She guffaws. “Fortunately for you, I’m not in the mood to be pimped right now.”
“But you’ll come? Pimping aside.”
“Yes, I will come to London to see the stupid lame musical for free, and I will tolerate these nice older boys.” She gives a mocking, pitiful sigh. “But only because I am a very good sister. I hope you realise the trauma this will cause.”
“Mills. You’re brilliant. Thank you.” I catch sight of The Waves’ blue and white cover splayed across my bed, its title blurred in the mess of spring sunshine bouncing off my window. “Is…is everything okay with you?”
“Yeah,” she says, far too quickly. “Just sticking around to finish some homework, that’s all. I’ve got a shift later so best get it done.” She works at a late-night chemist sometimes after school, and is often full of stories about grumpy methadone patients. Not so today.
“I started the book.”
“Yay! We’ll talk about it on Friday, yeah?”
“Oh, there’s plenty to talk about. Seagull roasting. This had best be a metaphor you can explain to me.”
“I will. Promise.” The wind blows static into her receiver. “Listen–I really need to finish studying. Let me know about London.” Her voice lifts with excitement. I’m so relieved she actually wants to go. “Talk to you later, ‘kay?”
“Okay. Take care, Mills.”
My phone lands on one of my beaded white scatter cushions. I stare at with a blunt longing, thinking about Art’s profile, all the precious little bits of information it holds. He added me not long after we said goodbye at the gym; he walked me out like any other client, helped me into my coat, but lingered to do up the first of my buttons as he stood behind me, his arms a warm cage of strength. I brushed him off in a fit of nerves, but his smile played regardless, smooth and buttery. I’ll call you later. Is that okay? There’s something protective in his mannerisms–tiny things, but noticeable. He teases me like a little sister but the pleasure he takes is tainted with desire.
Rosalie watched it all with morbid fascination, and where I should have been vindicated, I felt embarrassed. This idea that Art wants me; I can’t stretch my brain around it, supple as I may be.
All the while, my gaze drifts to the remains of a photograph growing damp in an old mug of coffee. I can’t bring myself to throw it out.
***
The kitchen is lightly dusted with cocoa. As is my tiramisu. The air reeks of espresso and liquor, which I used to soak the sponge fingers before layering them up with cream. I may not be able to make decent coffee at the flat, but who cares when there’s eight layers of epic pudding doused in Costa’s best efforts?
It’s near enough nine o’clock. My phone has been silent–in fact the whole flat is silent, bar the faint echo of Vicky practising lines in her bedroom. I fiddle about with the dimmer switch, trying to find the right light for my camera; need to get it just right so all the tiramisu’s layers photograph vividly. In the bubble of my lens, they come up smudged against the glass bowl. A pretentious voice in my head says I’ve made art, not dessert; then the name Art pops up on my screen, the handset vibrating, and it turns out I need a few seconds to bask in the sheer fuckery of my own universe before swiping across the screen to answer.
Art’s voice fills the cup of my ear. “Hey. How’s it going?”
“Good. It’s good.” Here he is, calling when he said he would. I almost hate him for it. “I made pudding.”
“I take it you’re feeling a bit better, then,” he teases.
“I am actually, yeah. So…thank you.”
“Hmm.” It’s less a word and more a satisfied grunt; the kind a man makes when you’re pressed up against him, your skin hot on his, and his mouth dangerously close to the bare nape of your neck. Hmm.
“How are things with you?” I ask.
“I knocked off around six to do bedtime. Read The Highway Rat three times. I think my ears are still bleeding.”
“Oh, for your sister?”
“The very same. She’s currently snoring her head off, bless her.” He pauses, swallows. “You manage to get hold of Millie?”
“Uhuh.” Totally smirking like The Joker again. Thank you, boys and pills. “She’s coming.”
“Awesome.” His voice has gone all malleable with pleasure, and I’m reminded of Cloisters candles again. “She’s in Guildford, yeah?”
“Near enough. By Sutton Green.”
“We’ll swing by on the drive up and pick her up then, if that’s okay. Can you ask her to be ready for around half four?”
