A Twist of Fate (15 page)

The soldier's name was never released.

I slumped back and let the papers fall around me. My mind whirled. Did Paul know this man? Was he a friend? Or … was it Paul himself? I held my head in my hands and felt nausea well up inside.

Eventually, I focused enough to reach for the other papers. ‘Army sergeant cleared.' ‘Off the hook.' ‘Free but tainted.' I winced as I read, remembering the furore that had raged over the case.

Quickly, I tidied the rest of the things away, hoping that he wouldn't notice it had been disturbed. I glanced around the room – the books, the art, the careful design – it all looked different now. How well did I actually know this man? I didn't know him at all. I'd veered off the path and things were becoming rocky. I should have known it.

Predictability. Wasn't that what I wanted, what I needed? I retreated to the bedroom and gathered my clothes and things quickly, keen to get out.

In the fire escape, I hurried as if flames really were licking at my heels. I remembered to glance about for photographers – none. I found my car quickly and drove to my parents.

Seventeen

‘Where were you?' asked my mother, as if I'd just come in late from the Leavers' Ball.

‘At a friend's. Didn't you get my text?'

‘Yes, but a little more information would have helped.'

‘Mummy, I'm not sixteen anymore, and anyway, I'm going back to Chiswick today.'

‘Oh, darling!' Her face fell. My father appeared over her shoulder.

‘Daddy, back me up here. I can't stay forever.'

‘Callie's right, Victoria. She needs to get back to normal now. I'll help you get things sorted in the flat if you want.' He came over and put a calming hand on my shoulder.

‘It's all fine, Daddy, thanks. Mum, please don't be like this.'

She sighed as she kneaded her bread dough. ‘No, I know. I've just loved having you here. Can't you at least stay until tomorrow?'

I hesitated. A little break from Paul was probably for the best. ‘All right.'

‘Rupert was here earlier.'

‘Oh?' Even after the discovery of the articles, I still would rather hear Paul's name.

‘Such a lovely boy,' said my mother with a token dramatic sigh. ‘Don't keep him hanging around.'

‘Not now, mother.' I gave her a glare and paced upstairs.

Once in my room I shut the door tetchily and slumped on my bed. Now the home appurtenances annoyed me. I wanted to be back in my flat. Reaching for my phone, I glanced at the screen. No messages. I felt guiltier than ever, almost as if Paul had already discovered what I'd done.

I tried to busy myself with planning and preparation, and enjoyed lunch and tea with my parents, but Paul was never out of my mind. Of course he was more complex than I'd imagined. Would I want it any other way? Despite my new found apprehension, I still missed him. I wondered where he was, who he was with, what he was doing. I pictured him walking down the street and was jealous of all the people he came into contact with. I still wanted his contact, desperately.

When my phone rang just after five, I paced myself not to answer it after only one ring. I answered as casually as I could. He spoke first.

‘Hello, you.'

I couldn't help smiling. His voice poured itself into my ear. ‘Hi,' I said. I may as well have just breathed out, ‘Aah,' a bit like that blissful sigh in the Bisto ads.

‘Good day?' he asked.

‘Yeah.'

‘Couldn't stop thinking about you today.'

I'd been thinking of him too – all of him – what he did to me, how I wanted him … what he may have done.

‘Callie?'

‘Yeah?'

‘You OK?'

‘Yeah, why?'

‘You're very quiet.'

‘Sorry, I'm just … bit tired.'

‘You still want to come over?'

I hesitated. ‘I won't be able to tonight.'

‘Oh right?'

‘I told my mum I was moving back to my flat tomorrow. I'm going to have to stay here a final night. I'm sorry.'

I squeezed my eyes tight shut in guilt. It wasn't just that. I just needed a little time to sort my head out. I wanted him so much it hurt, but I was worried that if I saw him too soon, I'd blurt something stupid out.

‘That's all right. I suppose I can just have a wank.'

I laughed. ‘Only if you think of me!'

‘Course.'

I tittered. I craved him, even if I didn't quite know what it was I was imbibing.

He continued. ‘I'm still at work anyway. I wouldn't have made it home til quite late. Oh, I had the
Jack Northam Show
on the phone earlier.'

‘Really?' I sat up. Jack Northam, the most highly paid talk show host ever. ‘What did they say?'

