Secrets (25 page)

‘A wanker?’

‘Seb!’

‘Special?’

‘Unique is probably a fairer word.’

‘How so?’

‘He's a free spirit. He's in the wrong decade – he needs San Francisco at the height of hippydom.’

‘Shirks his responsibility, does he?’

‘Not intentionally.’

‘Sorry – tell me to shut up if I'm prying and we'll talk about the weather.’

‘Let's talk about the weather, then.’

‘You don't want to talk about him, do you?’

‘Well –’

‘Do you know how I can tell? It's because you've gone a bit twitchy – here, on your lips, just
here
.’ Seb's fingertip stayed against Tess's mouth and his eyes bore through hers.

‘Shall we go?’

‘Go where?’

‘Back to mine?’

Her mouth was twitching again, she could sense it.

‘There's a bottle of white in the fridge,’ he said as if surely that could seal the deal.

‘I mustn't be too late.’

‘Just a glass of vino back at mine, Tess, not a pyjama party.’

A compact, modern, second-floor apartment on the other side of town.

‘Furniture isn't mine.’

She didn't think it was.

‘It's all in with the rent. Not bad really.’

Bathroom could be cleaner. Yesterday's paper open on the sofa. An odd shoe, kicked off in front of the TV set. Washing-up to be done. The housekeeper in her thought, he could make more of an effort. The girl in her said, he's a boy! give him a break! so what if there's a lads’ mag peeping out from under that chair and a
Little Britain
DVD out of its case on top of the speaker? Then she thought, that's an unopened bottle of wine and it isn't plonk. She rather thought he'd put it in the fridge with a wink and a wish before he came out tonight. She told herself, you're on a date, he asked you and in his own sweet way, he's planned for the evening to unfold.

‘It's nothing like your place,’ Seb was saying, motioning her to the sofa while he set two glasses of wine on the coffee table, ‘but it's home.’

‘It's not my place,’ Tess said, because she didn't want to be distracted by thoughts of that beautiful old building, of Em and Lisa and Wolf. Joe. She needed to concentrate on the veneer coffee table and the very white mantelpiece that surrounded no fireplace, only a slab of marble. This was her, here and now, and if she didn't make the most of it, what would have been the point of Lisa's skirt and Tess's sheaves of notes and the lipstick and the hairdo and finally, finally, making it out all on her own. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

They sipped self-consciously and Tess glanced around for a clock.

‘I mustn't be late.’

‘You won't be. It's only a ten-minute walk.’

‘Fifteen after all the wine I've consumed!’

‘You drunken slag,’ Seb teased and it made Tess giggle which made Seb think, now's my chance and he put their wineglasses down and reached for her. His mouth found hers and his hands honed in on what they'd fancied all evening long. Tess liked the way he kissed, the way he sucked her lips, she liked the taste of another tongue and the way it rudely probed her mouth as if asking personal questions. The feeling of her breasts being fondled was tantalizing and she found herself thinking, you can use your mouth, Seb, if you want to. He took her hand and led it down to the bulge in his trousers and though initially he had to grip her wrist and move it for her, when he let go she continued. The reality of a stiff cock was suddenly exciting to her and she felt her hips starting to gyrate instinctively. His hands were travelling up her thighs, politely spending non-focused attention there before surreptitiously working her tights down.

‘Oh, for fuck's sake,’ he said, laughing, as he hoicked her legs akimbo and peeled her tights away. Suddenly, he was pressing his mouth against the gusset of her pants and inhaling ravenously. Tess felt strangely paralysed, her body saying, yes please, more; her head saying, you really should be going now. It was like reading a book at bedtime, looking ahead for a convenient place to fold the corner of a page and call it a night. But, just like an easy read, she kept passing over line breaks and full stops for others further on. One more kiss, then I'll go. Actually, I'll just take my bra off – just for a minute or two. But actually, he's fingering around inside my knickers and – God, that feels good. Perhaps it would be really nice to come before I go.

He had a finger pulling her knicker elastic aside, his tongue slipping into the space this created, his tongue licking through the folds of her sex, dabbing at her, lapping her up. She didn't want to look at the ceiling and turning her face one way gave the disruption of the TV set on with the volume off. Turning the other gave her a faceful of pastel swirls of the upholstery. But if she looked down, she saw a blond, tousle-haired man called Seb busy with his tongue between her legs and that sight was too specific. She shut her eyes to focus on the feeling alone. She just wanted to concentrate on the tremors building in her body from her sex being licked so well. Was it horribly self-serving to close her eyes so that it didn't matter who was doing it? By now, she just wanted to come, to have a man make her come, to come on the mouth of a man.

Her hips were rocking hard to facilitate her orgasm which came in a gush of such intense pleasure that it wracked her body and her voice rang out in the soundless room.

