Fall Girl (24 page)

Upstairs I have a study that belongs to me. I keep everything that's important
there.
I sprint. The staircase is a grand one, carved banisters, ornate gold rods along each rise holding the carpet in place. First I must find the room. The first floor landing leads to a wide corridor lined with paintings in intricate gold frames. There are closed doors off it on both sides, in both directions. Then I notice that all the doors have ornate, old-fashioned keys in the lock, except for one. The door without a key is opposite the top of the stairs and directly above the diningroom. I stop. Even if it was not missing its key, something about this room draws me. Generations of instinct, perhaps. I place my hand flat against the door. It is alive to my touch.

From my purse I take a leather manicure kit that has a token nail file and emery board and, underneath these, a hidden pocket filled with tools to pick a lock. This lock is basic: it takes just a moment for the door to open. I look from right to left. The corridor is quiet; all the other doors remain shut. The rug is slippery silk under my heels. The door swings under the smallest pressure of my hand.

I can see two long windows with shutters facing the drive and further back, the road. The shutters are open; dusk has fallen. There is a green-shaded lamp on a desk but it is only dim, not dark, and I don't need the light. There is no sound but my breathing.

This room is a study, but one quite unlike my father's. The walls are lined with books, but they are not dusty and randomly shoved in any spare space. There is order here, yet they are not all decorator-chosen leather like the prissy books downstairs. Many of them are ugly, with cracked boards and garish spines. These books have been lovingly selected, used often, placed back, dusted. I run my hands along some of the jackets.

Evolutionary Biology. Evolution. Forms of Becoming: The Evolutionary
Biology of Development.
Then on another shelf:
The Origin and
Evolution of Mammals, The Last Tasmanian Tiger: the history and
extinction of the Thylacine.
There are more, many more; dozens and maybe hundreds, by palaeontologists and biologists and wildlife scientists. In the centre of the room there is a glass case and inside this is an old book bound in green leather. The spine says,
On the
Origin of Species.
Darwin. I know without knowing that this is a first edition. Along the long wall there are a series of certificates in frames. I only look at one. It says:
This is to certify that Daniel Solomon
Metcalf was admitted to the award of Master of Science, Organismic and
Evolutionary Biology. Harvard University Graduate School of Arts and
Sciences
.

My breath catches. I need to sit down. If I don't sit down I'll fall down. I breathe deeply, steady myself. I sit staring at this room, thinking over everything he has said to me, and as I do I feel myself smiling. That sneaky, conniving man.

Then I realise the dull ringing sound I hear is not the blood in my ears but my mobile phone, the signal from Sam that Daniel is coming back. I did not notice the first few rings. I am seriously out of time.

I bolt from the study, swinging the door behind me. Down the stairs, three at a time, almost falling on my heels. Daniel is not in sight as I dart back to the diningroom, but as soon as I sit I can hear him in the hall. I have made it with seconds to spare. I still my breathing, calm my heart rate. Of all the things I was expecting. All my fears and hopes. He has been pretending to be someone else, right from the beginning. He is just like me.

‘Sorry,' Daniel says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all. He sits back behind his desk. ‘Some mix-up with the address. The bloke didn't know what he was doing.'

He is all business again. He scowls and passes me a white envelope. ‘It's all there,' he says. ‘Check it if you like.' He opens a folder and starts to read. I am dismissed.

‘I believe you,' I say.

‘Fine. Believe me. Now I have a lot of work to do. If you wouldn't mind showing yourself out.' And still he does not raise his head.

I smile. I cannot speak yet. The room around me seems to have faded from view. The window on my right side, the books, the antiques that were here a few moments ago have all disappeared. I can't even see the carpet anymore. The ceiling was above my head but it has also faded. There is only Daniel. I know what he looks like. I have never seen him before in my life.

