Courting Trouble (27 page)

As the house drained of people, I thanked him for the offer. ‘My cuisine starts with broad categories such as “mineral” or “linoleum”. When I cook dinner, my call to come to the table acts as a cue for people to go shopping, disappear into the loo with the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
or take their passports and leave for an extended holiday.’

‘Well, you’re in luck. I take great delight in cooking. It will be my pleasure to pamper you.’ Nathaniel steered me to the living-room couch. ‘But let me freshen up your drink first. After that stunning win, you are now officially excused on Saturday and Sunday, and I doubt whether Monday and Tuesday will be all that productive either.’

Handing me another Martini, Nathaniel’s hand touched mine. He didn’t pull it away, but stroked my wrist. I made a vague purring noise as his gentle brush strokes progressed up my arm. It was as though he were laying fine silk threads all over my skin. A few minutes later, I was nothing more than currents and impulses. He smelt like coconut oil. Coconut ice and all things nice. As his fingertips brushed across my leg, I felt an instinctive sexual quickening within me. My purring must have gone up a few decibels as he then nuzzled my neck while slowly moving his thigh across my body. Forget food. This was exactly what I craved – weight, bulk, muscle, strength: something bigger than me and Phyllis’s court case. And yet, I pulled back from his embrace. It wasn’t as though we’d even had a date yet. There was no need to rush . . . But then Nathaniel pulled his shirt over his head and I saw the ridges of muscle on his stomach. They rose under his skin exactly like the divisions on a slab of chocolate. Tangy, sweet, nuggety chocolate with a twist of caramel toffee and roasted coffee. And that was it. I felt a volt of excitement through my body, a deep and desperate hunger. I simply had to devour him, whole.

Nathaniel pulled my hips towards his, to let me know how much he wanted me. I would have cleared my throat to say something appreciative, except his tongue was already down there. As he lay me on the carpet, he didn’t leave my mouth, not for a second. Everything became a blur of buttons, zips, hooks, carpet grazes, head bumps on lounge-chair legs, followed by moaning and amazement. And then all I was conscious of was life collapsing around me in panting, grainy pieces.

I woke feeling sick and hungover. By the poison-green light of the digital alarm clock I read that it was 1 p.m. I had never slept this late in my life. My stomach felt as if I’d swallowed barbed wire. How many Martinis had I drunk? The slow thick drip of nausea made it hard to sit up in bed. I rolled over to find Nathaniel propped up on his elbow beaming at me, his wheat-blond hair seductively tousled.

‘Were you faking it last night?’ he teased.

‘No, I really was asleep.’ I had no memory of what had happened at all, although the bed did smell deliciously briny and I could feel the lingering afterburn of sex between my legs, plus there was an undeniable carpet burn on my left elbow. It also gradually dawned on me that I was naked. I quickly wrapped the sheet around me like some raddled Greek goddess who’d lost her footing on her plinth. Embarrassment washed over me in waves which were even more unnerving than the queasiness.

‘You weren’t asleep, my sweet. You made love like a crazy gypsy, with your hair flying around. It was really exceptionally exhilarating! Though I’m totally knackered.’

‘
Ohmygod.
Those Cosmopolitans are lethal! I have no memory of it at all.’

‘Really? Because I have enough memories to last a lifetime.’ He smiled, stroking my hair.

‘Well, Nathaniel, we’ve had some excellent meals and some wonderful conversations, won a court case and had a night of unbridled passion . . . but I think I’m going to go stagger off into the wilderness now to die.’ I tried to get out of bed but fell back on to the pillow. ‘Ohhh. My head!’

He laughed. ‘Let me make you breakfast in bed to say thank you for being the most sexy and scintillating woman I’ve ever met.’

Who could he be talking about? That did not sound like me. I gingerly sat up and orientated myself. Watching the muscled Adonis padding out of my bedroom in his boxer shorts made me think that perhaps I was still drunk and having a hallucination. A throbbing head made dressing too arduous. I slowly leant over and leadenly pulled on Nathaniel’s T-shirt. ‘Coffee’ was the only word rattling around my ravaged cranium. I made my way downstairs at the pace of a convalescing geriatric. I had just tentatively navigated the bottom step when the doorbell rang, cleaving my cranium almost in two. I eased open the door but was so blinded by the light of day that it took me a moment to focus on who was standing there.

