she’s tiny – a good few inches shorter than me – and again I am reminded of a beautiful wilful child.

  As the dress falls and settles around her hips, she waves her arm up towards the clasp of her strapless shiny black bra.

  ‘You undo this too?’ she asks over her shoulder. ‘Or you will see through dress.’ I fumble with the fastening, thinking of Paco’s hands on this very spot. I imagine him pressing himself across the back of her thighs as he unleashes her breasts, his cock already straining for her through his trousers. I’m surprised to find that the thought makes me moist.

  ‘You have boyfriend, Alicia?’ says Carlotta as her bra falls to the floor. She turns to reach up for one of the outfits she’s hung on the hook next to the full-length mirror. I can’t help but look at her breasts as they lift and separate with the movement of her body, and I’m awestruck. They’re neither too big nor too small, and jaunty without having the poke-you-in-the-eye audacity of augmented breasts. Her large nipples are the same colour as her skin: a lovely olive tinged with honey-gold.

  She turns to me, pushing down the rest of her dress to reveal a thong that matches the bra I have just helped her out of. Her buttocks are superbly rounded, almost heart-shaped.

  ‘Well?’ she smiles. ‘You have?’

  I’m lost, have no idea what she is asking me. I’m feeling more than a little distracted by all the flesh that’s suddenly on display.

  ‘A boyfriend?’ she reminds me. ‘Or is it a big secret?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I laugh nervously. ‘My life’s not interesting enough to have secrets.’ I look down at the floor, where Carlotta’s shoes and underwear are scattered around our feet. ‘There was someone,’ I say, trying to keep regret from my voice. ‘Someone I liked. But nothing came of it.’

  ‘Ah well,’ she says, shimmying into a tight little white dress with a sequin-studded hem and neck detailing. ‘You very pretty girl. There will be someone new for you. Here –’ she hands me the dress she picked out for me ‘– try this.’

  I hold it up against me on the hanger. It’s totally not me, but I suppose I ought to humour her now I’m here. She seems to be warming to me after our frosty start, opening up to me, and Paco is paying me to entertain her, after all. There’s no point in getting all upset again about Daniel, about what could have been.

  I pull my black jersey top up over my head, then undo my boot-cut trousers and slide them down. I don’t look at Carlotta. God knows I’m no prude, but I feel a bit shy.

  ‘Oh!’ I hear her exclaim. She’s pulled the white dress up over her head and is standing topless looking at me. ‘So you lying when you say you don’t like nice lingerie,’ she says.

  I shrug, as if I hadn’t been aware I was wearing an expensive set of lacy Aubade panties and bra.

  She’s looking me up and down now, quite openly, but I turn to take my dress off its hanger and pretend not to notice. I still feel a little self-conscious, but in some secret part of myself I’m also enjoying the attention more than I would have expected. Carlotta is clearly impressed by what she sees, and that makes me feel good about myself. Not that I had any doubts about my body, but it’s always gratifying when someone else is appreciative of it. Especially when that someone has a hot little body of their own.

  Pretending to fuss with the zip on my dress, I angle my head so that I can see into the mirror out of the corner of my eye. Carlotta is still looking at me, at my long slim legs, at my arse, at the curve of my waist and the swell of my breasts. There’s a funny little smile on her lips, and I’m dying to ask her what she’s thinking. If only she knew, I think, of what her husband did with this body just the day before. A vision comes into my head of me, bent over the back of the chair, cheeks high as Paco crushes himself into me from behind.

  I lean forwards, step into the dress and start to wiggle it up over my hips. When it’s up and over my chest, I fumble for the straps at the back but can’t reach them.

  ‘Here,’ says Carlotta, and I feel her fingers brushing my back as she pulls the lacing tight and secures it at the top. She steps away from me, places her hands on my bare shoulders and spins me around.

  ‘Perfecto,’ she says, looking me up and down again. ‘Fantástico!’

  The dress fits like a second skin, and when I turn to check myself out in the mirror I am surprised to find that it actually looks pretty great. It’s still not me, taste-wise, but there’s no denying that it really brings out the natural hourglass of my figure. I turn around and look over my shoulder, and I’m shocked to see how high the slit goes up, revealing a hefty portion of buttock.

  ‘It’s pretty special,’ I confess, ‘but a bit daring for me, I think.’

  ‘No!’ snorts Carlotta. ‘You got a beautiful body. Why hide it?’ She waves her hand at my classically cut top, at my trousers. ‘You too safe.’

  I start to peel off the dress. I’m not going to argue with her about taste: like I said, she may wear trashy clothes, but she looks a million dollars. Each to their own. It’s what you’re most comfortable with, isn’t it, and Carlotta is obviously happy with a much greater degree of display than I am.

