Untouchable (20 page)

Ben’s smile is wide. Optimistic. ‘I like you, Stella … or whoever you really are. I like you. I want to get to know you better, that’s all.’

I retrieve my work voice. ‘So let’s do this again,’ I say, too brightly.

Ben’s happy expression fades. He looks down at his bare feet. ‘I can’t … I mean I can’t afford this. Not so often. I’m not loaded, like your other clients. Before I met you it was only something I did now and then – an escape from the eternal winter chez moi.’

‘Are you asking for a discount?’

He whips his head back round to face me. ‘No, Stella, I’m not. That’s not what I’m asking for at all.’

I take a sip of the coffee and close my eyes. When I open them again he seems to be waging some kind of internal battle with himself, squeezing the knot of skin between his brows hard enough to turn it pale.

‘Look, I just want to get to know you. The
real
you.’

I stare at him. A pain starts to pulse in my forehead.

‘The
real
me?’ The vehemence in my tone startles both of us. His eyes widen slightly and his back stiffens.

‘Christ, Ben, this isn’t fucking
Pretty Woman
,’ I snap. ‘I’m not going to pull off my wig and shake my hair loose and become everything you ever dreamed of. That’s what you want, isn’t it? The fantasy. If you got to know “the real me”, as you put it, you’d find out I wasn’t so very different from your wife.’

‘I doubt it,’ Ben fires back ‘As far as I’m aware, she doesn’t charge her lover twelve hundred quid a night.’

I feel my cheeks flame with indignation. ‘And there we have it. You want to know me better, but you’re never going to let me forget that I’m a whore.’

Ben looks away, his jaw tight, the tendons in his neck distinct. I hear him exhale, see him force himself to calm down before he turns back to me.

‘Stella, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … I shouldn’t have said that.’ He rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘Look, what’s going on with you? I can tell there’s something wrong. You’re tense, on edge …’

‘I’ll give you a refund.’

‘What?’

‘If the service hasn’t been up to scratch, I’ll give you a refund.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant and you know it.’ He’s struggling now to keep the anger out of his voice.

‘Don’t you see?’ I say, trying not to raise mine. ‘This is what I
do
. Provide a screen for men like you to project their fantasies on. It’s not about the sex – if it were just about the sex you’d be happy with a quick wank. It’s all about the fantasy, Ben, and you’re paying me not to let the reality of myself intrude on that.’

‘I don’t agree. I—’

‘You don’t know anything
real
about me. Not even my name.’

‘So tell me.’

‘Stop talking like a fucking cliché, Ben. Listen, there nothing going on here, OK? It’s just business. I don’t know where you got the idea that—’

‘So why are you crying?’

A question like a slap in the face. I lift my hand to my cheek and it comes away wet.
What the
…

Christ, I really have to pull myself together. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, chastened. ‘This isn’t what you’re paying for.’

‘So how about I stop?’

‘Stop what?’

‘Paying you. What if we do this again? But on equal ground. What if I were to join you on that island?’

I snort.

‘I mean it.’

‘I bet you do. It’d certainly be a bargain for you.’

I see the hurt on his face, followed by resentment. ‘It’s not about the fucking money, Stella. I’m not trying to save myself a few hundred quid. It’s about us.
You and me
. Or are you telling me this is all fake? Were you just acting last night? This morning? Are you telling me I imagined all that?’

I shut my mouth, biting back my words. We stare at each other as I try to stop my lip from quivering. I should ask him to leave, I think, but can’t bring myself to say it. We sit like this for nearly a minute, then he sighs and runs his hand through his hair. ‘Shit. I’ve got this completely wrong, haven’t I? I expect you get this crap off punters all the time.’

I gaze at him, but can’t think of any response – even though it’s not true. I just watch the agitation in his face.

‘You’re good, Stella.’ He gets to his feet and grasps his shirt. ‘I give you that. I don’t mean the sex, although it’s first-class. I mean the rest of it. You really have a way of drawing people in, making them believe—’

‘None of this is deliberate.’

He searches my face as he pulls on his trousers. ‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I let myself get carried away, thinking …’

‘Ben.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s not go through this right now.
Please
?’

