Fall Girl (20 page)

‘Oh, you are the master of self-justification. The master. Who do you think owns those companies? Fish? Those companies are owned by people, you gormless idiot. The stock that goes missing straight into your warehouse is owned by someone. And then you go ahead and blame them—the victim—for your own theft. You are incredible.'

‘Everything OK back there? Not having a lovers' tiff, are you?' Daniel calls out.

‘No, no,' Timothy says. ‘We're discussing business strategy, that's all. Issues of, ah, stock sourcing and supplier management.'

‘Just one more minute.' I wave at Daniel and attempt a smile. ‘And we're ex-lovers. Don't forget the ex part.'

‘It's not right,' Timothy says, his voice low again. ‘I'm just saying.'

I take a deep breath. ‘Well I'd certainly hate to disturb your delicate conscience Timothy. That would be the last thing I'd want to do. I'll put your mind at rest. Thanks to your interference last night, Daniel Metcalf isn't going to give us any money. Not one dollar. We did not behave in a professional enough manner to convince him to part with a piggybank of five cent pieces, much less a quarter of a mill. So you can sleep soundly tonight. No one is taking any money off anyone.'

Timothy frowns. ‘Della. I've seen him looking at you all morning. I'm very good at telling when you've got your customer hooked. It might not be right, but it's a done deal. Relax. You'll get your money.'

The walk out seems shorter even though my legs are tired. Return journeys always are. I am thirsty and hold my water bottle in my hand so I can sip as we walk. When we reach the waterfall that he was so enthusiastic about on Friday, Daniel steps over it and keeps going. He doesn't speak much, except when necessary and even when we pass other walkers he delivers a grim nod rather than his usual chat.

I am thinking furiously. I go round and round the events of the last few days, and keep coming back to the same irrational point. Even if I have failed, I need to know what Daniel is hiding. I must know. Who is he, exactly? I have almost ruled out the idea that he isn't wealthy. I'm sure he has always had money, and that he has it still. There is a confidence that comes from wealth, a bullet-proofing against minor fears and worries. He has it, a scatheless surface, undented.

I cannot stand it. I am the one who is supposed to be hiding something, not him. I cannot let him get away without discovering it. I need to shake him up, jolt him into revealing something. I could feign a fall, or pretend to twist my ankle. I could stumble against him, unbalance my water bottle so it drenches my T-shirt. Greta would approve, but I cannot imagine this would work. I am watching him walk in front of me and I just want him to stop. Timothy might think I'm still in with a chance, but at the moment I wouldn't give two cents for his judgment. For once in my life I can think of nothing to say and nothing to do.

By lunchtime we are back in the car park. We take off our packs. I stretch my calves against the car, rub my tired shoulders. Just let this be over and done with, as quickly as possible. I keep my face turned away. Chances are I will never see him again.

‘Well,' I say. ‘Sorry to have wasted your weekend.'

‘I wouldn't say that,' he says.

All at once I feel ashamed of myself. I must give it one more try. I know my father would never have quit, and certainly Ruby would have fought and fought not to let a mark escape. Whether Daniel is lying to me or not; whether he has money or not, my family's opinion of me is at stake. Get a grip, Della. I straighten myself slightly and turn to face him.

‘Look, Daniel. I hope you didn't think…last night…'

I can see the tendons in his neck, arched and stiff. ‘You hope I didn't think what last night?'

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘I hope you didn't think there was…there is… anything…unprofessional…between us. We'd both had a bit too much wine. That's all.'

Daniel leans back against the car and folds his arms. ‘Nothing unprofessional, did you say? Too much wine?'

I attempt a smile and swing my arms in a carefree fashion. ‘Exactly. Wine, stars, moonlight et cetera et cetera. I was in a relationship at the time. Apparently. In the dying seconds of a relationship, I'll grant you, but I didn't know that yet. At that precise moment I was explaining the gill business I was happily… well, perhaps not happily, but certainly…ah…committed. So there could have been nothing going on. And I'm here on a professional basis. Representing the university. Which is a venerable institution. Though I understand we won't get the money.' I feel my shoulders drop as I finish speaking. There. I've done it.

