The image of you, p.17
The Image of You, page 17
‘Put it on my room. Room 101.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’ Nick felt woozy, drunk, but he could still spot the 1984 reference.
‘Not at all. Crazy, huh. It’s all very Orwellian, isn’t it?’
So, she read. She was not all tits and teeth. Something else. Something deeper and more powerful, or was he just imagining that? Wanting that? Why did he want to believe there was more to her?
‘Room 101. The torture chamber in the Ministry of Love.’ He chuckled over the irony. It was a silly snorting sound, full of nerves and a pinch of self-loathing. Because he knew. He knew where this was leading.
Zoe nodded. ‘Where the Party attempts to subject a prisoner to his or her own worst nightmare, fear or phobia.’
‘With the object of breaking down their resistance.’ He stopped giggling now. It wasn’t attractive. ‘Room 101, you say?’
‘Fate, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t believe in fate.’
‘Don’t you? No, nor me. I’m more of a coincidence sort of girl. Anna is the one who believes in fate, destinies and such.’
Yes, yes, and knights in shining armour, love at first sight, everlasting love. Anna. Anna. Her name rang around his head like a bell. Not a clear church bell. An alarm. A screeching, annoying alarm. Zoe smiled. It was nothing like Anna’s wide and open beam. The smile offered up not an iota of warmth or amenability. It was the sort of smile that swallowed a man whole.
‘What do you believe in, Nick?’
Nick didn’t know how to answer. Right then, he didn’t believe in anything at all.
Twenty-Five
Zoe
Let me get the excuses out early on. It doesn’t matter much anyway. You don’t like me. I don’t need to be liked. So we’re just fine.
Still, I think you might as well know that I was drunk. I didn’t expect it to go that far. The whole point of the test was to do Anna a favour. Are we clear on that? I wanted to warn her. Save her making a fool of herself. Save her getting hurt.
Just, save her.
My room was only one floor above the restaurant. We could have walked but we didn’t, we waited outside the lift. I don’t know why. I guess walking up the stairs would somehow spell out our intentions too definitively; both to each other and to ourselves. Instead, he lingered by the lift in the foyer, not quite making a conclusive choice; at least, not admitting it was a decision, more a culmination of circumstances. There was talk of a nightcap, raiding my minibar, although if it was a drink he wanted we could have got that at the hotel bar. It wasn’t a drink he was after. We both knew that.
A kiss. That would be it. Decisive proof for Anna. But.
The lift door slid open, I think he hesitated. For, you know, less than a fraction of a second. A flicker of an eyelid, the start of a beat of a heart. Not long enough. We didn’t say a word to each other in the lift. I guess we couldn’t risk it. The wrong word might have brought either one of us to our senses; we didn’t want that. I kept my eyes down, hunted in my bag for the key card. He kept his eyes on me. I know. I felt them.
I gave him one last chance. I gave Anna one chance. As I slid the card through the lock, half hoping it would fail as they sometimes do and I’d have to go back to reception to get another one, which would give us space and time to reconsider, I turned to him and said, ‘You’re sure?’ He could have backed away, said something about just seeing me to the door, he could have yawned and made an excuse about having to get up early in the morning.
Instead, he said, ‘It’s just a drink.’ Even though we both knew it wasn’t.
The little green light flashed. On the door lock. In my head.
My hotel room is fabulous. Lofty ceilings, sash windows, excessive amounts of cushions. The whole thing. I only ever stay in gorgeous hotel rooms; thriftiness is for people with poor money-management abilities or poor self-esteem. I deserve the best and ultimately someone else always foots the bill. It’s a mass of dark-grey and copper tones, everything is silky, padded, luxurious, whether that’s the walls, the headboard, the bedding. The effect is very up-market harem. I have a balcony, which is useful because it’s a non-smoking room. The view isn’t great. A tiny backstreet, but hey, that’s London. Cheek by jowl.
