The image of you, p.15
The Image of You, page 15
She clapped her eyes on him, pinning him to his seat. Then sauntered towards him, hips swaying, hair flicking, breasts—ever so slightly—bouncing. He couldn’t look away. Did he want to?
‘You must be Nick.’ She stood in front of him, straight, stunning, strong. ‘And this must be my seat.’
She remained standing until he jumped to his feet, rushed round the table and pulled out the chair for her. She didn’t say thank you, she just sat down as though she were a queen taking her throne.
There had been identical twin boys in Nick’s class in primary school. He’d schooled with them for about two years before they moved away to Leicester. Like all the kids, he had found the twins fascinating. He had always been enthralled by them and a little envious of them: as a boy he’d thought it must be great to have an on-tap, no-questions-asked buddy; as an adult he’d thought it must be the ultimate gratification for an inflated ego to have a double to study. Not that Anna had an inflated ego, although Zoe may well have. He hadn’t been close friends with the boys so he’d never found the knack of telling them apart, which had unnerved him, he liked to know where he stood. Now, he felt momentarily nervous, as he wondered, would he be able to recognize Anna and tell her apart from Zoe if they were both here, side by side? The twin boys at school were obliged to wear the same uniform, which added to the confusion. No surprise that Zoe’s fashion style was very different from Anna’s; but if they were both naked, would he be able to tell them apart? The thought sent a bolt of fear and excitement shimmying through his body. Why would he think that? He’d never see Zoe naked, obviously. What was he afraid of? What was he excited by? Zoe moved her head a fraction; not her head at all, really, just her eyes. The gesture summoned the waiter; he appeared from nowhere, as though pulled to the table by a Siren call. Anna caught the attention of waiters with her enormous grin and enthusiastic wave. Yes, he’d be able to tell them apart. He felt relieved.
Still, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. Truthfully, it was like looking at Anna but...more. How Anna might look if she was ever the subject of an extreme makeover, the way women sometimes are for magazine features or on the trashier TV shows. He wasn’t saying Zoe was more attractive than Anna, she was just different. It was fascinating. They both had full, pert breasts but Zoe was wearing the sort of top that made breasts into tits. A sheer black shirt, a button too many undone. The low scoop and the sheerness designed to reveal an exciting, lacy, orange bra. Anna wore white or flesh-coloured underwear, in cotton, as a rule. She did own two lacy sets—one in blush pink, the other in baby blue—but he’d never seen either set on; he only knew of their existence because Anna once got him to root through her underwear drawers looking for a pair of trainer socks. He thought it was a shame; she had a great body and ought to feel confident enough to make the most of it, but she didn’t, not quite. She dressed well, often beautifully, but mostly her clothes were functional, comfortable, appropriate. Confidence clearly wasn’t an issue for Zoe. He could barely imagine anything functional, comfortable or appropriate in her wardrobe, he imagined it to be a mass of silky and translucent fabrics, scarlet reds, animal prints, plunging necklines and short hems. The thought made him reach for his water glass and take a gulp.
Zoe put her elbows on the table, subtly (deliberately?) pushing her tits together, making them swell in front of his very eyes. Zoe was more tanned than Anna. She crossed and uncrossed—and then crossed again—her muscular legs; obviously she was drawing attention to them. Like Anna, she had dark, glossy hair but since their first few dates Nick had rarely seen Anna wear hers loose; usually she scraped it up into a ponytail because it was more sensible for work. He liked ponytails, they made a woman look sporty, energetic. But long hair, falling in fat glossy curls around a woman’s shoulders, well, that was sexy, sultry. And sexy and sultry won over sporty and energetic in most male fantasies. Nick reminded himself that fantasies were for kids, something to wank over, they were not real or important. Anna hardly wore make-up; Nick had always admired that. She was a natural beauty and didn’t need to mess about with that sort of thing. Zoe was caked in the stuff. Still, he had to admit she applied it well. It did enhance her features. It was difficult to look away from her lush, long lashes that beat against the air. He imagined them sending a much-needed breeze his way. Her scarlet mouth was mesmerizing. Wet lips. Glistening. A hole in her face. Inviting.
