скачать книгу бесплатно
The walls and furnishings remained predominantly coloured in the same bland magnolias, oatmeals and beiges that had been there when they moved in.
The floors were hardwood.
The décor was sparse and minimalist and open plan.
It was a stylish area to entertain friends and, most importantly, it was easy to keep clean and tidy. The only problem with the ground floor level was, unless she carefully tiptoed, that the hardwood floors screamed and groaned an announcement of her every movement like some form of security siren.
Trudy checked that her keys were zipped into the pocket of her hoodie before closing the door behind her. It was barely 5:30 am. She had been home this morning for less than three hours. The world outside the door was held in the blackest night between darkness and dawn. Trudy savoured the chill of the icy weather caressing her skin. Then she began to jog steadfastly through the grey morning mist.
Every breath came out as a visible reminder of the early summer morning’s frostiness.
The brim of her black baseball cap was pulled low. Her features were hidden inside the shadows of her black hoodie. Wearing black Lycra leggings and black trainers, she figured she looked as anonymous as the shadows as she hurried along the pre-morning roads. She wanted to blend with the early-morning lightlessness and complete her run without being observed. The way she felt this morning, Trudy wanted to continue the remainder of her existence without ever being observed again. Remaining permanently unobserved, she thought, would be safest for all.
You fucked William Hart.
The soundtrack for her MP3 was set to a list of tunes intended to accompany an energetic workout. There were lots of glam rock pieces, each one heavy with power chords and inspirational lyrics. She turned up the volume so the music had a chance to drown out the catcalls of her conscience.
You fucked William Hart.
Her cheeks burned crimson. She cranked the volume higher and began running harder. Every footfall shook as it landed heavily on the ground. She forced herself to think about each step of the circuit that lay ahead. It was never a good idea to tackle the quad killer with anything less than absolute mental focus. This morning she needed something to concentrate on other than the punishing memories of the previous night. The quad killer – devilish, demanding and dangerous – struck her as the ideal distraction. Not that the memories were particularly punishing. In truth, the majority of them were rather pleasurable. But she didn’t like to dwell on the easy way she had given herself to him.
You fucked William Hart.
She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to banish that thought.
In a moment of typical dramatic flair, Charlotte had labelled this route the quad killer. It was a six mile run that went up some steep hills, over stretches of gruelling fields, and through a couple of treacherous woodland trails. Trudy believed it to be one of the most invigorating and challenging cardiovascular workouts she and Charlotte had ever negotiated. The name quad killer was apt because it always left the front of Trudy’s thighs in an agony of overstretched and trembling exertion. It left her quivering and on the brink of ceasing to function. This morning, more than any other she could remember, Trudy needed the quad killer to distract her thoughts. There were some things that she simply didn’t want to think about.
You fucked William Hart.
After she and William Hart finished having sex, Trudy had felt an almost irresistible urge to apologise or at least explain herself. She didn’t usually have sex with people she’d known for less than an hour. Her only previous lover, Peter, had been her one and only former boyfriend. She’d been committed to Peter for two years before they became intimate. Their relationship had lasted a further twelve months and she’d been devastated when he said it was time for them to go their separate ways.
Aside from one embarrassing drunken fumble with Terry, a blind date that Charlotte had organised, Trudy had never displayed anything like the uninhibited abandon that she shared with William Hart in the kitchen of Boui-Boui.
But she hadn’t dared put those thoughts into words. It was easier to simply cringe from the shame of having made herself so easily available to him and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
A car approached her on the road. The headlights were dusty and faraway in the pre-dawn mist. Even as it sped past her its presence seemed oddly muffled and otherworldly.
It was amazing that it had happened, she thought. The sudden desire she’d had for Bill, as well as the fact that he reciprocated her feelings and they’d been sufficiently fortunate to be in a convenient location where they could do something about their mutual attraction, had been a combination of events that would lead someone else to win the lottery. Yet, despite the fact that sex with him had felt good – incredibly good – she conceded, Trudy did not feel like a lottery winner.
