Undone

by Kristina Lloyd

  The man stood, glancing around the dimness. I grabbed a folded tea towel on the counter-top.

  ‘Here,’ I said. I caught a waft of fresh sweat as I handed him the cloth. The heat from his body pressed on my chilly skin. An image hovered in my mind of him shoving me up against the rugged stone wall and destroying my nice, neat tea dress with his hard, ruthless hands.

  It’s fair to say, I hadn’t seen much action for a while. Bitch-on-heat had become my default setting. I’d been hoping the weekend might offer some respite from my dry spell. If he were available, a guy like this would suit me fine for a fling.

  ‘You OK?’ I asked. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Got whacked in the face with a tennis racquet.’ He spread out the chequered cloth on the wooden drainer by the sink and tipped ice into the centre. He cupped the tumbling cubes with one hand, muscles shifting in his shoulders as he moved, his breath puffing fast. ‘My backhand, his forehand.’ He twisted the cloth into a bundle and gingerly pressed the ice pack to his lip.

  ‘Ouch,’ I said. ‘Can I do anything? Does it need stitches?’

  He tugged open the fridge door with his left hand and snatched a large bottle of mineral water. ‘Take the top off that, would you?’ he said, proffering the plastic bottle.

  I did as asked. ‘Are your teeth OK?’

  He nodded. ‘He just caught me. I was lucky.’ He transferred the ice pack to his left hand, taking the opened bottle with his right. ‘Cheers.’ He tipped back his head, his mouth open wide, and poured in a stream of water. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his stubble-shadowed neck as he glugged, liquid bubbling from his mouth and spilling down his front. He stopped drinking, laughed and shook his head like a wet dog, showering me in droplets of sweat and water. ‘Whoa!’ he said, eyes popping.

  ‘You want to sit down?’ I said. ‘I could try and find some antiseptic. You should probably—’

  ‘You kidding me?’ he said. ‘It’s break point!’ And he bounded out of the room, ice pack in one hand, bottle in the other. He streaked past the window in a blur. I leaned forwards, hands on the drainer, watching him through the dirty, cobwebbed glass. He upended the bottle, emptying its contents over his head. Water coursed down the wedge of his back, pinging off his body as if a halo of diamonds were shattering around him.

  Outside, a distant roar erupted amid a bang and rattle of wood. The Jenga tower had collapsed.

  I watched him disappear from view. I was in control then, I’m sure of it. Lecherous? Interested? Oh, without a doubt. But I don’t fall that easily. I’m like the Jenga tower. I need to be studied and carefully dismantled by a man with skill and patience; by a man smart enough to recognise my own smartness and complexity. This sexy guy with the broken lip, he was sporty and he looked like fun. He’d never be up to the task.

  You’d think, wouldn’t you, that people can’t help but reveal themselves in bed? That they’re made vulnerable by their nakedness and admission of desire. That when you tacitly agree to trust each other by sharing the space of sex, there’s a truth in what you do. The barriers are down.

  But it’s not always the case. Sol gave away so little that night. He was an artful performer keeping his distance. Only later, after Misha died, when he fucked me on the forest floor, did I see Sol for who he was. Or, at least, I’d thought so at the time. Because, ironically, I’m starting to suspect I saw his true colours when he was lying. Fucking and lying. Fucking with such abandon I thought we might disintegrate; thought we might crumble into ancient earth and tremulous ferns, pulling each other down into the disappearance of old bones and deep-diving tree roots.

  I’m afraid Sol is too much like me. He longs for the edge but a fear this would destroy him curtails his compulsion to know that dark delirium. I don’t know how close to ruin he allows himself to get but I know he is not merely fun. He’s more than the sunny, sociable, game-playing Sol he makes himself out to be; so much more. And I’m glad, and I’m scared. He has a hiddenness I want to find, but I’m terrified I might regret it. I expect the feeling’s mutual.

  So he watches me. I watch him. And I do not know who will win.

  Wednesday 2nd July

  Time’s ticking on. It’s been three days now, and I still haven’t recorded the events of day one at Dravendene Hall. I’m being too cautious with my words, too reflective in my thoughts. I’ve been swimming too much as well, upping my daily quota of lengths by two then four. Last night, after closing the bar, I fell into an exhausted sleep, assisted by a large brandy and soda. I wish I didn’t dream.

