Trust Me to Know You (27 page)

I did not smoke, take drugs and I drank in moderation
.
After school, I had taken on the u
niversity night life and appeared at any event that had the word dancing on the poster. Whether a sixties nostalgia night or a rave in a cramped fire hazardous location, I
had gone
to as many as possible. Keeping costs down, I
had
drank mainly water, caught the night bus back to my digs and wore the same set of sweat absorbing clothes in a repetitive cycle of wash and wear until they had holes in them. Nightclubs in the city
had been
beyond my meagre purse strings. A treat tha
t I could little afford. I had gatecrashed parties, something I was not proud of and had managed to attend other university or college events by piggy backing an invite from a bona fida student.

Friends were not important when I danced. I had a few, who like me,
could not
resist a night of bopping and shouting lyrics at the top of our voices. What I
did not
seek was the company of men. It was as if the purpose of my dancing was self-gratification. If I was attractive to the opposite sex when I swished about, colliding with their hips or arms, it was not my intention. Having their company for a bop was
acceptable. I liked the attention as long as all they were interested in was dancing. When harassed beyond acceptable levels of toleration, I would fob them off with an imaginary absent boyfriend, or tell them I was a lesbian or simply say,
“fuck off” when their hands looped around my waist.
My own mother had labelled me as a provocative flirtatious dancer as she watched me grind with my cousins at a family wedding. I had ignored her, as she did not get it - I loved to dance!

Leaving university
meant the heyday of my dancing years were over. I
had settled into work and had been too tired or broke to go dancing at the exotic clubs. My student friends had moved on and away. I was left on my own with a handful of longstanding childhood friends, whom I corresponded with or met occasionally i
ncluding my best mate Trudy. Missing the passion, I
had enrolled in dance classes when my purse strings had stretched to the cost. Nevertheless,
I had to weigh up what I really wanted out of life. An art class to improve my painting skills or a self-centred jive to let off steam? Some months dancing won out, others my need to draw or paint. That dilemma
had been my swings and roundabouts for many years as I learnt about the other key attribute in my life, my submissive tendency.

Pausing mid-step, I glanced out over to the chairs and tables section, lots of heads were bobbing up and down in time to the music and voices raised in competition with the pounding beat of the music. The hubbub over the speakers was barely audible as the contest between conversation and music was played out. A spotlight randomly waltzed round the room and then I saw a face and my eyes were caught in his blue ones. Right at the back of the room in one of the more secluded cubicles.

I stopped dead in mid twist and blinked. My heart skipped a beat and then went into full pounding mode.
H
ow would he know I was here and why was he? I took a gamble and glanced back at the cubicle but he was not there, or at least I
could not
see anyone there. I took a deep breath and reminded myself I was more than slightly tipsy. My imagination was playing tricks on me. Suddenly I was very fatigued and had had enough. It must be time to go. One of the men grabbed my arm as I headed off the dance floor.

“Come on, love, night’s young,” he yelled in my ear.

I pushed him away and pulled my arm out of his grasp. He lifted his hands up as if to surrender.

“Whoa, get the message,” he snapped back at me.

I staggered to the bar area and noticed that Trudy had disappeared. Well,
there was no stopping her. Plonking my bottom in her vacated bar stool, I buried my head in my hands, psyching myself up for the inevitable taxi hunt.

“I think you need this.”

His voice was frosty cold and harsh. I slowly turned to face Jason. No over active imagination then,
he was an imposing physical presence in the bar. In his hand was a tall glass of iced water. My hand trembled as I took the glass and without taking my eyes of
him, I gulped it down. He looked sizzlingly sexy in black jeans and black plain polo shirt and
that was how he disappeared in the crowd. Eyes glimmering in the dance lights, more blue than ever, blonde hair bright and slightly damp. Not a flicker of
warm emotion on his face.

“You have five minutes to collect your things and then get out front, Martinson is waiting.”

H
e picked up a tumbler of what must be spirits and tossed it back down his throat in one go. Then he was gone, weaving
amongst the crowd with ease.

I wanted to pee myself such was the impact his appearance had on my body’s adrenaline soaked tissue. Normally I would decide when I had had enough of
dancing. That night
I obeyed him without question. He had attached a hook to me and was reeling me in from afar. My mum would have been in awe of his power over me.
Taking a massive breath, I made a concerted effort not to vomit all over the bar.

This was not good.
I made my way over to the table where Nicky and Jane were deep in conversation, gesticulating and talking loudly into each other’s ears.
They had
been friends for a long time and had avoided the dance floor in order to catch up on old times. Nicky glanced up.

“I’ve got to go. Sorry. Out of practice, need my beauty sleep,” I spoke as loudly as my voice would let me without giving anything away.

“Are you alright, Gemma? You’re awfully pale,” asked Nicky looking up at me concerned.

“Sure, fine. I’ll get a
taxi. There are always a few hanging around outside.” I scooped up my jacket and purse, quickly heading for the exit before they probed further.

I negotiated the few steps at the club entrance carefully as I did not
want to go arse over tit now. Martinson had parked the Jaguar up
twenty
or so metres away from the entrance. The pavement outside the doorway was crowded with scantily clad women and brash men shouting uncouth words at each other. I was jostled by elbows and shoulders as other clubbers struggled to keep their balance.
Drunkenness was rife and I tried to negotiate a path to the car. As I approached, Martinson got out and came to meet me, guiding me with his hand flat against my back. He opened the passenger door for me. Clambering in I sat next to Jason and he nodded to Martinson as if communicating something. The car quickly sped off down the street.

