Any Way You Want Me (22 page)

‘Bent over a plan chest, that sounds interesting,’ he said. I could hear the smile in his voice. ‘I think you should show me
exactly
what you mean by that next time you’re in the office.’

‘Oh, I will,’ I assured him. ‘I will have great pleasure in showing you.’

‘Believe me, sweetheart,’ he said, ‘the pleasure will be all mine.’

There was a pause and then I said, ‘Hey, how did you get my number anyway?’

‘There are lots of things I know about you, Sadie Morrison,’ he told me.

‘Oh yeah?’ I said. ‘So what else do you know about me, Mystic Mark?’

He coughed. ‘Let’s see now. You smell of vanilla. You buy your knickers from M&S. Your throat turns an amazing shade of pink when you’re turned on. You—’

‘Astounding,’ I interrupted sarcastically. ‘Practically clairvoyant!’

‘And you’re sitting there all on your own tonight,’ he finished. ‘All on your own, watching
Sex and the City
or something, maybe doing your nails, or tidying up the kids’ toys . . .’

I paused, not able to resist flicking a glance at the telly, where a re-run of
Sex and the City
was indeed starting. ‘Well, yeah, obviously I am on my own, otherwise I wouldn’t be shit-talking with you,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to work that out.’

‘It’s Natasha’s birthday do in Covent Garden tonight, isn’t it?’ His voice was breezy. ‘So Alex will be gone for ages yet. You know what that lot are like when they’re unleashed at the weekend. Trashed is not the word.’

‘Well . . .’ His words had taken me by surprise. Alex hadn’t mentioned Natasha having a birthday do tonight. Nothing about Covent Garden, either.
Why
hadn’t Alex mentioned Natasha having a birthday do? ‘I . . .’

And while my wife and your partner are out celebrating the lovely Natasha’s birthday, you’re stuck inside and I’m still at work,’ he went on. ‘Now, that’s not right on a Friday night, is it?’

I hit the mute button on the remote. The house felt very still. ‘Mark,’ I said carefully, ‘where are you going with this conversation?’

‘I thought you might like some company,’ he said innocently.

‘No,’ I told him at once. It pained me to turn him away, but no. Not here. I couldn’t let him come here.

‘I’m very near your house, Sadie. Tennyson Road, isn’t it? I can be there in ten minutes.’

‘No,’ I repeated. ‘Honestly, I can’t. The kids are upstairs.’ And Nathan was unpredictable enough to wake at any moment between now and six, and Molly had only finished bossing Fizz around in her bed an hour ago. No, no, no. Definitely no.

‘Come on, Sadie,’ he coaxed. His voice was teasing, persuasive. I held the phone closer to my ear and shut my eyes, drinking in the sound of him. He was so . . . so delicious. I physically ached at the thought of seeing him again. ‘Take a risk, Sadie. Take control. Anyway, what do you think Alex is doing? We both know what he’s like.’

Alex. The man had a point. I knew exactly what he was like. Alex would be drunk and shouting and making everyone around the table laugh, I would lay my last pound on it. Alex would be getting the next round in and taking the piss out of new-girl Natasha, so that her cheeks flushed prettily with alcohol plus all that attention . . . Oh God. Why hadn’t he told me it was Natasha’s birthday do? He could have told me. He hadn’t said anything about going into the West End. I’d assumed it was just a few pints in the office local.

I sighed and glanced down at my paint-splattered jeans, my T-shirt with a faint smear of milk puke over one boob. I absolutely couldn’t let Mark come here. I wouldn’t. It was too dangerous. It was too scary. Yet my treacherous body was twitching with excitement at the very sound of him. My mouth felt dry, my pulse raced.

‘OK,’ I said.

There was a soft knock at the door ten minutes later. I walked towards it on cotton-wool legs. ‘Come in,’ I said, checking quickly that no one had seen him on the doorstep. I was jittery with nerves. ‘We’ll have to be quick,’ I said. ‘Alex could be back any—’

‘Sssshhh,’ he said, shaking his head. He put a finger to my lips to stop me. ‘No, he won’t.’

