she hardly knew.
Taking a deep breath, she looked around. It was such a luxurious expanse of space to have at the top of a staircase. People must’ve congregated here, talking, laughing and smoking in their evening clothes before going down to supper. She tried to imagine their easy, urbane conversation; the air a cocktail of French perfume and thick, unfiltered cigarette smoke; flattery and flirtation. Running her hand along, she felt the lush, worn velvet, soft and inviting.
Still, she was tense, unsettled. Getting up, she turned down the hall, looking in each of the rooms until she found what was clearly the master bedroom, with its rich mahogany sleigh bed and dark, masculine furniture. She headed in the opposite direction. All the way at the other end of the long corridor was Lady Avondale’s suite, decorated with lighter, more restrained feminine touches. Soft primrose walls were covered in watercolours, the bed was in the French Empire style and blue-and-white chintz curtains were pulled back across the bay window overlooking the front garden. There was a view of the sea. Someone had opened the windows. Fresh towels were placed neatly on the dresser.
She was expected.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she tried to still her racing thoughts. It was useless.
Why was it that no matter how far she travelled from New York, it was never far enough?
Opening her handbag, she took out her phone. The number was withheld. A red light flashed – a message. She threw it back into her handbag. Lying down across the bed she curled into a ball, arms wrapped round her knees.
The room was pretty, elegant, but it offered no comfort. She rolled over on to her back. There was the unfamiliar sound of birdsong. It should’ve been soothing but instead it felt insistent, nagging. She was used to car horns, the roar of traffic; too many people, too close together. Nature felt like a black hole into which she was falling, weightless.
Breathing deeply, she tried to relax, pressing her eyes shut.
But as soon as they were closed, the film began to play again. It always began the same way: with his touch on her skin, the musky scent of his cologne, the pressure of his lips, softly caressing against her bare shoulder…
‘Go on.’ He dipped his finger into the glass of cognac, tracing it along his lips. ‘I dare you.’ He leaned down, his breath warm against her cheek. ‘Kiss me.’
How many times had she promised herself she wouldn’t? She wouldn’t answer his calls; wouldn’t go to him; definitely wouldn’t drink.
He was like an invading army; he didn’t want to love her so much as to occupy her. And to her horror, she wanted to be annihilated; overwhelmed. It took so much for her to feel anything at all.
She flicked her eyes open. These dreams were dangerous.
There were other memories, less palatable; even terrifying. So why was this the one that haunted her? The glamour, seduction; the full force of his desire and attention.
Sitting up, she caught sight of herself in the dressing table mirror on the other side of the room. The slim, blonde woman who stared back was almost unrecognisable, even to her. When she’d first gone to New York, she’d been a brunette, hair halfway down her back, hanging like a veil, hiding her face. Her shoulders were hunched forward, rounding protectively over her solar plexus, which felt permanently tender and bruised.
She wanted to be someone else. Anyone else.
It was Derek Constantine who suggested she cut and dye her hair. ‘Something timeless, classic.’
‘But I can’t afford it.’
‘You can’t afford not to be blonde,’ he corrected her. ‘And,’ he sighed, his upper lip curling slightly as he looked down at her ankle-length skirt, ‘we need to do something about all those black clothes. You’re not an Italian widow. This is a city of very fine social distinctions. Everyone nowadays has money, what’s important is pedigree, exclusivity. You’re like a debutante, before the ball. With proper grooming and introductions to the right people, who knows how far you could go?’
She didn’t understand; it all sounded so conservative and staid. ‘You mean in art?’
His slate-grey eyes were remote, unreadable. ‘In life,’ he answered, pressing the tips of his long fingers together under his chin.
In life.
She blinked back at herself now, two sizes smaller, head to toe in crisp white linen. Clean, controlled, refined. In the hazy afternoon light, she looked golden; angelic.
If only you could remove the darkness of your character with the ease with which you could change your clothes.
He’d sounded so sure, taken such an interest in her. The idea of being guided by this successful, sophisticated man was too compelling to resist. So she hadn’t. Instead she’d abdicated, bit by bit, her faltering, embryonic conception of herself, deferring to his clearer vision and experience.
But the debutante he had in mind wasn’t staid. And the society he introduced her to even less so.
Digging through her bag, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and, lighting one, crossed to the open window. She’d given up. She’d given up a lot of things that hadn’t stuck. And she had the feeling, all too familiar nowadays, of trying to stem the tide with a teacup.
I just want peace, she prayed silently, taking a deep drag. Here I am, thousands of miles away from New York, with some strange man, doing a job I know nothing about
…I’m meant to be getting my head together. I’m meant to be figuring out what I want to do with my life.
She pushed her hair back from her face. It was so hot. And everything was baffling.
Suddenly she had an overwhelming desire to get high, to be out of her head, to seduce someone. Pornographic visions filled her brain – a tangle of naked limbs; someone licking her flesh, her mouth travelling across the contours of another body…Her heart seized.
Was it just a fantasy or a flashback?
Naked, she was on her knees in front of him. He was holding her head in his hands, pressing his hips forward…
She bit her lower lip, hard. So hard, it bled. And the desire built, to escape the present moment.
Stop.
She couldn’t stop.
What did Jack look like without his clothes on? They were alone. He was attracted to her, she could feel it. And he was a stranger. Why was it easier to fuck a man you didn’t know?
She exhaled.
Don’t go there.
But a languid sensuality already coursed through her limbs, her imagination spinning like a mirrored top, casting images she couldn’t control. The one thing she shouldn’t think of was the only thing on her mind.
She turned. The bedclothes were torn away, two naked bodies, strangers, reached for one another…If only she could be obliterated, fucked, destroyed.
She closed her eyes. The fantasy dissolved. Taking a last drag, she stubbed out the cigarette and threw it away, into the drive below.
