Undone (22 page)

He wears glasses to read, and he looks seriously sexy and sexily serious, a debauched evil genius. He’s generally in bed by the time I’m home, occasionally reading but usually not because it’s late. The windows are raised and the blinds are angled to allow air into the room, slats of white light from the mews striping the bed. If he’s awake, he’ll give me a dozy, welcoming smile as I join him and I know he’s getting hard under the duvet. If he’s asleep, he’ll stir and instinctively roll over to embrace me. Invariably I manage to wake him fully because his nearness makes me horny and I’ll never get to sleep if we don’t fuck each other senseless. We have sex when I’ve got my period too. I’m pleased he’s not one of those guys who are prissy about blood. Far from it. He revels in the slippery chaos, and he likes making, as he calls it, ‘a butcher’s shop’ of the bed.

I know I ought to be more concerned about what might have happened between him and Misha at Dravendene Hall but the more I know him the more I trust him. I don’t think he’s capable of inflicting deliberate harm. Accidental, perhaps, but aren’t we all? If he has a secret, I’ll guard it with him should he need me to do so. But he’s not asking me, and I’m not quizzing him. I’ll wait until he’s ready, even if he’s never ready. And, in the meantime, I’ll try and forget that I ever found a horrible, damp, chlorine-scented towel in my turret room. The threesome never happened. That worn, salmon-pink towel does not exist.

After midnight, in the depths of dark, we often take sex to the next level. Considering he claims to have only recently begun exploring his dominant side, he appears to know what he’s doing and certainly isn’t reticent about expressing his desires. I suspect he’s been practising this for longer than he’s letting on. He told me he’d been to a couple of fet nights in the US, after initially claiming he’d never been to such a thing. He was quick to suss out how my speedcuffs worked, and he knows his way around knots too. Sexually, he’s able to strike the perfect balance, ensuring I’m OK without letting that detract from our nasty games. Is the latter an instinct or a learned skill, I wonder?

He hasn’t told me much about his long-term ex, Helena in New York, but I wonder if perhaps their relationship had a DS dynamic. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe he wants to make me feel special by having me believe he’s never shared anything so depraved. Mind you, I’ve had more than my fair share of twisted, dominant lovers, and I’ve never known anything as good as this. Even so, I’m pretty sure there’s something Sol’s not telling me about his life to date. But, again, if he has kinky secrets, I can wait.

When it’s late, he often cuffs my wrists and shoves my head into the pillows, refusing to fuck me until I’ve begged for what I want. He makes me debase myself; that’s the worst and the best of it.
He
doesn’t do it to me. I do it to myself. Sometimes, he makes me select the handcuffs I’d like used on me from the drawer containing my collection. He makes me bring my choice to him by holding it in my mouth, crawling to him on all fours, like a dog fetching a toy for its master. Other times, he uses rope to truss me in all manner of configurations, his favourites being the ones where I’m stripped of my dignity, ankles by my ears, belly in folds, my arse and cunt on view. He uses a vibrator as a cruelty, shaming me for coming and for enjoying his perversity.

I usually remove my make-up before getting into bed. Some nights he’ll ask – no,
tell
– me not to because he wants to fuck my throat while I’m nice and neat, and I refuse to let him do that at the start of an evening. Which, of course, makes him want to do it all the more. But I make him wait. Then, at night, he shoves with rough, crude strokes till mascara streaks my cheeks and my mouth is a smear of Pleasure Me Red or Ruby Woo. Then he comes on my face, ruining my public self. He’ll grasp a fistful of hair, insisting I take a look at my reflection. Bars of lamplight from outside slice through the blinds and fall raggedly across my body. The image in the mirror is of a broken whore, a defeated clown, her lips bleeding into a blotchy face, his cream sliding into her inky tears.

All my outlines are gone, and it feels the same on the inside too.

‘That’s how badly you want it,’ he once said, addressing the mess of my face in the glass. ‘That’s how low you’ll stoop for it. Greedy little slut. What are you?’

Afterwards, he holds me close, soothing me when I’m broken and sore, making me whole again.

‘You’re so strong,’ he once said. ‘I couldn’t do what you do, Cha Cha. Couldn’t risk falling apart like that. I’ve got to stay in control.’