  I’ve pulled on my clothes and am bending over to slip on my shoes when I happen to glance in the mirror again. Carlotta seems to have abandoned the idea of trying on the rest of the clothes she picked out and is getting dressed again herself, leaning forwards to manoeuvre her breasts into her bra and fastening it with both hands, then stepping into her dress and knotting the halter at her nape. Funny how she’s able to do that just fine, when she claimed she couldn’t even undo it herself.

  She appears to be lost in thought. I look down at my shoes again, then glance unthinkingly back and I’m shocked – and strangely aroused – to see her rubbing furtively at her pussy through the fabric of her dress.

  I can’t take my eyes off her. She, meanwhile, closes her own eyes, and tilts her head back a little, lips slightly parted. I’d give anything in the world to know what she’s seeing behind those closed eyelids.

  As if suddenly realising where she is, she opens her eyes and lets go of her pussy. I look away quickly, feeling like a voyeur, though it was she, after all, who invited me in here.

  ‘Meet you out there,’ I say, pulling back the curtain and stepping out.

  She’s right behind me, following me back onto the shopfl
oor, face flushed. I’m surprised, I think, that she didn’t stay in there. She’s obviously got something on her mind and may as well have taken the opportunity to give herself a bit of relief after I’d gone.

  ‘I’ll just go hang this up,’ I say, gesturing towards a far rail of hangers.

  ‘Oh no no no,’ she replies quickly. ‘Come with me.’ And already she’s steaming towards the cash desk and handing over the white dress she’s chosen. ‘Here,’ she says, turning back to me and taking the lilac number from my hands. ‘A present from me.’

  ‘Carlotta, I couldn’t,’ I say, horrified.

  ‘To thank you, for fun afternoon,’ she says, gazing into my eyes. ‘You cheer me up,’ she adds, winking.

  ‘But –’

  She lays a finger against my lips. ‘Shhh,’ she whispers. ‘Please. It make me happy.’

  There’s nothing I can say, I reason, that will change her mind – even if I tell her I will never have occasion to wear it, that it will hang in my wardrobe for a few months or years and then, one day, when I’m having a big clearout, be bagged up and taken to the charity shop along with all my other castoffs. Or rather, I think, as I see the four-digit number that flashes up on the till display, be auctioned on eBay, with the proceeds put towards my holiday fund. Suddenly the Caribbean is looking increasingly likely.

  Shouldering our trademark yellow Selfridges bags, we head back toward the lift. Carlotta has linked her arm through mine and is chatting merrily in her singsong Spanish accent when she is interrupted by a call. She digs in her Gucci bag, flips open her mobile.

  ‘Hola?’

  There follows a volley of Spanish, and I don’t understand a word of the conversation. When she ends the call, she tells me that Paco has finished his rehearsal earlier than expected and has suggested meeting her for a drink. He was at the Royal Albert Hall, she tells me, and is heading this way in a taxi. She’s to call him back with a good place to meet, once she’s asked me.

  My blood runs cold. I wasn’t prepared for this, and I’m not sure how I’m going to handle being with the two of them at the same time. In my mind, I run through various excuses, but I’m beset by a feeling of futility. Carlotta, I have seen, is a girl who likes to get her own way. She won’t let me off that easily, and I don’t want to ring alarm bells in her head by ducking out with no good reason.

  After a quick ponder, I suggest we stay in Selfridges and get Paco to come and meet us in the food hall, where there’s a good champagne and oyster bar. Carlotta is enthusiastic: she just loves oysters, she says, ostentatiously licking her lips, reaching for her mobile again and calling her husband.

  Half an hour later, we’re still waiting for Paco, who’s got stuck in traffic at Knightsbridge. We’re well into our second glass of champagne and I, at least, am feeling a little bit tipsy, not having eaten since breakfast. We’ve ordered a dozen oysters to keep us going, and soon a gleaming platter of the raw crustacea is set in front of us, garnished with wedges of lemon.

  Carlotta picks one up, cups the pearlescent grey shell in the palm of her small hand and brings it up to her lips. From behind her regular white teeth the tip of her tongue darts out, teases at the shellfish. She’s looking right at me as she does so, and unless I am pissed already, I discern a funny expression in her eyes. She’s toying with me, I tell myself, and again I think of her playing with herself in the changing room. Is it possible, I ask myself, that it was me she was thinking of as she rubbed at her pussy? She had, after all, just been watching me in the mirror.

  She’s running her tongue over the flesh of the oyster now, then yanking it free from the shell with her teeth and slurping it up. I can’t tear my eyes away from her. What the hell’s she playing at, I think. Or is she just hamming it up? Sometimes actresses – even, or perhaps especially, unsuccessful ones – don’t know when to turn it off.

  I pick up an oyster myself, inhale its salty ocean tang, then close my eyes and tip it into my mouth. I wince involuntarily as it slithers whole down the back of my throat; I like oysters, but they do make me a little squeamish. When I open my eyes, Carlotta is still looking at me, her eyes twinkling. Mischief is on her mind, I’m sure of it, but I don’t know her well enough to know in what form it’s going to manifest itself.

