The Other Half (17 page)

“You’re very sweet.” He stroked her wrist.

“Really? You think so?”

“Um,” he said. “In some ways, yeah. Anyway,” he signaled for the waiter to bring the check, “that’s enough seriousness for one evening. We’re here—might as well make the most of it—let’s go and dance.”

*   *   *

It was nearly two when they arrived back at the hotel, but both of them were still buzzing.

“Let’s have another line,” encouraged Chloë.

“And open the champagne.”

“Oooh, we are so evil! We’ve got to go to the conference tomorrow.”

“Damn it, Chloë. You only live once. Conference, schmonference. We’re in New York.”

She leaped onto the bed and started dancing. “We’re in love!”

“Exactly. Now.” He staggered slightly around the room—they’d had quite a bit of wine already. “What are we going to drink this from?”

Chloë jumped off the bed and ran to fetch two glasses from the bathroom. “Here.”

He uncorked the bottle with the deftness she’d noted before and poured them each a glass.

“To us,” he said. Clink.

“To us.”

He racked out two lines. As the sublime I-can-do-anything high hit her again, she took a swig of champagne. Hell, why not?

“Lie back,” she said. He did as he was told. She leaned over him, her mouth still full of champagne, and half parted her lips so the liquid gently seeped onto his. He parted his lips. Then she slowly, slowly released all the champagne into his mouth. He swallowed.

She took another swig, this time swallowing it for herself, then another for him.

“Now,” she said firmly. “I’m going to blindfold you.” She dimmed the bedside light to create a more seductive atmosphere.

“You are?”

“I am.”

“What with?”

“This.” She produced the black-and-scarlet satin scarf she’d brought with her—there was nothing pastel, elegant, or Fendi about it. She pulled him to a sitting position. “Turn around.”

He slid down the white bedspread so his back was to her, and swiftly she tied the scarf.

“I can’t see!”

“That’s the point.”

She undid his shoelaces, pulled off his shoes, then his socks, and threw them recklessly to the other side of the room. “Lie down again,” she ordered.

She took off her dress, but kept on her underwear, her stockings, and swapped her dancing sandals for her foxiest shoes. Finally she threw the feather boa around her neck. Wow, she felt so, so horny! Momentarily she was grateful to Rob for making her plan her underwear so rigorously. And she knew for certain that this—not only the stockings and suspenders, but the blindfolding—was one of James’s fantasies: he’d said so over dinner last night. Apparently it was something he’d only ever shared with Beth, and that was a long time ago, and he’d had to ask: she’d not initiated it of her own accord.

“Ha!” She ran her hand over his crotch. Judging from the jerking through his trousers, her approach was working already.

“You bitch,” he said.

She dug her heels gently into his calves. “Got it in one.”

She undid his shirt, slid it off one arm, then the other—he lifted himself up to help her—and ran her fingers down his chest. Lightly at first, then harder. What fun!

“Chloë…”

“Bet no one else does this for you, do they?”

“No, not exactly—”

“Or…” she unzipped his fly, eased him out of his trousers and boxers, and took another swig of champagne “… this?”

She took his cock in her mouth, and swept the liquid over it with her tongue.

“No!” He tugged at her hair. “Mmm.”

Now Chloë was completely into what she was doing, her lips wet with champagne and saliva. Submerged in the pleasure she was giving, she could do it for ages, forever, if he liked. Then, to intensify the sensation, as she could feel him get more excited still, she started to use her hands …

Finally, inevitably, with a burst like the cocaine high, he came.

“Hmm.” She swallowed. (It went with her wicked, wicked mood.) “Nice.”

She got up. “My turn.” Yet she didn’t blindfold herself. Instead she took his hands and tied his wrists together above his head with the feather boa.
So what do you make of this?
She challenged the Vermeer. The old woman didn’t seem remotely perturbed.

She removed her knickers and sat astride him, ready to lower herself onto his mouth.

“James, you have to do this for as long as I want you to, and exactly the way I say. So, you can start softly, softly … But first”—she got off him again—“here. You need some champagne.” She poured a little into his mouth, he swallowed, and she straddled him once more. As he began to kiss her, the liquid made his tongue feel so cool and wet and blissful, she wondered if she’d ever felt so horny before. There was something about the fact that he was so in her power, when she was so in his power—she was so hooked on him—that made it all the more erotic.

