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‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘That must have been hard. Was it long ago, that you split up?’
He shook his head. ‘Only a couple of months. And we stayed friends – still saw quite a lot of each other. So I was kind of living in hope that she was just going through a weird phase – that before long we’d get back together. But then suddenly, this … this exchange or whatever you want to call it.’
For a moment he looked at me almost reproachfully, as if it were all my fault. I shook my head, about to tell him that I didn’t force Rachel into this lifeswap, when he spoke again.
‘What about you?’ he said.
‘Me?’
‘Anyone special in your life?’ he prodded, and I couldn’t swear to it but it seemed to me he blushed.
I looked away too, more for his sake than mine. ‘I have a boyfriend, yes,’ I responded at length.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Konrad,' I replied, adding in explanation, ‘He’s half German. A model.’
Kyle turned back to me, and his next question startled me with its vulnerability.
‘Is he very handsome?’ he said, and though I nodded, what I really wanted to do was to grab his hand and say, But so are you, Kyle. In many ways you’re much more handsome than that pretty-boy preener.
But as soon as the instinctive movement made itself known to my brain, I almost recoiled in horror. Handsome Kyle might be, but he was not my type. For all his good looks, he was a square.
I forced a smile, gesturing in front of me. ‘Nice house,’ I said, and Kyle laughed politely as the bus pulled up in front of Buckingham Palace for photo opportunities.
***
Kyle was well aware that I didn’t know a soul in London, and so I found myself without a ready excuse when he invited me, at the end of our bus tour, for dinner at his flat in Hampstead a couple of evenings later. A couple of friends were going to be there, he said – an opera singer and a dancer at Sadler’s Wells. They were intrigued about me, he said.
I raised an eyebrow. I couldn’t believe that he had told them what I did for a living, and I wanted to ask him what they did know about me. I wasn’t going to pretend to be something I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to be an object of prurient scrutiny either. I kept quiet, however, deciding to play it by ear.
And after a couple more days of loafing around the flat and aimless walks in Hyde Park, resisting the call of Park Lane, I felt glad of the offer of company and was actually looking forward to the dinner party. I was also, in a contained way, looking forward to seeing Kyle again. I didn’t know anybody who moved in high cultural circles, like he did, and I found myself interested in him. What would his flat be like? What were his friends like? What was his background, and how had he arrived where he had?
I had long been fascinated by other people’s career paths, never having had one of my own. Life, I often felt, was just something that happened to me, without my really thinking or planning. It had always been this way, and until recently it had never occurred to me to be any other way. But looking at Kyle I felt the strength of having a trajectory, a calling. Kyle, it seemed, knew where he was going. His plans weren’t failsafe, of course – hence his crumbling when Rachel dumped him. But in general he seemed like someone with an overview, a direction in life. He certainly wasn’t the kind of person who would suddenly find himself in a strange city, knowing no one, going half out of their mind with boredom and longing to stir something up, no matter what.
I dressed demurely, for me – there was very little that could be described as toned-down in my wardrobe, but with an uncharacteristically minimal use of accessories and good underwear I found that my black-lace pencil dress didn’t look too sluttish. I went relatively easy on the make-up too. It wasn’t that I was trying not to be me, but I was trying to think about context: a dinner party with a classical music crowd in Hampstead required a little restraint, in some respects.
I arrived on time too, which was virtually unheard of: in Paris, my lateness was a standing joke with Konrad, friends, and the other girls at the club, many of whom found themselves covering for me when I rolled in half an hour after a shift had started. I didn’t mean it to happen, but as Konrad often pointed out, I had trouble ‘getting my shit together’. Not that he could talk, but that was another story. Wherever I seemed to go, chaos inevitably followed, and that went for my time-keeping too.
Kyle answered the door, dressed in snug navy chinos and a well-pressed white shirt. I smiled indulgently, and at once felt like a wife must do who makes the same old excuses for her husband all her life. He was a boring dresser, but underneath it he was a lovely guy. And perhaps I was using his clothes to judge him unfairly and quite wrongly.
I thought of Rachel. Rachel knew what Kyle was like in bed. Not that I could ask her. I hadn’t even met her – I knew her even less than I knew Kyle. Our conversations, via Facebook, had been relatively brief, lacking in intimacies.
We’d had no contact since taking over residence in each other’s home, in each other’s life, though of course the opportunity was there. I wondered if that was because Rachel had just breezed into my life, found her feet without hesitation. Here I was, stumbling around, while she just got on with it.