He closed the front door and my heart stepped up a beat as I watched him do it – Mark, here, in my own hallway, closing my and Alex’s front door. I caught a glimpse of Molly’s pink wellies on the shoe rack and looked away as if my face had been slapped. No. Don’t think about that now. Bad idea.

He had turned back and was looking at me questioningly.

‘This way,’ I said, leading him into the front room. I was trembling with excitement, but also prickling with guilt. It was so wrong bringing him in here, Alex’s territory, while our yellow-haired babies slept upstairs, Molly cuddled up to Fizz, no doubt, and Nathan, with his arms stretched out above his head . . . The thought of them was almost enough to stop me breathing.

‘Sadie,’ he said gently. He came round to face me, put his hands on my shoulders. A car zoomed by outside and I stiffened. ‘Relax. It’s OK. Everything will be OK.’

I breathed in his scent, looked into his eyes, and the fear started to melt. I stared at his beautiful, sensuous mouth, and desire surged through me in its place. I leaned against him. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit jumpy. I’m not used to doing this.’

He ran his fingers lightly down my back. ‘What, not used to a strange man arriving on your doorstep to seduce you?’

‘Oh yeah, I’m used to
that
,’ I joked. ‘Just not on a Friday usually, that’s all.’ I was starting to feel better. ‘And actually, I’m used to seducing the strange men who arrive, not the other way around, if you must know.’

‘Really?’ I knew from his voice that he was smiling. He rested his hands lightly on my bottom. ‘So tell me . . . how do you go about doing that, then?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I generally start by kissing them about . . . Let’s see . . . About here.’ I brushed my lips against his neck.

‘And then what do you do?’ he asked, moving his hands up to my waist.

‘A bit more kissing here,’ I murmured, returning to his neck, ‘and perhaps a little bit here.’ I stretched up to kiss his ear, and he closed his eyes. ‘Then, I usually move around to the throat.’ I could feel his breath quickening. His hands gripped me a fraction harder.

‘Then what?’ he asked thickly.

I ran a hand down his chest and felt him shudder beneath my touch. ‘Then,’ I said, ‘I undo his buttons, one by one, just like this. One . . . by . . . one. And I kiss all the way down his belly, just like this.’ My kisses were light, butterfly kisses; I traced a finger lazily around his nipples. ‘I undo his belt,’ I said. ‘I undo his trousers. I ease them down his thighs,’ I said.

I stopped, knowing it would drive him wild.

‘Keep going,’ he said.

‘Tell you what,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘I’ll just show you.’

An hour or so later, I lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the night. A couple of cats scrapping and yowling. A motorbike. A gang of pissed-up lads on their way to a club, no doubt, or a party. I lay quite still, the duvet pulled up under my chin, elbows bent, hands behind my head, trying to examine how I felt.

Mark had gone, and I had just raced through an orgy of cushion plumping, air-freshener spraying, wine-glass rinsing after his departure in an attempt to conceal the evidence. The children slept on upstairs, unaware that an intruder had been in their home and, even worse, in their mother.

Car headlights swung across the ceiling; a wavering fan of yellow, then darkness again. The curtain fluttered at the window. So how did I feel?

I felt addicted. Hooked by the thrill of him. Numb with shock that he had been here, in my house. I felt deceitful and traitorous and tangled up inside with questions to which I had no answers. I felt as if I was spinning out of control into outer space. I was fizzing with excitement, a bottle of champagne that had been shaken up.

I heard a key scratching in the lock downstairs. It went on for quite a few seconds, a useful gauge of just how pissed Alex was (moderately – but not so much so that he wasn’t able eventually to open the door). The door banged shut and I jumped, and tensed in the darkness, straining my ears for sounds of small people waking up. But the heavy blanket of silence never twitched.

I rolled over away from Alex’s side of the bed as I heard him blunder his way through to the kitchen. Let me guess: a bacon sandwich and the last can of Stella in the fridge. He’d be there ages. Quick – if I was lucky I would just be able to doze off without having to suffer his clumsy advances again. I shut my eyes, pulled the quilt over my head and tried to fall asleep. I hoped I would dream about Mark.