‘What are you drinking?’ She picked up the wine and cocktail menu and started to slowly flip through it.
He was rapt. He couldn’t quite work out why. He’d seen beautiful women before. Had them, plenty of them. Beautiful, sexy, up-for-it women. But Zoe was different from any other woman, ironically because she was so similar. Anna, but not Anna at all.
‘Are you sure you want a drink? Wouldn’t you prefer something soft?’ he asked, forcing himself to remember and try to abide by Anna’s instructions. He actually fell over his words, it was humiliating. ‘I’m on lime soda.’
Zoe laughed, a hard, challenging bark. ‘Boring! Who are you? My mother?’
He shook his head. ‘Aren’t you on the programme?’ he whispered.
‘Told you all that shit, has she? Such a blabbermouth.’
Nick felt offended on Anna’s behalf. ‘She’s just concerned for you.’
‘Shall I tell you a secret?’ Nick felt torn, frozen. He had a feeling being privy to this woman’s secrets was a fast track to trouble.
Before he could stop her she said, ‘I started drinking again about six months ago. I haven’t told Anna because she’d freak, but I’m absolutely fine with it. I have everything under control.’
Nick wanted to reach for his phone and update Anna. This had to be a disaster, right? He didn’t know an awful lot about actual alcoholics. Heavy drinkers? Yes. Loads of them. But that wasn’t the same. He was pretty sure they weren’t meant to drink again, ever. He hesitated. What could Anna do right now? She was at the hospital with Ivan. He’d only upset her.
Zoe interrupted his thoughts. ‘They’ve always made more of my drinking habit than is fair.’
‘They?’
‘My parents. Anna. I bet she told you I was an alcoholic.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘I’m not. Do I look like an alcoholic?’
She opened out her arms. He found he was staring at her cleavage. She kept her eyes boring into Nick. She did not look like an alcoholic. She was the picture of health. Alcoholics had ravaged, jaundiced skin or red, itchy skin; hers was smooth and golden. There were no hand tremors, nor were her eyes bloodshot or unfocused. Anna was a worrier; he was inclined to believe she might have unintentionally exaggerated the situation. Zoe was an adult, he couldn’t tell her what to drink and what not to drink.
The waiter hovered at the table.
‘I’ll have a vodka and orange but only if the orange is squeezed in front of me. I can’t bear the crap that is passed off as “freshly squeezed”. The world is so disappointingly full of bullshitters. No ice.’
The waiter nodded, with more enthusiasm than was seemly.
‘Make that two,’ she instructed him, without consulting Nick further.
Twenty-Three
Zoe
I know he will fail my test the moment he claps eyes on me. There’s something that states intent in the way he looks at me; long, hard, with some shame and, simultaneously, excitement. I almost turn around right then; I have my answer. But Anna doesn’t. She will need undeniable proof. It’s pathetic, really; his reaction. Predictable. His tongue is practically on the floor. Men are so stupid and annoying. The biggest annoyance being that they still rule the world we live in when they are so very, very obviously stupid. Yet I stay, I have to. I need to know. Anna needs to know. She always believes the best in people, gives them the benefit of the doubt. There can be no doubt. I move towards him. Throw out my web, insect that he is, he will crawl into it.
I don’t even nod towards the concept of subtlety. I can tell at once that’s not what he wants from me, and he does want something from me, whether he knows it yet or not, whether he admits it to himself now, or ever. I pull out all the tricks—sashaying hips, playing with my hair, squeezing my breasts together when I lean forward, elbows on the table (no manners!), touching his hand from time to time when I tell a funny story, throwing my head back and laughing with wild abandon when he relays something or other, running my tongue over my teeth, filling up his glass, pushing my knee next to his. All the obvious, tired old tricks. And he laps them up. A parched dog. It is as though he’s never before seen a woman in his life.
Depressing, really. Hurtful for Anna.