  It’s nearly 2 a.m. now. I’m sitting in bed with my journal propped on my knees, ink-blue handwriting making veins on the page as if I’m bringing something to life. Monsters and magic. Dr Frankenstein, I presume. I’ve tilted the slats of the bedroom blinds so stripes of silver-white light from the lantern in the courtyard pattern the room. The noirish illumination is negligible but at this brandy-steeped hour, writing by the glow of my reading lamp, the reminder of the ordinary outside world brings a comforting stability.

  I take comfort too from being analogue. I feel more truthful when writing longhand, forming shapes on the page unique to me, the words flowing from my fingers rather than appearing on a screen in the tap-tap uniformity of Calibri or Times. And a brandy and soda, for shame! I ought to be wearing a Vanity Fair bed jacket in peach chiffon and lace while sipping champagne from lead crystal. But I’m distilling my story, and the drink matches my mood: a sparkle of alertness with an undernote of hot, sweet darkness.

  To get to the point: Sol called in at The Blue Bar this afternoon, and I am all undone.

  After Misha’s death, I wasn’t sure I’d ever see Sol again. Wasn’t sure I wanted to, either. But when he sauntered into the bar today, scruffy, dirty and hot, I wanted him so badly it hurt. He won’t be good for me, I’m sure of it, yet I’m tormented by thoughts of him and of the things he might do to me. Obsession starts this way. I fear we are doomed. There is no going back.

  ‘Let’s be in touch soon,’ he’d said when we were finally allowed to leave Dravendene Hall. That afternoon, black tarpaulin sheets had shrouded the glasshouse of the swimming pool. A barrier of tape stating POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS encircled the building. Detectives and uniformed officers busied themselves indoors and out, asking questions, taking notes. The detectives looked so clean-living; pleasant, patient people in good shoes and crisp shirts, not the scotch-sozzled cynics of legend.

  I hadn’t contacted Sol since then. Back in Saltbourne, back at work, the weekend’s events became a nightmarish limbo to which I was loath to return. So many questions remained unanswered: How did Misha die? Does he have family? Who did he know at the party? What happens next? Are we under suspicion?

  I had an urge to keep talking about it, to straighten out the chaos and make a coherent narrative in an attempt to get a handle on it all. But I knew that was dangerous, hence this journal. Damn, I’m going off track again.

  To go back to the party. After meeting Sol in the utility room at Dravendene, I later saw him several times that day, always talking to someone, his aviator shades giving him silver-black, shellac eyes. He felt dangerous to look at because if he were mutually curious, I’d be none the wiser.

  I was interested in talking to him but didn’t get the chance until the evening. I’d napped, bathed and changed, and was feeling nicely buzzed. I was wearing a 1960s mod dress, cut just above the knees, in navy blue cotton with a white Peter Pan collar and large, white buttons down the front. On my feet were strappy, Lola Ramona wedges in red, white and black. As I said before, when I picture myself from the outside, the nightmare feels more manageable. The events become discrete, strung neatly and evenly across a timeline of the weekend, rather than swirling in a maelstrom of upset. If I order them by clothing, we have: Day time: tea dress. Evening: mini-dress. Night time: handcuffs.

  I spotted him alone on the fringes of the party, beyond the hubbub of the garden, where glowing Chinese lanterns now hung from trees like strange p
astel moons. He was leaning against an enormous horse chestnut tree, smoking, and gazing out across undulating countryside to a mauve-blue sky shot through with streaks of pink. Swifts swooped high above, their screams trailing. Long shadows slanted across the landscape.

  Emboldened by a couple of glasses of sangria, I approached, heels a touch wonky on the grass. ‘Hey, how’s the lip?’ I called.

  He turned, giving me a quick up–down assessment, and smiled tentatively. ‘Yeah, good thanks.’ He took a last drag on his cigarette, tapped it against the trunk, and then dropped the butt to the ground, swivelling his heel where the end fell among tree roots.