‘What do you think, Jamie Oliver or Nigel Slater?’

Alex pursed his lips. ‘I don’t fancy either of them, love,’ he replied.

I threw the dishcloth at him. ‘No, you moron, I’m trying to decide what to cook. Any suggestions?’

‘Those fishfingers you did for the kids tonight were good.’

I went back to the cookbook shelf and stared at it glumly, hoping for inspiration. I couldn’t help noticing how dusty it was looking. Shit, one more thing to clean. Great.

Lizzie and Boring Steve were coming over for dinner. We tended to take turns once a month or so, and it always seemed like a good idea whenever we arranged a date over the phone. Yet, as the night in question grew nearer, I had a creeping dread every time, and it became something to get through as painlessly as possible, rather than an evening I actually enjoyed. I couldn’t decide which was harder: having to go to their house and watch Alex’s visible jealousy at Steve’s new expensive boy toys, or have them come to us and spend the week beforehand agonizing about what to cook, and trying to get the house smelling as clean and hygienic as Lizzie’s always did.

It was stupid; she was my sister, I had no idea why I always got worked up into such a competitive lather whenever she was due to come round. After all, I never did when Cat and Tom were here; in fact I barely bothered to Hoover the front room properly, such was their easy acceptance of Alex and me. Yet the run-up to Lizzie and Steve’s visit would see me dusting the mantelpiece, scrubbing the bathroom until everything gleamed like something from a Flash advert, mopping the kitchen floor, putting all the washing away etc. This time, I even started cleaning the windows, until Alex pointed out that it would be dark by the time they came round and they wouldn’t notice anyway. At which point I immediately stopped, obviously, and sat down, pulling the bowl of olives across the table towards me so that I could sample a few.

Lizzie was something of a dinner-party queen, so a further complication was that it was always difficult to come up with food that she wouldn’t already have cooked herself. For this meal, after much deliberation and no help from my uninterested partner, I settled on Jamie Oliver’s beef with pakchoi and ginger in the end, on the premise that Lizzie loathed the boy Jamie with a passion bordering on the psychopathic, and was therefore unlikely to possess any of his books. That was the reasoning I gave to Alex, who promptly looked at me as if I were a halfwit.

‘Who cares if she has cooked it before anyway? You’re weird. Just get loads of red wine in, that’s the main thing. Let’s get Steve pissed and wind him up about politics again. Trust me. Didn’t I tell you I’m always right about everything?’

I rolled my eyes at him. ‘If she’s cooked it before, she’ll know what it’s meant to
taste
like,’ I explained patiently. ‘She’ll know if I’ve missed an ingredient or ballsed it up, or . . .’

Alex didn’t reply, just opened our booze cupboard and slid two more bottles of white into the fridge. ‘Be like the wine, Sadie,’ he instructed me, in the solemn manner of a culinary guru. Or maybe it was his Yoda impression, I wasn’t sure. ‘Chill, babe. Just chill.’

‘Make me a gin and tonic,’ I ordered, ‘and then I just might.’

Lizzie and Steve were never too early and they wouldn’t dream of coming too late. They always brought good wine with them plus a little extra – a bunch of flowers, or some yummy truffles. In many ways, they were the perfect dinner guests. In many other ways, they were not.

‘So, Steve,’ Alex said ritualistically, once we were all sitting at the table, tucking into our starter of stuffed mushrooms. ‘How’s work?’

Unfortunately, Alex always asked this question while Steve was sober enough to be very coherent and earnest about his boring, boring IT job. I had asked Alex repeatedly – no, actually, I had
begged
him repeatedly – to wait until Steve was at least half-cut before trotting out the work question so that he wouldn’t notice how little I gave a shit about what he was saying. But did Alex heed my pleas? Did he buggery. I was starting to think it was his running joke, to wind me up.

On and on droned Steve every time, about how many new staff he had had to take on, and how his profits were quadrupling every day, and similar height-of-tediousness conversation points. Every single time we had had dinner together, there had been Steve’s fifteen-minute brain-combustingly dull work lecture to endure, during which I raised my eyebrows approximately three times, said, ