…
I opened my eyes and then sat up straight. Oh, what the bloody hell was I thinking? The real strop, the antique, possibly worth a shedload of money, was pressed to my clit, all shiny and slick with my juices.
I grabbed a tissue and rubbed it clean, but when I put it to my face and sniffed, my scent and the leather were all mixed in one incredibly sexual cocktail. What if I’d destroyed the delicate balance of the textile? Did I not know better than to masturbate with precious artefacts? History 101, surely. Though I didn’t remember seeing it in the textbook.
I put the strop aside and began packing. It seemed my only course.
* * *
‘What’s that?’
Jasper at the breakfast table in the cavernous kitchen, laconic, handsome, dangerous.
I put my bags down on the trestle.
‘I think I ought to go.’
‘Why?’ He bit into a triangle of toast.
‘Um, because I don’t really know what’s going on.’
‘And you like to know what’s going on, do you, Sarah?’
‘Generally speaking.’
‘You don’t like stories?’
‘I don’t … follow.’
He patted the chair beside him and for some reason I didn’t think twice about going over there and sitting down.
‘Do you or don’t you? Like stories?’
‘Well, yes, I do.’
‘Do you always know what’s going on in a story?’
‘Sometimes. If it’s blatantly signposted, I suppose. More often not.’
‘It’s dull, isn’t it, when you know the ending.’
‘Not always.’ I had an idea what he might be driving at. ‘I can watch film versions of classic novels over and over, even though I know the ending.’
‘That’s a different kind of pleasure,’ he said.
‘Maybe.’
‘The thing is, Sarah, if you know the ending, you can’t explore any other possibilities. If you know what’s going on, you can’t be surprised. You can’t have your breath taken away. You miss all the best bits. Do you see?’
I swallowed. He was very close to me and I was intensely conscious of it. So intensely conscious that I was having some difficulty processing thought.
‘You’re very …’
He leaned closer.
‘Very what?’
‘Very … I don’t know.’
‘Don’t go, Sarah. If you don’t go, I’ll make you bacon and eggs.’
Breakfast. Probably a good idea.
‘That would be … acceptable,’ I said.
‘And I know you’re an accepting person,’ he said, rising and moving towards the cooker top. ‘An open-minded soul.’ He opened up a pack of bacon. ‘Incidentally, do you have my razor strop?’
Oh, God. I thought of it on my bedside table, still perfumed with essence de Sarah.
He turned around, my silence putting him on the scent.
‘Sarah?’
‘Oh. Yeah.’
‘You’re scarlet.’
‘Am I?’
‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ He threw the bacon in the pan, never taking his eyes from me.
‘I don’t …’ No, I didn’t want to tell him. But perhaps I ought to. But then what? What would he do or say? A tremor quickened in my lower stomach, a tightening at my core.
‘Well?’
‘It’s just … I spilled something on it. I’m sorry. I’ll get it professionally cleaned.’ What was I saying? Was I really going to explain what had happened to some remote tradesperson?
‘Bring it down,’ he said.
‘Now?’
He nodded, the corners of his mouth tight.
My legs were heavy on the ascent of the staircase, and I felt sick with panic, yet at the same time exhilarated, as if I were embarking on some fantastic adventure.
When I sniffed the leather, my faint hope that the aroma had faded overnight was dashed. Maybe Jasper wouldn’t notice. But no. That was just exactly the kind of thing he would notice. In fact, he probably knew what had happened already. I had the feeling he could see inside me, peel away my layers and pluck out my private thoughts.
I put its metal ring around my finger and let it dangle on my way back downstairs. All the beautiful pictures watched me pass, all the ballerinas, bons vivants, burlesque girls. They were the witnesses to my onward march of shame.
Jasper was breaking eggs into the pan when I re-entered the kitchen.
‘Ah,’ he said, looking up. ‘Show me.’
He held out the hand that wasn’t occupied with pushing the bacon around with a spatula.
I laid the strop across his palm, tenderly, giving it the respect I had forgotten to accord it last night.
He put down the spatula and inspected the strop at close quarters.
‘Where’s the spillage?’ he asked.
It wasn’t visible but I pointed towards the damned spot.
He frowned.
‘I don’t see anything. What did you spill?’
He bent closer and then drew in a breath, raising his eyes to mine. I held myself perfectly still for a horrible second, then he smiled the most radiant smile I had ever seen.
‘Oh, I see,’ he said.
I had nothing to say. I stood there, panting a little, wondering why my legs wouldn’t let me run away.
He wrapped it around his hand, slowly, making sure I paid attention.
‘What shall we do about this?’ he wondered aloud.
‘I can get it cleaned,’ I repeated.
‘No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll take care of that. That wasn’t