I wondered what she was doing right now, and whether she’d be jealous that I was at Kyle’s house. Presumably she wouldn’t, given that she was the one who had split up with him. But then people still get possessive about their exes, sometimes, even when it was them who called it off. I also thought, for the first time, about my flat and about how Rachel must be coping with it in all its disarray and dishevelment. Of course, I’d tidied up and cleaned it before leaving. But someone like Rachel would find it very difficult to cope with all that stuff, of that I had no doubt. I thought I might Facebook her the next day, find out how she was in general and let her know that I didn’t mind if she wanted to box some stuff up just to get it out of her sight and make the place her own a little more. I didn’t want her feeling as out of place as I did.
Kyle was just showing me into his kitchen, which smelt of tomatoes and basil and fresh pasta, when the doorbell rang.
‘That’ll be Morg and Tats,’ he said and, telling me to take a seat, he headed back towards the front door.
I felt too uncomfortable to sit down, so I wafted self-consciously around the kitchen, stirring the bubbling pasta sauce, sniffing the mozzarella that lay neatly sliced on the chopping board like a row of creamy white coins.
Then they were there, in the doorway, and Kyle was doing the introductions.
‘Rochelle – Morgan and Tatiana,’ he said, gesturing back and forth between us.
Tatiana stepped forward into the room, one hand extended. My first impression was of a glacial blonde, perfectly groomed, probably swimming in money, with a chip of ice where her heart should be. Of course, it’s ridiculous to make judgements like that about people, but I’m just relating my first impressions. Tatiana had an uptight little smile on her scarlet lips and the aloof air of someone who thinks they’re on a completely different level to you. Which she undoubtedly was. But that’s not the point.
Morgan followed in her wake, a hand hovering in the small of her back. His hair was greying but expensively styled, and a deep, rich, designer cologne matched his navy linen suit, unruffled. His manner, like Tatiana’s, was only superficially warm.
I looked at Kyle. Already I wished I hadn’t accepted this invitation. These people thought I was a piece of shit and could barely hide their feelings. What was Kyle doing even inviting me here? I was not part of this world, and trying to bring me into it – even out of kindness – was a huge error of judgement on his part.
Kyle moved his head slightly from side to side, as if discouraging me from bailing out. His eyes urged patience and calm. I forced a smile.
‘So nice to meet you,’ I said. Then looking at Tatiana, I added, ‘Kyle tells me you are a ballerina.’
She smiled haughtily, inclined her head slightly in confirmation.
I looked to Kyle for help, but he was already pulling back the chairs, gesturing to us all to take our seats, then proffering bottles of wine.
‘Red or white?’ he asked us all as we sat down. ‘We’re keeping it simple tonight: buffalo mozzarella and roasted artichokes, then pasta with a chilli tomato sauce. And lastly my famous home-made chocolate mousse.’
As he began plating up the starters, Kyle continued to chat, probably aware that I was out of my depth. Not that I couldn’t talk to these people, of course – it wasn’t as if I was shy or lacking in chutzpah. But their froideur had raised my hackles: why, I thought, should I do all the running where they were intent on showing me that I was uninteresting to them?
The talk, through much of the meal, was of the classical music and dance worlds, and of mutual friends of the three of them. It was mind-numbingly boring and I didn’t listen to much of it. I wasn’t inclined to intervene and set the conversation on a more interesting course either. Instead, I drank a little too quickly and I gradually zoned out, thinking instead of what might be happening at the club that night. I didn’t miss it, exactly, but I missed the camaraderie with the other girls, the sense of community. For the first time in my life, it occurred to me, I had belonged somewhere. And then I had thrown it all away, in favour of … this.
I was startled out of my musings by Tatiana’s hand on my arm. It felt cold and clammy, even intrusive. I instinctively flinched.
All eyes, I realised, were on me, and it became obvious that someone had just asked me a question that I hadn’t heard.
‘I’m sorry,’ I managed at last. ‘I didn’t quite catch that.’
‘Tatiana was just asking about your line of work,’ said Kyle, and in his eyes I saw a little warning. I didn’t know what he’d already told them about me, but I was guessing that the word ‘stripper’ hadn’t come into the conversation.
My smile was so fake it made my cheeks ache. ‘I’m a dancer, too,’ I said, looking at Tatiana.
She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Oh?’ she said. ‘Where do you dance?’
‘I’m – I’m freelance,’ I said. ‘At different venues in Paris. Modern dance.’
It wasn’t like me to lie. It wasn’t even as if I was ashamed of what I did. But I suddenly felt protective of Kyle, protective of whatever lies he might have told them. Above all, I guess, I didn’t want to embarrass him.
I felt a foot on mine under the table and, assuming it was his way of thanking me for my discretion, flashed him a smile across the table.
He smiled back, and in his eyes I thought I saw, once more, something deeper than kindness or casual friendship – something ardent and even a little greedy. Did he want me, or was it the drink talking – in him, in me, or in both of us?