Now I am a scientist, a real scientist, and I can see him as though I am looking down a microscope at a brilliant new discovery, something incredibly rare that I hadn't believed really existed. I see the way his hair is cut short and fine around his ear, then longer as it skims away from the side of his head. I see the texture of the skin of his neck, each cell, each velvety hair, the way the skin is tanned on his arms and the way it softens and pales in the cleft of his elbows and between his fingers. The diamond notch above his top lip that meets the base of his nose. It is as if my vision was poor before and has suddenly improved, as if all those peripheral objects have been robbing me of clarity and now that they are gone, I am seeing Daniel more clearly than I have ever seen anything before. For just an instant, I feel super-human.

The wind is picking up outside; there is a squeaking and a gentle thud as the shutters bump against the house. It makes the air in the room seem deadly still by comparison. It is quiet in here, too, yet I can hear the distant pealing of a car alarm from Toorak Road. By now, Sam will be on his way home to park the van back in the rear shed and remove the decal and hide the tools. I pick up the envelope and hold it between my palms. It is white and plain and sealed. I do not need to open it. I can feel the cheque pulsing inside. I fold it once and put it in my evening purse. Now it is clear what I am free to do. I wait.

After a while, he says, ‘Is there something else?' He says it as though he is speaking to his pen.

‘Yes,' I say.

He keeps writing, flicking pages. ‘What, then? What do you want?'

‘Where is it?'

He looks up then. ‘I just gave it to you.'

‘Not that,' I say. ‘Your bedroom.'

He blinks slowly. ‘My bedroom?'

‘Yes,' I say. ‘The room. With your bed in it. Where you sleep.'

‘It's upstairs.'

I twist my arm behind my back but I can't reach the top of the zip. ‘Do you mind?' I say, and I walk around the table and turn my back to him. I hold the bottom of my hair up with one hand.

‘Do I mind what?'

‘I can't reach. Just undo me, will you?'

‘Ella,' he says. ‘What is this?'

‘It's a zip.'

‘Yes. Thanks for that. I mean what are you doing?'

‘So many questions. The cheque is in my purse, isn't it? So whatever I'm doing,' I say, ‘it isn't about the money.'

I feel the zip move slowly down, just an inch or two, but his hands are on the fabric and the metal and he doesn't touch my skin.

‘You did that very well,' I say as I walk towards the door. ‘I could swear you've seen a zip before.'

Half-way up the first flight I pull the zip all the way down the back of my dress and step out of it. Now all I am wearing is my underwear: my best matching bra and briefs, gold satin and black lace, and my patent heels. When I'm almost at the top I look back over my shoulder and see my emerald dress lying there on the stairs like a molten green shadow still warm from my body. I take off the glasses and put them in my evening bag. Then I snap it closed with a click and leave that on the stairs next to my dress. I see Daniel too, looking up at me.

‘What a lovely hall,' I say. ‘Left or right?'

‘Ella. You need to go. Now.'

‘Soon,' I say. ‘I bet it's left. Your bedroom.'

‘It's right,' he says.

‘One of these doors?' I run my hand along one as I walk, feel the metal keys colder than the wood. I walk slowly. I memorise each pace. ‘I can open every one, but that will take longer.'

‘It's the one at the end.' I can hear him following behind me. ‘Ella. Stop. Ella, I don't want you to make a mistake.'

‘How sweet of you to be concerned about me.' As I walk I take the pins from my hair and drop them on the carpet. The twist unrolls and my hair falls down my back. ‘If you're worried, you can always sleep on the couch.'

At the end of the corridor I open the door. There is a large bed, king-sized, covered in a plain white cotton spread. I dawdle as though admiring the walls and art but I'm not noticing anything. My heart is thumping right through my chest. I sit on the end of the bed and rest back on my elbows. He leans in the doorway and folds his arms.

‘You think I'm going to sleep on the couch? This is my room.'

‘You're a big boy. You can make your own decisions. I'm just pointing out options.'

He walks towards me and at the foot of the bed he stops. He kneels and lifts my leg and rests it on his thigh as if he works in a shoe store. He is gentle. He holds my knee while he takes off each shoe and places it on the floor. Then he crawls to me and I fall back so as not to touch him. I am flat on the bed, arms outstretched. He holds himself still above me, his knees spread on each side of my thighs. The bed is smooth under my back and I sink into the bedspread. There is half a foot of air between us. I can see the contrast of us, how we are opposites. I lie here soft and pale and his muscles are hard and tensed, his skin is browner, his face is rougher. More than anything I'd like to run my nails along the edge of his jaw.

