The Mad British (19 page)

"Thanks, Diana," I chirp, and at the same time, tighten, so that I’m squeezing him. I hear a soft gasp escape his lips, and a ripple of pleasure shoots through me as he shifts inside me slightly. "Can you do me a favour?" I ask Diana.

"Yes, of course." I start flexing again and feel James’ cock go haywire.

"Can you lock the door behind you?"

"Of course." She makes a hasty exit, the door clicking shut behind her.

James reaches up and turns my face so that I’m looking directly into his heavy-lidded eyes. "That wasn’t nice," he rasps in a ragged breath and then suddenly thrusts hard into me as punishment.

"Which part?" I say innocently, rising up a few inches and then sinking down in return. He shoves me off abruptly, accidentally using a bit too much force, and stands, bending me over the desk, face down.

"All of it," he rasps, thrusting himself even harder inside of me. I bury my scream in my arm as he grips my hips and starts rocking. "But especially when you forgot to lock the door, you bad, bad girl."

“I SWEAR I’D locked the door," I insist for probably the tenth or eleventh time since we’d started this conversation.

I reach over and turn the air conditioning off. James seems to exist in some bizarro world where freezing to death is fun.

He presses some buttons to pull the windows down as he drives. "You're not going to convince me easily. Diana came right in without breaking and entering."

"Maybe she McGuyvered something without you knowing." He’s giving me a look. "Okay fine, I forgot to lock the frigging door. I couldn’t help it. You were in a good mood and I was horny, I’d just sold two paintings in one day, which beat my previous record of one." I slouch down in my seat and enjoy the wind in my hair against the soft heat of July. He reaches over and strokes my hair.

"I don't blame you. Have you seen my body lately? I’m benching nearly twice my body weight."

I move my head into his hand and bite him lightly on the finger. "It’s the only reason I’m with you. Are we there yet?"

"Definitely not. Unless my parents sold their house and now live next to the. . . Bob’s Burgers and Chips trailer."

"I hear that's a hot real estate these days," I joke. "That burger place is next to an emergency call box." I pull an elastic band off my wrist and tie my hair back. "Okay, you promised you'd brief me before we get there. Now's the chance."

"What’d you want to know? You've met my sister. She’s the weirdest one we have."

"Tell me everything. I warned you about my family."

I had brought James home to St Albans last weekend, giving him the heads up that he would probably be exposed to cheap beer, burnt apple pie, and probably a fight or two. The beer was slightly better this year, but my mum’s pie was so dry, it was like taking a mouthful of burnt crackers. And the fight was actually between Bailey and I over who had fed the dog too much ham. Poor Dormouse had vomited, spectacularly, Preston-style, all over the dining-room carpet.

"Your family was fine."

"Yeah, that's because you watched football the entire time with my drunk uncles and they didn’t know—" I stop myself.

"Didn't know. . . what?"

I’d almost blurted ‘how much money you have’.

I had instructed James to park his car round the corner and had kept the description about his occupation intentionally vague. If they’d known, first of all, my mother would have started grilling me, and my father would have been stupidly nice to James instead of shooting dark looks whenever James touched me. And if the drunk uncles had gotten a hint. . .

I change tracks. "That their darling niece is bonking you every chance she gets."

The corners of his mouth lift. "And that she’s kinky as hell and gets off on my secretary watching me fuck her."

"Jeez, cut me a break, already."

I try to keep my cool as we arrive at his parents' house, but I can’t stop my jaw from dropping as we turn up the driveway—a misnomer, since it really is practically a road—and catch sight of what can only be described as a mansion, resting between budding trees on an estate, the size of my entire neighbourhood back home. Chloe had tried to prepare me by showing me Google Earth images, but seeing the house in person, as opposed to a sixteen-inch computer screen, is a very different experience.

And, again, I start to get very nervous.

Camilla is waiting outside, waving us over. She’s wearing white jeans and a light pink top, but no shoes. She jogs up and opens the passenger door and practically drags me out by an arm.

"Oh my God, finally you guys. What took you so long?"

"Are we late?" I ask. This is unusual. James was probably on time to his own birth, down to the second.