I stood up and made my way to the toilet. After peeing, I splashed my face with cold water. I had drunk too much, and if I didn’t sober up I risked saying something I might regret. Though my instinct was to protect Kyle, Morgan and Tatiana’s coolness and evident disapproval of me might ignite my temper if I didn’t pay attention.
Smoothing my hair back and my dress down, I stepped out of the toilet. Morgan was leaning against the opposite wall, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded. A curious half-smile flickered around his lips. I smiled back.
‘All yours,’ I said.
He stepped towards me. ‘All mine?’ he said, and his smile grew more wolfish. I realised then that it must have been Morgan’s, not Kyle’s, foot under the table, telling me something quite different.
I took a step backward but he continued to approach, and with one arm outstretched, he put a hand on my hip.
I looked towards the dining room. I could hear the low rumble of conversation, interrupted by the odd tinkle of Tatiana’s glassy laugh. From this angle, we couldn’t be seen.
But what was Tatiana to Morgan, anyway? I’d assumed they were a couple, but nothing in their manner or in anything they had said since arriving confirmed that. Perhaps, I thought, they were just friends.
I looked into Morgan’s eyes, combatively, as if to tell him to take his hands off me. But as he did, I felt that old surge of excitement as I realised the power that I had over someone. Morgan had kept it well hidden beneath a veneer of indifference during the meal, but now his eyes smouldered with desire. He wanted me so badly, it hurt. And nothing turned me on so much as when I knew that someone wanted me so much, they’d do almost anything.
Not that I was into humiliating people. But if someone was into abasing themselves in their desire for me, I wouldn’t necessarily stop them – especially if I had a drink or two inside me.
I stepped back into the toilet, yanking Morgan with me.
‘You want me?’ I breathed in his ear as he pulled the door closed behind him.
He moaned with desire. I could feel the hard bulge of him in his linen trousers as we crushed together in the small space. It would be so easy just to take him out and slide his pulsating cock inside me and let him fuck me hard and fast against the wall. Then to take our places back at the dinner table as if nothing had happened, the only things that might arouse suspicion the post-orgasmic glow of our cheeks.
But even knowing that to draw things out would risk alerting Tatiana and Kyle to what was going on, I couldn’t help but lead Morgan on. He couldn’t have me that easily, I told myself, as I inhaled his expensive cologne. It smelled of power and influence, and that confirmed my need to show him who held the reins right now.
I cupped his cock and balls in my hand through his trousers, squeezed them firmly. ‘But what’s in it for me?’ I purred. ‘What can you give me?’
His eyes caught fire. Here, they said, is a challenge. Here is a woman who knows her power. Clasping his hands to the sides of my thighs, he slid down to his knees, pressing his face into my mound through my clothes.
‘I can smell you,’ he groaned. ‘Even through all this. Fucking hell, you turn me on, you horny bitch. What it is with you French chicks?’
‘Oh, so you like French pussy?’ I chuckled. I started to inch up my dress with one hand. ‘Want to see more?’
I saw one of his hands fall to his crotch and release his cock. He started pumping away with one hand, unable to control himself, as his other hand snaked between my legs. Pulling the crotch of my panties to one side, he slid two fingers between my lips and found me dripping wet.
‘Arrrrgh,’ he let out. ‘I can’t …’
I grabbed his arm so he couldn’t jerk himself off any more. He was going to come too soon, and I didn’t want that. I pulled his head towards me, thrust my pussy at him. He dived right in, tongue lapping at my juices like a cat slurping cream.
I was splayed back against the wall, the skirt of my dress bunched up around my waist. As Morgan’s tongue moved expertly over me, flickering in and out of my hole, I lowered one hand and fingered my clit. It didn’t take much – at once I felt my core deliquesce as my climax mounted, inexorably as a tide.
As he felt it approach, Morgan tried to pull away, keen, no doubt, to enter me with his yearning cock. But I was intent on denying him. No one – no one – had me this easily. I pressed his head more firmly against me and came violently, with his tongue still inside me.
Then, perfunctorily, I pulled my panties up and my dress down, smoothed my hair and left the toilet. My crotch was sodden, and my cheeks probably glowed, but otherwise I didn’t think Kyle and Tatiana would be alerted to what had just happened, especially if – as I expected he would – Morgan stayed in the toilet for a while. I figured he’d be wanking himself off now, in a bit of a daze, wondering what had hit him.
I’d seen men like Morgan before, men with money and influence who get their head turned by a bit of rough. They think they’re going to get an easy, dirty shag – and often they probably do. But not with me. I got my pleasure, while denying him what he really wanted. He’d had to make do with a sad wank against a toilet wall.
I sat down unobtrusively, not exactly avoiding the others’ gazes but hoping they’d continue their thread of conversation while I regained my composure. It worked, and for a moment or two I was just able to breathe and let it all wash over me. Part of me was unsettled – like I said, I was always getting into scrapes, yet when I’d accepted this dinner invitation, I certainly hadn’t expected to have a fellow guest – possibly the partner of another guest – go down on me in the loo. But I was exhilarated too. I’ve always got off on the seedy and the illicit.