And then it all ebbed away. The throbbing, the sound of her, the presence of him.

‘You can open your eyes now,’ Seb laughed but it took effort for Tess to unscrunch them. When she did, she needed to concentrate on the buttons of his shirt. She didn't want the bigger picture. She wanted, really, to leave. She felt emotional, a bit drunk, confused how her body could have been so sure when her mind was still wanting to mull it all over.

Black buttons on a navy blue shirt.

‘My turn?’ He sounded shy, hopeful. The thought hadn't crossed her mind.

And Seb was suddenly straddling her, unbuckling, unzipping, whipping it out.

How long since she saw a cock? The sight of it, of Seb's strong surfer's legs, of the way he was breathing, stroking her hair, grabbing her pony-tail, helped to put thoughts of heading home to one side. She played with his balls and fingered the length of him, kissing her way up the shaft, and tongue-flicked lightly over the top before taking him in her mouth, sucking him all the way down. She shifted so that she could use her hands too but she couldn't get comfortable. Her neck was a bit cricked and her jaw was locking and when she opened her eyes she saw her shoes and suddenly she longed to be on her way. Come on, come on. Come.

‘Can I come in your mouth?’

No, Tess thought suddenly. I do not want you to come in my mouth.

She pulled away, hoping for the sake of her conscience and his ego that she looked a little bashful, apologetic.

‘That's OK,’ he was saying. ‘I guess a full-on shag is out, then?’

She giggled. Dear Seb, so easygoing, funny, kind. She wished she felt more.

He sank back into the sofa and drew her to his chest. She watched his hand slide up and down his shaft. She tiptoed her fingertips over his stomach and down to his arm and along his hand, which he gladly accepted. He was close so she took over. He was clenching his fists and his teeth, his eyes screwed shut, his legs tensing, his pelvis thrusting as he spurted over his stomach.

He panted with the triumph of having just run some race. He pulled her to his chest and stroked her hair. She listened to his heart beating fast, then settling.

‘When can I see you again?’

He was looking down at her, his gaze intense.

Tess suddenly felt enormously tired, too tired to think about the answer so she nodded and smiled and let him kiss her gently. He went to the bathroom and by the time he was back, she was dressed, her shoes on, standing by the door insisting there was no need whatsoever for him to escort her up that steep old hill to the house.

The moonlight and the solitude are soothing. Tess thinks how you don't get this quality of darkness in the city. The woods to her left appear to have a depth ten times that in daylight. They are eerie, not malevolent, but she feels tiny and cold. No traffic. No people. She can hear the sea and it sounds brutish – as if it is on best behaviour during the day. The chill air sobers her up and she finds her pace increasing when the house comes into sight. One of the things she has grown to love more than anything is the opening of the gate and then the closing of the gate. Home and safe.

Lisa arrives in the hallway just as soon as Tess is inside and has shut the door.

‘How was it?’

Tess's new friend in Tess's cruddy old trackie bottoms. Lisa is all expectant and she's grinning away.

‘Fun,’ says Tess, with a nod and a smile. ‘I had fun.’

‘Fun
and
?’ Lisa is digging with a wink. ‘Any – shenanigans?’

‘Well,’ Tess pauses. This reminds her of a long time ago, sharing juicy details with Tamsin, the look on a friend's face of excitement and anticipation – and praise. ‘We did go back to his for a glass of wine.’

‘A glass of wine
and
?’

‘And – a bit of a fumble.’

‘A fumble!’ Lisa all but cheers. ‘A
fumble
she calls it!’ She pauses. ‘Did you?’

‘On a first date?’

‘Not sure I'd have your self-restraint, pet. But good on you. Will you see him again? I'll gladly babysit. You just let me know.’

Tess nods. ‘Thanks
so
much, by the way.’

‘As I said, any time,’ Lisa says, gathering her stuff, and she gives Tess a little hug because she's really glad this lovely girl was paid some attention tonight. She deserves it, thinks Lisa, good for her.

‘Thanks again.’

‘Happy to help.’

‘See you at playgroup next week?’

‘Perhaps before. How about tomorrow morning? Pop over to mine for a cuppa?’

Lisa has gone. Em has been checked on. Tess is sitting at the base of the stairs hugging Wolf who is at her side. She glances left. The answering machine still says zero. Something inside sinks a little.

