The Tied Man (4 page)

‘Don’t change the subject.  Ah, come on little man, don’t make me beat it out of you.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Want to bet?’  I began a slow walk towards him.  ‘I might even fetch my dog to jump all over these nice clean sheets with her muddy paws.  You’d go fuckin’ suicidal then, wouldn’t you?  Look, I promise I’ll look surprised.  Put my acting skills to good use.’

‘I don’t know…’ Henry sat on the edge of the vast bed, took off his glasses and began to polish them with the hem of his shirt.  I knew then it was only a matter of time.  ‘Promise?’

I made the sign of the cross.  ‘May the Baby Jesus be my witness.’

‘I really shouldn’t be doing this.’  Henry actually glanced over his shoulder, as if some interloper might be hiding behind the wardrobe.  ‘
Lilith Bresson
,’ he whispered. 

All that effort, for a name that meant fuck all.

Henry smiled at my nonplussed expression. ‘The artist?  Good grief, you’re probably the only man in the country who hasn’t heard of her.’

‘All right, don’t rub it in.’ I was bored of the game now.

‘
Blaine
mentioned something about you seeing her on the telly?’

‘Not in the last three years, I wouldn’t have.  I don’t watch the TV, Henry. 
You
don’t watch the frigging TV.  The last time I got five minutes’ glimpse of the bloody thing was when I was hanging upside down off
Blaine
’s bed. 
Shit
.’  My knees gave way and I slumped down next to Henry.   My wildcat, my moment’s weakness, had a name. 
Lilith Bresson
.  ‘Oh Christ, Henry.  What the fuck have I done?’

I stood in the maelstrom of
Alicante
Airport
, cursed my father for the thousandth time that morning and hated the entire world.  Pallid, overweight parents with their feral children streamed through arrivals in their uniform of replica football kits and badly-fitting shorts, swapping places with near-identical families burned to a vivid shade of lobster.  As soon as my luggage had been checked in, I fought my way to the AlbionAir First-Class lounge.  I didn’t hate First Class passengers any less than the Economy herd: there just tended to be less of them. 

I swiped my pass card at the door with one hand and removed my espadrilles with the other so that I stood barefoot in my travelling outfit of a Yankees baseball cap, grey cotton vest and frayed denim shorts, and curled my toes into the thick woollen pile of the carpet.  I raised a supplicant’s face to the frigid current from the air conditioning.

‘Can I help you?’

I opened one eye to see a tall, sallow man in a navy blue suit blocking my way.  ‘Give me a minute to cool down, and I’ll tell you –’ I scanned his lapel for a name badge. ‘George’.

The chief steward of AlbionAir’s First Class lounge gave me an appraisal that suggested he had just discovered me on the sole of his shoe.  ‘If you require facilities to freshen up,
miss
, I suggest you try the ladies’ restrooms by Gate 13.  This area is reserved for First Class passengers only.’

I fixed him with my most glacial stare.  ‘Jolly good.  Should keep the riff-raff out, eh?’  I stalked past him to collapse into a monstrously overstuffed blue leather armchair.

George virtually sprinted across the room and was about to forcibly evict me when a tall young girl in AlbionAir livery appeared at his shoulder and had a quiet word in his ear.

The magic wand of Celebrity was duly waved.  I was no longer some scruffy little plebeian polluting the hallowed ground of the First Class Lounge, and George was transformed.  ‘Miss Bresson!  How delightful.  Always a pleasure to have an artist in our midst…’

‘Don’t be a star-fucker.  Sparkling mineral water – please – then keep the hell out of my way.’  I retrieved a copy of
Private Eye
from my hand luggage and engrossed myself in
Pseud’s Corner
, surreptitiously watching George trying to recover his dignity as he scurried over to the bar.

I reached the centre pages of my magazine, and a piece of embossed ivory paper slid onto my lap.  An understated, discreet font proclaimed,
Albermarle Hall – A Greeting
, and underneath was a photograph of the woman I was unwillingly travelling to meet.