Gently Chloë moved herself to and fro, hands propped on
The Lacemaker
for support.

“Harder … Harder…” His tongue moved, deeper, faster, more assured. “Now, inside … In and out … Mmm.” How she loved this man for doing what she asked. “There, like that, yes, there…”

There was something so, so sexy about watching him unable to watch her, and watching herself gyrating on him that slowly, building in the fantastic way the best orgasms did, right from the tippy tips of her toes, up, up her legs and at the same time down from her breasts, in a wave to the peak that was at her core, with a mind-blowing, never-to-be-forgotten rush, she came.

When she’d finished, she lifted herself off and lay alongside him. “Still think I’m sweet?”

“Yes,” he said, trying to reach for her but unable to. “You taste gorgeous.”

“Guess you have a lot to learn.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll leave you to figure it out,” she said, getting up from the bed. “I’m going to take a shower.” And she went into the bathroom and turned on the water, leaving James to extricate himself from the boa and blindfold.

22

Thanks to Jean’s comforting words, by the time Maggie got back from picking up Nathan, she’d convinced herself things weren’t that bad with Jamie. Monday evening she held off calling him, thinking he might go out to some networking dinner. But by Tuesday, after a dreadful night’s sleep, she was anxious once again.

It’s longer than usual since I’ve heard from him, she thought. Normally when he’s away on business, he calls me a lot—often every day—and it’s been three days.

Wanting reassurance, she called him when she went to bed, yet there was no reply from either his mobile or his room. Rather than face increased suspicion, she persuaded herself it was still early in New York, and decided to try to sleep, but it took her ages to drift off, and her fears emerged in a dream.

She and Jamie were each on an island, separated by a strait of very hot water. She was desperate to get across to him, but couldn’t because he had the only boat and the water was scalding. She shouted and shouted for him to come and fetch her—she needed to pick up Nathan from school, where he would be waiting for her—but Jamie, surrounded by CDs chaotically scattered in the sand, was too busy listening on his headphones to hear.

She woke in a cold sweat. The clock radio said 4:47, almost midnight New York time; and she really wanted—needed—to speak to him. She fumbled for her mobile on the bedside table and called him on speed dial; once more it went straight to voice mail, so she turned on the light and went and got the landline phone to ring the Paramount again; he was certain to be back in his room now, surely. She didn’t have to wait long for the operator to answer, and he said he’d try the room at once.

Again it rang and rang.

Perhaps he’s asleep, Maggie kidded herself, although it’s unlikely Jamie wouldn’t wake up to a phone ringing on his bedside table. Or maybe the operator dialed the wrong room by mistake. Oh, well.

She put the receiver down without leaving a message and turned out the light. But it took her hours to fall asleep again, and as she lay tossing and turning, her thoughts tumbled this way and that, too.

Is it my fault, she worried, am I doing something wrong? Am I being overly demanding? I always try not to be. Didn’t Jamie once say it was partly this that caused him to split up with Beth—and the fact I’m less volatile is one of the things he likes about me? So, if I’m not too pushy emotionally, have I been too overt sexually? Though I could scarcely be accused of coming on too strong—the raunchy underwear was a rarity. Maybe
that’s
the problem—I’m boring him, being too wifely, not enough of a lover, too wrapped up in Nathan. Perhaps I
should
have found a way to go to New York—sent Nathan to Fran’s or something. But how would he have gotten to school? Shere Infants is on our doorstep—it would be a lot to ask Fran to drive him from Leatherhead every day. Perhaps it’s Jamie’s muddle, then. Still, even if it is, I’m his wife. Shouldn’t I help him sort it out?

As the questions mounted, so Maggie’s anxiety grew. By the time she phoned early the next morning Manhattan time, she was shaking with nerves. Thank God, he answered the phone in his room.

“Jamie?”

“Oh, hi.” Was it her imagination or did he sound particularly rough? By this point it was hard for her to separate paranoia from reality.

“I was just calling to see if you were all right.”

“Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Maggie felt as if she’d been slapped, but she gulped and continued, “It’s only I called you last night and you weren’t in your room, and it’s a few days since I’d heard from you.”