I was right. He considers the sex he’s having with Anna as, shall we say, pleasant? Nice enough? Sufficient? Not exactly adequate. Of course, he doesn’t actually confess that to me, I glean as much because he almost comes just talking about sex, and of course that’s what I focus on throughout the evening. I want to get him all hot and worked up, I need to see how far he will go. So, despite his feeble efforts to keep the conversation on my work, or even my journey from the States (yawnsville), I quickly, ceaselessly bring it back round to what is important. Sex. Like when he picks up the menu and starts to glance over it.
He asks, ‘What do you fancy?’
‘An Adonis with a good tongue,’ I quip.
He blushes and points to the menu. ‘To eat?’
‘Oh, I’ll have the oysters with the chili salsa.’ Everyone knows what is said about oysters so I don’t even need mention it. ‘What about you?’
He uncomfortably fingers his collar, computing that I’ve picked the aphrodisiac. ‘I’ll have the salad,’ he says as he takes a gulp of his vodka and orange.
‘That salad is designed for women.’
He raises his eyebrow, mock surprised. ‘That’s a bit of a sexist assumption, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not thinking about calorie intake or any of that. Look, it’s got asparagus and avocados in it. Don’t you know that the vitamin E in those greens helps the body churn out oestrogen and progesterone, which circulate in the bloodstream and stimulate sexual responses?’ I smile innocently, as though we’re discussing nothing more than the inclement weather. ‘Specifically, it causes clitoral swelling and vaginal lubrication.’
He actually chokes on his drink.
‘Am I the only one who knows these things?’ I try to look genuinely confused. Shrugging, ‘Maybe I am, maybe that’s why I get such good feedback from my lovers.’ I wink at him.
What I’m doing isn’t flirting. Flirting suggests a level of delicacy.
I order the oysters to start, then steak with a side of the horny salad. He would have to be deaf and blind not to get the message. After my little talk about nutrition he steers clear, ordering sausages, which makes me inwardly giggle. I also order a bottle of wine; when I do so I notice he shifts on his seat but doesn’t dare voice any more objections.
‘So you’re not a vegetarian, like Anna?’
‘If I had a choice I’d ask they serve my meat still bleating.’ I bite my lip. ‘Or talking.’
Whilst we wait for our food he, rather desperately, asks me what I do with my spare time. I mention that Anna and I were both gymnasts when we were children and although she doesn’t seem to have time for hobbies now, I value staying flexible. ‘I’m a bit of a yoga bunny.’
‘Oh really, what type?’
‘I’m not too fussy. Ashtanga. Hatha. My favourite sessions are hot yoga.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of that.’
‘It’s actually just yoga in a very hot room. Around thirty-seven degrees Celsius. Imagine a tropical island with no breeze.’
‘Wow.’
‘Working in a heated room raises the heart rate, forcing the body to work harder. It’s intense, you know. That said, I love it. It develops strength, flexibility and tone.’ I’m sitting ramrod straight. He knows I’m toned. ‘Plus, the heat helps the body relax and improves breathing, focuses the mind.’
‘All good stuff.’
‘Yeah, although it’s not for the squeamish. It’s pretty undignified. The main point is to sweat out toxins. Within minutes I’m dripping. Sweat running in every crevice, I have to fight the urge to strip.’ I pluck at my shirt, as though I’m boiling right now. As though I need to strip right now. I allow a pause in the conversation. People underestimate the importance of what’s left unsaid. I find it just as valuable as what is said. I give his mind time to digest and draw the picture. ‘You?’
‘What?’ He looks a little dazed.
‘Do you have a sport?’
‘I play some rugby.’
‘Oh.’ Beat. ‘Thighs.’ I really don’t need to say anything more. I let the moment settle. He’s imagining a hot, sweating, stripping yoga bunny. I’m pretending to imagine his big, glorious thighs; in fact, just to make things simpler, I do imagine his big, glorious thighs.
We sit in silence until the waiter brings our starters. Silences are powerful. More powerful than screams sometimes.
