A Perfect Life (6 page)

‘I'm Carrie from Holder and Casey, pleased to meet you.' She smiles, her eyes sweeping up and down over him with practised bold flirtation.

God. Oh, God. I love American girls, thinks Nick, following her in through the rusted black door, his eyes glued to the hem of her skirt, his mind entirely
occupied now with how many steps behind her he must walk in order to see up this skirt and win his mental bet with himself that she is wearing red knickers.

‘Of course, all you can see today is the space, and it's fifteen hundred square feet of prime Manhattan loft, so it's quite something, or it will be.' Carrie's shiny hair swings across the white crisp back of her shirt, and she smoothes her skirt across her hips and steps back to allow Nick to press the elevator button

‘Seventh floor,' she says. Her breasts are high, and although it would be fantasy to say that the buttons of her white shirt are straining, Nick can see the faint suggestion of the pattern of her bra, and when he looks away from her he notices the bump of a nipple is reflected in the shiny brass panel of the lift door.

‘How many floors of the building have you sold?' Nick wants to say her name, he wants to put his hand under her shirt and kiss her then press his leg between hers and lean down to lick her collarbone. He wants to put his hand on her neck, under her hair, and bring his mouth to hers, kissing her, pressing against her. He wants to push her back so her shoulder hits the ‘Doors closed' button and he can reach under her skirt and let his fingers explore her hot, wet cunt. Or do they call it ‘snatch' in New York? He might ask her that in a minute. His cock is hard in his jeans, and the pressure of the zip against his foreskin is further arousal.

The elevator doors open. Carrie has been talking all the time. Or so Nick believes, though he has not heard a word of what she has said.

He listens now. ‘You are lucky this became available, you know, Mr Stone –'

Nick puts up a hand, snatching it down again to stop himself touching her cheek.

‘Oh, it's Nick, call me Nick.'

Carrie smiles; her eyes are blue and grey-flecked, with thick lashes like a smudge around them. ‘Oh, OK, Nick. A film studio wanted to buy the whole lot and make it into apartments for actors like a kind of condo for Hollywood types, but they have decided to go for the two penthouse floors only now, so this is up for grabs, and it is just a great space.'

Carrie flashes her even white teeth, bites her bottom lip and swishes her skirt as she walks beside him along a corridor, pushing open big dark wooden doors to a concrete and plaster space. Nick is confused – he is meant to be talking about price per square foot and asking about air-conditioning and service charges and timing – and all he can think of is shagging Carrie.

‘This building is incredibly light, and that is what has sold it to Hollywood types who want to come and live in New York. I think they get seasonal affective disorder there more than we do, and I notice that all the calls we get are more to do with light than space. Oh –'

Carrie stumbles on a cable snaking down a black square cut out of the floor.

‘Watch out, the place is such a construction site I guess we should be wearing hard hats.'

She gurgles with laughter at the idea, Nick laughs too, but in triumph – her knickers
are
red, so he owes himself now. What's it to be?

There is nothing to see in the space that will be an apartment, but Carrie marches him around, valiantly conjuring up pictures of bathroom, kitchen and living space.

The sun glances on her hair and her freckles, then like an arrow races down her body, over her breasts, down the gentle contours of her stomach before it fades out on the hem of her skirt. She catches his eye and he knows that she knows he has been looking at her more than he has looked at the loft space.

He clears his throat. ‘So, this is the bedroom, is it?'

Carrie is leaning against a column, her back to the window. Close to her, Nick breathes in her scent, and her scent is sex. He thrusts his hands into his pockets. She wants him, he is sure. Or as sure as he ever is in anticipation.

‘Yes, there is the option to build a platform, too, for a second sleeping area here.'

Nick swivels towards her, Carrie puts her hands into the small of her back and arches her spine, and she looks up at him from under her lashes. He is pretty sure she will be sensational in bed, he's got four nights here and there are a lot of apartments he can look at with her. Why waste any more time?

‘Shall we go for a drink?' he says.

‘It's lunchtime.'

‘I know.'