Chapter Twenty

Joe didn't hear his phone the first time. He was on site, with trucks coming in convoys and an irate foreman jabbering at him fifty to the dozen. Joe's French was quite good as long as he was given time to translate what was said and formulate the appropriate reply. It didn't help that the man was from the Ivory Coast and his accent was different, more twangy, yelling and gesticulating at breakneck speed. Joe beckoned him into the site office, offered him a seat and tea. He took off his hard hat and motioned for the man to do the same. Being bareheaded and sharing a cup of tea, albeit in a prefab office but with the door closed, created a more genial atmosphere between them and when the latter took off his helmet, he let go of his aggression too; allowed himself a sigh and a stretch and a moment or two just to hold the mug and blow meditatively. Joe noticed how he held it genteelly, as if it was bone china. The ritual of taking tea provided both men with respite from their dispute, until their mugs were empty at least. He offered the man another cup, which was gratefully accepted. Joe found him pleasant to trade details with and they bantered amicably about their home countries and the French until an insistent buzzing in Joe's pocket interrupted them. He took out his phone and glanced at it. A voicemail. Six missed calls. Joe assumed half would be from the UK office, one was probably Nathalie confirming their dinner arrangement, another could well be from Belgium – he'd sent a message saying he'd be a day or so late. He scrolled to the missed numbers only to find all six were from the house, from home.

Filling the kettle, Joe tucked the phone under his chin and dialled his voicemail. What could be so important it warranted six calls successively from Tess? Had she found a new job already? Suddenly he found himself hoping not. He couldn't deny the tiny knot of tension hitting him between the shoulder blades as connection to his message service was made. He glanced at his watch. Nearly lunch-time here. An hour earlier in Saltburn. And suddenly Tess's voice in a tone he'd not yet heard. Not the temper in which she'd seethed at him. Not the shy voice of when she hovered outside the study, or the soft sing-song tones reserved for Em. There was none of the chattiness he'd been able to elicit after a glass of wine, or the playful indignation she employed to respond to his teasing. And it wasn't the comedy voice with which she communicated with his dog. She sounded panicked, half sobbing, and all she said was, Joe, please call me, as soon as you can.

‘There is a problem – in the UK – at my home. Do you mind?’ Joe replenished the man's tea who gave him a sympathetic look, pressing his own phone to his chest in support before leaving. Joe dialled Saltburn. If Tess didn't answer in her daftly formal trademark way, he'd know that something was seriously amiss.

It was ringing.

There was a clatter.

‘Joe?’

‘Yes – it's me. I'm sorry – I've only just picked up your message. Is everything OK?’

There was silence.

‘Tess?’

‘Joe.’

‘Yes, Tess. What's up?’ He had no idea how to decipher the pause that followed. Usually, he never noticed if he was in one country calling another. But the distance today was palpable. ‘Are you crying? Tess?’

‘It's Wolf.’

Joe went stone cold. Not Wolf. Let the house be on fucking fire – anything – but not Wolf. He was going to have to ask – God, he feared it but he had to – and quickly. ‘Is he dead?’

Tess was clearing her nose, it sounded like static on the line. ‘No. But he might not pull through. He was hit.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘At the vet's. He's having an operation – they're going to try.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don't know. I found him – at the side of the road.’

She was sobbing and her unabashed emotion both touched and frustrated him because he really needed details, facts, however hard. He needed them so he could feel some control and to judge how to react. It was as if his emotional capacity was pressed up against a dam of emergency common sense. He assessed he was in a different country on a Saturday lunch-time. There was nothing he could do this minute, this afternoon and probably not for the next few days either.

‘OK,’ he said.

Tess didn't sound OK at all.

‘Are
you
OK, Tess?’

She sounded distraught. ‘You should have seen him, Joe. Poor Wolfy, poor little guy.’

Suddenly a swell of tenderness swept up and over that dam of Joe's. He thought of his dog, of Tess, of her affection for Wolf, of his affection for her and for his dog. And he thought, who but Tess could call a thunking old hound like Wolf
little guy
? But she was right; it was a pertinent distillation.

‘I'll try and come back,’ he told her, ‘as soon as I can.’

‘Joe – don't,’ Tess said. ‘The vet – she said she'd call. And I said, should I call you and she said, yes, she thought I should but she said – she said she really didn't know. So she said just to wait in for her call.’

‘Will you phone me as soon as you've spoken to her?’

‘Of course I will.’

Out of the window, Joe could see the man, still holding his mug of tea, still having time off his gripe. He was about to say goodbye when he stopped for a moment.

‘But are
you
OK, Tess?’

She took a while to respond.

‘Poor Wolf,’ she said. ‘You should have seen him, Joe, you should have seen him.’

Joe was walking across the town square, late for supper with Nathalie, when Tess finally phoned him. He'd tried her a couple of times during the afternoon; both times she'd hurried him away, saying, I thought you were the vet, go away, I need to keep the line clear. He had checked his phone regularly, simultaneously relieved yet also perturbed at no missed calls, trying to chivvy himself that no news could potentially be good news. How did Tess know where the vet was, he wondered, not knowing if the number was in the scrappy notebook by the phone. How did it happen? Why didn't they stop, the bastards? How could you not know if you hit a dog like Wolf? Such thoughts underscored his day like the constant threat of inclement weather.