But I can only risk falling apart because he makes it safe for me to do so. He’ll catch me if I fall. He’ll piece me back together. We’re co-conspirators, and ours is a beautiful, complete cycle; a process of abandoning ourselves to dark, erotic pleasures then returning to the light, sharing and understanding, adoring each other for wanting to play this way.

And then I sleep. Finally, I can. After so many restless nights since Misha’s death, I sleep a deep, sound, restorative sleep. I seldom even wake when Sol gets up at seven. He’s gone by half past. We see less of each other at weekends because I’m busy with the bar and he returns to Brighton, further along the coast, joking that his dick’s had it and he needs some sleep. He usually observes the Jewish Sabbath, too, despite identifying as an agnostic Jew, so Friday nights and Saturdays are his. ‘An ethnic habit,’ he said. ‘I don’t light candles or go to synagogue. I just chill the fuck out.’

I’m considering offering the twins some extra hours to free up more of my time. I’d like to visit Sol’s flat, see him in his own space, but he claims it’s too cramped. Instead, he says we should take a trip to his London house some time.

‘Don’t you have family there?’ I said, flattered but horrified.

‘Distant family.’

‘And you’d introduce me?’

‘Sure, why not? You think you could act Jewish and get them off my back?’

He is sexy, irreverent, charming and smart. With him, I’ve remembered the joy and rootedness that sexual, emotional intimacy can bring. I look back on my life pre-Sol, when I was single and dating, and I see a woman who doesn’t realise she’s living with a void, oblivious to the scar tissue that’s hardened her heart. I wasn’t looking for love. I’m still not. But I think it’s trying to find me. And, to my surprise, I’m not running scared.

All this has happened since we decided to put the riddle of Misha’s death behind us. After fucking on the steps near Club Sybaris, we had a heart to heart in the hotel room, lying in bed in the curtained dark, spooning loosely, the aircon whirring and clicking. Without the aircon, the room was stuffy, its windows locked tight, but the aircon was noisy so we kept it on low.

‘I was out of order, I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice low, croaky and regretful. ‘But I hated seeing you with someone else. Made me think I might lose you. Jealous, possessive. Ugly emotions, I know. But I’ve had so much loss in my life that I’m in constant fear of more.’

‘Everyone fears loss.’

‘Yeah, probably. But not everyone acts as if they’ve the right to demand reparation.’

Behind me, he sighed heavily and his breath stirred my hair. I was still wearing the collar, enjoying the mild discomfort and the sense of him resting around my neck, encircling the route between my heart and my brain. Guarding it with his combination lock.

‘I’m not trying to make excuses,’ he continued. ‘I just want to tell you how it is for me. How I feel as if can never trust anything. Can never enjoy happiness without fearing it’s going to be snatched away.’

I felt him shift higher up the bed and prop his elbow on the pillow. He stroked from my waist up to my shoulder blade and down again. My skin was moist with sweat.

‘It’s one of the reasons I like to keep moving,’ he said. He rubbed my hip, his touch distracted and familiar. ‘As a kid I got used to being between two homes, Queens and London. Now, not settling means lower risks. Keep ahead of the game, ahead of surprise and tragedy. Change, move. Try and outwit the future that wants to ruin your belief you’re in control of your life.’

‘None of us are in control,’ I said. ‘We just keep trying to convince ourselves we are. Because the reality of our powerlessness is too much to bear.’

‘Yeah. And I need to let go of this. Of this dumb idea I can find out why Misha died. Accept it was a tragic accident. Move on. I shouldn’t have left you alone in the club like that. I’m sorry. But I wasn’t thinking straight. My priorities were fucked. I thought I’d got a lead on Misha and, suddenly, that was all that mattered. Selfish. Irresponsible. I know. I don’t want to harp on about this, Lana. Don’t want to make you my shrink. But like I said, there’s been so much death in my life. It’s as if that’s compelling me to find a reason to explain it all, to make sense of it. Truth is, shit happens. I’m not to blame for these deaths. Mustn’t feel guilty. Don’t need to hunt for a reason to let me off the hook for something I’m not even responsible for. Sorry. About tonight. About this. About me being a prick.’

I wriggled around to lie on my back so I could see him. In the room’s heavy darkness, his face was pale and indistinct. A shoulder was angled above the bed covers like a listing ship, a film of sweat glossing its muscular curve. He gazed beyond me into the middle distance. I slipped my fingers under the cover to stroke the side of his torso where the drifting seed heads were inked, one for every loss.

