Katie In Love: full length erotic romance novel (10 page)

Why had doubt so overwhelmed me the moment he left my bed? When he said he had a dinner, my first instinct was that he didn't. There was someone else, his girl, his wife. Trust is a dying species; the tigers, the orang-utans. There is a shop nearby with a sign in whitewash across the window saying SALE – Final Day. It has been there for three months. We have lost confidence in politicians, bankers, advisers, doctors. We don't trust ourselves. So how can we trust anyone else?

When he left I sat curled in the chair listening to the whine of the helicopter, Black Dwarf rearranging like a spiteful juggler the spirals of my DNA. The feeling, so quick to arise, passed with those two iPhone kisses, so little and yet so much.

Jacques
.

An amber glow.

The sound of the piano keys like footsteps.

I sipped my champagne. The bubbles burst in my nose and I had a sudden urge to giggle, to be silly, to be that girl at the corner table with her pale arms and breasts pushing over the dip of her sequinned dress. Happiness is the suspension of disbelief; a brief ignorance.

I looked away, adjusted my hair, recrossed my legs and hooked my heel behind the metal ring of the stool. I reached for my phone, as if anticipating a text, and the machine vibrated; a creepy preconception, the opposite of déjà vu. I often get a sense that my phone is watching me and have the odd desire to throw it in the river.

Lizzie is in Old Compton Street, two mins from J.

Valmont is watching me and pours the Cristal before I ask.

She makes an entrance in red, her colour, her waist cinched by a tight belt, stressing her breasts and hips like ripe fruit, her legs long in high pointed shoes. She threw her coat over a chair.

'Am I late?'

'No.'

'Then you must be early. That's a first.'

'I spend more money on cabs than I save in rent.'

'And how is life among the poor and downtrodden? Ghastly, I'm sure.'

'I like it.'

She sipped her champagne and smiled. 'Mmm, that's better,' she said; she looked at me closely, like the doctor with my finger. 'You have that glow.'

'You'll have it later.'

'Yes, my dear, but in different places.'

Ray is a soldier, a sergeant in special forces. He does things in shadowy places, Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Lebanon. He has special needs.

She threw up her shoulders and viewed her surroundings with that self-assurance that imposed itself on the amber-lit space. Her gaze took in the men who had arrived too early; the couple in the corner, the girl reminding me of Fay Wray from the original
King Kong.
The beast was leaning forward and drummed a finger on the table as he spoke. Lizzie's dark lashes fell over her eyes like camera shutters, recording everything. There was a deliberation to her movements, as if each gesture was considered before being put into action. Her eyes opened fully as they turned back to me.

'Now, why are we here?'

'I don't know. I just wanted to see you.'

'I know you better than that. Why aren't you seeing him?'

'He had a dinner with old friends.'

'And he's lying?'

I shook my head. 'No, I don't think so. He's not like that.'

'They are all like that.'

She took another sip of champagne; her lips were the same colour as her dress and she left a ruby red print on the glass.

'You like this one, don't you?'

'We made love for, like, four hours, and when he left, I felt...bereft.'

'That's one of your
words.'

'Bereft, desolate, forlorn, fretful. It's totally weird.'

'Sounds totally wonderful.'

'We're going to have lunch tomorrow with his sister.' I took a second. 'Sisters don't like me.'

'Of course not, they dream of incest,' she said, and fixed me with an intense expression. 'What's he like in bed?'

'You are so personal.'

'I'll put it another way: what's he like in bed?'

'Firm, but patient, kind and thoughtful...'

'Just like my grandmother.'

'He asked me to undress for him; well, told me, really. I wore the mask, you know the one, and it
really
turned him on. When he told me he had to leave, I felt totally...'

'Bereft?'

I nodded.

'Sounds promising. Good looking, good in bed...curious that he should be alone on New Year's Eve.'

'I was alone.'

'Two curiosities make a plot. There has to be someone else, it stands to reason.'

'Then I shall just have to kill her.'

'That's what I like to hear.' She paused. 'If you like this one, you mustn't give away too much of yourself. Keep him in suspense.'

'I'm not writing a book.'

'Of course you are. It will be your best.'

I cheered up. 'You think so?'

She didn't answer. She didn't like being prodded for compliments. She stroked the back of my hand. I loved her. I love Daddy, Matt, even Mother...sometimes. But Lizzie was the only person who knew me, the me inside me, the me who got lost in the mirror and hid sometimes in the closet. Bella had moved to America, taking the twins with her. She was big now; she had a fan club, her own hairdresser. I write books, heaven knows why, and Lizzie made me feel as if I were her student, which wasn't surprising as she gave classes in creative writing to prisoners at Wandsworth Jail. She reads the drafts of friends' books, writes honest reviews that always have a word of kindness, even if the review is harsh. She designs book jackets, takes marvellous photographs and looks forward to Ray Fowles arriving and leaving in equal measure.

