Just Friends (40 page)

Jack spread his fingers across the swelling flesh of her breasts. He thrashed his legs, trying to kick free of his trousers, and they tumbled together off the couch. She fell on her back among the crumpled sheets of wrapping paper, so hard he heard her grunt with pain. But her eyes were hot slits of desire. She liked this. Her fingers reached up and tore at his shirt. Then she half sat up and pushed at his shoulder to roll him onto his back. Her hair shadowed her face as she straddled him, lips parted, plump breasts bobbing. She smoothed her hands greedily across his abdomen, over his chest, along the hard curves of his shoulders and arms. Her catlike face creased with pleasure. “You’re much too good for my big sister,” she murmured, and lowered herself on top of him.

She knew lots of tricks. Her slick body squirmed and squeezed and tickled, until Jack grabbed hold of her and rolled her onto her back. His feet knocked something over; he heard the clatter of wood and a sharp clink of china. Tash reached up for him; he pinned her arms behind her head and pulled her tight. Thought dissolved into sensation. Then he heard her ratcheting breath, fast and on a rising pitch. He opened his eyes and saw her head tilt and her mouth widen. Some instinct made him jam the edge of his hand into her mouth to muffle her cries, while her body arched and rippled beneath him. The savagery of her sharp little teeth made him plunge faster, deeper. One, two, three, four . . .

It was over. Jack lay with his full weight on top of her, eyes closed, mind empty, heart racing, his skin hot and sparking with sensation. Gradually his muscles relaxed, his breathing slowed. He rolled away with a groan.

He heard the delicate chiming of a clock. Consciousness returned, sudden and shocking, like a train speeding out of a dark tunnel. He lifted his head. An espresso cup lay upside down by his foot, its handle chipped off. His white trousers dangled over the edge of the couch, one leg inside out.
The Golden Bowl
had fallen to the floor and lay facedown, its pages splayed open, the India paper creased. Jack raised himself clumsily on all fours. He looked at Tash’s pink and white body, sprawled like a puppet’s. He saw the glint of her half-closed eyes, the slack mouth he’d been too frenzied to kiss even once. A length of ribbon, silver etched with wedding bells, had caught in the tumble of her hair. From the darkness between her legs a trickle of sperm made its pale, slow snail-track across the monogrammed towels.

CHAPTER 27

Freya filled the kettle with water and plonked it on the Aga. Where the hell was he?

Probably sulking somewhere. Bloody men. Brains between their legs, egos like airships. You said no, and they called you a cockteaser and stomped off. Typical. The really hypocritical thing was the way they pretended that their
feelings
were hurt. All they meant was that they wanted sex and they wanted it
now
.

Yes, all right, perhaps she had been a bit come-hither last night. But they were supposed to be pretending: that was the whole point of bringing him here. Okay,
okay
: so she’d got a little overexcited. She’d had a lot to drink. And Jack was an attractive man; she’d never denied that. Sex was all very well in its place. She herself had indulged in plenty of erotic flings, thank you, every bit as wham-bam as a man’s. But she had not come all this way to have a one-night stand with Jack Madison!

So.

Exactly.

Freya poured boiling water on her Earl Grey tea bag. Where were his priorities, for God’s sake? The wedding was only hours away. She’d scream if she had to stand all by herself in that bloody marquee, nibbling a stuffed prune and listening to Vicky’s mother patronize her about Vicky’s husband, Vicky’s children, Vicky’s wallpaper, Vicky’s pergola—not to mention the softness of Vicky’s hands after washing up, the miracle of the school run in Vicky’s Volvo, and the quite thrilling thrust of Toby’s golf-drive.

Besides, she wanted to know what he thought of her hat. It was a sizzling lime green, extravagantly brimmed, and probably visible across five counties. Yes I
am
the older sister, it proclaimed—the glamorous one from glamorous New York, with the glamorous man—who still finds time in her busy schedule to witness the quaintly old-fashioned ritual of marriage, involving someone who is not even a blood relative. Buggeration: she’d spilled the milk.

Freya had not slept well. For some reason the bed seemed far less comfortable than it had the previous night, lumpy and cold. That owl kept her awake. The moonlight had been so bright she could see the red stripes of Jack’s pajamas, hanging on the back of the door. Every creak of a floorboard made her wonder if that was him, creeping back to beg her forgiveness.

There were quick steps in the passage. Annabelle burst in, her hair in rollers, eyes glassy with frenzied concentration.

“Has that kettle boiled? Freya, you’re a saint. Now, where did I put the Swindon-Smythes’ tea-tray? They won’t mind brown sugar, will they? I should have picked some flowers from the garden. Never mind. Just look at the time! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear . . .”

And out she went again.

Freya slumped against the rail of the Aga and sipped her tea. It had begun. She could look forward to an entire day of this lunacy, until the blessed moment when Tash would toss her bouquet into the crowd and drive away. She could already hear the squawkings of the county crones.
Doesn’t Tash look lovely? Isn’t her dress beautiful? Don’t they make a handsome couple? When is it going to be your turn, Freya?
And unless Jack turned up, she would have to endure it all alone. Where was he? Freya glowered into a corner of the room that happened to contain Bedivere’s basket, with Bedivere curled inside it. He caught her eye and politely scrambled to his feet, padded over to her, and lifted his nose.

Freya jumped. “Get away, you old crotch-sniffer!” God, even the dog was at it. Bloody males. They were all the same.

“Good morning, darling. Had a good sleep?”

Her father entered the kitchen at a sprightly pace, freshly shaved and smiling, hair curling damply from his bath.

Freya raised an eyebrow. “All spruced up to give away your daughter, I see.”

His eyes rested on hers for a moment. “Crumpet or toast?” he asked mildly.

“Neither. I’m not hungry.”