He falls silent. I listen to a faint ringing in my ears, like a warning bell. When he speaks again it’s so quiet it’s as if I imagined it.

‘I can’t do this again.’ He doesn’t look at me as he puts on his socks and reaches for his jacket. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been really stupid. You’re right, I’ve fallen into that age-old trap, haven’t I? Mistaking fantasy for something real.’

A feeling in my stomach, cold as dread. For a second I have the urge to grab his arm and ask him to stay. I force myself to remain silent.

He retrieves the envelope and tosses it on to the bed. ‘Goodbye, Stella.’

I close my eyes as he walks out of the bedroom, holding my breath until I hear the clunk of the door closing behind him.

This time I don’t count the money.

30

Monday, 30 March

At least business is booming, I think bitterly, even if the rest of my life feels like it’s entered some sort of terminal phase. I skim through half a dozen emails from men with itches to scratch. The usual line-up. Men whose wives won’t screw them. Men whose girlfriends won’t go down on them. Men who are too fucked up to maintain any kind of relationship at all.

Not that I’m one to talk.

The bell rings at 4 p.m. exactly. I open the door to a man of medium build, black hair. Not attractive, but not unpleasant either. A nondescript face, bar a slight indent in his left cheek, a little too big for an acne scar.

I smile and usher him in. He’s wearing one of those ubiquitous dark-grey suits, topped with an overcoat. No bag or briefcase. He stands in the lounge, sizing me up with an expression that’s neither a smile nor a scowl, but somehow has elements of both. It’s a cool stare, clinical almost.

I feel a jolt of uneasiness. Maybe he’s going to bolt.

‘Stella.’ His voice an even monotone. ‘How nice to meet you at last.’

I smile again. ‘Indeed.’

He remains there, unmoving. But not at rest. It’s more like a pause, a lull that only emphasizes his latent momentum. For a second or two I wonder if I’ve ever met him before. Not as a client, perhaps, but somewhere else. He seems familiar in some way – or maybe it’s his air of somehow knowing me.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ I offer, breaking the silence.

‘Not for me. But you go ahead.’

I walk into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine from the open bottle in the fridge. Notice my hand is trembling. Low blood sugar, I tell myself. Shouldn’t have skipped lunch. I swallow a couple of mouthfuls before returning to the lounge.

My client has removed his overcoat. He hands me the white envelope straight away.

‘Thanks.’ I drop it on the coffee table and nod towards the bedroom, keen to dispense with small talk. Not that he seems inclined to make any.

He follows me without a word, walking to the end of the bed then coming to a standstill again. There’s something curiously detached in his manner. No trace of desire in the way he regards me. No attempt to put me – or himself – at ease. It’s as if he … I struggle to formulate the thought … as if he’s
trying
to make me uncomfortable.

I walk towards him. Lift my hand to loosen his tie. He grabs my wrist, and shakes his head.

‘Strip.’

It’s not an unusual request, or even an unreasonable one, but something in the way he says it chills the air. I feel a pulse of emotion. Indignation? Humiliation?

No, I realize.
Fear
.

I unzip my skirt, trying to keep my expression relaxed and sensuous as my mind spirals in alarm. Should I just stop, ask him to go? Or walk right out of the flat, get myself outside, somewhere safe.

I dismiss both options. If this man intends to hurt me, he won’t leave – asking will only provoke him. Ditto running away. I wouldn’t stand a chance; he’d stop me before I even reached the door.

Play it cool, Grace, I say to myself. Pretend you’re perfectly at ease.

But my mind leaps inevitably to Amanda, to her last moments in that dingy hotel room. Have I got it all wrong? Was it a client after all? A man much like this one, perhaps, watching her with those same impassive eyes.

I step out of my skirt. Fiddle with my blouse, undoing the buttons as slowly as I dare. All the while weighing up my options.

Show no emotion, Grace
, says the psychologist in my head.
Don’t let him know you’re afraid.

I’m down to my lingerie. I pause, as if allowing him to soak in the sight of it. After all, most women look sexier with their underwear on than off. But his head flicks towards me, telling me to get on with it. Like he has no time to waste with seduction.