“Will do.” Pause. Silence. I don’t know what to say to him–feels funny to be communicating and still be so far away. The distance between us crackles and sparks. Maybe Grace isn’t surrounded by fog after all; it’s smoke, weighty and intoxicating, spewing from a single sharp connection.
“You there?” he says.
“Yeah. Sorry. Was just…thinking.”
“Oh?” He makes the hmm sound again, the one which causes me to press my thighs together. “Anything I should know about?”
“Just this book I’m reading. It’s kind of depressing, but also kind of…I don’t know. Weirdly appropriate.”
“Want me to lighten the mood and ask what you’re wearing, or something?”
I giggle, girlish and heady. “Cocoa, mostly. And clothes.”
“I like cocoa.”
“I like clothes,” I add, suddenly terrified of flirting. Which is ridiculous. “Especially the wearing of them.”
“All the time?” he says, feigning disappointment. “Still not taken my tip about the naked accounting classes then?”
“As liberating as I’m sure it’d be, no.” I laugh again. “But I’ll keep it in mind for summer.”
“We could do a charity event. Cait Goes Nude for Africa.”
“You’re overthinking this,” I scold
“Cait does spreadsheets nude, for Africa. Has a ring to it. I’ll start a Facebook page–”
“You will not! Stop overthinking me…naked,” I end with a mumble.
Now he laughs, dirty and guttural. “But I like it.”
“Is that before or after you’ve groped a gargoyle?”
“Most definitely after,” he says with an air of posh boy sensibility. “Gargoyles are just foreplay. You and your spreadsheets and your cocoa are more a main event kind of thing.”
I’m lounging against the fridge all of a sudden, my spine half-baked and floaty, my flesh shot through with electric light. “Huh.”
“Huh, indeed. I…” He breathes out. “I’m going to call off before I start sounding like a real pervert, ‘kay?”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being a pervert.” He does this to me, and I barely notice–I’m wound tight as a ball one second, loose and open the next. Frigid melts right into Hyde.
“I will keep that in mind. Trust me.”
“So I’ll see you on Friday?”
“I’ll be there around half three. Flat one-twenty, right?”
“Right.” I press my thighs together again, squeeze my eyes shut at the rush of heat and friction. “Thank you.”
“A pleasure. Night, Cait.”
“Night.”
In exactly forty-eight hours, I’ll be somewhere in London. With him. We’ll go out, bathe ourselves in the floating lights of the city, drink cocktails, come home. Sleep just a wall apart. At that thought, all the tension in the world shoots up to clamour in my injured muscles–the possibilities weigh heavy, their promises prickled in frosted glass. If I don’t carry myself in the right manner, they’ll smash. Break. Rupture the thin tendons that bind us.
Oh, but I want him. Him and this slow, slow burn.
Chapter Fourteen
It appears I’m too excited to eat my Crap Breakfast. Fortunately, Drew’s eating it for me. The Chow is suspiciously quiet this morning; probably something to do with the rain that batters the corrugated iron roof, or the disturbing rumour that the coffee machine is kap
ut.
“This is for not bringing me any tiramisu,” Drew says through a huge gobful of toast. “I’mma trough this shit.”
I look up from the orange juice I’m pretending to drink. “You badass, you.”
“You can’t waste meat products, Cait. It disrupts the balance of the universe.”
“Creates a disturbance in The Force,” Rich adds, from beside him.
“You see this bacon?” Drew stabs his fork toward my half-empty plate. “I have to eat it for the good of humanity.”
I swirl pith around the rim of my glass, grimacing at the effort. Turns out¸ the day after a massage, you’re sore in places you didn’t know you had, like the tiny crevices in the muscles of my back that that bunch to thousands of tiny knots. “It’s definitely not for the good of the poor pig.”
“Hey. I care about animals! Discovery Channel and all that crap. The other day, I saw this documentary about a wounded lion and its cub. Jackals knawed it to death. It was horri–”
Rich smacks him across the forehead. “Dude. I’m eating.”