The pose was a clever, if obvious, mirroring of a Renaissance portrait:  Blaine Albermarle stood in front of a fireplace that had been filled with a florist’s entire stock and smiled warmly out at me in welcome.  She was a tall, handsome woman in her mid-forties, with an immaculately made-up face and long auburn hair piled in a perfect chignon.  She radiated the effortless style that came from excellent breeding and vast wealth, and in her dove-grey silk trouser suit she looked like the progressive headmistress of a girls’ boarding school. 

I wondered if it was my own dark mood that projected a subtle arrogance onto her confident stance.  I doubted it.  ‘You’re going to be a nightmare,’ I muttered. I folded the page and read on.

At the exclusive island retreat of Albermarle Hall, your comfort and privacy are our twin priorities.  We guarantee a place where you can rest undisturbed by the countless demands of the outside world.

In order to maintain this tranquillity, we respectfully request that you leave behind any recording and electronic equipment, including laptop computers, cameras, mobile phones and music-playing technology.  Please note that to this end,

there is no electrical supply to any of our guests’ suites.

Although we acknowledge that this may initially involve a tearful separation, we assure you that the ensuing harmony with your environment will prove a more than adequate reward.  Why not take the time to discover the romance of candlelight and open fires, and explore a life free from the constraints of the Twenty-First Century?

We look forward to welcoming you to Albermarle – A World Away.

Blaine
Albermarle and Staff.

I ripped the paper in two and said ‘fuck’ loud enough to receive irritated glances from the businessmen twenty yards across the lounge. 

Normally the first to read the small print, I had deliberately hidden away any paperwork that referred to this ridiculous task, and now I found myself kissing goodbye to a laptop, a mobile phone and two fully-loaded MP3 players, not to mention the halogen light that allowed me to work through the night if I so desired.  I stared disconsolately out over the shimmering tarmac and  wondered if I might be granted permission to shave my legs.

*****

Once on board, I took refuge behind the First Class curtain.  I retrieved a sketch pad and a pencil from my hand luggage and fell back into my seat, kicking off my shoes again and pulling my bare feet under my thighs.  Only then did I glance around to see who my travelling companions were.

The early flight was almost deserted.  My only company was a black-clad young man sprawled across two seats directly across the aisle, and I recognised him immediately: Gabriel James was the singer-songwriter whose face was plastered across every music magazine as the Next Big Thing.  A mop of chestnut pre-Raphaelite curls fell over a delicate, arrogant face and Ray Bans hid his eyes from non-existent glare, or more likely sheltered pupils dilated by whatever he had necked on the way to the airport.

‘God, aren’t you pretty?’ I found a clean page to capture his profile. 

We had been in the air for no more than fifteen minutes when Gabriel pulled a duty-free carrier bag from his overhead locker, ripped open its seal, and extracted a litre bottle of Bourbon.  He had just poured a half a pint into a plastic cup when a flight attendant with a face like a granite slab approached.

‘Excuse me, sir, but I’m afraid you’re not allowed to open your duty free whilst airborne.’

Gabriel gave her an angelic smile of contrition.  ‘Oops. Sorry.  Really, really sorry.’  He stuffed the bottle and its carrier back into the locker.  ‘There.  All gone.  Want to join me?’  he asked in a heightened cockney drawl, and proffered his cup to the highly unamused woman.

‘It’s a little too early for me,
sir
,’ she replied, and gave a tight smile that didn’t quite meet eyes weighed down with mascara.

‘Oh.  Fair nuff.  Got any ice?’

I watched the imposing backside disappear down the aisle and bit my thumb to stop myself laughing out loud.

Gabriel glanced in my direction.  ‘Hey, you drawin’ me?’ 

‘Do you have a problem with that?’

He thought for a moment then gave a lazy, stoned smile.  ‘Nah.’  He raised his sunglasses.  ‘Shit, you’re Lilith Bresson, aren’t you?  Got one of your nudes on my studio wall.  S’fuckin’ gorgeous.  Looks like the first bird I ever shagged, but without the evil gob on her.’ 

‘I’m pleased you like it.’