If not for the fact that she was tackling the quad killer, Trudy would have curled into a ball and sobbed bitter tears of recrimination and frustration.
She left the first stretch of uphill climb and leapt easily over a low dry-stone wall. She kept one hand on the rough stone for balance. Then her feet were stomping on the unyielding and uneven surface of a deep-ploughed field.
It was early enough to still count as dark. There was a suggestion of morning sunlight somewhere on the horizon but it was nothing more than a baffled brightness in the wrong part of an unseen sky. A bank of low-lying cloud made the world around her an impenetrable fog of confusion.
She ran more briskly.
A ramblers’ path lead through the field up to the forest. It was a stretch of well-trodden grass that had worn to a thin and sometimes-muddy walkway. The surface was uneven and potentially calamitous. Trudy knew, if she didn’t pay attention to every step, there was a danger she could lose her footing, twist an ankle or fall and cause herself serious injury.
This was one of the reasons why she had forced herself to take on the quad killer this morning. It demanded so much concentration there was little scope for reflection or self-condemnation. She kept her face down and focused on her run as she hurried into the primordial depths of the forest.
The mist was cold against her cheeks. She could feel each icy speckle that touched her as she ran. The moist fragrance of the trees was rich in her nostrils. She could smell damp earth, dewy leaves and the heady scents of pollen and sap.
They were all musky perfumes that she normally enjoyed.
But this morning Trudy wouldn’t allow herself to acknowledge the smells. Her thoughts, when not fixed on the circuit she was attempting to complete, seemed able to focus on only one thing.
You fucked William Hart.
The music continued to thump through her skull at a deafening volume.
She knew each and every one of the power ballads in her exercise regime. Most mornings, when breathlessness wasn’t a problem, she would sing along. This morning, Trudy couldn’t find the enthusiasm to mutter a single syllable.
The muscles in her legs began to ache.
Maddeningly, rather than help take her thoughts away from William Hart, every increasing strain reminded her of the way her muscles had responded beneath his touch. Every glimmer of discomfort made her think of the previous evening when her muscles had been equally well exerted but reacting to far more pleasurable stimulation.
Her stomach folded.
Her cheeks flushed. She shook her head in an attempt to banish the memory.
His fingers had traced appreciatively over the sculpted muscle of her quads. They had slipped upwards, disappearing beneath the hem of her skirt and touching the crotch of her panties. His fingers had teased the elastic to one side as he continued to explore her with the practised hand of an expert lover.
Trudy had savoured every magnificent moment.
Regardless of the regrets she now harboured, regardless of the doubts she had about what she had done, how Hart might interpret her actions, and what her friends were likely to think should they ever find out, the evening had been a sensational experience that she would happily revisit if she was given the opportunity.
William Hart wasn’t just an attractive man.
He was a skilled lover and Trudy wanted to get to know him better. She decided then she would learn more about the man and, if the opportunity presented itself, she would see if he was worth the commitment of a relationship.
Admittedly, he was older than her. She didn’t know his exact age but she was sure he was at least twice her age. She suspected that one of her friends or one of his would likely say something judgemental about the huge disparity between their ages. Trudy cringed from the idea of that potential argument.
There were other potential barriers to their happiness such as their different social situations and world experiences. But it was the difference in their ages that she knew would prove most problematic. Nevertheless, she did want an opportunity to get to know him better and, Trudy thought, if the opportunity didn’t present itself, she would find a way to force circumstances so she could get to know him better.
For the first time that morning she felt a smile creep across her lips.
She realised she was already planning a way to address the matter.
The embarrassment of what she had done was diminished by the prospect of how it could be potentially developed. She tilted her head upwards and felt the weight of unnecessary tension slip from her neck. She’d had no idea that the concerns had been weighing on her like a milkmaid’s yoke.
