Secrets (8 page)

Chapter Seven

Nathalie stretched. She didn't really need to, there were no sore muscles or nagging joints to necessitate it. She did so because she was well aware how it presented her figure to its best advantage. So she stood in the front room of her apartment, on a Thursday evening, her hands clasped above her head, a slight hitch to one hip, knowing that her top, skimpy enough, was now stretched over jutting breasts as well as having ridden up to expose her toned stomach. She'd kept her high heels on because they elongated her legs and she'd locked her knees to increase further the sleekness of her limbs. Holding the pose a moment longer, while casting a nonchalant gaze out of the window, she then sighed as if she'd just had a satisfying yawn and she let her body go soft, her hands coming down to rest on her hips, one knee now cocked, breasts still up and out there.

‘So,’ she said, letting it hang, her lips maintaining a perfect ‘o’ of the word. ‘You will miss me, Joe?’ She did the same thing with her lips to the sound of his name. As pouts go, hers was textbook, but she made it look involuntary, as if it had slipped her mind to return her lips to neutral because sex was always on her mind and never far from her mouth.

Joe was sitting on the sofa, watching Nathalie as if she was a performance, a one-woman show, a private viewing exclusively for him. She didn't need an answer – it hadn't really been an enquiry. He went over to her and placed the tip of his finger against the hole her lips still made. Her tongue flicked at his fingertip before her mouth sucked it all in, down to his knuckle. He moved his other hand deftly up under her short skirt, rubbing his thumb along the gusset of her knickers while he closed his eyes. That mouth of hers, from which came her dirty, husky French accent. That mouth of hers, pretending to be a pussy, pretending his finger was his cock. Yes, he'll bloody miss her.

‘You come back to me soon,
non
?’

And she was pouting again, coyly, as she fingered the mound straining behind his jeans. He plugged her mouth with his tongue and ran his hands over her body; a grab at a breast, a squeeze at a buttock, a grasp for the back of her neck, a pull at her hair to release it from the chignon so that it fell and bounced around her face and caught across her lips. She started to pull her top over her head, stretching her torso into its best aspect again. Joe took charge of her top and worked it up into a blindfold while he stroked her, at first tantalizingly through the transparent lace of her bra before ripping it down to reveal her skin and those eager, nut-brown nipples. With her eyes still masked, he returned his mouth to hers while unbuttoning his jeans, released his cock from his pants and took her hand down to it. Like petals closing around a stamen, her fingers lightly encircled his cock before tightening their grip. He gasped. She flung the blindfold away.

‘You want my mouth or you want my cunt?’ Such a question. And the preview she'd provided of both options rendered Joe speechless. She knelt down, and looked up at him while she sucked him into her mouth. She stood up and grabbed his hand, easing his finger up inside her panties, up inside her. He buckled down to the floor, pushed her prostrate, pulled her knickers to one side and penetrated her for a few forceful thrusts before he came.

She smiled at her chandelier. It was always the same with Joe; he could not contain himself. He loved to fuck her fast and selfishly, to fuck her hard, and she loved it. They'd do it again later, at her instigation and it would be less urgent, lasting longer with him concentrating on her orgasm. For the duration of this trip – as on all his trips here – they'd had sex every day. It was never boring with Joe. Kinky sex, fun shagging, horny sex, oral, aural – but it was the near-aggressive fucks which she enjoyed the most despite being over quickly with no time for her own climax. Just to feel a man so utterly abandoned in his desire for her was turn-on enough. Now he was exhausted and hot, heavy on top of her, spent. She could gyrate against his weight, she could stimulate herself against his semi-stiffness and the ooze of his come to bring herself to orgasm. But she knew he'd take her later that night, tomorrow morning too, no doubt, before he left for England. She traced her nails over his back, right down to the dip at the top of his buttocks.

‘You miss me, Joe?’ she asked, still consciously lascivious. ‘I think you'll miss me big,
non
?’

Chapter Eight

‘Look, Wolf, I've told you – there's no one there. I thought I saw someone too – but it must have been shadows cast by the trees.’ Wolf turned a few more circles by the boot-room door, baying while he did so. ‘You've missed him, haven't you,’ Tess said, watching Wolf settle with a sigh. ‘I can't say I have because I don't know him at all, really. But that isn't to say I'm not looking forward to his return.’

Because she was standing in the kitchen holding a knife, the dog assumed she was talking about food so he drooled and mooched over to his tin bowl, looking back at her imploringly. Tess shook her head. Daft dog. ‘Your master, you dumb hound. Joe? Daddy?’ He pushed the bowl with his snout and cocked his head to one side. Tess gave him the crust of the toast she'd been eating. She looked around the kitchen and felt quietly house-proud. She hadn't done it for Joe alone, but that did not preclude her keenly anticipating his response. Or looking forward to adult conversation and human company in the evenings.

