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Authors: Vina Jackson
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our flat to confirm my agreement and he had sent a car to collect us and deliver us to his flat in Maida Vale. The vehicle arrived so quickly I presumed he must
have had the driver on standby and I wondered how long they had been planning this and what they would have done if I’d said no. Was it really Iris’s idea? Or was this Thomas’s
way of pushing the two of us into an
ménage à trois
?
Iris buzzed the intercom and we walked through an imposing set of wooden double doors that acted as the gateway to the main building, past a uniformed doorman who did not even look up and then
down a marbled corridor to the elevator at the end. Iris walked confidently and I trailed behind her. She had clearly been here before.
Thomas’s apartment was unsurprisingly on the top floor, but inside, it wasn’t what I had expected. Smaller, for a start, though despite that even his bedroom totally eclipsed the
size of our entire flat.
He pulled the door open before we knocked.
‘Hello, come in,’ he said, and ushered us inside where we stood together in the entry area, cramped and awkward, until he offered to take our coats and hung them on hooks that
decorated one wall.
Below, his shoes were neatly laid out along a shoe rack. He had more shapes and styles than I had ever thought a man might own in a variety of gregarious patterns. Plain tan leather, sharply
pointed at the end. Shinily polished brogues. Deep purple ankle boots with an embossed crocodile print. Another pair, knee high, gleaming black and with a somewhat malevolent air to them, the sort
of footwear that I imagined Jack the Ripper wore when striding down dark alleyways in search of hapless victims. Perhaps I’d just been watching too many Victorian thrillers at the Princess
Empire.
Iris had turned pale and still, as was her habit when she was nervous.
Thomas was flushed. His eyes glittered and his voice was unnaturally loud, as though he was covering an inner shyness with overconfidence.
He wore an aqua blue collared shirt and dark blue, tight jeans that highlighted the thickness and strength of his thighs and calves. A single, stray thick curl kept falling down over his
forehead and he flicked it back.
He took hold of Iris by the elbow and propelled her through the open-plan kitchen and sitting area, towards his bedroom. I followed slowly, taking in the surroundings as I went. A large bookcase
against one wall, stacked mostly with records and magazines rather than books. A couple of squat statues of Buddha alongside a bowl filled with foreign coins. A sketched drawing in a frame depicted
the lines of a nude woman, lying with her back to the artist. The lights of the city glittered like stars through the big bay window that spanned half of the wall, behind his cream-coloured sofa.
There was no glow of broken fish-and-chip shop neon strip lighting upsetting the view here.
‘I’ve poured us some wine already,’ Thomas called, half apologetically, ‘and it’s more comfortable in here.’ I hurried after them and he pulled the door shut
behind me. It closed silently, without a creak or a click.
Iris was sitting in exactly the same way as she had been when I had walked in the door at our place, and found her waiting for me. Perched on the end of Thomas’s bed, her gloved fingers
entwined, back straight, eyes downcast at the floor. She looked like a schoolgirl waiting to be reprimanded. Had we been alone, I would have gone to comfort her, but here, I demurred to Thomas.
‘Please sit,’ he said to me, pointing out the ottoman, a thick, red-and-gold batik-patterned stool at the end of the bed. The whole room was decorated in a similar fashion. All of
the furniture was carved from dark, heavy wood. The carpets were thick and the bedspread a deep crimson shade, like the inside of a damson plum. There was no window and the air was still and
perfumed with the lingering odour of Thomas’s cologne, a rich, musky scent with a note of cinnamon that I
have had the driver on standby and I wondered how long they had been planning this and what they would have done if I’d said no. Was it really Iris’s idea? Or was this Thomas’s
way of pushing the two of us into an
ménage à trois
?
Iris buzzed the intercom and we walked through an imposing set of wooden double doors that acted as the gateway to the main building, past a uniformed doorman who did not even look up and then
down a marbled corridor to the elevator at the end. Iris walked confidently and I trailed behind her. She had clearly been here before.
Thomas’s apartment was unsurprisingly on the top floor, but inside, it wasn’t what I had expected. Smaller, for a start, though despite that even his bedroom totally eclipsed the
size of our entire flat.
He pulled the door open before we knocked.
‘Hello, come in,’ he said, and ushered us inside where we stood together in the entry area, cramped and awkward, until he offered to take our coats and hung them on hooks that
decorated one wall.
Below, his shoes were neatly laid out along a shoe rack. He had more shapes and styles than I had ever thought a man might own in a variety of gregarious patterns. Plain tan leather, sharply
pointed at the end. Shinily polished brogues. Deep purple ankle boots with an embossed crocodile print. Another pair, knee high, gleaming black and with a somewhat malevolent air to them, the sort
of footwear that I imagined Jack the Ripper wore when striding down dark alleyways in search of hapless victims. Perhaps I’d just been watching too many Victorian thrillers at the Princess
Empire.
Iris had turned pale and still, as was her habit when she was nervous.
Thomas was flushed. His eyes glittered and his voice was unnaturally loud, as though he was covering an inner shyness with overconfidence.
He wore an aqua blue collared shirt and dark blue, tight jeans that highlighted the thickness and strength of his thighs and calves. A single, stray thick curl kept falling down over his
forehead and he flicked it back.
He took hold of Iris by the elbow and propelled her through the open-plan kitchen and sitting area, towards his bedroom. I followed slowly, taking in the surroundings as I went. A large bookcase
against one wall, stacked mostly with records and magazines rather than books. A couple of squat statues of Buddha alongside a bowl filled with foreign coins. A sketched drawing in a frame depicted
the lines of a nude woman, lying with her back to the artist. The lights of the city glittered like stars through the big bay window that spanned half of the wall, behind his cream-coloured sofa.
There was no glow of broken fish-and-chip shop neon strip lighting upsetting the view here.
‘I’ve poured us some wine already,’ Thomas called, half apologetically, ‘and it’s more comfortable in here.’ I hurried after them and he pulled the door shut
behind me. It closed silently, without a creak or a click.
Iris was sitting in exactly the same way as she had been when I had walked in the door at our place, and found her waiting for me. Perched on the end of Thomas’s bed, her gloved fingers
entwined, back straight, eyes downcast at the floor. She looked like a schoolgirl waiting to be reprimanded. Had we been alone, I would have gone to comfort her, but here, I demurred to Thomas.
‘Please sit,’ he said to me, pointing out the ottoman, a thick, red-and-gold batik-patterned stool at the end of the bed. The whole room was decorated in a similar fashion. All of
the furniture was carved from dark, heavy wood. The carpets were thick and the bedspread a deep crimson shade, like the inside of a damson plum. There was no window and the air was still and
perfumed with the lingering odour of Thomas’s cologne, a rich, musky scent with a note of cinnamon that I
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