* * *

Nick pulls open the door of the brasserie and Carrie walks through in front of him. Inside, a marble-topped bar is crowded with people sitting at it. The espresso machine hisses, waiters carrying plates of oysters weave between the mass of bodies, bending and yielding to find the line of least resistance. Nick puts his hand on Carrie's waist to guide her, and he could swear that she softens and moves closer. She is separated from him for a moment by a waiter spinning with a tray of empty coffee cups, and in that instant Nick steps closer to the bar to get out of the way. A girl on a stool reaches out and touches his arm.

‘Hey,' she says. She has slanting dark eyes and a diamond stud in her tongue. Her lips are dark, like good red wine, and her teeth are small and even. Nick is bewildered. The girl smells of spice and incense, expensive and complicated.

She must have mistaken him for someone, or maybe the person she wants is behind him. He looks round, but there is no one. The girl is smiling at him, so she must be someone he knows, but who and from where? He searches as fast as he can through his mind to find out who she is.

‘Would you like to come and buy me a drink, or are you with her?' She shoots a sly glance towards Carrie, who is further down the bar now, perched up on a stool, running her fingers through her hair and looking back to see where Nick is.

Nick realises that he doesn't know this woman after all – she is picking him up. This is thrilling. And so unexpected. What a waste that it has happened now
when he is hot on the trail of Carrie. Two sensational chicks – the obvious thought flashes across his mind for a luxury moment – ‘Two!' but he dismisses it right away – it is just too difficult to pull off. Undoubtedly he would be left with none, or worse, two very cross women. He looks at Carrie. She has taken off her sunglasses, and leans her elbow on the bar playing with her hair, shifting in her chair. She glances down the bar again to Nick and the stranger and tosses her hair back before reaching into her handbag. Any minute now she will leave. Nick needs to act fast. Decision time.

‘Yes, I am with her.' Blinking regretfully – this girl has great tits under a soft, tight, brown velvet top – he steps away. Making a mock-sad face, she reaches for her drink, sipping from the straw. She looks up at him with a sideways smile.

Christ, she's even got dimples – that is cute, Nick sighs.

‘Lucky for her, pity for me,' she murmurs. Nick laughs, moving away, his testosterone flying now as he slides on to the stool next to Carrie.

The barman is there immediately. ‘What can I get you, sir?'

Nick raises his eyebrow at Carrie.

‘I'd like a Diet Coke,' she says.

‘And I'll have an espresso and a soda water. No ice, no lemon.' Nick has to press both feet firmly on to the floor and shove his hands into his pockets to stop himself seizing Carrie and kissing her. Some small talk. That's what they need right now, it's a great libido controller.

‘So, tell me where you come from and what you like about New York.' He reaches a hand out and pinches the hem of her skirt on her thigh.

Carrie laughs. ‘I thought we were here to talk about the loft,' she says.

‘I'd rather talk about you.' Nick gazes intently at her.

Carrie looks at him, but cannot hold his gaze. She crosses her legs, swivelling nearer to him, and runs her tongue around her lips. Nick has not had this much fun for years. Adrenalin is pumping though him and he experiences the heady joy he knows is so temporary, of feeling immortal. He reaches out and pushes a strand of her hair back behind her ear. The jolt he feels is as good as a needle full of heroin.

The sound of Matt's car, idling at the bottom of the drive, engine speeding up as he changes through the gears, hangs in the still afternoon and Angel leans against the closed front door, her eyes shut, listening to the sound shrinking, becoming engulfed by other sounds, a blackbird chirruping, the summer coo of pigeons and, further away, the drone of a small plane. Once she has nothing to listen for, she opens her eyes and summer leaps on her, dancing green in the freckled beauty of the beech tree. The peaceful stillness is shocking in contrast to the holiday invasion of children's clamour, their voices echoing in every waking thought, and often every dream, too. Inescapable until they go out somewhere, and the silence of their absence is more penetrating still. Angel steps away from the house and almost sways, dizzy with a sense of being lonely, her mind travelling as if she is able to see all the way around herself with a video camera. If she was standing on a tall plinth in the middle of a
wasteland a million miles away she could not feel more alone. She needs to do something, or see someone, to fill the space somehow. Dithering, she begins to kick gravel off the lawn using her bare feet, flicking with her toes, enjoying the concentration it requires to pick up one small stone between two toes and flick it back on to the drive. There is a lot to be said for low-grade labouring at times of emotional stress, and in Angel's mind, peace begins to flower as she remembers Levin in Anna Karenina and his simple pleasure in scything the hay on his estate. She moves slowly down the side of the lawn, becoming more methodical, right foot up, curl big toe, stretch and point over the stone, gather, twist and fling. So satisfying. And probably very toning, too. The telephone rings and Angel runs back to the house, only marginally distracted from her labours, and trying to remember the name of Levin's brother.

