A Twist of Fate (13 page)

‘I saw you on the box. God, you looked stunning, sounded good too.'

‘Thanks. It seemed to go quite well.'

‘Damn right. You were trending on Twitter, all sorts of comments, mostly about how hot you are.'

‘Oh. Lovely.'

Slight pause.

‘He's a bit of knob, isn't he?'

‘Who?'

‘That Paul guy.'

‘Not really. I told you, he's really nice.'

‘Bit full of himself.'

‘I don't think he comes across that way at all.'

‘Well, he's one of those, isn't he? Ex-army are always like that. All cock and no sense.'

Well, I couldn't disagree with the cock bit, but I stayed silent. If I spoke, I'd say something I regretted.

‘Anyway, Cal, I wanted to know if you wanted to go for a drink or bite to eat tonight?'

‘Umm …'

‘Thought maybe Wagamama.'

‘Not tonight.'

‘Oh. Plans?'

‘Yes.'

‘What're you doing?'

‘Meeting a friend.'

‘Who?'

‘Old schoolfriend, Ems. She lost a distant cousin on the flight. Wants to talk. You don't know her.'

‘I thought you were still recovering.'

‘It helps to get back to normal as soon as possible, actually.' Pause. Guilt. ‘Maybe another day soon.'

‘Tomorrow.'

‘No, I'm going to my mum's. I'll be in touch.'

‘Callie … I thought when you got back we'd be back together.'

‘Yeah, well, I didn't really ‘get back' in the conventional way, did I?'

‘I'm here to help you. I want to help you.'

He sounded so genuine, like the Rupert who'd helped me when I'd had too many mojitos that time during rag week or the Rupert who'd nursed me through flu just before finals. He was sweet and I owed him.

‘I know. Maybe at the weekend.'

‘OK. Call me.'

‘I will. Bye for now.'

‘Bye.'

I hung up. Before, we'd have gone on forever, endless byes, telling the other to hang up. Now, I just wanted to end it.

Paul sent me a detailed text explaining how to avoid the obvious route and get to the fire exit of his block.

I lounged in the bath, doused my body in lotion, put on a clingy little floral dress and some heels, and curled my hair. Even I was impressed with the results. Better than the salty matted mess I'd been on the island. He could peel off the layers to reveal the inner filth.

A shiver passed through me. Filth. Did this make me dirty? I got that niggling weight in my tummy, like I had after I'd hidden behind the sofa when I was eleven with the farmer's son, Will, and we'd practised snogging. Like that time when Marcus Rotherham had pulled me round the back of the gym at the fifth year disco and slipped his hands down my knickers – the first time anyone apart from me had touched there. I'd loved it so much, I couldn't wait for more, yet I felt so ashamed when I pictured my mother's face … so dirty.

Sex had always preoccupied me. I'd always wanted it, but had somehow felt guilty for having that desire. I thought I'd come to a good compromise with Rupert. He was always up for it, admittedly, and was a sweet enough lover, but he was a textbook lover. He believed that if you rubbed Part N, licked Part C, and thrust in Part P, then you would achieve Outcome O. Sometimes, he did. More often, he didn't.

Paul had thrown away the user manual shorty after puberty, I guessed. He ran on instinct, and as my body churned with the memory of our coupling in the studio, I wasn't sure how I could do without him.

Fifteen

I drove to Battersea and parked in a garage far from the main road that Paul had directed me to. There were no paps around as far as I could tell, but I wore a hat anyway, pulled down over my face. I hurried along to the apartment block, a 1930s build, not what I was expecting. The art deco building had elegant curves reminiscent of an old ocean liner. It must have cost a fair bit, I thought, then berated myself for considering money. That was certainly not the reason I was with Paul. I hurried to the fire exit, texting ahead to let him know I was on my way.

When I was within a few feet of it, the door opened and I was greeted by Paul's gorgeous face.

I glanced behind me. No one. With a beaming grin, I ran the last few yards through the door and into his arms. He gripped my head and pulled me into him, kissing me, inhaling me, ingraining me onto him. ‘Callie, Christ, Callie, missed you.'