‘They want us on. Loved us on
Breakfast
, think we're amazing, want us, want us, want us. Bloody weirdos.'

I laughed. ‘What did you say?'

‘I was going to tell them to piss off, but …'

‘But?'

He sighed. ‘I said I'd ask you.'

‘You did?'

‘Aye. More fool me.'

‘Jack Northam! That's incredible. We have to do it. We may be on with some Hollywood A-lister!'

‘Oh right. So that's me dumped then.'

‘Don't be silly.'

‘When you come round I'll show you my brand of A-list.'

I giggled and found myself rubbing my legs together instinctively. How could I doubt him? The articles may not have been about him. They may not have even been about his army company. He may simply have kept the articles out of interest.

‘Sounds rather wonderful,' I said adoringly.

‘It will be. Tomorrow all right? About 8?'

‘Hm-mm.'

‘Don't be late. Same as yesterday – round the back.'

‘Ooh-err, matron,' I purred.

‘Like the sound of that, do you?'

‘Now, now. Don't get any ideas.'

‘Oh, I have plenty of ideas, believe me.' I could almost feel his hard-on.

‘Paul …' I sighed.

‘Yes?'

‘Want you.'

There was a beat of silence.

‘Patience.'

‘You make me impatient.'

‘Ah, no, can't be having that. The army taught me the art of patience.'

The army. What else had the army taught him? To be a cold-blooded killer? That creeping malaise returned. I laughed it off. ‘I'll see you tomorrow then.'

‘Yup. Bye, you beautiful creature.'

I liked that. I gobbled up his compliments. From him, they seemed more genuine than the frequently dropped fawnings I'd had from others, Rupert included.

‘You're beautiful,' I said, meaning it. Everything I saw of him was. I wanted all of him to be beautiful. Was it? I daren't think otherwise.

I ached with emptiness all night, but my dreams were interspersed with images of soldiers. They were running, their backs to me. I was trying to catch up with them but they never turned to look back. I woke up a little less rested than I'd hoped.

Eighteen

I moved back into my Chiswick flat that day. My mother held me close as I said goodbye, and my father kissed the top of my head tenderly. I was less than an hour away by train, but it felt even more this time, as if I was leaving for uni all over again. ‘Ring me when you're back,' she implored, holding my hands tight.

‘Of course,' I smiled. ‘Don't worry.'

The post was piled up behind the door when I went in, but it was good to be back. I fell onto the sofa and glanced around at my things. I thought of everything that had happened since I'd last seen them. It was as if they belonged to a different me. I looked towards the bedroom. The bed was made up with the deep red embossed duvet set I'd put on a couple of days before leaving. All I could think of was getting Paul into it.

Paul phoned during the day to confirm that we'd be on the
Jack Northam Show
that week, to be filmed on Thursday. The news offset the imbalance I'd felt since finding the newspapers. Thursday was the day after tomorrow. A rush of glee swept into me when I thought about it. We were going to be on with Tom Yearsley, the latest Brit achieving huge success in Hollywood, chewing up the scenery as the posh, British-voiced baddie in adventure movies. Paul told me the news when I went over.

‘Seriously? Tom Yearsley?' I gawped.

‘Apparently. What's that latest film of his? Saw it before I went out to the Maldives.'

‘
Dark Vengeance
.'

‘Yeah … it were all right. Bog-standard adventure stuff.'

‘He was incredible in it. Stole the film, didn't you think?'

‘Sick of all those fancy Brits with the Yanks eating out of their hands. All it takes is a posh accent and an evil stare, and they're in.'

‘Mr Mason, do I detect a touch of the green-eyed monster?'

‘I know about this Tom bloke, seen him on stage. Went to Eton or something. He's a good actor – great at Shakespeare. It was his
Hamlet
I saw at Stratford a year back. Nick, my business partner, had tickets. He was brilliant in it.' I smiled as he let slip his cultural knowledge. ‘Why's he sellin' himself to the devil doing this crap?'

‘Fun. Money. Fame and fortune. We all want it.'

‘Nah, we don't. I don't.' He met my eyes. ‘Don't reckon you do either.'

I smiled gently. ‘You're right. All the media stuff is weird. But it's a bit of fun while it lasts, don't you think?'