"No no, I was just bored waiting for you. Preston's been on the phone the entire time because God forbid he actually took a day off, and I've been sitting around making small talk with my Aunt Catherine and she is kind of a bitch. And not really my aunt. She is my dad's cousin and is really into psychics right now and I just can't handle that. Come with me, Adelaide."

When we reach the foyer I stop dead in my tracks, my eyes darting around, unsure of what to settle on and admire first: the sweeping staircase; the absolutely insane chandelier; the marble lining the walls; the mirrors that stretch to the cathedral ceiling; or the pillows and candelabras and the sculptures set in alcoves. All of it together makes me feel like I should have been charged admission to enter this place.

This can’t be someone's home. Homes have carpet that still have marker stains ground into its fibres from a toddler self-portrait, and mail cluttering the counters, and pot holders that don’t match, and stacks of magazines hiding under the coffee table. I remember now that my father's favourite recliner is patched together with duct tape.

"Mother," Camilla greets.

An older woman enters the room, pale and blonde, wearing pearls against her cardigan set and carrying a half-empty wine glass. She stops when she notices me standing there, gawking with my mouth open.

"Hello dear."

"Hi," I murmur.

I don’t know what to do with my hands. I clasp them and hold them together in front of my waist before remembering how freaking stupid that looks, then drop them to my sides, which doesn’t seem right either, and then smooth my hair down and immediately regret indulging in such a vain, nervous motion.

Camilla grabs my elbow and pushes me forward. "Mother, this is Adelaide. You get to finally meet her.” Camilla turns and smiles. “Adelaide, this is our mother."

The older woman places her wine glass down and extends her hand. It’s cold to the touch. "Pleasure to meet you, finally."

"You too."

She is slim and tall; her hair trimmed neatly at the jawline, and her face is smooth save for a few lines, and glowing. Her clothes are simple but every part of her is polished. No hair strays out of place, her makeup is perfect, eyebrows neatly groomed, nails manicured. She turns to her daughter.

"Where is James, dear?"

"Parking," Camilla replies. "Mother, she is an artist, remember? Preston and I have a couple of her pieces."

"Oh how nice." Her piercing blue eyes never leave mine. I look at the floor and try to keep the blush from creeping up my neck. "Everything in their collection is so nice. Except there is one picture, in the bathroom I think, it clashes horribly and it is very disturbing. Very unfortunate."

Camilla coughs. I swallow and try to keep from running out of the house—palace. "Um, that one is mine. Unfortunately. Sorry."

Mrs Hatter has the good manners to look guilty. "Oh dear, I apologise."

I force out a fake laugh. "Thanks—no sorry I mean it's no big—"

The front door opens, blasting my back with summer heat and saving me from rambling out a non-sequential, stuttering non-apology.

"Hi Mum." James runs a hand down my ponytail and kisses my head before hugging his mother. I’m both grateful and horrified, since his mother had most definitely noticed the small action.

"Hello darling. It has been too long."

He nods. "I see you've met Adelaide."

"Yes, we are just getting acquainted." She places a hand on my arm, but her smile doesn’t seem to reach her eyes. "Apparently, she is a very. . . talented artist."

James picks my bag up and slings it over his shoulder. "Not apparently—
is
. I'm going to take this upstairs and then go find Dad. Is Preston around? I need to ask what he did to my TV remote because it's been acting funny ever since he messed with it last week."

His mother stops him before he starts to ascend the staircase. "Darling, no, take Adelaide’s things to the blue bedroom. We have it all ready for her."

He doesn’t break stride. "Why? She’s staying in my room."

"I thought that perhaps she might be more comfortable staying there."

He stops and looks over the railing, his expression unreadable. "Are you serious?"

"Well, dear. . ." Mrs Hatter rubs her throat absently.

"Mum, we're adults. We sleep in the same bed practically every night. Not to mention I noticed Preston's not staying in a guest room."

"James. . . " Her fingers start twining themselves in her pearls. "Dear, Preston is—"

I decide this is a good time to interrupt. "You know what? I think I will be more comfortable in the uh, blue room." My voice cracks on the last syllable, effectively killing any chance I have at sounding assertive. He gives me a look. "James, I'm serious. It's no big deal." He doesn’t move. "Go. Chop chop." I get one last dubious look before he continues up the stairs.