We started up the stairs, hard stone fire exit steps. I think we managed to get up one flight and turn up to the others.

‘Stop, stop. Lie down. Got to taste you,' he mumbled, pulling me down to a step, pushing my legs apart so hard I'd bruise, yanking off my knickers. Paul knelt on a step below and stuck his head right between my legs with no ceremony or warning.

His tongue thrummed over my clit, which he'd exposed, parting me with his fingers. He groaned, a purr almost, a sound of undiluted satisfaction.

When his tongue circled my clit particularly agilely, I bucked off the step, knocking him backwards inadvertently. He took the moment to press down hard on my belly, holding me in place. His other hand worked my sex. One finger pressed inside, then, when that one was welcomed with an encouraging moan, two, then three, thick long fingers thrust right up inside me. Paul turned his head to the side and sucked on me hard. This squeezed my clit, sending a delicious ripple through me, a hint of what was to come.

I glanced down and met his eyes, bright, alight with the enjoyment of his task. He withdrew his fingers briefly to suck and lick in the flow of my juices.

I then felt a slick finger nudging against that other hole. I'd never taken anything there. It had always been a no-go. I had a psychological block about it as much as anything.

But when Paul bent down to lick my clit again, long, hypnotic licks that brought me right to the edge of orgasm, I barely noticed when the digit edged its way in. There was a tightness, a sting perhaps, and I liked it. He continued his rhythmic lapping, eyeing me curiously the whole time while squeezing the finger ever deeper. I whined – a whine of abandon and delight. The finger slid out again but the tip remained circling and smoothing my puckered hole. Then it happened again, more of a sting this time, more of a stretch, more of an intrusion. I thought about tensing against it but my body had other ideas. I pushed onto it. I actually pushed forward to welcome it. With a groan, I felt what must have been two fingers delving deeper and deeper, breaking through any resistance, determined to embed themselves fully.

Oh God, I was poised. My body was alive, alert, tinged all over with the approach of orgasm, that cold heat, that prickle of perfect tension before liquid bliss ransacks your body. He could do anything to me. The fingers in my arse were pumping now, and my body quickly matched their rhythm. Paul's lips and tongue continued their assault on my clit, which was so swollen, I pictured it twice its usual size.

His thumb was inside me. I could feel his fingers rubbing against it, parted only by the thin membrane between my two passages.

I tried to wriggle, to build the tingle of pleasure brewing so rapidly now, but his strong left hand still pinned me to the step. Paul groaned, a command for me to be still and let him work my body. At that moment, it happened.

I wailed, a sound which rose up through the hard surfaces of the fire escape and resulted in a booming howl of oblivion. I came thoroughly, shuddering and shaking as pleasure ripped through me, to the point where I wondered if I would survive it.

Paul remained at my sex the whole time, drinking in every morsel of juice that fell from me as I twitched out the last of my rapture. I lay back, eyes closed, body splayed on the fire exit, my perfect hair ruined, my dress a crumple of material, my body disjointed and broken.

‘Aye … that's it,' growled Paul. ‘That's what it's about. Christ, I needed that.'

‘
You
needed that?' I managed to exhale.

‘You taste like fuckin' nectar, Callie. Never known a woman to taste so sweet.'

His fingers remained embedded. ‘S'pose we should try to get to the flat.'

‘Oh? I thought this was it. I'm happy here. Don't want to leave here,' I sighed, my eyes still closed.

‘Don't want to either, but one of these days I may actually manage to get you in a bed.'

‘That might be a disappointment.'

‘Nah. Never. Come on.'

We stood up. He kept his fingers inside me, guiding me up with two digits and a thumb. We laughed together at the stupidity of it, of the necessity of it. We made a few steps before we both realised I'd have to turn around. I couldn't stagger up backwards forever. With a deep kiss, he withdrew his fingers and motioned me up the stairs. We must have gone up three flights before he pushed me along a corridor and against a door, which luckily opened easily behind us.

We almost fell to the floor. In all this, Paul had sported the king of erections and had managed to keep it in check during his Olympic bout of cunnilingus. I was happy for him to see to it now and scrabbled to undo his flies.

‘Come on. Told you – I want you in bed.'