Daniel looks up, as if he has only just noticed I am here. He folds his arms. ‘Right. Professional basis.'

‘Exactly.'

‘So, if we can put aside the issue of the money for a moment. What you're really saying is,' Daniel rubs one hand over his chin, bristles crackling, ‘you don't fancy me.'

‘Well. Well.' I smooth the front of my trousers, then hold my hands clenched in front as though I am praying. ‘Well, I'm sure this is no reflection on you. I'm sure there are many, many women who do, as you say, fancy you.'

‘But?'

‘But I don't.'

‘Does this have anything to do with Timmy? Perhaps you're not quite over him. Perhaps you need more time.'

‘That's not it. Timothy and I…we didn't have…it's got nothing to do with time.'

‘Right. Just so we're clear. No fancying. None whatsoever. Take it or leave it.'

‘Indeed. Leave it.'

‘Is this a general thing? Does this lack of fancying cover all younger sons of families who give away money for scientific research? Or does it just apply to me?'

I frown. ‘I didn't realise this was such a difficult concept. I'll try to make it very clear so you can understand. I don't fancy one hundred per cent of sons of families who give away money for scientific research, with a sample size of one.'

‘So, if you were to look up “fancying” in the Ella Dictionary, the definition would be: verb meaning to desire to shag, not to be used in relation to Daniel Metcalf.'

‘Quite.'

‘So if I was to, say, stand quite close to you,' Daniel is in front of me now, bare centimetres of air between us. ‘It wouldn't disturb you in the slightest.'

I swallow, raise my chin. This is possibly the most stupid idea I have had in decades. Why did I begin this in an isolated car park, miles from anywhere, with no one else around? I should have picked a place that held a fair chance of interruption. So that when I put an end to this, it doesn't look as though I wanted him to stop. Although of course I do. I mean, I will. I will want this to stop. I manage a small snort of derision.

‘Of course not. I work on a busy campus, students everywhere. In an office, with other people. I take trains. Elevators. Physical proximity with people I do not fancy does not affect me.'

‘I see.' He raises one eyebrow. ‘And if I were to touch the side of your face, like this.' He smooths the hair from my forehead, then runs the back of his hand down the side of my face, slowly, softly, then along the line of my jaw to hold my chin, his thumb nudging my lower lip down. He tilts his head forward, almost whispering. ‘You'd feel nothing.'

For some reason, I have trouble coaxing air into my lungs. It's the hike, up from the beach. All this physical exertion. ‘Like a brother,' I say.

‘A brother. I see. And your wrists. They're so delicate, aren't they?' His hands are on my shoulders now, inching their way down my arms, until they reach my wrists which he crosses one over the other. He pins them. ‘See? I can hold the two of them in one hand. This is probably something that a brother would do. It feels very pure, doesn't it? Neighbourly, almost.'

I cannot move my hands, my wrists are manacled tight in his grasp. ‘Just because I don't fancy you. Doesn't mean. I will tolerate. Being manhandled.'

‘No, no, of course,' he says. ‘But it wouldn't make your heart pound, would it? It wouldn't make your blood pressure go up.'

He steps backwards until he is leaning back against the car again and he pulls me with him, pulls me closer by my helpless wrists. I feel dazed and dumb and stupid and know that I must stop this and I would welcome even Timothy to appear but I cannot stop because I do not have the strength. I am touching him now. My thighs are pressed against his. The strength of him, the size. Would it be the worst thing in the world if I leaned against him? Surely just this touch of flesh through fabric would not be too far. His mouth is near my ear: I can feel his breath, his whispers against my face.

‘Because it would be terrible if you let yourself go, wouldn't it? If you let yourself fall,' he says. ‘Especially onto a big fat cheque book with legs.'

He releases my wrists then but they stay crossed where they are, and I am already leaning against him and I can't seem to pull away. For a long moment he does not hold me. We are fully clothed in a public place. My car is right behind me, just metres away. I could reach it in seconds, unlock the doors, be behind the wheel, moving, before he could blink. There are people at the ranger station down the road, lots of them, milling around. Ranging. Or I could cry out. I could make some kind of sound, any sound. Even though I can't see anyone the bush is thick just over the hill. If I cried out someone might come.