  His bottom lip, although less swollen and raw, was still marked by a ruby-purple lump, sagging and splitting like an overripe fruit. The wound had a lascivious quality, as if the man were melting from an excess of sensuality; as if the private hollow of his mouth were bursting out in a shameless display of wet, pouting obscenity. I wanted to suck him there, to carefully place my lips on the tenderness and taste the point where he was too much for himself. His broken flesh and blood would tingle on my tongue in a concoction tasting of velvet and copper, and I’d drink him down.

  ‘Did you win your match?’ I asked.

  He tucked a thumb in his belt loop, and crooked his knee against the wide tree trunk, all cool and laid-back like a beat-up cowboy. Outdoors, he seemed older than he had done earlier, high on endorphins in the utility room. His hair was thick, as dark as bitter chocolate, and his brown eyes were set in warm, crinkled rays. He smiled as if he found me amusing, his mouth lopsided from the injury. It was a sexy smile, arrogant, jeering and playfully calculating; a smile which suggested nothing would stop him from taking his pleasures as he preferred them.

  ‘Certainly did,’ he replied, as if it were never in doubt because he always wins. I cast my eyes up and down his body, checking him out because two can play at that game. He wore jeans, a leather belt and a checked shirt unbuttoned over a tee.

  ‘You look as if you’re auditioning for the role of Marlboro Man,’ I said.

  He laughed; then dabbed his lip. ‘Yeah? So do I get the gig?’ He checked his fingertips.

  ‘Well, I’d hire you.’ I smiled and stepped closer, offering him my hand. ‘Lana. Lana Greenwood.’

  He wiped his fingertips on his jeans and shook my hand, his big, firm grip threatening to crush my fingers. ‘Sol Miller. Apologies. My lip bleeds when I smile.’

  He held the greeting for a fraction too long, preventing me from withdrawing at the natural end-point of the handshake. I felt a tiny jolt in my shoulder, and my blood raced in nervous excitement. His palm was warm against mine and the bones in my hand felt as fragile as a bird’s. We locked eyes as the handshake extended into uncomfortable territory. A smile lifted on his lips, presumably in response to the sight of my discomposure. That smile made me weak in the knees.

  Asshat, I thought, amused. He released my hand and I wondered if his blood were on my skin. ‘Nice to meet you, Sol.’

  He smiled more broadly, watching me all the while from under heavy brows, his eyes as dark as old oak casks in a shadowy bodega. I held his gaze, determined to meet his flirtatious intimidation with a refusal to succumb.

  I nailed him as the toppy type straight away. He had that playful superiority, that bad-boy swagger, and my Domdar’s pretty reliable these days. Admittedly, his Attitude (upper case) was a touch off-putting. My preference is for men with quiet confidence; the ones who can be straightforwardly decent, kind, and aren’t scared to convey their desire for you. Men who brandish their sexuality like a weapon aren’t to be trusted in the realm of BDSM. I ran into to a couple after I split from Jonathan. Their arrogance excited me, but I’ve learned not to mess with guys who have something to prove. They’re not dangerous, just disappointing. They peak too soon.

  I figured that even if Sol weren’t au fait with reef knots and tawses, he’d have an instinct for raw, rough sex. That would suit me perfectly for a one-off at a party. Again, I was convinced I was in control at that point. Our exchange by the tree was scarcely more than a brief flirtation, an opening gambit that might have come to nothing.

  Except it did come to something, because later that night, I found myself sprawled on a bed of cushions in the double tipi, disco lights swirling as I chatted to my new acquaintances, Sol and Misha. The wooden beams of the tipis were wrapped with fairy lights, so strings of stars appeared to be scrawled across the dark, pointed skies of the canvas. People danced, clustered around the makeshift bar, chatted at tables or, like us, lazed around on cushions and rugs.

  Earlier in the evening I’d recognised Misha as a customer from The Blue Bar. We’d expressed small-world surprise at bumping into each other at a place like this. He looked different. I was used to seeing him in his steel-rimmed glasses, reserved and unsmiling, a smartly dressed, self-contained man who rarely engaged in small talk. He had sandy hair, cropped around the sides but topped with short, soft curls, and there was an unfortunate echo of the nineties about him.