Actually, it was a fine evening, when late April masquerades as mid-May and dusk decides to fall a whole lot later than yesterday. He'd showered at the apartment; his phone on the edge of the sink, angular and black and masculine alongside the feminine scatter of Nathalie's cosmetics. She wears too much make-up, really, Joe thought, sniffing a lipstick. She over-eggs the pudding sometimes, Joe thought, unscrewing the mascara wand and thinking, how the fuck do women let bristles like that so near their eyeballs. He thought how every time he'd stayed here, she'd always been the first one up, off to the bathroom to paint what she believed to be the prettiest picture for Joe. But he had seen her barefaced and thought it was a pity she'd never believe him if he told her that makeup masked a little of her beauty. In his eyes, at least.

Come on,
phone me
.

Summer was tangibly close because in the square the old boys were settled at outdoor tables, playing cards or chess or chequers, with bottles of
pastis
to hand. Women were wearing their cardigans loose around their shoulders and there were bare legs where, even a week ago, there had been boots and tights. He entered the restaurant, shaking hands with the proprietor and going over to the table to Nathalie.

‘You are late, Joe.’

‘I've had a day of it.’

‘Of what?’

‘It's an expression. How was your day?’

‘It was good – but it is not good that you work on Saturday, no?’

‘It's not good, tell me about it.’ Joe drained his glass of beer. ‘And the men aren't happy – but we can't leave the materials because they will set. We've broken the back of it. Perhaps I won't go in on Monday.’

Nathalie raised an eyebrow lasciviously and chinked glasses before calling for fresh drinks. No sooner had they arrived, than Joe's phone went and he leapt from the table to rush outside.

He never usually answers it if it goes out of hours, Nathalie thought. Or he takes the call with a roll of his eyes and only half an ear. She looked outside, he was pacing, his head bowed, biting his thumb, listening intently. So maybe this isn't work, thought Nathalie.

‘He's going to be OK, Joe.’ Tess sounded triumphant and exhausted.

‘Halle-fucking-lujah,’ Joe said.

‘They could save his leg – but not his tail. He broke two ribs but his jaw didn't need pinning and his back is fine. He had to have lots of stitches and the vet said he looks worse than the injuries are – on account of having to shave his fur here and there.’

Joe listened.

‘I can collect him – perhaps as soon as the day after tomorrow, would you believe. He just needs to be nursed and kept quiet.’

Joe listened.

‘I can't tell you how horrible it's been.’

‘I'm sorry I wasn't there.’

‘I'm glad you weren't,’ Tess said and he could tell from her tone she wasn't being remotely objectionable. ‘You're his master,’ she said. ‘I wouldn't want you seeing your boy like that.’

‘He's lucky to have you,’ Joe said. And then he thought about it. ‘Thank God you were there.’ And he thought about it some more. Then he didn't think, he just spoke. ‘Thank you for being there.’ Pause. ‘Stay put, Tess,’ he said. ‘Don't go.’

She thought about that as she replaced the receiver. Where else would I be, Joe?

Nathalie was pouting.

‘He's going to be OK.’

‘Who is?’

‘Oh – I didn't tell you. My dog was run over – they thought he wasn't going to make it. But he is. That was the call.’

‘I am pleased for you and for your dog,’ said Nathalie, who'd seen a picture of Wolf and had wondered why English people so often ignore basic tenets of taste by choosing things so overtly vulgar. She'd only been to England once – long before she'd met Joe. The hairstyles of elderly ladies, the apparel of teenagers, the types of dogs, the combinations on menus, the men who worked as builders – they were all guilty of the same crime: the cult of the vulgar. ‘You were speaking to the vet, just now?’ She checked her watch and raised an eyebrow. The English and their pets.

Joe was engrossed in his fish soup; the relief of the good news had unleashed his appetite which he had neglected all day. He glanced across at Nathalie who was regarding him levelly.

‘No, it wasn't the vet – it was Tess.’

Her expression didn't change and he now noticed a haughty pinch to her lips, which he didn't like. ‘You spoke to her,’ Joe said, ‘when you phoned the house.’

‘She is your –?’

‘She was my house-sitter,’ Joe said.

‘Was? This is the past tense? She is no longer?’

Joe spooned soup. ‘I don't know.’

‘But she is still there, at the house?’

He didn't bother to nod. Obviously she's still at the house – she phoned me about my injured dog.

‘You are fucking her?’

Joe had learned not to be startled by Nathalie's bluntness so he didn't rise to it. He didn't like her tone or the implication and her jealousy was as unbecoming as it was flattering. So calm and controlled and cold, compared to Tess's uncontained indignation. Nathalie's eyes burned dark with possessiveness; Tess's cheeks had simply turned puce.