over and slide the second martini along the bar to him. He raises his eyebrows slightly, takes it by the stem and sips.
‘Having a bad day?’ His voice is gentle, not probing.
For one awful moment, tears threaten. He reaches over and softly brushes my hand. At least it’s not my leg. I manage – just – to recover my equilibrium. I take the third glass and sip it carefully, raising my eyes to his. He looks at me and I look at him while, disturbingly, the beat of music changes to a much slower song. We remain like that, watching each other and sipping the martinis until both glasses are drained. Then I push myself off the stool and tuck a hand inside my bodice to grab the money, throwing the notes down onto the bar. If he’s surprised at my lack of height, he doesn’t comment on it; he simply takes my hand and we walk out.
I’ve been in the club for only thirty minutes but the rush of cold air once we are outside shocks me. I’m vaguely aware of the bouncer nodding to himself, impressed at how quickly I managed to find Mr Tortoiseshell. A faint curl of nausea rises up in my stomach but I push it down and take him by the hand, tugging him away from the bouncer’s prying eyes. We round the corner onto a quieter street and he stops, turning to face me. His hands cup my face as he gazes at me. It feels oddly as if he’s staring into my soul. He tilts up my chin and gently kisses my lips. But the last thing I want is gentle.
I twist round and push him against the wall, enjoying the sensation of his hard body next to mine. His eyes spark in desire. I yank the lapel of his suit, pull his face down to mine and kiss him fiercely. He gets with the programme and returns the kiss with equal force. Mr Tortoiseshell obviously enjoys being in control, despite his initial softness, because he pushes me around so this time it’s my back against the wall. One hand reaches up to my hair and the other down to my bare thigh. I can feel his erection pressing into me. His fingers slide higher up my leg and all of a sudden I come to my senses.
As I jerk my head away and duck out from under his arms, he blinks in surprise. I look up at him and feel ashamed. My cheeks heat up. This isn’t me.
‘I’m sorry.’ My voice sounds strange, almost disembodied. ‘I can’t do this.’
And before he can do or say anything else, I turn on my heel and run. Away from him and away from the club. If only it was this easy to run away from my real problems.
***
It takes me a while to get back to the flat. I walk first to clear my head and I berate myself for being an idiot. I feel bad for Mr Tortoiseshell. I suppose he thought I was leading him on then stiffed him – so to speak – in the final moments. But even if I could have found the words, it was just too complicated to explain.
I’m right outside the door when all my senses tell me that something is wrong. I pause, straining my ears. The only reason I catch the sound is because O’Shea is clearly still in pain and can’t stop himself gasping aloud. As I watch, the door knob slowly starts to turn. I smile humourlessly. He’s obviously not realised I’m standing on the other side.
I edge slightly left and wait for the door to creak open. When it’s about an inch ajar, I snap my foot up and out, kicking it backwards with as much force as I can muster. O’Shea yells in pain and I leap through, the base of my palm ready to smash into his nose to prevent him from attempting to go anywhere. I needn’t have bothered. He might have extricated himself from the bed, but he’d achieved it by taking the cheap gilt headboard with him. When the door hits him, he staggers backwards and succeeds in getting the corner of the bed post snagged around a wooden chair. He yanks at it several times in desperation, clawing with his free hand, but it’s stuck fast. I watch him, vaguely amused, then step forward. It’s not until I reach his kicking feet that he finally looks up at me and his body
‘Having a bad day?’ His voice is gentle, not probing.
For one awful moment, tears threaten. He reaches over and softly brushes my hand. At least it’s not my leg. I manage – just – to recover my equilibrium. I take the third glass and sip it carefully, raising my eyes to his. He looks at me and I look at him while, disturbingly, the beat of music changes to a much slower song. We remain like that, watching each other and sipping the martinis until both glasses are drained. Then I push myself off the stool and tuck a hand inside my bodice to grab the money, throwing the notes down onto the bar. If he’s surprised at my lack of height, he doesn’t comment on it; he simply takes my hand and we walk out.
I’ve been in the club for only thirty minutes but the rush of cold air once we are outside shocks me. I’m vaguely aware of the bouncer nodding to himself, impressed at how quickly I managed to find Mr Tortoiseshell. A faint curl of nausea rises up in my stomach but I push it down and take him by the hand, tugging him away from the bouncer’s prying eyes. We round the corner onto a quieter street and he stops, turning to face me. His hands cup my face as he gazes at me. It feels oddly as if he’s staring into my soul. He tilts up my chin and gently kisses my lips. But the last thing I want is gentle.
I twist round and push him against the wall, enjoying the sensation of his hard body next to mine. His eyes spark in desire. I yank the lapel of his suit, pull his face down to mine and kiss him fiercely. He gets with the programme and returns the kiss with equal force. Mr Tortoiseshell obviously enjoys being in control, despite his initial softness, because he pushes me around so this time it’s my back against the wall. One hand reaches up to my hair and the other down to my bare thigh. I can feel his erection pressing into me. His fingers slide higher up my leg and all of a sudden I come to my senses.
As I jerk my head away and duck out from under his arms, he blinks in surprise. I look up at him and feel ashamed. My cheeks heat up. This isn’t me.
‘I’m sorry.’ My voice sounds strange, almost disembodied. ‘I can’t do this.’
And before he can do or say anything else, I turn on my heel and run. Away from him and away from the club. If only it was this easy to run away from my real problems.
***
It takes me a while to get back to the flat. I walk first to clear my head and I berate myself for being an idiot. I feel bad for Mr Tortoiseshell. I suppose he thought I was leading him on then stiffed him – so to speak – in the final moments. But even if I could have found the words, it was just too complicated to explain.
I’m right outside the door when all my senses tell me that something is wrong. I pause, straining my ears. The only reason I catch the sound is because O’Shea is clearly still in pain and can’t stop himself gasping aloud. As I watch, the door knob slowly starts to turn. I smile humourlessly. He’s obviously not realised I’m standing on the other side.
I edge slightly left and wait for the door to creak open. When it’s about an inch ajar, I snap my foot up and out, kicking it backwards with as much force as I can muster. O’Shea yells in pain and I leap through, the base of my palm ready to smash into his nose to prevent him from attempting to go anywhere. I needn’t have bothered. He might have extricated himself from the bed, but he’d achieved it by taking the cheap gilt headboard with him. When the door hits him, he staggers backwards and succeeds in getting the corner of the bed post snagged around a wooden chair. He yanks at it several times in desperation, clawing with his free hand, but it’s stuck fast. I watch him, vaguely amused, then step forward. It’s not until I reach his kicking feet that he finally looks up at me and his body
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