‘Beaten fair and square . . . and by a woman. I awoke this morning, thinking, “Hmmm, which South American country should I flee to?” But, before I go, I wanted to let you know that you are a brilliant advocate, even without your emergency court-room chocolate bar. I know I once laughed at the concept, but you really could become a High Court judge if you wanted. Anyway, please accept this gift as recompense. You deserve all the chocolate the world can offer.’

Jack then presented me with a booming bouquet of chocolate boxes in a basket. ‘I got fresh truffles from a stall at Stoke Newington Farmers’ Market. Then dashed to Peckham for slabs of chocolate made by this famous Parisian chocolatier Isabelle somebody or other. I think you’ll like the flavours. They range from cumin and mint to coriander and grapefruit. I’ve added in some Prestat too – they’re the chocolate truffles favoured by
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’s
Roald Dahl. That particular purchase entailed a drive to Ealing, by the way. Yes! Halfway to Heathrow. But Dahl loved them so much he made them central to his novel
My Uncle Oswald
, as you no doubt recall, so I figured they’d be worth the trek . . . Oh, this may amuse you. Look, cocoa pasta and cocoa pesto . . . I also procured for you the most delicious chocolate on the planet – pale-lemon and sea-salt chocolate which is a palate orgasm, apparently. The experts say that replacing cheap chocolate with high-quality stuff helps in losing weight, too . . . Not that you need to, of course,’ he added, hastily. ‘As I like you just the curvy way you are.’ He looked up from the basket at me expectantly.

‘Christ. I think I’m going to throw up.’

‘Not quite the thank you I’d envisaged,’ he said, stepping out of the line of fire, ‘but, actually, there’s no way to make vomiting polite. All you can do is vomit in such a way that the anecdote you tell about it later will be entertaining. Do you want me to hold back your hair?’

I ran my hand through my tousled mane, which felt like a horror of Gorgon-like dreads. ‘Oh God, don’t come any closer. I think you could use my breath to scour an oven.’

‘It only makes you more lovable, Tilly. In fact, I also thought I might ring Amnesty International and say that my human rights have been abused. Because I’ve fallen in love with a feminist lawyer . . . It’s Cruel and Unusual Punishment, as she’s interested only in saving the world. I suppose what I’m saying is this – you love the whole world. And all the world obviously loves you. But do you think you could make a little room for me?’ He ran a hand through his own luxuriant, black locks.

I was staring at him, astounded, struck dumb by this unexpected volte-face and romantic revelation.

It was then that Nathaniel, naked bar his boxers, strode up behind me with a mug of hot coffee in one hand. The other hand he used to wrap around my waist.

Jack’s face was quizzical at first. Then it fell floorward. It took him a moment to relocate his vocal cords. ‘Oh. Look who’s here. The passionate champion of the common man. I didn’t recognize you without your cross.’ The words seemed torn from his throat like pieces of rough skin, causing him physical pain. ‘Right. Okay . . . I’ll be off then. I just came to say that you beat me fair and square, Matilda.’ His voice was now clipped and precise, like that of a wing commander in a British war movie. ‘So, job well done. Is there anything you want to say to me, before I skulk back to my lair?’

There were a million things I wanted to say, but what came out of my mouth was ‘Well . . . now you know what it feels like.’

‘Touché.’ He turned, then disappeared around the corner in long, urgent strides.

‘What did that Tory twat want?’ Nathaniel asked, leading me to the kitchen, where plates of creamy scrambled eggs laced in truffle oil and thick slices of grainy toast and salty bacon lay waiting. ‘How do you know him anyway?’

‘We met at Oxford. We were both studying law.’

‘So, what was he like? When you met him?’

‘Cocksure, self-centred, ruthless, dishonourable, manipulative, lusty and ambitious.’

‘So what happened?’

‘What do you think? . . . I fell truly, madly, deeply in love with him. He was quite radical then, believe it or not. At the barricades and all that . . .’

But Nathaniel had lost interest. He was now dissecting yesterday’s trial, eagerly enquiring when the CPS would bring their case against the two rapists. But I was finding it hard to absorb his words. Mainly, because Jack’s words were still whirling around my addled brain and only now really registering. My heart flopped like a fish . . . The commitment-phobic Jack Cassidy had just told me he was in love with me . . . And it suddenly began to dawn on my few remaining unsozzled neurons that part of me was still in love with him. This extraordinary revelation struck me in lightning-bolt fashion. It literally fused me to the spot. Just catching sight of Jack there at the door had sent my alcohol-poisoned blood singing in my veins. His rich voice, his smell, the silk lining of his ludicrously bespoke suits, which did, indeed, speak volumes, his ribald banter, his tendency to tease me until my toes curled, his twinkle-eyed rascality . . . the fact that he would be able to tell me if ‘rascality’ was even a real word. And to tell me in Latin. The man was a force of nature, which is why it was appropriate that it now hit me, with the full force of a tsunami, that I wanted him still.