‘It's Jake. I'm on the road not far from you and I thought I'd drop by and fill you in on how it's going so far.'

Angel swallows but her throat is dry. ‘OK,' she says. There is no reason for her to be filled in. She is not working. She is out of the loop. He does not need to come. ‘Yes,' she says. ‘That would be great. I'm here. Do you want to come with me to the beach to pick up—'

‘I'll be about two minutes.'

The floor tiles in the hall are cool, calming the pulse in her bare feet. She stands for a moment holding the telephone, excitement spreading through her veins.
Suddenly, for no particular reason, she remembers Levin's brother was called Nikolai. She catches sight of herself in the cloudy mirror by the door into the kitchen and rushes for the stairs, unknotting the ties of her blue dress as she goes. And into the fluttering quiet, a car speeds up to the house crunching gravel like gunshot. The door clunks open, and the music floating from the car stops. In the silence Angel freezes, suddenly alarmed that she is quite alone in the house. A moment passes. Angel yanks open her wardrobe and pulls out a pair of shorts and a purple T-shirt. Oh God, no knickers and she has already put on the shorts. No time to change. Shit. Now she looks deliberately provocative. Mind you – how can he know that she has no underwear on?

The car door slams and she hears Jake coming through the open front door. Suddenly it seems suggestive to be running downstairs from her bedroom. Too embarrassing. Thinking quickly, Angel darts through to the back of the house and hurries down the dairy stairs into the laundry room. The door from this room through to the front part of the house is shut, and she opens it, arming herself with yet more sweet peas, today's crop from the relentless harvest, left until now, gasping for water on a chair by the washing machine.

Jake is sitting on the front doorstep reading a newspaper.

‘Hi there.' Angel crouches next to him then wishes she hadn't and stands up again. He looks up her bare legs and slowly brings his gaze up to her face.
He stands up too, and kisses her cheek. Angel blushes, and excitement courses through her. They look at one another and Angel smiles and half turns and he takes her hand and kisses the other cheek. Oh God. Angel bites her bottom lip and looks away, then back at Jake. He lets go of her hand slowly, still looking at her. His eyes are green and changing like a moving kaleidoscope, pulling her in. What else could he have done to greet her in the heat, the closeness, with Angel barefoot in skimpy, hippy clothes he has never seen a colleague wearing before? Shaking hands would have been absurd, doing nothing too suggestive.

‘Good T-shirt,' he says, still not moving away. Angel flushes again – the T-shirt has ‘Bitch 1' written in white flowing script over the right tit. Angel can hardly breathe or move; she is melting with heat, Jake's focused interest, the beating of her pulse and the heady scent of the flowers in her hands.

‘It's not mine, it's my daughter's – not the little one, obviously,' she gabbles. ‘Anyway – do you like sweet peas?'

Jake laughs, snapping the tension. ‘I love them. Did you pick them especially for me?'

Angel steps back, and pulls herself together. ‘Of course.' She unclips the clasp from her pinned-up hair and looks straight at him. ‘Come on. Let's put them in some water. Then we can go to the beach to collect the children.'

‘OK. I'll brief you on work on the way, shall I?' Jake walks back to his car and reaches in through the open
window for his sunglasses, still talking. ‘The beach sounds great – can we swim?'

‘Yes, I think the tide will be coming in by now,' says Angel. ‘I'll just get some paper for these to go in.'

Angel retreats to the kitchen and leans against the closed door for a moment, glad to have breathing space. She walks back outside, blinking in the bright light and heat. Jake goes round to the other side of the car and opens the door for her.