A hand fell on her arm.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_747ec111-5858-5037-9908-35987aa6e1af)
Trudy shrieked and pulled away. She lost her footing and came close to falling over. A strong hand caught her forearm and stopped her from tumbling to the ground. She felt a wrench pulling on her shoulder harsh enough to make her moan.
‘Slow down,’ Charlotte warned. ‘You need to be careful on this stretch of the run. The ground here is positively lethal.’
Trudy regained her balance. She tugged one of the buds from her ear and the loud music of the day was suddenly split in two. From one ear she could hear heavy metal. From the other there were the tentative calls of the morning’s first bird song and the sound of her own startled breathing. She pushed the brim of her cap upward so she could see her friend.
Charlotte was dressed in an immaculate navy blue running outfit, trimmed with white and scarlet piping. As always, she looked golden. Even without make-up she looked bright-eyed and fresh-faced. Her brown eyes were clear and there was only a small V of concern creasing her brow. Her retroussé nose was wrinkled as she assessed Trudy.
‘What the hell are you doing out here?’ Charlotte demanded. ‘Are you taking on the quad killer?’
Trudy shrugged and then nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak. If she did open her mouth she was fearful she would blurt, ‘I fucked William Hart!’
Charlotte’s eyebrows inched upward as she waited for a response.
Trudy nodded again and then looked away.
‘Take it slowly and I’ll come with you,’ Charlotte said. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve done the quad killer. It’s probably been six months or more.’ There was a knowing smirk in her voice as she added, ‘Didn’t we last do this run just after you broke up with Peter? Or did it happen after I introduced you to Terry?’
Trudy didn’t bother replying. She guessed Charlotte was trying to make a point. She turned down the volume on her MP3 player and left one earbud out. Slowing her pace she began to tackle the run without the hasty and manic energy she had been previously employing. The lack of swift progress struck her as maddening.
‘You missed a great night,’ Charlotte said, falling into step beside her.
Trudy did not respond. She had wanted to avoid Charlotte this morning. There was a strong danger Charlotte might ask questions that Trudy didn’t want to answer. Now she was here, Trudy thought it was best to let her friend chatter on in the fragmented way she always used when they were running together.
‘We went into town. Caught up with the class. Maybe half of them.’ Her speech fell into the rhythmic pattern of her sprint through the woodland trail. Her sing-song tones made the banalities of mundane conversation seem almost musical. ‘Just a few of us. Gemma and Daryl. Wendy and Henry. They were in Stanzas.’
Trudy nodded. She knew they had been planning to finish the night at Stanzas. Somehow that seemed appropriate. Stanzas was the local nightclub most frequently favoured by university students. Cheap beer and a reputation for tolerated decadence made it the essential place to visit off campus. She had spent several nights in Stanzas throughout the duration of her degree. Most of the memories were good ones. On any other occasion she might have smiled at the mention of Stanzas.
This morning she didn’t feel like smiling. Not whilst she was in Charlotte’s presence. There was always a danger that Charlotte might read something from a smile. Something that Trudy wanted to keep hidden.
She quickened her pace.
Charlotte tapped her shoulder and silently gestured for Trudy to slow down. ‘Donny pulled Gemma,’ Charlotte said. She didn’t add the word ‘again’. Trudy didn’t think there was any need for her to say the word. She could hear the note of reproof underscoring Charlotte’s voice.
Charlotte went on quickly. Trudy thought her friend was hurrying to speak before she said something that exposed her true feelings about the shameless fuckbuddy relationship shared by Donny and Gemma.
‘Two lecturers came. One got Wendy drunk.’
‘Which lecturer?’
Trudy wasn’t really interested but she figured, if she asked some questions about events in Stanzas, it would keep the focus away from what had occurred at Boui-Boui. More specifically, she hoped it would keep the focus away from what had occurred between her and William Hart.
‘Professor Simmonds.’ Charlotte sounded aghast. ‘It’s so disgusting. He’s in his thirties. He bought Wendy beer. He’s such an old lech. He plied her with –’
‘There’s only two years between them,’ Trudy broke in.