'How long is Ray here for?'

'Two weeks. That's about as much as I can stand. Especially now.'

'Ah, do tell?'

'It's not as if I'm being unfaithful....'

'An excursion to
Pink?'

'I'm especially partial to girls,' she said, her words rolling from her tongue as if she were swallowing melting chocolate. She paused again, shrugging her fine shoulders. 'Anyway, Ray doesn't need to know; he wouldn't even care.'

A man appeared in a navy blue suit; his tie too tight, face flushed.

'Hi, gals, I'm Bob, what are you drinking?'

Lizzie looked over her shoulder. 'In a champagne bar?' she asked.

'Hey, that's right. Two more glasses?'

She glanced at Valmont, raising her eyes a fraction; he knew the drill. Bob leaned on the bar beside her, foot resting on the rail. He was looking at me, forcing Lizzie to turn towards him.

'Where are you from, Bob? she asked.

'Kansas City, USA.'

'What do you do in Kansas, Bob?'

'I'm a banker, you know...'

'A banker. How fortunate.' She turned wide-eyed in her seat. 'So, you're the one who bankrupted the economy and went off with squillions of dollars?'

'I wish,' he replied.

'You didn't?'

He held up his two palms like a cowboy surrendering in a Western. 'I'm a wheat analyst. I work in futures...'

'You mean, you're not filthy rich?'

'No, lady, I am not...'

She leaned forward with an unnerving smile and lowered her voice to a hiss. 'Then save your money and spend it on your wife, Bob. That's the future.'

'What? Hey, listen, I was only being friendly.'

'Then go and be friendly somewhere else.'

His face grew redder. 'I wasn't interested in you, anyway.'

She glanced at me, then back at the man. 'You know something, Bob, I don't think the feeling's mutual.'

I gave him a shrug and he stared back at Lizzie.

'I've met some bitches in my time, lady, but you take some beating.'

'Never a truer word been said, my dear,' she replied. She threw up her hand to look at her watch, a small silver Cartier. 'I'm going to have to go.'

She slipped to her feet as the young blonde left the bar with King Kong's hand resting on the small of her back. The girl was wearing a fox fur coat that swayed around her long legs. The door opened and I caught a glimpse of the drizzle in the street lights.

'I'm going, too,' I said, and Lizzie's brow rippled.

'Is this love?' she asked, and I shook my head.

'Lust, I imagine.'

We stood outside, waiting for a taxi, the neon signs along the street making the night seem darker. I looked up at the sign,
Jacques,
a signature in pale green letters, and it occurred to me that I would probably never go back there again.

9

Someone Else

He kissed the inked scroll on my neck, my shoulders, the hills of my spine, those little dents at the pit of my back that I look at sometimes in the mirror, so mysterious, as if two fingers have been pushed into a balloon. He fondled my bottom as if it were pastry dough, kneading the soft flesh and making it rise. The grotto behind my left knee, my right knee; my feet.

'My best feature,' I said, and rolled over to face him.

He was smiling. I adored his smile, his good teeth. 'Yes, quite the best. But I am growing rather fond of your Achilles' tendons, they're in pretty good shape.'

'That's a relief.'

He planted watery kisses on the sinewy flesh above my heels, one after the other. 'Now you are protected,' he said, and propped himself up on one elbow. 'You know something, you remind me of Helen of Troy. She had green eyes...'

'Didn't she sink a thousand ships? Quite apart from starting a war.'

'At least it was a noble cause.'

'About as noble as two blind men fighting over a photograph.'

He laughed. 'You
do
have a way with words.'

'That's what Bradley says.'

'Bradley?'

'My web guy. Twenty-two and as randy as a sack of rabbits.'

'Two blind men and a sack of rabbits. You're all over the place, Ms Boyd,' he said. He brushed my hair back and his expression changed. He had slipped into his thinking face. 'I don't know Greece at all. I'd like to visit Troy.'

I adored his voice; its depth, its timbre. I had written in my notes that it sounded like a cello. The words on the page had seemed overblown as they hurried out on to the screen. But it was true, his voice was cavernous. It resonated as if my intestines had arranged themselves into highly-tuned strings.

'I love your knees,' he said, and kissed them.

He continued, my belly-button, my breasts that flamed, the concave of my throat, his progress across my body soft as the horsehair on a bow, the down-strokes firm, the up-strokes tender. I had sat at my computer when I arrived home from
Jacques
with that feeling you get after a long flight, tense and edgy. While the world sleeps, words in the night become mosquitoes that I chase around the room, squashing them in bloody pools that I press on the page, the screen. Nothing came. No buzz. No torque. No whisper. I was in another time zone. My heart thumped. My hands felt bloated and clumsy.