‘Last chance,' he says. ‘Point of no return.'

‘I'll make a note,' I say. ‘Do you have a pencil?'

He shuts his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath and then shakes his head and under his breath he murmurs, ‘Fuck,' with such vehemence that I know his control has snapped like a thread. He drops to one elbow beside me, forces his arm under me, winds the fingers of his other hand through my hair. I am prepared for a kiss like anger but instead when it comes he is tender at first and warm and sweet and nuzzles my ear and down my neck and then only slowly does the force increase and he kisses me until I am dizzy and if he doesn't touch me soon I'll go mad. I take one of his fingers in my mouth and bite it and kiss my way down the scar on his palm. He kisses my forehead and the tip of my nose then flips me on my front in one quick movement and I feel his hand on the back of my neck. He sits on the small of my back, not with his whole weight, I know. He unclips my bra.

‘Hmmm,' he says, and he shifts off me but keeps his hand firm on my neck. Then he rips down my pants and I feel a hand brush soft over my bottom. ‘While I'm here, that arse is irresistible,' he says, and I feel a short sharp slap that makes me cry out. It stings where his hand has marked me. I wriggle and kick my legs but it's no use. I'm pinned.

‘That's for loading up my pack,' he says. ‘You think I didn't notice? I'm not an Olympic weightlifter.'

‘You'll be sorry you did that,' I say into the mattress. ‘I'll get my revenge.'

‘Take your best shot,' he says.

After a time I feel like I am watching from the ceiling, like I can see both of us in this big bed, limbs and hands and mouths moving. I am greedy and frustrated. I want more of him, faster, but he makes me wait. He is hard and finally he is inside me and he takes his weight on his elbows but I groan and pull him down upon me. He moves inside me, faster then slower, his jaw is tensed, I wrap my legs around his waist. We are joined and I am pressed on to the bed. I am grounded from below and from above and when I come I writhe hard, arch my back. I have nothing to fear. His body holds me in place.

I am awake and I reach for the wall but it is not there. This is not my bed. I am naked and alone and in a strange place where no one knows who I am. Don't panic. Just breathe. Where is the way out? How far is it? The room is dark except for a dull floor lamp beside the door and then all at once, I remember. Last night. Daniel.

I pull the sheet up and hold it to cover myself. My body has forgotten nothing. Every inch of it is alive and much of it is sore: already I can feel four fingerprint bruises at the top of my thigh, a purple love bite forming on one nipple. My hip aches from when I misjudged the edge of the bed altogether and fell on the floor, to be followed down by Daniel. He kissed the grazes from his stubble down my throat and across my stomach. I was also strangely moved and regretful. The sight of the wild scratches on his back almost brought me to tears, but he only laughed and said that he would soon heal.

It's not that we weren't gentle with each other. At times we were that as well. He slept with his mouth slightly open and when I held my hand in front of his face I could feel the movement of his breath on my palm. His eyelashes made an arc like small dark feathers above his cheeks.

As my eyes adjust to the light I notice the room for the first time. The walls are powder blue and so is the chair in the corner. The floor lamp has a bronze base and cream-fringed shade. The bed head and the rug are the colour of chocolate. There is a nest of small paintings clustered on the wall behind the chair. They are only six inches by twelve but there are many and the frames all match. I squint a little in the half-light and I can make out now that they are photographs in black and white, all of nature scenes. Oceans and rocks and trees and such, the kind of art that would be in the bedroom of a nature lover.

My underwear could be anywhere under the twist of sheets and my dress is still on the stairs so I grope until I find a shirt on the floor and pull that on. It is soft against my skin and warm, though it hasn't held him for some hours. Only then do I notice Daniel in the dark, sitting on the windowsill on the far side of the room. He is wearing his tracksuit pants, that's all. He's just sitting there, looking at me.

‘I got up to make sure I locked the front door,' he says. ‘Then I put my cheque book away in my study.'