“Nonsense. Sit down and have some breakfast with your old dad. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“What, now? You’re far too busy.”

“Plenty of time yet. I’ve hardly seen you since you arrived.”

There was a flurry of footsteps, and a figure whirled through the kitchen and toward the scullery, as if propelled by a force-nine gale. “Darling, have we got any soy milk? Why didn’t Barry tell me he was on a special diet? Marilyn swears she saw a mouse in the bedroom. It’s too ghastly. I told you we needed more traps . . .”

Her father caught Freya’s eye and winked.

“. . . Will skimmed milk do, I wonder? I hope they aren’t expecting a cooked breakfast. Those girls aren’t even awake yet. And the hairdresser will be here any minute. For heaven’s sakes, Guy! Have you forgotten Tash is getting married today? You can’t just stand there!”

“Why not?”

Annabelle gave a shudder of exasperation and zoomed off.

“See what I mean?” said Freya.

“Best to lie low for a bit. She’ll blow herself out. Tell you what, let’s take a tray into my study. No one will bother us there.” He hesitated. “Or would you rather go back up to Jack?”

“No,” said Freya, suddenly galvanized into activity. She strode across to a cupboard. “Marmalade or honey?”

“Let’s be devils and have both.”

The study was a beautiful room, high-ceilinged yet cozy, a perfect square of paneled walls with a fireplace on one side and a mullioned window on the other, looking out over a sweep of lawn to the sheep meadows beyond. Freya carried in the tray and her father cleared a space on his desk, a mahogany monstrosity covered with a familiar clutter of books, papers, journals, clippings, boxes of transparencies, and miscellaneous letters weighed down with the beautiful brass paperweight, in the shape of a snail, that he’d owned as long as Freya could remember.

“Glad to see you haven’t got any tidier,” she remarked. “Do you remember how Mrs. Silva used to call your study ‘the piggy sty’?”

Her father chuckled and closed the door. He lowered himself into an armchair and watched Freya busy herself with his plate and mug.

“How nice to be waited on by my daughter! Come and sit down.”

“What are these proofs?” Freya asked, rummaging in his papers to flip open a folded bundle. “Have you got another book coming out?”

“No, just a contribution to one of those dreary academic series. Can’t think why I do it. The pay is pitiful.” He sighed. “I’m not sure that there’s going to be another book. I’m getting to be an old man, you know.”

Freya turned sharply. “Don’t be silly,” she said.

“Stop poking about, and come and tell me what you’re up to in New York. How’s the job? Is the art world as dotty as it seems? Are you happy?”

Freya folded herself into an old leather armchair, balanced her mug on the arm and began to answer his questions—the first two, anyway. She was conscious that her answers were grudging, but why should she have to reveal every little detail of her life? He wasn’t really interested, anyway. He had Annabelle and Tash and the house and the dog to think about. As she spoke, her gaze hovered on the cluster of framed photographs, displayed on the bookshelf behind his head, the same collection he’d had for years. One showed him and Annabelle on their wedding day, flanked by Tash and herself. They were all smiling except her. How clearly she remembered her sense of dislocation, as if her father’s wedding and its attendant celebrations were all a dream and she would wake up in the London flat, just herself and her father, as it had always been. She remembered puzzling over why her father needed Annabelle, too. Wasn’t she enough for him? Now the question almost made her laugh aloud. On the one hand, a gawky schoolgirl peering warily from behind that awful fringe; on the other, a full-figured woman sexually in her prime, with a child to prove it. Everything came down to sex, in the end. Jack’s voice floated back to her:
What a little cockteaser you are.
She
hated
Jack.

Her father, sensing her inattention, turned to look at the photos. His face softened. He reached out a long arm and picked one up.

“Ah, look at you.” He tilted the picture to show her. “That was taken the very day you were born.”

“I know. You’ve told me.” Freya glowered at her own little monkey face.

“You were so tiny, yet you had an absolutely definite personality, as powerful as a magnetic force field. Extraordinary! You have no idea how I felt when I first held you in my arms. I wanted to protect you from everything. Funnily enough, the image I had was of greasy, longhaired louts on motorbikes coming to carry you off God knows where, when you were grown up and beautiful, and how I’d have to stand by, grinding my teeth, and let you go. I already dreaded the day when I’d have to give you away to some husband who couldn’t possibly deserve you.”

Freya prickled with irritation. “Though as it happens, it’s Tash you’re giving away,” she pointed out.

His smile faded. His face sagged with sudden weariness. She had hurt him. He lowered the photo to his lap with a small sigh. She noticed brown spots mottling his hand. When had those appeared?

“Tash is Tash, and you are you,” he said. “I’ve done my best to be a father to her, but you’re
mine
. You’re special. I’ve always loved you and I always will love you. You’re not to mind about all this wedding palaver. It has nothing to do with you and me.”

Freya gave a vague smile. She felt abashed at his warmth. She didn’t know how to respond.

“I know I’m a tactless old idiot,” he continued. “It’s not important who gets married and who doesn’t. But—well, I suppose the time has come when I’d like you to find someone special to care about, and to care about you—not so you can have the status of marriage but so that you can experience the big things of life. Companionship. Commitment. Sharing. Children. They . . . stretch one.”

Freya pursed her lips. Did he think she had never considered these things, too? Had
ached
for such experiences—enough to pretend to herself that she wanted to marry Michael, whom she didn’t even love. “I don’t think I’m the domestic type,” she said flippantly. “Anyway, I haven’t found the right man.”

Her father looked at her. “You seem to get on very well with Jack. I like him.”

“Jack’s all right.” Freya shrugged. “He’s just—” She broke off. She’d nearly said he was just a friend. This pretense business was getting complicated.

“What happened to the chap we were expecting—Michael?”