“Oh, er, what time was that?”

“I suppose about midnight at your end.”

“Ah … Well, I turned off my mobile and unplugged the phone in my room. Sorry. I was so tired.”

“Right.” Naturally, sleep was very important to him. How stupid of her to have been so thoughtless. “As long as you’re okay, then.”

“Yeah, yeah, Maggie, I’m fine. Look, can I call you later? I should have been at the conference an hour ago but I got held up with calls and stuff—I’m running very late.”

Maggie wanted a proper chat to make her feel better; instead he seemed to be hurrying her off the phone. Yet she was loath to say anything that might be perceived as negative, so gulped again and said, “Okay, if you prefer.”

“It would be better if we could speak tonight.”

“Fine. We’ll chat then.”

“Yeah, bye, and say hi to Nathan.”

As Maggie put down the phone, she had a sudden urge to cry. Don’t! she told herself, and swallowed again.

She looked around the kitchen, hoping familiar surroundings might help ground her. She took in the fridge where she’d neatly stuck two of her favorite Nathan paintings, the dresser with its antique blue-and-white china, the stove with its traditional kettle on the burner, and the huge oak table she’d inherited from her grandmother, marked by decades of use … It was no good; she still felt anxiety churning in her stomach, so she decided to do something she found extremely hard: ask for help.

Jean’s mobile barely rang once.

“Hi, Jean, sorry to bother you. It’s Maggie. Is now a bad time?”

“No, no, it’s fine—it’s nice to hear from you.” Although Maggie’s call must have been unexpected, Jean’s delight at hearing from her was in marked contrast to Jamie’s put-out tone. “Is something up?”

Maggie sighed. “It’s probably nothing.”

“Mm?”

“But I’m, well … We were talking about Jamie the other day…”

“Ye-es…”

“And I know you said I was being silly…”

“I don’t think that’s what I said exactly, but go on.”

“Anyway, the thing is, he’s still being a bit odd, and I’m rather worried about it.”

“Odd in what way?”

“It’s hard to explain.” Maggie wasn’t happy going into specifics, though she knew it would help Jean to understand. “Just more distant, really. He hasn’t been calling me like he normally would, and when I do speak to him he’s always in a hurry.”

“Well, it is ever so frantic here, honey. You know what New York is like. It’s easy to get caught up in the mania of everything.”

“Oh, I know,” said Maggie. “Still, it’s not only that. It’s how he was before. You remember I said things haven’t been that great for a while? I suppose it’s over the last couple of months it’s gotten noticeably bad. It’s meant I’m having real problems sleeping—especially since he’s been away.”

“I see.”

Maggie could tell that Jean was beginning to appreciate how distressed she was. She went on, “It’s not simply the child issue. I can’t put a finger on it, but he’s just not as communicative. He’s been busy at work, obviously, and I know when some people get stressed they withdraw into themselves, though with us, I’m the one who tends to do that. Jamie’s the expressive one, and he’s fine with Nathan. It’s me he’s different with.” She caught her breath. This was so hard to say. “I feel he’s not quite
here
for me, really, it’s as if he”—another gulp to hold back tears—“he, doesn’t
think
about me, or me and him, in the same way.”

“I didn’t realize things were so serious.”

“I was wondering,” Maggie hated to ask, “could you have that word with him, soon, possibly?”

“Would you like me to?”

“I think so. I wouldn’t normally involve you, but—”

“I’ll talk to him today,” said Jean briskly.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Of course not. I offered, didn’t I? I’d like to do what I can to help. I’m very fond of you both and I hate to hear you so upset. I’ll see if I can find out what’s up.”

“You don’t think it’s anything major, do you?” Maggie hoped Jean would say no, but was aware the picture she had painted was far from rosy.

“I agree his behavior sounds out of character,” said Jean gently, “and if I can help in getting to the bottom of it, then I’m glad to. I very much doubt it’s anything to do with you, or you and him. It’s probably his stuff—some midlife crisis or something. Though if it is, you’ve got a lot going for you, and don’t ever forget that. You’ll get through this, I’m sure.”

“Thanks, Jean. You’re a good friend.”