A branch from the tree outside tapped on the window like the finger of someone who has forgotten their key and wants to come in. Beneath the flowing strokes of his fingers I had become a musical instrument gently weeping, tears like glass crystals streaking my cheeks. He swept them up on his tongue as if they were too sacred to squander and I recalled reading that Hindu women save tears in a phial to spill at their husband's funeral.

'You're crying,' he whispered.

'It's what I do when I'm happy.'

'Why are you happy, little Katie?

'I am not so little...'

'It's a term of endearment.'

'Endearment,' I repeated, tasting the word, filing it away like a nice pebble found on the beach. He had shaved that morning, washed his hair. It was the colour of walnuts with highlights bleached by the sun. His eyes, flecked with gold, had a look of intensity, of curiosity. His cock nestled against my tummy.

'What are you thinking about?' he asked, and I wondered what he had seen in my eyes, and whether we see what we want to see, reflections of our own musings.

'I'm thinking about who I am going to be when I meet your sister.'

'She'll be crazy about you.'

'You don't know sisters,' I said, and he licked my nose.

His weight pressed down on me. Our lips met, the sound like the closing of a hotel door. We kissed and we kissed, snatching for breath. Making love requires no thought. You move as the fronds of a palm tree move in the breeze. It is all instinct. All wonder. I adored kissing. Kissing him. A really good kiss is like a secret you want to share. There are no words to describe it. A really good kiss reminds you why it's hard to decide on the right lipstick. Time expands with a really good kiss and you add another few seconds to the end of your life. His finger traced an arc over my cheekbones, and I felt that second day of a new year as if I were on a bridge burning to ashes behind me.

The kiss extended like quicksilver over my chin and down in a line between my breasts, my tummy, gurgling still from the almond croissants and cappuccino he had brought with him in a yellow bag. An arrow of light darted across the room. I heard the drum of the traffic; people returning to work.

He eased my legs apart. I pressed down on my toes and arched my back. I was always happy being naked, like this, with him, the light moving like a tide over the ceiling. The tip of his tongue rang the divine bell, that sublime stupa, the sweet spot, and I floated off on the liquids that wet my thighs. We imagine that there is a special man who will make us feel special in special ways, not with words or gifts, not with glances, even eyes, but in the way that he makes a perfect fit inside us.

When he entered me, I held him as a drowning person would cling to driftwood. He came quickly, gushing, his breath in my ear, the speck of dribble on my neck like a raindrop, a tear. I gripped my hands behind his back. There was a zing of pain across my finger. I held him tightly. I wanted his essence inside me where it would stay warm and I would feel it all day.

We kissed slowly, breathlessly, the after love kiss, and I despaired at that part of myself who conjured up at that moment a picture of Lizzie in
Jacques
when she said, 'Two curiosities make a plot.' There has to be someone else, it stands to reason.

Does it? Is there? The kiss faded and there were words on his lips.

'I'm sorry I had to leave yesterday, it was a boring evening, I can't tell you.'

'I had a marvellous time,' I said. 'I met my best friend at my favourite bar and drank oodles of champagne.'

'Is that what you usually do?'

I thought for a moment. 'I don't usually do anything.'

'I'm reading
Dancing Girl
,' he said. 'You really do know how to write.'

'Knowing how to write and knowing how to write is not the same thing.'

'I can't wait to find out how it ends. Do they stay together?'

'I can't actually remember.'

He laughed. 'Don't worry, Katie, I'm going to finish it.'

I liked hearing the sound of my name on his cello tongue; it sounded as if he were talking to someone else.

'I'm not worried,' I told him. 'I mean it. While I'm writing a book, I'm obsessed with my baby. I love them. I wipe their tears and nurse their scars. When I start something new, I forget about them.'

'That's quite amazing.'

'I learned it from my mother.'

'When am I going to meet her?'

My head lay nestled against his side and I replied with a vampire kiss, sucking hard and biting the soft flesh of his neck. He squirmed and pressed back.

'More, more. I love it.'

I bit the same spot. I kissed his lips. His eyes. I blew in his ear. His cock stiffened and slid back inside me. We made love again, leisurely, deep in the moment, my movements unhurried, gradual, continuous, like Duchamp's
Nude Descending A Staircase
, each figure the same but different, motion captured and released.

Pink underwear. It's always right. The Zara tweed jacket with red lapels, skinny wine-red trousers, lace-up brown boots. I left the door open so he could watch me dress. Men are intrigued by our clothes, by the hooks and buttons, the straps and elastic that bind us together. When I entered the living room, he had his hands behind his back and a crooked smile I couldn't interpret.