Drew recoils into his chair. “I cried for that cub, fuck,toad” he mutters.
“On a brighter note, guess who’s got a date tomorrow? I’ll give you a clue.” Then I close my eyes and jab a finger into my chest repeatedly.
“Those pills are rotting her brain,” says Rich. “She looks like Chuckie.”
Drew’s brow creases. “Who’s Chuckie?”
“They say I shared a womb with him, you know. It’s tragic.”
“Oh yeah?” Drew throws an elbow into his brother’s ribs. “How’s that fucking novel coming, hmm? Hmm?”
“It’s not even a novel! It’s a script!” screeches Rich, veins bulging against the v-neck of his mandigan.
“It’s me!” I almost shout. There’s a jagged reluctance to their parting, but both sit back in their chairs. “I have a date, in London. For a whole night. Breakfast included and everything.” I’ve tried being cynical and bitchy about it, but it’s just not happening. Also, opiates.
Drew and Rich rest their eyes on me. Rich steeples his fingers slowly; Drew folds his arms, sitting back in his chair.
“Exactly how much penis is included in this little deal?” Drew’s eyebrow arches higher with every word.
Heat licks across my face. “What? No! No penis.”
“This is the No Kissing guy, right?” Rich asks.
“His name is Art.”
“Seems like a bit of a turnaround.”
“He apologised.” I give a helpless shrug. “Said he was drunk and nervous. And we’re not going off for some shagfest in a hotel, for your information–Mills is coming too, and we’re staying at his brother’s place.”
The boys glance at each other with pursed lips. Drew rubs a hand over his thick curls, tugs at his fuzzy ponytail.
“Okay,” Rich says finally. “Approval granted.”
“But if you come back from this all loved up, we need to meet him. Just set a few things straight.” Drew holds a fist up and gives his knuckles a casual once-over.
“I wasn’t asking for your approval,” I retort. “Or your dad-with-a-shotgun routine.”
“Dads,” Drew corrects, shoving in a forkful of bacon.
“Shotguns aren’t really my thing.” Rich has a far-off look in his eyes. “Maybe I’d–”
Drew chuckles. “Sit them down and have a nice conversation about what they’re reading? Whether they think real men can wear pink?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’d just get inside his head, is all.”
“Calm down, Derren Brown.”
I wave my hands in front of them. “Hello? I’m still here.”
“Oh. So you are.” Rich gestures for me to lean in with a wave of his spoon. “Come on then. Tell me everything. What are you going to wear…?”
***
As it happens, dear Rich, I’m wearing my beautiful new jumpsuit with the drapey white bodice, black lace back, and black trousers. Since Art’s all tall and broad, I can totally get away with my black platform heels, so I’m wearing those too (or I will be later, when we go out; flats for the car). The red lipstick is tucked safely into my overnight bag.
He knocks at exactly twenty five to four. At this point, I’ve been packed and ready for over an hour, pacing the living area and trying not to sweat. And now here I am, nerves matted, heartbeat akin to postmodern jazz…opening the door.
I’m not used to the sight of him in my doorway. He leans one shoulder against the frame, dark hair still damp and mussed up so it casts a splintered shadow across one amber eye. His striped shirt is untucked over jeans, open slightly at the collar; the smile he wears is lopsided and impossible not to return.
“Hey, lovely.” He says it with this familiar fondness that makes my blood fizz. “All set?”
“All set,” I repeat, half-tempted to pinch him. You know, just to make sure he isn’t a hologram.
“Feeling better?”
“A bit sore, still, but…better.” I shuffle backward. “I’ll just get my coat and stuff.”
“Pass your bag out here,” he calls from the doorway.
I gather up my things and pass him everything but my little handbag, just as he asked. Old Caitlyn–Dominic’s Caitlyn–would have baulked at letting him carry things, but I’m not going back to the place where I’m too scared to order the glass of wine, so to speak. We all know where that leads, and suffice to say I’m not a fan of seagull and chips.
Art yanks the front door shut behind me, and then steps aside. “Ladies first.”