Nick tries again with a new topic. ‘So, Anna tells me you’re here for a specific job.’ It is sweet the way he keeps bringing Anna into the conversation. Reminding me, reminding himself, of her existence.
‘That’s right.’ I play with my love-knot necklace, drawing attention to my cleavage—as if I need to, he’s barely looked anywhere else. It is hilarious, watching him struggle to keep his eyes up.
‘And what sort of work do you do?’
‘She hasn’t told you?’
‘Erm, she might have done.’ He blushes.
‘I see. You don’t always listen.’
‘Not as well as she deserves, perhaps.’ He laughs and looks embarrassed, hoping I’ll forgive his foible.
I lie. ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, I’m good at keeping schtum. And I know Anna can drone on a bit.’
‘Oh no, it’s not that. I wouldn’t say that. It’s just, if we’re watching TV and there’s sport on or market analysis on the news, I don’t concentrate as well as I might, as I ought. It’s entirely my fault.’
I wave his protestations and justifications away. They’re boring. ‘I’m a model.’
‘Oh.’
‘You seem surprised.’
He watches my lips as I chew. I know he likes my appetite.
‘Not at all, you’re beautiful. Both of you,’ he adds quickly, again stumbling and blushing.
It’s almost cute.
‘Yet modelling is not what you expected?’
‘I just know I would have remembered that, if Anna had mentioned it.’ He laughs.
I bet. I decide to let him off the hook. ‘Honestly? She probably hasn’t. Anna doesn’t talk about my modelling often. She doesn’t completely approve. Let’s just say I’m a bit curvy for the catwalk so a lot of the work I get tends to play to my assets.’ I pout, a little. I’m also a little old for the catwalk, I don’t see any need to draw attention to that. ‘Anyway, I’m over here to do an underwear catalogue.’ I name the brand. ‘Do you know it?’
He shakes his head.
‘It doesn’t surprise me. It’s pretty slutty stuff, to be honest.’
I can practically see him fight his hard on as he processes this bit of information.
‘I’ve been at it all day, actually.’
‘You’ve been working—modelling—today?’
‘It’s much more strenuous than people imagine, you know, so much bending and stretching.’ I let him think about that for a while too. ‘And it’s chilly. I mean we’re not wearing much, obviously.’
‘No.’
‘And invariably there’s a wind machine, to blow out hair. The art director wants our nipples to ping, you know.’ As I say this I touch my nipples with my pointing finger and then do a little action to represent them pinging out towards him. It’s hardly subtle.
He almost bites his tongue.
‘We girls practically have to cling to one another for body warmth. You can imagine.’
‘Yes, I can.’ His voice is gravelly with lust. He coughs and then reaches for the wine. He refills both our glasses without hesitating and seems surprised to find that it is the last of the bottle.
I summon the waiter and order another. Nick protests half-heartedly. Once again, I wave away his objections. It’s almost too easy. Then I think of his promises to Anna and I feel a swell of irritation. The irritation scratches at my throat and I can’t enjoy the oysters.
I continue in much the same vain throughout the main course too. Filling his glass regularly, touching his arm, looking at him from beneath my eyelashes. Luring him in with every syllable I utter, every flick of the head, every sigh. I’m very practised at this. Sometimes, it’s actually boring, how easy it is to pick up men. Tonight, at least, is a little bit outside the norm. I have to work at it. And I do. I am like quicksilver: amorphous, shiny, chancy. I can be many things at once and I know he finds all of them interesting and yet alarming.
‘So, you’re going to marry my sister.’ I say.
‘That’s the plan.’
I reject any semblance of cloaking my feelings with polite small talk. ‘Extraordinary.’
He takes a sip of wine. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘You don’t seem the marrying kind.’
‘Don’t I?’
‘No.’
‘What kind am I then?’
‘You strike me as someone who is very much about the hooking and the fucking.’
He coughs, hearing the word so raw and real in his head and his trousers, no doubt. ‘Those days are behind me,’ he insists.