When Wolf started barking and charging around as if his paws were on fire, Tess wondered whether it was the phantom presence at the window again until, a moment later, she heard the car crunch onto the gravel. A zip of adrenalin momentarily immobilized her. Shit – the main living room was still a battleground of organized chaos, with books in piles waiting to be re-shelved, the cushions from the sofas airing outside in the garden, the rug hanging on the washing line after a thorough bashing. The room looked dreadful to the untrained eye. And so, for that matter, did Tess. She caught sight of her reflection in the window and winced at her hair hanging in limp tangles. She looked down at herself – baggy sweatshirt, shapeless leggings, bare feet with toenails in need of attention. As she made to dart upstairs, she suddenly remembered Em in the highchair in the kitchen. She raced back in there and out again.

And so it was barefoot Tess looking slightly manic, and Emmeline with porridge or cement or something smeared around her face, and Wolf turning in a tizzy of barks and leaps, who Joe came across when he came through the front door. Fortunately for Tess, the dog hurled himself to the fore-front, craving Joe's attention as much as she slunk from it so she was able to just call, hi there! just going to change a nappy! while springing up the stairs with Em.

Keep away from the front room, keep away from the front room, she chanted to herself while changing Em. Go to the kitchen, go straight to the kitchen.

Quick, quick, quick.

Socks. The good jeans. A clean black top. Hair tamed into a pony-tail. Baby fragrant, pink, cute, clean face.

Slow down. Slow down. Silly to be so excited. Really silly.

He was in the kitchen, with a cup of tea.

‘The French are very, very good at most things,’ he said, ‘but making tea is not one of them.’

‘Welcome back,’ Tess said and she glanced around the room. Has he noticed anything?

‘Everything OK? Did Wolf behave himself? He looks well.’

‘All's fine,’ she said. ‘How was your trip?’

‘Good. Productive. The project is progressing. I ate a lot of garlic. I ate horse. I argued with the concrete company, I assured the planners that there's been no change to the height, I persuaded the client it may be a little more expensive than we agreed. Oh, and I drank too early in the day – France is France.’

Tess was nodding as if she'd been there. ‘Well, welcome back.’

‘Merci, mademoiselle.’

‘Must be nice to be home after hotels.’

‘Oh, I was in an apartment,’ Joe said and he wondered why he made the place sound corporate rather than Nathalie's.

‘Did you have a balcony? And cast-iron twirly railings, long thin French doors and wafting organza drapes?’

He regarded Tess – by the look of her, she dearly wanted the answer to be yes. He recalled briefly Nathalie's ultra-modern pad. ‘Of course. And I drink my morning coffee out of a big white bowl.’

He started to glance around his own kitchen, as if it was taking him minute by minute to reacclimatize to his surroundings. ‘It's all looking very –’

Tess didn't want him to finish his sentence before he'd seen it all.

‘Let me show you!’ She rushed through the room, cupboard after cupboard, flinging open the doors and presenting the interiors like a showroom sales manager.

‘You've been busy,’ he said, flicking through his post. She realized she had hoped he'd jump to his feet, to inspect and marvel.

‘Just making myself useful. You don't mind, do you? It's the sort of job that's a shag to do yourself – but I thought it could be part of why I'm here.’ She was a fast fidget of words. ‘I'm making a start on the drawing room—’

‘– the
where
?’

She reddened. ‘The grander sitting room – the one without the telly.’

‘Making
a start
?’

‘Just cleaning and organizing. Doing your books – you know, in alphabetical order. I could do your CDs in the other room too, if you like. You can decide the system – you know, whether Bruce Springsteen comes under B or S. If you have Bruce Springsteen.’

His expression was illegible.

‘Your herbs were alive,’ she continued, ‘and you had stuff two
years
out of date. And
no
disinfectant. So I took the liberty – you know, out with the old, in with the new. But I did replace most stuff, at least store-cupboard essentials. And fresh food in the fridge, like you asked. Have you seen the fridge? A lemon cut in half put in the egg tray keeps whiffs at bay – my grandmother told me so.’

She was tying herself in knots of trivial information and it amused Joe. He'd put his post to one side.

‘I can't pay you more,’ he said and he really didn't mean it to sound curt but it did – harsh even. And if she'd given him the chance to retract it and apologize for it, he'd have thanked her and praised her too. But she'd already leapt to the defensive.

‘I'm not doing it for the money,’ she said, intentionally spiky.

And they stared at each other and thought to themselves, oh, it's
you
. I remember now, you have the ability to wind me up.

Tess took Em out for a walk straight away. Wolf took it upon himself to follow them out. Joe called the dog from the house, when he thought he was straying, but the dog ignored him, much to Joe's annoyance and to gentle satisfaction on Tess's part. Once she'd gone, Joe looked in at the disarray in the large living room or drawing room, said, Jesus Christ, shut the door and made for his study. At least his study was as he'd left it. He swivelled on his stool. He'd intended only to tease; he'd meant no offence. But that Tess should bristle so excessively had served to shut down his apology. However, he regretted the situation now. And he was sorry that the house should have emptied so soon after his arrival. He went to the kitchen and glanced in a cupboard. He'd never seen it like that. He looked in the others and had to admit to himself that he was impressed and not irritated. She really had been busy. What had she done in her rooms? He made another cup of tea and took it upstairs, to have a nose.