I’d taken care to leave it tidy, just in case I ended up entertaining. There were no trays of half-eaten room service spreading unsavoury smells. The bed (huge) was still made, although the cushions were in disarray and the top cover somewhat rumpled. I’d staged all of that. I wanted him to know that I’d sat there. Lain there. I wanted him to be thinking about it. Sex ends up in the bed but it starts in the head. Even for men. It’s a mistake to think it’s all in their trousers. He looked around for somewhere to sit. There was only one chair. Upon which I’d deliberately left a scanty, lacy black bra. I’d made it look as though I’d tossed the bra over the back of the seat, after taking it off. The matching knickers were on the floor; I’d just stepped out of them. He had three choices: he could move my bra, pretend to ignore it and just sit on it, or sit on the bed. Any which way, I had him. He picked up my lacy bra with his right hand, his thumb moved just a fraction, caressing the fabric. He kept hold of it and then sat down. Legs wide. Balls out. Metaphorically speaking. The toe of his shiny brogue millimetres from my dirty knickers. I knew he wanted to pick those up too. Smell them perhaps. Smell me.
‘Drink?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whisky?’
‘Fine.’
His voice was a complex mix, difficult to read. Abrupt yet still inviting. He didn’t want to be there. Yet he did.
I opened the minibar, grabbed two Jack Daniel’s miniatures and threw one towards him. He effortlessly caught it with his left hand, without having to let go of the black, lacy bra. He spun off the cap with his thumb; a cool, confident move. I had to admit his competency was attractive. I wanted to kick off my ankle boots but decided it was better if I kept them on.
Men. Heels. Yes.
I sat on the bed, arranging myself so that my toned, tanned legs were visible. Stretched. I wrapped my lips around the neck of my miniature and threw it back. Down in one. Look what I can do. He stared at my tanned legs, my red lips, my white throat. I watched him watching me. Here’s the thing, I have slept with countless men. Literally, I have lost count. Some of them were poor apologies for men, who smelt of sweat, booze, piss or vomit, any combination of the above. Others were fabulous physical specimens. Muscular, attentive, sexy, beautiful. I’ve had sex in beds, in cupboards, on chairs, against walls, on floors, I’ve dressed up, been tied up, played with stuff. I’ve done it on planes, on trains, standing up, sitting down, bending over, crawling over, I’ve screamed out their names, I’ve forgotten their names, I never knew some of the names. The point is. It’s all the same to me. They are all the same to me. Better or worse, they are the same.
Nick is engaged to Anna. That’s different.
Anna is in love with his sparkling eyes, his broad shoulders, his blue-black hair, his evident confidence, purpose, humour and intelligence. I’m a tourist, just passing through. Enjoying the view.
Yet, my throat is dry and tight, my hands clammy.
The distance between us was about a metre, maybe a metre and a half, yet the distance suddenly seemed quite insurmountable. How would he get from over there, to over me? Would he ever? For a moment, I thought he would finish his drink and then leave. That he’d pass the test. And I was elated. I promise you, thrilled for Anna. For that small fraction of time I believed it too, all the horseshit about The One, the knights in shining armour, true love, everlasting love. Any sort of fucking love. And it was brilliant. An amazing, startling, hopeful moment. But then, suddenly, he stood up. Six foot one of sex towering above me. Broad, muscular, hot. Then that six foot one was flat on top of me. Lips millimetres from mine. Staring into my eyes, silently asking me how he got there. Like I had all the answers.
I kissed him first. I’ll have to live with that. Always and for ever.
He kissed me back. That’s his bad.
We started to clutch and pull at each other’s clothes, quickly, efficiently undressing one another. We’re both practised and so we unbuttoned shirts, skirt, trousers without any awkward banging of hands; bra clasps pinged co-operatively, underwear slithered down thighs. A well-choreographed dance, we seemed to know one another. You know how it goes. Who puts what where. I’m not going to describe the grabbing, grasping and taking. You can imagine the urgent kissing, the shameless licking, the tremendous teasing. The perpetual stroking, sucking and finally seizing. The swift up and down, in and out, over and over. Then, deeper and slower. He moaned, wriggled, slithered over, under, on and in me. I writhed, shook, opened and gasped for him.
It burned, a vivid crimson mix of aching sorrow and infinite desire.