“You’re in an awfully good mood,” I tease. Getting in there first, oh yes.
“I hate to break this to you, but I plan on being in a good mood all night. I’ll probably be polite, too. Maybe even a gentleman. You know.” He gives the inside of his cheek a bite. “Most of the time.”
I’m waiting for him to touch me. Truth is, after Wednesday’s massage, I want to experiment with his skin. See where it might take me.
I pretend to huff. “I suppose I’ll cope.”
The elevator arrives with a single bell, and we step inside.
“I can be a coarse shit if you prefer.” He leans sideways to run his index finger down my ribs. His eyes roll skywards as he combats another smile. “Just say the word, and I’ll treat you like absolute crap for the rest of the trip. Promise.”
His stroking finger tickles, sets my tongue between my canines so I can’t bite down without pain. I’m training myself to tolerate contact, fighting the urge to binge when I need to take it a step at a time. Look at him, though. So bingeworthy.
“See, I’ve had my fair share of coarse shits already. It’d be mean for me to hog them away from everyone else.”
“Inconsiderate. I agree.”
The lift stops on the ground floor, and again, he waits for me to exit before following on.
“I’m parked down on the left, by the hedges,” he says as we step outside. “The black AUDI.”
I entertain a brief fantasy where his license plate reads F15T C8ND7 and then have to stifle a snort. Must not gawp like Joker in Art’s company, especially since the wind keeps changing. Grandma told me my face would stick; biology classes taught me this is balls, but still. This is the worst possible scenario in which to tempt fate.
The rain has dulled to drizzle, tiny bullets softening on my hair and misting the paint on the black car. He pulls open the passenger door, gestures for me to get into the leather seat. When I’m strapped in, he puts my bag in the back, then joins me up front. The car is stuffed with the smell of him–clean, spiced, slight undernote of fresh pool chlorine.
“Since we’re being polite,” I say, “you have a very nice car, Mr Lyons.”
“It’s a vice of mine.” He gives the dashboard a pat before plugging his phone into the hands-free stand. “If it’s alright, I have to make a call once we get on the road. Promised Bea, since I missed the school run today.”
“You do that?”
“Mondays
and Fridays, ‘cause I get off early.” The key lands in the ignition, turns like the crack of a ringpull. A purr beneath the car’s hood grows to a soft buzz. “She let me skip today when I told her I was going to see a girl.”
I blink at him. “What is it she thinks we’re doing, exactly?”
“She has the logic of all six-year-olds, so I’m pretty sure she thinks we’re getting married.” A flash of a wince tugs his forehead down, but he recovers in time to shoot me a smile. “So there’s your heads up, if she mentions that on the phone. She’s got this habit of vocalising the elephant in the room.”
I chew my lip while he pulls out on to the main road. “I hadn’t noticed that marriage was our, you know. Uh. Our elephant.” Until now, of course. And now I’ll be thinking about it the whole bloody way there.
“It is when you’re six. People are either married or not. None of this pesky grey area, getting-to-know-each-other and such. The marriage one’s preferable, trust me. Better than walking past a huge woman and Bea shouting, Art! It’s a bear!”
“I like her already.”
“FYI–I told her your favourite Disney Princess was Belle. Had to improvise.”
“And who’s your favourite princess?”
He laughs. “Straight in there with the dirty stuff, I see.”
“Pfft. Belle is the dirtiest, all that Beauty and the Beast stuff going on,” I protest. “You know, she pretends to be all innocent and ooh, I want adventure and books and more than talking teacups, but we all know she’s going to end up in a lighthouse, alone, sympathising with spiders and spitting out bits of paint.”
Art drops the gear stick a moment to reach over and pat my knee. “There, there. It’s only a film, Cait.”
I like the way he pats me. His palm is heavy, but lands with a practised level of pressure that calls to mind other forms of touch.
“So I suppose you could say,” he goes on, “that Belle’s a rather dirty kind of innocent.”
The air between us charges immediately; the scent of leather seats turns singed.
Breath pulls along the back of my tongue. “So she’s your favourite, after all.”
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