Charlotte snorted. ‘Are you sure of that?’
Trudy remembered Wendy mentioning it before their finals. Wendy had fancied Simmonds since the first year of their studies. Out of respect for him, and because she didn’t want to make things professionally awkward for the lecturer, Wendy had kept her distance. But, Trudy supposed, now that the woman had graduated and Simmonds was no longer her professor, Wendy was perfectly entitled to share a beer or more with the man. At the back of her mind she privately hoped that Wendy and Simmonds would get together and be very happy.
She liked to see people happy.
‘I’m sure of that,’ Trudy said flatly. ‘There’s two years between them.’
Charlotte jogged beside her in silence for a moment. ‘Still think it’s creepy,’ she said eventually. ‘If it is two years –’
‘Which it is.’
‘He seems more mature. A lot more mature.’
Trudy threw an extra effort into running. She didn’t want to hear any of this. Not this morning. She had wanted the solitude of the demanding quad killer. She had wanted the distraction of a muscle-searing, energy-depleting workout. She had wanted to lose herself in the exertion and excitement of pushing herself too hard and too far. She hadn’t wanted to listen to Charlotte passing judgement on what was wrong with every relationship that had begun last night.
‘Pete was in Stanzas.’
Trudy’s shoulders slumped. Great. Now it was time to have the conversation about her ex. She gritted her teeth and forced her tone to sound indifferent. ‘How was Peter?’
‘Dating a first year. What’s wrong with these men? Are they all perverts? Screwing young women.’
Trudy stopped running and rounded on Charlotte. Finally, she understood.
‘How did you know?’
Charlotte came to a halt and laughed. The mirth was made thin by exertion but it remained fairly obvious. Merriment shone in her eyes. She put her hands on her thighs and leant forward and chuckled softly before speaking.
‘I can always tell when you get laid. I’m a light sleeper. I could hear that you were in the shower at two in the morning when you got back. The fact that you’re doing the quad killer tells me you’re feeling conflicted about getting lucky. You did the quad killer after you broke up with Peter. You did the quad killer after that embarrassing night’s fumble with Terry.’ She paused to lean against a tree and stretch out her legs. ‘I think you see this run as the spiritual atonement for your imagined sins.’
Trudy glared at her. ‘That psychology module you took is still proving useful.’
Charlotte’s grin inched wider. ‘You really screwed William Hart? He’s pretty hot. What was it like?’
Trudy looked away. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘You didn’t screw him?’
‘Well …’
Trudy tried to think of how she could phrase her response. She wanted to be artful and say that they had made love. But she knew that wouldn’t be entirely true. She and William Hart had given themselves over to base, animal instincts. There had been an instant attraction and neither of them had let themselves be restrained by the formalities of propriety or common sense. She wasn’t sure that such an act could really be called making love. But she felt sure it had been more than simply screwing. On some level she felt sure it had been a lot more. But there was no way to shape that thought into a convenient phrase that would stop her friend from asking questions.
‘I don’t want to talk about this. I just want to finish my run.’
Charlotte pulled her into a hug. Her arms were cold from the morning mist but it was impossible not to feel the waves of friendship that were apparent in her embrace. She rubbed her hands briskly and reassuringly against Trudy’s back.
‘I was just teasing before,’ she whispered. ‘If you need to talk about anything. If you need an ear or a shoulder or just a friend, you know that I’m here for you, don’t you?’
Trudy thought about the words and realised Charlotte was telling the truth. Regardless of what else happened she believed the brunette would always be a friend she could rely on. Trudy returned the hug, ready to swoon with relief.
‘Did you find out the identity of that mystery ingredient?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you make them for Sweet Temptation?’
Trudy started to respond and then stopped. There would be ethical implications involved in stealing William Hart’s recipe for the benefit of Sweet Temptation. She hadn’t yet had breakfast and already she was trying to deal with quandaries like the semantics of sex and sexual politics and now the ethics of appropriating recipes in the catering business.