His eyes wandered down to where my bare legs now stretched out under the seat in front.  ‘She’s nearly as sexy as you.  I don’t suppose you fancy getting a close-up?  I fuckin’ hate flyin’ by myself.’  He pulled himself upright and patted the seat next to him.

I considered the promise I’d made to keep my mind on business until this ridiculous debt of my father’s was dealt with, then glanced at Gabriel’s long, sensuous, guitarist’s fingers.  ‘Why not?’

Gabriel pulled a bottle of champagne from his illegally opened duty-free bag.  ‘Want a drink?’ My companion fumbled at the foil and began to thumb the cork. 

‘For fuck’s sake.’ I took the bottle from him. ‘Do they teach you nothing in
Rock
School
these days?  Do it like that and you’ll waste half the bottle as well as have someone’s eye out. 
Hold
the cork,
twist
the bottle.  And see?  More for both of us.’

‘Wow.  An expert.’  Gabriel took the bottle and poured two cupfuls, just about managing to get most of the liquid on target.  ‘Well, tits up n’all that.’ He raised his cup and grinned in a way that only the truly stoned can.

‘Cheers.’  I took a drink before stroking his designer-stubbled cheek.  ‘So.  Are we just going to sit here and watch the clouds, or shall we do something more constructive with our time?’

Beautifully shaped eyebrows rose above the margins of his Ray Bans, and

Gabriel sprayed a fine spray of Cristal over the seat in front.  ‘Fuckin’ hell, you’re direct.’

I feigned outrage.  ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry.  I thought for a moment you asked me to sit with you because you had designs on my person.  If I’ve offended you…’  I stood, and he pulled me back to the seat.

‘No, don’t go.  I did.  I mean, I do. Um, listen, I took some… stuff before we took off.  Good shit n’all that, but I might have a problem… you know…’  He glanced down at his jeans and gave a sheepish smile.

‘Sounds like a challenge.’ I took two ice cubes from Gabriel’s whiskey, placing one in my mouth and taking a long drink from my cup.  I gave the stoned young man a wink and slid to the floor, pulling the complimentary blanket over my head. 

‘What the fuck... Oh
shit
,’ Gabriel gasped as I undid his flies and took his increasingly tumescent cock in my mouth, enfolding it in a potent mix of champagne bubbles and ice.  I began to slide my lips along the length of his shaft.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ on a fuckin’ pushbike.’ Gabriel braced himself against his seat as I flicked him with my glacial tongue.

Hidden under the blanket, I pulled his artfully ripped jeans further down over lean thighs and began to suck with a gentle, insistent rhythm.  Eventually, Gabriel subconsciously began to mirror the pattern, moving his hips in subtle thrusts that began to increase in their urgency.  Just as he pushed himself out of his seat in the first throes of a muted orgasm, I slipped my hand between his legs and pushed the second ice cube up his arse.

‘Fuck
me
!’ He came in a sudden, tumultuous explosion.  As he gripped at the armrests he accidentally hit the ‘recline’ button so that the back of his seat flattened, taking him, his champagne and the blanket with it.

I could do nothing but curl up on the floor in a fit of giggles as the boot-faced flight attendant marched back up the aisle from Economy.  She glared at the bacchanalian microcosm that was me and Gabriel – one hunched on the floor and screaming with laughter and the other blushing furiously as he attempted to pull up his jeans. 

‘May I ask what you’re doing?’  she asked, in a tone that showered a fine layer of frost over the pair of us.

‘Looking for my pencil?’  I suggested.

‘You’re something else,’ Gabriel grinned as the attendant stalked back to her gladiatorial pit.  He hauled his seat upright and offered me a hand up from the cabin floor.

‘Thank you.’  I held Gabriel’s left hand, turning it to admire his long, callous-tipped fingers.  ‘
Tim
e for payback, I think.’

‘I’m
very
good at fingerin’,’ he smirked.

‘Good.  My extraordinary altruism only goes so far.’  I retrieved the blanket from under his seat and draped it over our legs before easing out of my shorts.  Gabriel’s hand disappeared to search for his prize, and I closed my eyes in pleasure as the guitarist put his skills to expert use.