'I nearly forgot, I have a present for you,' he said and produced a yellow ball with a smiley face.

'Thank you.'

He placed it in my right hand and stretched my figures about the soft surface.

'Squeeze,' he said. 'It's an exercise ball. It's for your finger.'

'I thought it was for me.'

'You can share it. Good girls know how to share things.'

'Yes, daddy.'

We kissed and we kissed. He grew hard and it wasn't easy tearing ourselves away from the warm sheets calling from the bedroom. I dragged on a quilted coat, a grey wool hat, and my cheeks burned with cold as we clattered down the stairs and out into the street.

Tom bought
The Times
in the corner shop where Mr Patel glowered from behind a counter stacked with chocolate, aspirin and chewing gum. With the red spot on his forehead and a yellowing moustache, Mr Patel wore that look people have when they reach a certain age and realize their dreams were just dreams. He was snappy with his customers, his daughter, who limps and never smiles, his wife, whose drawn face as she fills the magazine racks makes me think of the Danaides, those spiteful wives from mythology who murdered their husbands on their wedding night, and were condemned to spend eternity filling a bowl from jugs perforated with holes, a futile undertaking I thought I might explore in a blog.

'Happy New Year.'

Mr Patel's head jiggled from side to side. 'Yes, another one.'

I pulled my hat over my ears: 'It's freezing out.'

'What do you expect, in England?'

He glanced at Mrs Patel as he spoke and she looked away. Was it her fault they were in London, not Mumbai?

'Happy New Year,' I said, but she didn't answer.

Tom tucked the newspaper under his arm and an old-fashioned bell rang as he held the door for me.

We crossed the road, skipping between the traffic. On the corner, a woman in a green sari studied a mannequin in a shop window dressed the same as herself, a scene that reminded me of a story by Ian McEwan. Next door, at Khan's, two boys, thin as reeds in crocheted hats, unlocked smart phones in a cat's cradle of wires and pulsing lights. A steel necklace of vehicles jangled by, filling the air with silver smoke, blaring horns, threats in so many tongues it made me feel as if we were on our way to Babel. It was noisy, chaotic, vibrant, and it occurred to me that where I lived now was more inspiring than where I had moved from, that I had been living like a genie in a bottle and now I was free. I grabbed Tom's arm and squeezed in beside him.

'Tell me, what is your deepest desire?' I intoned. 'Your wish is my command.'

He was reading the headlines as we walked along and stopped. He took my shoulders.

'That you're for real, Katie. That I'm not going to wake up all of a sudden and, poof!' he said. 'You're someone different.'

I had been light. Playful. He was deadly serious.

'I can try. But it's not easy.'

'Why?'

'To know who you are and just be that person.'

'I don't have that problem.'

A frown formed on his smooth brow and a lump grew in my chest.

'Then you're lucky,' I said. 'Sometimes, I'm moody and want to hide away from the world. Sometimes, I feel angry. Or empty. Sometimes, I'm writing and the words won't come. Sometimes I tell Mother I'm never going to speak to her again, then I call her next day.'

'And sometimes, you're happy, I assume?'

I pulled on his scarf and stared into his eyes. 'Yes. That's my default. But I get the blues, like everyone, viruses, crossed wires. It's normal.'

'Some girls think being moody is attractive. I don't.'

'Neither do I,' I said. 'And it's not attractive when men are moody, either.'

'You're right. I'm being a complete pain. It's hard to explain...'

'You can try.'

'No, it's nothing, really.' He trailed off and shrugged. 'I just think you're too good to be true.'

'Of course I am,' I said and the frown had gone.

We kissed. I had never liked kissing in the street, it seemed so crass, so cliché. It's what they do in advertising.

Two women in veils pushed by, seeing nothing, ignoring us. Tom tucked the paper in his coat pocket and put his arm around my shoulders. We continued around the corner where stacks of red suitcases stood in pyramids behind the 'SALE - Final Day' sign, and it struck me that it wasn't so much a ploy, a deception, as a philosophical statement, that any day is potentially the final day and you shouldn't put off doing what you want to do for some far away time. Buy those blood red cases, travel to Troy.

As we made our way down the steps into the car park, he started singing, his voice magnified over the low roof. The fact that he was singing, and quite loudly, seemed out of character, although, in truth, I had no way of knowing. We were in the time of mystery, the time when love is thin ice that you skate over half believing it is going to break at any second.

'You have a nice voice,' I said.

'Oh, no, I wasn't singing was I? It's a nervous habit.'

'Do I make you nervous?'