Camilla breaks the silence by taking my hand and pulling me further into the house. "Let's go meet Daddy. And, ugh, Aunt Catherine too, I guess."

"Nice to meet you," I call over my shoulder as I’m led away.

James’ father has a very different reaction than his wife did to meeting me. He pulls me into a hug, practically lifting me off my feet. "So happy to meet you finally," he bellows, pulling Camilla into the hug, as well. She starts to giggle. "I have heard a lot about you, well, mostly from Camilla here, because my son, well, you know him, you have to practically shove bamboo shoots underneath his fingernails to get anything out of him. Welcome, welcome."

"Thank you." I untangle myself out from underneath his arm. "Thank you for inviting me, Mr Hatter."

"Any time, sweetheart, any time. We have plenty of room. And for God’s sakes call me Bill."

“Adelaide," I hear someone call from behind me. Preston. He hugs me from behind. "Glad to see you. Before you get comfortable, may I just say, for the record, that I did absolutely nothing to James’ bloody television remote other than use it for its intended purpose? He just gets confused by anything that’s more than two buttons, which probably makes him an absolute dynamo in the sack, am I right?"

I narrow my eyes at him and very quietly say, “You really have a filthy mouth.”

"Fortunately for my wife—where is the big guy, anyway?"

"Upstairs, putting our bags away."

"Ah good," Bill says, clapping a hand to my back and leads me away. "Let me give you the tour in the meantime. As long as you are here, please make yourself at home, and if there is anything you need, don't hesitate to ask. Now I must ask, do you like scotch?"

"Yes,” I reply. “Anything that takes the edge off."

His laughter is deep and hearty, and reminds me of James’ a little. "Then I have something you need to try. How about jazz?"

"Love it."

"Oh, goody, we're going to be best friends."

James’ father does most of the talking through dinner, which is served in a giant dining room that I swear is in a film of some sort. At least there are no butlers like in the films, just one older woman who cooks and serves and rolls her eyes when Camilla tips over the bowl full of au jus.

"So, where did you and James meet?" Bill asks, clicking a remote to change the background music from jazz to classical.

It feels like James’ father has turned off the lights with his remote and someone has shone a spotlight down on me. They are all looking at me through the looking glass, waiting for a response.

My pulse quickens, and beads of sweat form on my brow and down my back. How do I tell them that it all started when their son had wagered me in a poker game, and then I had used him for sex that very night, only to sneak out on him the next morning, and then three weeks later I’d turned up at his hotel door to give him a burlesque dance?

It’s not really a romantic tale to tell anyone. Especially not our parents.

I take a long gulp of wine, trying to buy time. James shoots a look to Preston.

"I introduced them," Preston announces. "I've known Adelaide since my first year of school, and when James moved back I thought what better way to feed his burning fascination with the arts than to hook him up with one of the more, ah, visually stimulating artists in the district. In fact, he was so concerned with the aesthetics of his new place that he came over and practically begged me for that painting in the guest bathroom. You know, the one with the teeth?"

"So that's what happened to my painting," I mutter, and shoot a look at Preston.

"Begged, I tell you. He was practically grovelling. How could I refuse?"

"What did you do to my remote?" James interjects.

"For the last time, nothing. Did you try and take the batteries out? Sometimes that will reset it, if it was, I don't know, dropped in a sink-full of water or something. I'm just saying."

"You arsehole. That’s a brand new TV."

"Please do not use that kind of language at the table, James," Mrs Hatter scolds. Aunt Catherine tosses a disdainful look at us all.

Preston chuckles. "You just got yelled at by your mummy."

"You owe me a remote."

Mrs Hatter is determined to change the subject. "Adelaide, dear, what exactly do you do?" I lower my fork. I did not expect that question. Haven’t we already covered this?

"Uh. . . paintings, mostly, and sketches, pencil and ink and charcoal. Sometimes when I feel really creative I'll try working with clay or mixed media to make three-dimensional pieces, but usually I just stick to canvas. I've done a couple of murals too, but those are commissions."