We didn’t speak, not a word. There were sounds. Noise. Animalistic. Bestial moans, groans and roars. But no words.
Finally, we rolled off one another’s lithe, sticky bodies, the frenzy abated somewhat, desire satiated momentarily. My hair was damp with sweat and clung to my neck and shoulders. I moved away from him, towards the edge of the bed where the sheets were untouched and cooler. We lay on our backs staring at the ceiling, waiting until our breathing quietened and slackened, inhaling and exhaling in unison. He was lying right next to me but I missed him, already. My body ached for his touch. Bodies can do that. Betray our minds and maybe even our hearts. I think he must have been feeling the same as he reached out to me, lazily landing his hand to rest just below my stomach, gently caressing.
I waited for him to tell me it was a mistake. That it must never happen again. I waited for him to tell me that she must never find out. Maybe even threaten me. I waited for him to stand up and leave.
He rolled on to his side, pulled me close to him, his skin melting into mine, fused. He muttered, ‘I’m sorry.’
Then he fell asleep. Men can do that. They can screw someone they shouldn’t and still sleep. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Devastated. Until, that is, I rolled on to my side, pushed my bottom into his crotch, my back into his chest, threaded my legs through his. Then I slept.
Look, I’m never going to say, ‘It was different,’ or, ‘He was different.’ That’s what every deluded silly cow tells herself at some point or other, and I know that’s not the case, because haven’t I always known they are all the same.
But.
He was different.
And for all those reasons I haven’t got in touch with Anna to tell her exactly how the night went. I’m waiting to see what he will do.
Twenty-Six
Nick
He’d woken up at five in the morning. Head pounding, tongue furry, gasping for a glass of water. He’d drunk way too much, and on a week night too. Stupid. His body ached. Overexerted. Like he’d been clubbing. But no, not that. For a moment he’d thought he was holding tight to Anna, a fraction of time when he believed the world was how it should be. Although, why were they in a hotel? Then his mind snapped into shape. Not Anna, Zoe. Fuck.
Asleep, she looked more like Anna than she did awake because her coolness, her need to shock and challenge, were all subdued. If it weren’t for her painted nails and the heavy mascara smudged around her eyes, making her look loose and used, he might have been able to kid himself. Her feet stuck out of the bed. My God, she was still in her ankle boots? How had she slept in those? Still, he couldn’t help admire her commitment: her legs looked good; toned and sexy. His cock flickered.
He didn’t know what to do. His instinct was to carefully crawl out of bed, slowly, so as not to wake her. Get the hell out of there. Go home. Wash it off. Go to work, act as though nothing had happened. Pretend nothing had happened. That sort of louche behaviour wasn’t new to him. He knew how to shake off women that he’d done with. But. How would Zoe react to that? Would she call Anna? Yes, of course she would. She’d be angry and vindictive. No doubt she’d go into all sorts of detail. A flashback cast itself into his mind. It was exhilarating. And shaming. He shook his head trying to dislodge the memory. He couldn’t have her tell Anna about last night. It would destroy Anna. He would have to tell her about this himself, wouldn’t he? He’d never get away with it. He shouldn’t want to.
His mind was a mess; chaos. He couldn’t think clearly. Whilst he was wondering whether doing a runner would enrage Zoe, and lead directly to a confrontation with Anna, another part of his mind—a small but persistent, insistent part that he didn’t understand or want to listen to—was telling him if he sneaked out now he wouldn’t be able to see Zoe again. Well, at least not like this. And the idea blinked in his brain that he did want to see her again. Just like this. They had not swapped numbers; they had not made plans. He didn’t know what to do. He was snookered. He dared not move yet somehow his very rigidity disturbed her.
She stirred. ‘Morning,’ she murmured. Her voice was husky and attractive. She unfurled, stretched her limbs, star-like, across the bed. Invitingly.
He kissed her. Practically pounced on her. He hadn’t planned to, but she was delicious. He held her face in his hands and kissed her warm, plump lips. She tasted of drink and smelt of sex. It was dirty and yet somehow clean, a betrayal and yet honest at once. His fingers smelt of her, salty. She kept her limbs star-like and spread, magnificent and naked. She did not embrace him but she did kiss him back. Reluctantly, he broke apart.