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘Your life hasn’t been easy.’

‘No. But I mustn’t let that ruin the life I’ve got ahead of me.’ He looked down, a hand rubbing my stomach, his smile tired. ‘I like you, Lana. You’re hot, smart. Fun to be with. You don’t take any shit. I love what we’ve got together. Love spending time with you. I don’t want to spoil it by sending us on some wild goose chase that’s basically all about me and my fuck-ups. I want to keep this, us, going. I like it.’

‘Yeah, I like this, us, too.’

‘So how about we try for a fresh start?’ He snuggled down closer to me and pulled me tight, edging me back to spooning, his arm beneath my breasts. He kissed my shoulder and his ever-hungry cock poked at my buttocks. ‘Forget about Misha,’ he said. ‘Quit playing detective and hanging out in dungeons. Focus on us instead.’ He stroked my thigh, his caress tender and comforting. ‘I’d like that. What do you think?’

‘Yeah, maybe. We could try.’ I rubbed my backside into the crook of his groin, suddenly worn out and eager for calm. His cock twitched higher, hardening. He draped an arm around my waist, holding me with tenderness, and printed tired, fond kisses on the slope of my neck.

For a while we lay in comfortable silence.

‘We could go out for dinner,’ he said softly. ‘Or I could cook something for us.’

‘Mmm,’ I said, drifting towards sleep. ‘Sounds nice.’

His hand stroked my stomach, cock poking more insistently. We rubbed and nudged, encouraging each other to continue while equally too wrecked to take the lead. The room was hot, even with the aircon on, and we were sticky beneath the thin sheets. Eventually, we fucked as if we’d been fucking for years. One of those lazy, domestic, Sunday-morning fucks, far beyond the place where you feel the need to impress or put a bit of effort in. He fucked me from behind. I wriggled to get a better penetrative angle. He came. I didn’t. So I masturbated, because I knew how to bring myself off better than he did. He kissed and caressed me as I fretted myself. Then we broke apart and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Except, of course, I woke before too long, roused by the shadow of a shadow, or a gull opening its eyelids, or a crab scuttling in the shadows. When I’m awake, that’s it. I struggle to go back. Instead of sleeping, I write, recording events and thoughts in these pages.

Or I used to. Since Sol and I have started spending so much time together, that’s altered. We’ve stopped chasing Misha’s ghost. I sleep soundly now and I neglect my journal. But I don’t mind. Maybe it needs neglecting.

Thursday 21st August

I’m so happy, I’m almost sad. Strange, I know, but my days have a melancholy pleasure to them. The change Sol has brought to my life allows me to see the bigger picture, and with that comes an inevitable tinge of loss. How long will this last for? How long will we live for? Will our world end with a bang or a whimper?

I guess I’ve caught some of Sol’s anxieties, the difference being I accept loss as part of life, and see mine as a wise happiness. I’m not scared or brooding. Rather, the awareness of loss makes me grateful for my present joy.

I’ve created a new cocktail using a French violet liqueur described as having an ‘endless finish’. I want to develop a blue menu for the bar featuring blue-coloured cocktails, some old favourites and new twists, all without relying too heavily on blue curaçao. The range will span the seasons with, at one end of the spectrum, summery drinks reminiscent of Caribbean beaches, and at the other end deeper, gothic numbers evoking darkness and midnight skies. Inevitably, the blues will bleed into indigo, violet and the black raspberries of Chambord. A touch gimmicky, I’ll grant you, but I need to get the punters in and it’s good to have something they’ll remember you by.

Sol was having a night off from me – his words, not mine – and I was feeling in need of company. It was a Wednesday, Misha’s former hour. It’s been almost two months since he died but Wednesdays haven’t yet become ordinary, each one marking another week that’s passed since his death. The coroner’s inquest was held just over a week ago. Prior to that, Sol had been fearful we might get called as witnesses or be required to submit statements but nothing came of it, thank God. Some other people from Dravendene had to give evidence, the ones who’d found him and tried to save his life. But not us. Because the threesome never happened.

So it’s all over. He drowned. He had high levels of alcohol in his blood and a head wound but he was alive when he was submerged. Water in his lungs. Death by misadventure. He must have slipped on the poolside and fallen into the water, possibly unconscious. Sol got the details from Lou. We’ve been lying low for the most part.