He smirked, ‘Aye. If you're happy, I'm happy.' He took hold of me suddenly and pulled me back towards the sofa. He sat back along it and I fell onto him, managing to straddle him swiftly. We were soon kissing as if our lives depended on it. In the midst of our dancing tongues and crushed lips, I pulled my top off, tossing it blithely to the side where it landed on the pointed horns on the sculpture of a South African gazelle. Paul easily unhooked my bra, and soon my breasts, already seeking attention, were naked in front of him. He leaned up and took a nipple, holding the breast firmly so that it jutted out from his secure grip. His tongue grazed lightly at first, causing me to throw my head back and whine for more. Soon I had it, a focused licking of the tight flesh, which tingled and ignited, making me push into his mouth and hold his head hard against me. His tongue flicked the nub back and forth, until the warm, throbbing pull in my crotch grew too much. I ground against his thighs, trying for some relief.

Paul's hand worked its way between my legs. Why I'd bothered with underwear, I do not know. It was a mere inconvenience now. But his fingers found their way under it and I sighed with relief when he slid them along my wetness; eager and ready. As he moved onto the other nipple, I pushed up a little to allow his fingers better access. I was rewarded. He inserted two deep and high while he sucked hard at my breast.

I moved on him as we were. Selfishness took over; I was seeking my orgasm, I needed it. ‘If you're happy, I'm happy,' he'd said. I was happy.

His fingers pumped and rubbed my clit. Combined with the warm, wet tugging on my nipple, I slipped into the approach of orgasm. It took hold quickly. My head was back, my eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, focused only on coming. He had me right where he should, and … there! I opened my mouth and let out some curious, unearthly sound as pleasure rocketed through me. My body convulsed, my back bending forward suddenly as Paul tried to keep hold of me. But, God, it was a hard climax.

‘Shit! Christ, oh fuck,' I gasped, surprised by the force of it, my language freed by my liberated body.

He chuckled. ‘That were a good one. I could feel you on my fingers.' Those fingers were now undoing his flies. He pushed his jeans and underwear down only enough for me to take him. Without hesitation, I sank down onto his cock as soon as it bobbed up. It was Paul's turn to groan. His eyes remained fixed on his cock as it was swallowed up into me. I'd work him now. I'd fuck him. If he was happy, I was happy.

Bracing myself on his shoulders, I started to move, slowly at first, like on a rocking horse, flexing my leg muscles to draw me forward and up, so that I glided along him like the sliding mechanism.

His hands were on my bum, one hand on each cheek. With splayed fingers, he could easily fully cup one cheek in each palm. Together, we were soon in a rhythm. I rode him instinctively, knowing that each push forward, each pulse was making him reel. I saw his Adam's apple lurch and his eyelids flutter. He was beyond words, but his eyes still held a sure focus. He looked from the V of my enveloping sex up to my eyes. I held his gaze and felt his hands move in towards each other so that the tips of his fingers slid into the crack of my bum. He pulled apart my cheeks and I moved faster, thinking he was urging me on. But his fingers moved down, coating themselves in my ever-leaking juices. He brought them back, and they murmured against their goal: that little hole, the one he'd tested and teased the other day. His eyes still were fixed on mine when two fingers – definitely two, the middle finger from each hand – prodded the rosebud entrance of my arse. He'd done it before. I'd liked it then. I liked it even more now.

My breath caught, surprise rather than dread. I welcomed it, I wanted it. I could feel the hole flowering for him and I slowed my pace to allow him in. He pushed; the fingers slipped up with remarkable ease, a sign my body welcomed him. God, that was the most beautiful stinging loveliness! A smirk tugged at Paul's mouth but he didn't move his stare, and was intent on reading my every reaction. I eased down, filling me with his cock and sending his fingers deeper into the naïve warmth of my backside. We built our rhythm again, fucking slow and deep. I could feel the intrusion in my arse like nothing else, much more than before. I waited, expecting to hate it. Would that switch of panic flick in my mind and pull me off him? I held my breath, but only exquisite good things came to me. Pushing down, I felt him hard and full. How many fingers did he have in me now? Three? Four? I couldn't be sure. I was stretched, I could feel that, but it was all good. The dart of pain cutting through the sheen of pleasure was incredible, and I used it.