The child's room looked just that: a room for a child – toys in mutiny all over the place, miniscule clothes on scaled-down hangers, a floral border mounted not very precisely at dado height, pastel-patterned bedding folded neatly over the sides of the travel cot. It had been Joe's bedroom this, once upon a time, but he had no memories of it being so – he pondered – being so
what
exactly? What was it that it seemed now, that it had never seemed then? It took a while to pinpoint. Friendly, he decided. Friendly. He was tempted to sit cross-legged on the floor. It alarmed him a little. He left the room without looking back into it.

Tess's room appeared peculiarly feminine. She'd changed the configuration of the bed but apart from that, and adding furniture from elsewhere in the house, the room remained much the same. She'd found tiebacks for the curtains from somewhere and had taken cushions from elsewhere to put on the window seat. A throw Joe knew wasn't his made the bed seem, well,
made
. Against the fireplace, the LPs he'd lugged in from her car. The little table in the corner, which he hadn't seen for years and she'd found God only knows where, had on it a notebook and pen, a pot of Nivea, and a jaunty little pouch containing make-up. He casually flipped through the notebook. It was blank. Over the chair, her handbag – a beat-up brown leather thing. Maybe not genuine leather. On the Lloyd Loom seat, the scrunch of clothes he now remembered she'd been wearing when he first arrived this morning. Under the chair, a cardboard box. In it, he saw an iron, a kettle, a strange little wire basket and three rather dated fitness videos. Rather strange equipment to have brought with her, he thought. On the windowsill outside, three small handmade terracotta plant pots. Crocus and narcissus in flower. She must have planted those in London last autumn. Overall, the room smelt nice. Of clean things. Of fresh air having been let in on a daily basis. It didn't seem anything like the room his father used, that he escaped into for hours on end when his mother was being unbearable. The uninvited memory made Joe leave quickly.

The bathroom was gleaming. He sniffed at the baby shampoo and bubble bath and discovered it was this gentle scent which permeated the two bedrooms. Nicer than his Head & Shoulders. He noted that Tess had been through his entire towel supply to carefully choose only those that matched. Flannel, hand-towel, bath sheet. The baby, it appeared, had brought her own personalized set; soft, thick and fluffy with an embroidered duck and a curlicue ‘E’.

There was a spare loo roll. A bottle of bleach. A book called
Splishy Splashy
made out of plastic. Rubber ducks in pink, mint and yellow. A new, higher wattage light bulb. Toothpaste for sensitive teeth. Another tube for one-to-three-year-olds. A little toothbrush that looked like it was for a doll. A sponge in the shape of a frog. A lovely room. Magazine worthy. Yet was this not the room he'd been locked in as a child, when he'd been bad or had been perceived as such? His parents’ version of today's Naughty Step. It was also the place he'd been sent to when his parents needed him out of sight and sound so they could fight uninterrupted. Today, the transformation of the bathroom was so extreme it was as if an exorcism had taken place. He was sitting in there, feeling no need to shudder. If she could do this to these three rooms, she could do what she liked with the rest of the house, he decided. He'd be sure to tell her so when he next saw her. He'd give her carte blanche to alphabetize his CDs; she could choose whether Bruce Springsteen was filed under B or S. He'd let her know all this once she was back from her walk. Maybe they could have a late lunch, a chat.

He was hungry now, though, and he went back down to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, admiring the gleaming interior of the fridge, the fresh contents that were in it. Then he took a longer look in all the cupboards and he checked out the freezer and he wondered to himself, was I really that much of a slovenly old dog? And he thought perhaps he had been. And he wondered, why did she do it? Doesn't she have anything better to do? And he thought perhaps she doesn't which, for his ends, was no bad thing. He thought back to Mrs Dunn. He'd made the right decision – for the old place. He wondered if Tess felt the same – it continued to strike him as odd that a young woman should move from the liveliness and opportunities of the capital city to keep house for a sometimes snide bloke in a sleepy seaside town in the North.

‘I could throw a pasta dish together,’ he told Tess when she arrived back soon after. ‘The cupboard fairy appears to have updated my herb rack.’

Tess smiled a little shyly; aware of the peace offering. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I bought olive oil and balsamic vinegar – they're only small bottles but it was a twin pack, on special offer in Real Foods. I reorganized your wines in that cupboard. White on the upper shelf, red beneath. I hope that's OK.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It
is
OK,’ he said. ‘Say, eight-ish?’

So she repeated eight-ish and they nodded at each other, appeased.

Joe went to his study, shutting his door, leaving Tess to fill the rest of the afternoon doing whatever it was she finds to do in this old house of his.