We half ran, half stumbled to the bedroom and made it to the bed – sort of.

I lay on top, my legs extending off the end, my body sprawled haphazardly across it. Paul just about managed to pull down his jeans and boxers before he was inside me.

He didn't last long; I could hardly resent him for it. I was so primed for him that he would empty into me with only a few thrusts. Holding my left leg back by the knee, he thrust like a demon, pistoning into me like the devil himself. He came with a guttural cry, exploding into me copiously.

‘Told you we'd make it to the bed,' he panted.

‘Just.'

He grinned down, all wonky and sex-sated. ‘Welcome to my home.'

I glanced about. It wasn't the typical blokeish bachelor pad I expected. On the walls were paintings and art from around the world – African tribal masks, aboriginal instruments, South American weaving.

‘Very nice.'

‘It'll do … Still, I miss your little house made of blankets.'

‘That didn't survive our lovemaking.'

He gave a gentle smile, raising a hand to stroke my face and exhaling a slight laugh.

‘What?'

‘Nothin'. You. The way you talk.'

‘There's nothing wrong with the way I talk.'

‘No, there isn't. Nothing at all.' He reached down and we kissed. We kissed so long it became the norm.

‘I've got some pasta,' he said at last, still grazing along my neck.

‘Sounds good.'

‘And gin and tonic.'

‘I only drink G and T on aeroplanes, but for you I'll make an exception, just be careful not to spill it down my front.'

‘If I do, can I lick it off?'

‘Ooh … in that case, I demand that you spill it.'

Paul laughed, pulling out and doing up his jeans. ‘I'll go and sort it out.' He left the room, calling after him, ‘Make yourself at home. Bathroom's just there, come through when you're ready.'

He was relaxed and easy. I eased myself off the bed and headed for the bathroom. It had clearly been recently renovated, and was a fully functional wet room with incorporated sound system. I supposed Paul had done it himself. The rest of the flat was similarly well-decorated but retained the original 1930s feel and had many homely touches. The art was original and interspersed with many photographs, some dating back many years, fading pictures of grinning children holding ice-creams at the seaside, families gathered round Christmas trees.

I paced through into the living room, which had a view out over the rooftops of South London and beyond to a glimpse of the Thames. I hesitated before getting too close to the window. I wouldn't want an eagle-eyed photographer to spot me, but we were high enough not to be visible from street level.

I smiled appreciatively at Paul. ‘This is a fabulous place. Have you done it up yourself?'

‘Aye.'

‘I'm surprised you live in London.'

‘Why's that?'

‘You seem more like the sort who'd be loyal to his home town.'

‘You don't know my home town. Can't move for curtain twitchers. I can't be doing with that. Anyway, I travel a lot. I'd rather be out of England, to be honest.'

‘What was your role on that new hotel?'

‘In charge of the structural integrity – right materials, that sort of thing.'

‘Don't you need an engineering degree for that?'

‘My mate, Nick, has that – we run things together. I have the experience, he has the qualifications. We work well. He calls on me when he needs me. He's out there supervising the project. I go out from time to time. Here you go.' He came over with a G and T and handed it to me.

‘Thanks.'

He raised his own glass. ‘To survival, Callie.'

I returned his gesture and took a sip. The cool liquid sent a shimmer of recollection through me and my eyes glazed as I stared beyond him. ‘Weird, isn't it? Survival seems much harder back here than it did on the island.'

I could feel his steady gaze on me, but he said nothing, allowing me to continue. ‘I mean, it was so simple there, so easy. Just you and me. Here, it's been …' I sighed. ‘I don't know … hectic.'

‘Don't let yourself get too involved.'

‘But I don't seem to be able to avoid it. You're the only one who steadies me.'

He stroked my face and took hold of a lock of my hair, twirling it in his fingers.

‘Is that right?' I asked. ‘Am I just escaping again? Maybe that's it – I can't face life. I can't face reality.'

‘Is that's what's bothered you about us? You think I'm some sort of escape?'

‘Not you …
us
, maybe, the idea of us.'

Paul pursed his lips. ‘Christ, Callie, I just got you here and you're doubting it all again.'