I could not speak - what to say? He was mad at me, more than mad. Not even a glance my way. I shivered, the cold of the night had cleared my head and the nauseous sensation had thankfully
dissipated. Looking at my hands, I tried to fathom out why he was so mad.
He had
never told me not to go out in the evenings, or drink or dance.
I had danced with a small group of men, but no kissing or touching them. I must have overstepped an invisible line about which he had not informed me. We pulled up outside my apartment. Clutching my purse, I hesitated, not knowing what to do precisely.

“Are you coming in?” I finally plucked up the courage to speak to him.

“No. I’ve no intention of coming in,” his voice slipped out of his mouth like acid. Jason looked me straight in the eye. “You’re too drunk.”

A simple explanation, but somehow I did not think that he was giving the real reason why he was not joining me
. Without a goodbye or
anything,
I climbed out of the car and fumbled with my door key. Glancing back as I shut the door, I saw the car head off into the night.

A horribly bright Thursday morning and I was dreadfully
hung-over. The worst
case of headache and dry nauseating mouth in a long time. I was late for work by an hour. Andy did not comment; he did not care and neither did I. I pondered whether I should have sent an apologetic text to Jason about my drunkenness
. I
could not think what to put in it and gave up on the idea.

Friday I was better, at least I was not hung-over. My report was finished and I was deleting redundant files and personal stuff off my company laptop ready to hand it back. Rather surprisingly, the girls in the office had brought cakes in as a farewell treat. We stood around for afternoon coffee break, awkwardly making small talk. When it came to five
o’clock, I took one last look around my desk for anything that I needed to take with me. Nope, I was all clear.

My plastic bag contained a few morsels of personal life.
A
photograph of my immediate family, the doodles I had scrawled during lunchtimes, which I had to admit had the beginnings of something more substantial and a small collection of half-used stationery items. For a few weeks, I had made a good impression in my work and it was all a big gamble leaving. My resume would show a handful of weeks in a lucrative internship and then the employment record would end abruptly, not the best selling point to have in your curriculum vitae. I hoped Jason could work some magic or else I was staring at unemployment for a lengthy period.

He would look after me – wouldn’t he? What if it all came to a dramatic premature end? I
could not envisage him simply dumping
me high and dry. The allowance he had given me was not the trivial spending money of a part-time
insignificant
girlfriend. The nagging doubts remained though as I grasped the handle of my
bag.

Penny trooped over and pecked at my cheek. “All the best Gemma, stay in touch.”

I did not
think she meant it. Amanda pecked the other cheek in that silly way girls do when pretending to be lovey dovey and friendly. Libby just waved from her desk.

I handed my pass and laptop in at the security desk. That was it, I was finished my last day at J.D.Lucas Ltd and I had absolutely no idea what the future held for me. I was unemployed, in a crazy relationship with an autocratic dominant
and homeless. I hoped
I had made the right decision.

***

Checking around my apartment, boxes piled in the hallway, labelled up for transporting to Jason’s two houses. A mix of clothes at each property. I
had not touched my allowance yet, as I was unsure what exactly he expected me to buy - posh frocks or formal work attire?
The bin bags
, which contained years of hoarded inconsequential objects,
were to be dwelt with at the same time. Martinson rang me twice during the day to check on what needed doing on Saturday. The furniture at least stayed in the
rented
apartment. I switched off the lights and headed out to the waiting car. The
back seat was empty, no Jason to greet me tonight. I was full of apprehension and it was not a pleasant sensation.

To emphasise my anxieties, Blythewood was cold and dark -
winter was starting to arrive. I switched
on
a few lights and headed into the kitchen deciding cooking was the best therapy. I was slicing through a pepper when I heard the front door, not quite a slam at least. I
guessed
he had gone into the sitting room. I waited for him to come and find
me. I managed ten minutes of feeling despondent in my kitchen isolation, perhaps he did not
want me here anymore. What the hell was going on?

I headed off to investigate. Jason had lit the fire and was nursing it into a blaze. Knelt back he was prodding the kindling with a poker and staring at the licking flames. No heat permeated out of the freshly lit fire.
Frowning
, I wondered if I was supposed to have lit the fire
.
Seeing me, he stood up and continued to stand looking at the orange flames.

“I’ve been preparing dinner,” I attempted a conversation. “I handed in my laptop, my pass. Everything is packed up ready to go...”

No response from him, not a peep. Suddenly I was scared at what I was doing with him.

“
Oh God, Jason
, I don’t understand what you
want
from me!” My voice broke with emotion. “I’ve given up my job, my home to be here with you and you don’t exactly welcome me with open arms.”

I was close to tears, hand to mouth I stopped my outburst. Jason turned to look at me with his hands on his hips, such an unwelcoming pose.

“
Oh, Christ
!” I exclaimed.

Nothing in his face to give me comfort. Something was going on more than my moving in and the only thing that had happened to rile him badly was my night out with Trudy.

“What did I do so wrong on Wednesday? You
never
said I couldn’t go out with friends.” I wanted to stamp my feet in exasperation at him. “I mean, how did you even know I was there? I take it you don’t hang about in bars regularly.”

“
Enough,
Gemma!” he shouted me down, finger pointing at me.

He came closer to me. I flinched wondering if he was going to hit me, not that he ever had in the classic way, the slap across the face. My small act of visual apprehension jolted him into changing his stance.

“I was concerned about you,” his voice was calmer, though no warmer.

“Concerned? You had me followed... you
have
me followed?” I repeated. What other explanation could there be?

“You go out, get drunk, dance with strangers, of course I have you followed! How else can I protect you?”

Protect me?
From what?

“I don’t understand, Jason, I was with friends.” I ran my hands through my hair, confused by his words.

“You flirt,
Gemma, you don’t know how alluring you are, and men can’t resist you. I watched you with those two men, oblivious to their intentions. They were all over you.” Jason took me by my arms and shook me slightly as if to knock some sense into me.