  She leans forwards to ask the waiter to bring us more champagne, wobbling slightly on her high stool. Then she turns to face me.

  ‘I have idea,’ she says.

  Here it is, I think: whatever’s been brewing in her mind for the last half-hour. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Go put dress on,’ she says, and though she’s not exactly ordering me, her voice brooks no dissent. ‘Paco,’ she adds with a smile, ‘will love. He love it when I wear such a thing.’

  She hops from her seat and passes me up my bag. ‘I wait here while you go to bathroom.’ She glances around her. ‘But just one thing,’ she continues in a low voice.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Don’t tell Paco it me who buy it for you. Or him buy it – it his credit card!’ She smirks. ‘Our little secret.’

  When I get back to the oyster bar, Paco and Carlotta are sitting on adjacent stools, all over each other. They barely even register my return and, as I’m sitting back down and reaching for the fresh glass of champagne that’s appeared in place of my old one, I can see their hands on each others’ thighs – his creeping under the hem of her dress to the shadowy realm between her legs, hers right next to the bulge in his trousers, where his cock is no doubt throbbing for her. She’s leaning in towards him, face nuzzling his shoulder, eyes all wide and adoring. His hand is on the back of her head, stroking her glossy yellow hair. Then he lifts his magnificent brown eyes and looks straight into mine, and my belly does a somersault.

  ‘Hi Alicia,’ he says, and Carlotta lifts her head and looks at me too. All the mischief has gone from her eyes – in fact, she looks a little glazed and sleepy – and I tell myself I must have imagined the whole thing. How could I have flattered myself to think that she was flirting with me, when she so obviously worships her husband? It was clearly him she was thinking of when she had her crafty grope in the changing cubicle. One look at her now tells me there’s nothing on her mind beyond getting him back to their hotel and sliding between the sheets with him.

  Carlotta doesn’t even mention the dress. Neither, in fact, does Paco, though I look, I know it, so utterly unlike myself, especially with half my bum hanging out. I already got some pretty strange looks on my way back from the loos. After a few minutes of watching them melt into each other on their stools, I’m feeling like a bit of a spare part. I look at my watch and sigh.

  ‘I’ll make a move, then,’ I say. ‘Call me later, Carlotta, about what time you want me to pick you up tomorrow.’

  Carlotta is standing up now. ‘OK,’ she says, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek. ‘And thanks again, Alicia. I have a great time.’

  She turns back to Paco and says something in Spanish before walking away; I guess she’s gone to the toilets, since she’s left all her bags. I wait until I’m sure she’s gone and then turn back to Paco, smile uncertainly.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says simply.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You know –’ His eyes blaze into mine. ‘I know it’s not easy.’

  I shrug, cast my eyes around the food hall at all the people shopping for their supper. Why do other people’s lives always seem so cosy and uncomplicated when your own is in turmoil? And why does turmoil suddenly seem to be my modus operandi?

  ‘Can I see you again?’ I say finally. ‘Alone, I mean.’

  Paco sighs, runs his hands through his hair. ‘It’s difficult,’ he says. His eyes are on the door through which Carlotta will reappear sometime soon. ‘It’s just crazy right now, my schedule.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, feeling like an idiot. I take my handbag from the stool where I had placed it.

  ‘Alicia,’ he hisses, grabbing my wrist as I start to walk away. ‘I don’t want you to think I don’t want t
o see you. It’s just – difficult right now. I hardly even see Carlotta, and if I take any more time away from her she’ll get suspicious. But I’ll find a way. I do want to see you again. I keep thinking about you all the time.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, heart a little lighter. He’s staring back at the doorway. ‘I’ll go now,’ I say, equally anxious that Carlotta doesn’t see us still together.

  He tightens his grip on my wrist, then lets go. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I can find a way,’ he says.

  And then I’m gone, across the food hall and out into the rain, feeling more than a little ridiculous in my tarty dress, looking for a taxi. I can’t face a sweaty, overcrowded rush-hour bus, can’t face walking home alone through the grey streets, seeing all the lovers getting together after work, holding hands, linking arms, heading for bright bars and restaurants full of the tinkle of carefree laughter.

  9

  I NEED A girly night out, I say to myself back at my flat. I’ve had a shower, poured a large vodka and tonic, and talked some sense into myself since my moment of despair on the street outside Selfridges. There are two messages from Jess, who’s beginning to sound cross, and even a little worried, now. I’m not surprised: I’ve been blanking her calls on my mobile all afternoon. She knows something’s up.

  I don’t divulge much on the phone, just that a couple of things have happened that I need to talk to her about. Happily, she’s free this evening, and we agree to meet in an hour and a half at Julie’s Wine Bar not far from where she lives in Holland Park. There’s a restaurant there if we decide to eat, but on past experience we’ll be having a liquid supper.