I reach behind my back and release the clasp of my bra, letting it fall away from my breasts. Bend over and slip off my briefs. Then stand there, wondering what the fuck to do next.

The man stares back, his face entirely devoid of expression. And I realize that’s what is making me so edgy. There are no tells. Those tiny physical signs people give off when they’re nervous. Because clients always are, on a first time with someone new. Even the experienced punters.

But this guy, nothing. It’s almost as if he’s been trained to repress them. Or perhaps has none to repress.

‘Get on the bed,’ he says, simply.

I lie on my back, legs slightly apart, hands half-covering my breasts, feeling more exposed than ever before in my life. The room feels impossibly cold, though I checked the heating earlier and I know it’s on.

He removes his clothes. To my surprise he already has an erection, its stiff bulk in unexpected contrast to the lack of enthusiasm in his demeanour. He takes a couple of strides towards the bed, picks up a condom from my bedside table and deftly slides it on. Then lowers his body over me, nudging my legs apart with his knees, keeping his arms outstretched so his face and chest tower above me.

His eyes bore into mine. His expression still unreadable.

‘So,
Grace
,’ he says. ‘Here we are.’

The temperature in the room drops several more degrees. The breath catches in my throat and I swallow hard.

He knows my name.

He knows my fucking name.

My mind blanks in panic. Then suddenly I remember where I’ve seen him before. Something in the tilt of his jaw, the shadows forming in the angles of his face.

The funeral. The man outside the crematorium.

‘Why are you here?’ I ask, trying desperately to keep any trace of fear from my voice. ‘What do you want?’

He smiles, finally, but there’s no warmth in it. ‘I came to deliver something, Grace. Two things.’ His tongue sliding over my name, caressing it.

‘What?’

He lowers his torso and pushes himself inside me. I draw back instinctively, but he lunges forwards and pinions me to the bed.

‘First, a warning,’ he says, thrusting hard.

Breathe, I tell myself, my mind almost calm now, with the dread focus of knowing I’m in real danger. Don’t move or show you’re intimidated in any way. Don’t challenge his sense of control.

Because this is clearly his game. He wants me to lose it, to be afraid.

‘Your beautiful friend, Grace. The lovely Elisa – or should I say Amanda. You should learn from her mistakes.’

At the sound of her name my whole body stiffens.

It’s him. This is the man who killed her.

The certainty nearly makes me whimper in terror. My heart rate escalates into panic. I wonder if he can sense it through my skin.

He drives himself into me again with a force that makes me wince. I shift my hips to adjust his angle of penetration, to make it harder for him to get in deep. But I don’t move a muscle in my face. He lowers himself so his chest lies heavy on mine, his face pressed against my cheek.

A couple more jabs then his whole body shudders and stills. We lie there for a minute, and I wonder at what point he will kill me.

And I wonder too if I’ll resist, or simply let him do it. All at once I feel too tired to fight the inevitable.

As if reading my mind the man lifts himself on to one elbow, putting his left hand round my neck. He stares deep into my eyes, something like a smile forming around his lips. His grip tightens. His fingers dig into my skin while his thumb traces the line of my throat. At the base, in the hollow where it joins my chest, he presses down. Not hard enough to stop me breathing. Just hard enough to make me very afraid indeed.

This is it, part of my mind declares, and I wonder what it will be like. How long it will take. I feel curiously detached from it all now. Resigned. As if this were always going to happen.

The pressure from his thumb increases. My breath stops somewhere in the base of my throat and I sense my body beginning to fight back, to lose control. Fuck, I think, tears springing to my eyes as the pain builds and my vision blurs.

Oh God … it really hurts.

Suddenly he releases his grip. Sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, turning his back on me. I look around for anything I could hit him with. But there’s nothing, just an alarm clock, several paperbacks. And the certain knowledge that the instant I tried to hurt him it would all be over.

He removes the condom, tying a knot in the end and wrapping it in a tissue. Puts the whole thing on the bedside table and pulls on his trousers. He dresses quickly, not even glancing in my direction. I lie still, watching, willing myself not to look at that little parcel.