It had taken a lot for Jack to come here and open up and I had slammed the emotional door shut in his face. Nathaniel was still talking, but all I could think about was showering, dressing and pounding the pavement as fast as I could to my car. Jack’s blinking, roguish wit was like a lighthouse, guiding me back to him.

In reality, it took me much longer to act on my impulse. After breakfast (which I was too nauseated to eat), I sent Nathaniel home while I took a nap. I woke an astounding five hours later, which meant that I didn’t make it to Jack’s place in Primrose Hill until that evening. When he answered the door, I pushed past him into his living room and launched into my prepared speech, a speech aimed to win over this one-man judge and jury.

‘Do you know how an oyster makes a pearl? It’s all the little irritations. Grain by grain, they rub and rub and then finally you realize what you have – a gem. You’ve rubbed me up the wrong way for so long, Jack, that it now feels right.’ I laughed.

‘I think you should go’ was all he said. His face was granite hard in the half-light.

When I stood my ground, he took me by the shoulders and started to steer me forcibly towards the front door. And so I did the only thing I knew would convince him I was serious. Slowly, silently, I, Matilda Devine, body-shy and birthday-suit-averse, surrendered my clothes, piece by piece, until I was standing stark naked before him.

Jack’s eyes travelled the length of my body and back up again. Nervous, I blurted, ‘I hope you appreciate this. I haven’t been completely naked, without strategic sheet draping, in front of anyone for thirteen years. I haven’t even gone sleeveless in ten. I’ve not even worn open-toed sandals.’

Then he smiled, a slow burn which lit up his whole face. He gazed down at me, his lips wet. ‘Tilly,’ he sighed. And then his mouth was on mine as his hands ran over my flesh. When his fingertips brushed lightly a little south of my navel, I quivered, pierced by desire. Pleasure extended in concentric waves across my body, lower, deeper, more intense. My mind was electric, filled with the present.

‘Jack,’ I whispered.

‘. . .
Jack?
’ It was a female voice, echoing mine.

Disorientated, I prised myself free of his embrace and opened my eyes. A petite woman wearing fishnet tights and peek-a-boo La Perla underwear was mincing across the carpet towards us in skyscraper heels. I couldn’t believe it was possible to take such small steps and remain standing. The woman had smoky eyes, red lips and the most striking red hair.

I felt as though I’d been in some kind of nuclear explosion. My head was pounding. My first reaction was to beat Jack senseless with his brass fire poker but I felt pretty sure this activity would be misunderstood in a manner that might lead to an encounter with the judiciary.

‘Come back and parrrrtyyy,’ the woman purred, slurring her words. I had a vague feeling I’d met her before. I recognized something about that harsh, nasal Estuary accent which felt like having your eardrums shredded on a cheese grater.

I shielded my nether regions with both hands. Standing there in the exact pose of Eve leaving the Garden of Eden, I scrutinized Jack’s face. ‘Twinkle’ suddenly seemed completely the wrong word to describe his eyes. ‘Twinkle’ was a word with crinkled, happy edges. This was a glitter. A cold glitter of wolfish mischief. For a moment I fell into a trance of despair. What the hell was wrong with me? I obviously suffered from Stockholm syndrome. Otherwise, why did I keep on empathizing with my tormentor? I scrambled back into my clothes, then followed the sound of staccato laughter down the stairs into the basement living room. The redhead was dancing and undulating to soft, low music, swigging from a champagne glass in between tipsy giggles. I felt a knot of remorse in my gut like an acid reflux. What had I been thinking, getting naked in his house? Sex was no more personal to Jack Cassidy than algebra.

‘Meet my new friend, a nurse from the Royal Free,’ Jack said, following me. ‘We met at a pop-up bar near Hampstead Heath at lunchtime,’ he slurred. ‘When I told her I had a broken heart, she said she knew the cure. So, I’m taking my medicine.’ He gestured to the gyrating nurse. Then I remembered where I’d seen her. The pale skin – pre-Raphaelite pale – and the auburn hair . . . It was the nurse I’d imagined posing for a Dante Gabriel Rossetti portrait in a medieval dress, fingering a lute.