Morgan finally took his place back at the table, and though I thought I saw questioning glances exchanged between him and Kyle, and then him and Tatiana, nothing was said.
We ate our dessert and moved onto Kyle’s big cream sofas for coffee. I was keeping my head down even more now, afraid not only of Tatiana but of Kyle. Whether he was attracted to me or not, it was certainly not the done thing to fuck another dinner guest in the middle of the party. I was certain he wouldn’t want to know me any more.
Then it was time to say our goodbyes. Tatiana and Morgan got up as one, and I was overcome with curiosity as to the nature of their relationship.
‘Do you guys have far to go?’ I said. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Not so far,’ said Morgan, and for the first since since I’d orgasmed with his tongue inside me, our eyes met. I felt a little dizzy, not out of lust for him but at the pressure, I suppose, that had built up over the course of the evening.
‘We have a house in Belsize Park,’ added Tatiana, her eyes lingering on mine. I may have been paranoid, but there seemed to be something knowing, something mocking, in them.
As they waited for their taxi to arrive, we gathered in the doorway for the obligatory air-kissing.
‘By the way,’ said Tatiana, turning back to me as their car drew up along the pavement, ‘do you have a card? As we’re in the same line of work …’
I shook my head.
‘Here,’ said Kyle, handing me a piece of paper and a pen. ‘Write it down. It is all about contacts, you know? Tatiana might be able to introduce you to some interesting people.’
The last thing I need right now is interesting people, I thought to myself, but I scribbled down my mobile number and email address anyway, and handed them to Tatiana.
‘Great,’ she said, flashing me a smile, and suddenly it seemed that she too was interested in me. I wondered what had changed, for her, all of a sudden.
She and Morgan descended the stone stairs down to the pavement. As the taxi driver opened the back door for them, they turned towards us to wave goodbye. As they did so, I saw Tatiana bring one of Morgan’s hands to her face, sniff at it. They exchanged a look, then, and a thrill rippled through me: Morgan’s fingers, I thought, must still bear the scent of me.
They looked back towards us. ‘Thanks again, Kyle,’ said Tatiana, but her eyes were not on him. She was staring at me.
‘Lovely to meet you, Rochelle,’ she said. She waved the piece of paper with my details on.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she called, and in the chill night air her laughter rang out like broken glass.
***
When they’d gone, Kyle and I sat down to finish up the coffee. I knew I should go easy on the caffeine, but I was already resigned to not sleeping that night. I was just too wound up. I wondered what I was going to do when I left here. I couldn’t imagine going back to Rachel’s flat. I’d climb the walls.
I looked at Kyle, wishing I fancied him, wishing I went for the sensible options. It had always been like this, since I was a teenager and felt the first inklings of desire. I’d only ever wanted the bad boys or girls, the dangerous ones who would lead me into darkness. Anybody clean-cut, polite and kind was an immediate turn-off. And if they wanted me, that was a turn-off too, unless – as with Morgan – I’d seen an opportunity to use them for my own ends. I could do that with Kyle, of course, but I didn’t want to. Kyle wasn’t playing the kind of power games with me that Morgan had wanted to. Kyle wasn’t a taker.
What I really wanted now, if only I’d acknowledge it to myself, was to fall into bed with Kyle for a good, long, sexless, matey cuddle. I never did that with anyone these days, and suddenly I regretted it – and pined for it. For so long it had all been about the sex and desire. Even with the girls at the club, for many of whom I felt genuine affection, and who I believed felt affection for me, there was a frisson. After all, we shared a dressing room, saw each other naked night after night. And familiarity couldn’t take away from the eroticism of my colleagues’ lovely bodies. I admit that I often thought of some my colleagues’ beautiful tits and pussies as I wanked myself to sleep at dawn.
We sat together for a long time, much of it in a companionable silence. Kyle obviously didn’t suspect that anything had gone on between me and Morgan, despite his and Tatiana’s weird behaviour as they climbed into the taxi. In some ways, I thought, he must be a true innocent. They’d been so blatant, even I was shocked. But then of course I knew what was going on in their heads. Kyle didn’t.
‘So,’ I said finally, stretching. ‘I’d best make a move, I guess.’
Kyle turned to me. ‘You don’t have to,’ he said.
‘Do you have a spare bed?'
He placed one hand on mine. ‘No,’ he said.
For a moment the thought played around my head: What the hell? We could fuck, and nothing need come of it. Just a friendly fuck, and then never again. It might not be the best fuck of my life, but it would stop me wandering about the streets, meeting the wrong kinds of people, getting into trouble.