But I don't do any of those things. I stay still, eyes down. Then his hands find my waist, roll my body a little so that I slide closer. He bends his leg toward me.

‘I'm sorry you don't fancy me,' he says, soft, into my ear. ‘I'm sure you don't like this at all. Just tell me to stop any time.'

His hands are on my hips now, rocking them from side to side with small, ceaseless movements; my knees spread open slightly, one on each side of his leg. The inside of my thigh is soft through the thin fabric, his thigh is harder and fits between my legs. He arches his knee forward. He keeps rocking me. Now I feel the brush of his lips on my neck, now the breath from his open mouth is on my throat. It is gentle but somehow it makes me imagine the nip of his teeth. I clutch at his shirt, knead it with my fingers, feel his taut stomach through the cloth, his knee thrusting forward, the rocking motion spreading heat through the core of me, his fingers pinching the delicate flesh on my hip bone in a way that will leave faint bruises I know I will touch absent-mindedly for days.

‘Isn't it funny how my leg fits right there? If you were naked, I could spread your legs and touch you with my hand. I'd like to see you naked, Ella,' he says. ‘I'm not hearing you say stop. Perhaps you're a bit distracted. Just say stop, Ella.'

I am collapsing against him, magnetically drawn. I can smell him; he seems a different Daniel, no longer joking but sharp, fierce. I can feel him breathing me. I can't bear to see his face so I bury my open mouth in his neck. In one rushed movement he pulls up my T-shirt from where it sits tucked into my trousers and now all I can feel are two broad hands, one splayed on the skin of my back, fingers under my bra strap, tracing the dip of my spine and the other forced down the back of my pants, kneading the top of my bottom, scratching it lightly. This is a public place. Someone could drive up at any moment. This thought should calm me down but instead makes me feel more urgent. I reach my arms around his neck to pull him closer but already there is no space between us. Now I am the one holding him. He is the one pinned, folded against me with my arms around his neck.

‘It's all right, Ella,' he says. ‘Just tell me to stop. If you don't want me, just tell me to stop.'

His knee is hard but not hard enough, his fingers are close but not close enough yet he keeps rocking me, backwards and forwards now, more deliberately, the hand down my pants angling me against him. Why doesn't he lean over and open the car door? Hurry, hurry. All he would have to do is stretch back one arm, open the door and we could fall along the length of the back seat and he could fuck me. I am grinding, grinding, as best I can but it is futile. I need more than this. My mouth opens and it closes and between pants I make a low moan into his throat that is close to a plea.

‘It's up to you Ella. It's all up to you.' he says. ‘Stop or go. Tell me what you want.'

I struggle against him, release one hand and inch it down across his stomach and I find him, hard, through the fabric of his trousers. At first I only trace the outline with the tips of my fingers but then I roll my palm against it and scratch my nails frantically against the straining fabric. I could speak. I could just open my mouth and speak. I moan again into his throat but as soon as he hears it, before I can say a word, it is over. He pushes away from the car, adjusts me on my feet away from him, and walks to the other side of the boot. He leans forward on the car, on his arms, his fingers threaded together, his knuckles bone-white.

‘Sorry. I'm sure you understand, being a scientist. I had to test my supposition,' he says. ‘Glad to see you don't fancy me. Makes me feel much better. I might have felt rejected otherwise.'

And all I can do is stand there like a fool; rub my wrists with alternating hands, feel my hips, cross my arms. Everywhere his hands have touched is burnt. I seem to have no blood in my legs. I am shaking. I need to sit down but the best I can do is lean on the opposite side of the car from him and I know it's not far enough away.

‘You're angry,' I say, after a while when the urge to weep has passed.

Daniel rolls his eyes and smiles in his old teasing way, one side of his mouth lifting. ‘I'd like to pull you over my knee and give you a good spanking but that's got nothing to do with anger.'

I don't smile back. ‘For God's sake,' I say. ‘This isn't funny.'

‘You're right. It's not funny,' he says.