‘I’d better go.’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t object or urge him to stay a bit longer.
He wished she would. He was glad she didn’t. It was complicated. Before Anna he’d been practised at efficient disengagement the morning after the night before, if he ever stayed quite so late. He’d say, ‘We’re good here, right?’ which was an effective dismissal. It was impossible to refute without looking clingy and needy, and no twenty-first-century woman wanted to be either of those things; they always opted to be confused and heartbroken instead. Besides, it was a deliberately vague comment. Whoever said it, or had it said to them, could choose to interpret it in whichever way they wanted. ‘Hey, we’re good here because you didn’t expect anything more than a fast shag.’ ‘Hey, we’re good here because you’ll call me and invite me to lunch tomorrow.’ Realization of the distance between what was said and meant, and what was heard and understood, was often gradual. Except they weren’t good—he and Zoe—far from it. And he didn’t dare risk being vague. Slinking away was not possible.
‘We need to talk about this,’ he offered.
‘Yes.’
‘On the phone.’
They should not meet up again. He knew how it would go if they did. And yet.
‘Fine.’
He picked up his phone. ‘Can I have your number?’ He felt silly asking for it. But how else could he reach her?
She eyed him. Weighing up his intentions, no doubt.
For one awful moment he thought perhaps she might not agree to give him her number. Not interested in talking to him about this or anything, maybe. He braced himself for the rejection. It already stung.
Then she reached for her phone at the side of her bed.
Relief.
‘What’s your number? I’ll send you a text.’
He told her and then felt his phone throb reassuringly in his hand. He glanced at the screen. She’d texted: Me.
‘I’ll call you.’
She shrugged, as though she didn’t believe him. As though she didn’t much care one way or the other.
He hastily dashed around the room, picking through the debris of their illicit night; he scooped up his boxers and socks, retrieved his shirt and trousers. His clothes were entangled with hers, as though their colourful shadows were still having sex. He stepped over the condom packet, almost crushed the empty Jack Daniel’s miniatures underfoot, hers tattooed with the imprint of her scarlet lipstick. The room felt sordid, spoilt. Yet exciting, elating.
At the door he paused and turned to her. ‘Please don’t say anything to Anna, until we’ve both had time to give this some serious thought and until we’ve talked this through.’
She didn’t look at him. ‘What would I say?’
He closed the door firmly behind him. What indeed? As he walked to the lift, the walls seemingly morphing towards him, nothing was steady or how it should be. He felt shaky; he probably needed to eat something, but didn’t like the idea. He wondered how he should store her number. He didn’t think Anna had ever touched his phone, other than to pick it up and hand it to him. She was not the sort to snoop, search his contacts with paranoia. But if she did? Well, wasn’t it the most natural thing in the world that he had her sister’s number? Zoe would soon be his sister-in-law. Oh God. Zoe would soon be his sister-in-law.
He stored Zoe’s number under ‘Joe’.
* * *
He took a cab home. The streets were still empty enough for this to be reasonably efficient, still he regretted his choice when the cabby eyed him knowingly and made jokes about it being, ‘A good night, eh?’ Nick looked out of the window. He didn’t know how to answer. He thought of Cai and Darragh’s teasing; they’d never believed he could be faithful. It was sex. Just sex. But Nick was honest enough (at least with himself) to know when he was lying. There was no ‘just’ about it. It was the most incredible sex ever. The feel of her, the feel of him, as he slipped inside her. He shook his head. This wasn’t helping. He spent the rest of the cab journey home reading city analysis on his phone.
Nick took a long shower, styled his hair carefully, picked out his newest, most crisply ironed shirt and a freshly dry-cleaned suit. He wanted to look as far away from grubby as he possibly could. He strode into work early, purposefully.
Throughout the morning he kept his eyes on his screen; he was polite although brief when anyone asked him a question or tried to make conversation. He worked consistently, methodically. He watched the markets, replied to emails, filed his time sheets and expenses. He’d drunk three cups of coffee before 11 a.m. He was doing his very best to act as normally as he possibly could.