  He wasn’t wearing his glasses for the party, and I found the transparent vanity of that touching. Turned out he knew Rose, Zoe’s co-host at the party. I was privately intrigued because I was starting to realise Rose had a number of openly kinky friends. They weren’t strutting around in latex and leather but the clues were there if you knew what to look for: a few unusual piercings, interesting tattoos, a touch of geekishness, a polyamorous triple, a leather choker that could double for a collar.

  Was Misha part of that scene? He always seemed kind of buttoned-up when he visited the bar, a creature of habit sitting there with his tablet and Long Island Iced Tea. He rarely stayed for more than an hour, only occasionally being joined by a companion. But then I wouldn’t be the first to observe that some of the most ostensibly straight-laced people turn out to be the wildest perverts.

  I knew him as Mikhail Morozov, the name on his credit card. But here at the party he was Misha, the name his friends call him, he’d said, except the two friends he was supposed to be meeting had failed to arrive. Like me, he didn’t know many other people.

  Talking to him and Sol on the cushions put me in an awkward position. Misha, with his smart blue jeans and crisp lilac shirt, made me feel I ought to behave nicely. I was the proprietor of The Blue Bar. I had professional responsibilities.

  Sol, on the other hand, made me want to misbehave in ways I hardly dared contemplate. I kept imagining him naked in bed, energetic, hard and controlling. He’d be the sort who’d grab your hair or pin your arms to the pillow and whisper in your ear that you were his dirty little slut. And afterwards he’d come on your face without even asking, and he wouldn’t feel guilty because it never occurred to him his dominance was gendered and potentially problematic. And I figured I could cope with that blindness for one night if it meant I was then spared from having to assuage his liberal guilt for having treated me like a whore.

  I was hoping we might slip away from Misha, or Misha might sense a spark between us and retreat. The problem was, Sol appeared far too interested in Misha. Had I misread his sexuality?

  ‘Man, I’m sure I know you from somewhere,’ Sol had said. But Sol’s face was new to Misha, and neither man could suggest how Sol might know him.

  I was considering leaving the two guys to their blossoming bromance, or whatever it was, when a young couple canoodling nearby started to ramp up their action. The DJ stuck on some sleazy, trippy beats, the sort of music that makes you feel as if a nightclub’s melting into your veins and you could fuck until you died of bliss, intoxicated by a sly, dangerous eroticism. Misha was talking in that clipped way of his, and we all conspired in pretending not to notice the amorous couple. But our feigned unawareness soon became too embarrassing to sustain. The couple began grinding their hips together, squirming and caressing in an apparent attempt to have fully clothed sex in front of dozens of party-goers. Shifting light cast colours over their writhing bodies.

  Sol raised his brows in wry acknowledgem
ent. ‘Get a room already, people,’ he murmured.

  Misha laughed, and so did I.

  ‘Hey, we’ve all been there.’ I tried to sound casual but the music was getting to me, making my hips syrupy, my body loose. I watched sidelong as the woman rubbed her partner’s crotch, his hand snaking beneath her halter-neck top. Jeez, she was bra-less. That was seriously hot. I imagined being in her place, feeling fingers land precisely where you wanted them, no clothes to disrupt their passage. And I imagined those grubby feelings of shame and excitement arising from being lewd in public, half wanting your audience to leer and urge you on; half wanting them to vanish and leave you be.

  I’m reminded now that most of my fantasies centre on being both lusted after, and being scorned for ‘sluttish’ behaviour, even as I offer resistance. It’s fucked-up, I know. But then I was raised in a fucked-up culture.

  My fucked-up hunger swelled as the couple groaned into each other’s mouths, smearing each other with drunken kisses. I wanted to look away but couldn’t, nor, apparently, could my two companions. What a thrillingly sexy car crash this was. A languid pulse thickened low in my body as the woman flopped onto her back, spine arching, tits thrusting, an arm flung out in a display of self-abandonment.

  I was desperately turned on, but not because I wanted her. No, I wanted to be her. I wanted to relinquish my pride, dignity and control, and have a man explore my body while other men watched. Worse than that, I wanted drunk, randy men encouraging my lover to keep at it; wanted a rowdy crowd on the verge of joining in and filling me with more cock than I could possibly take. A perpetual fantasy of mine, no more than that. Not a secret desire I longed to have fulfilled.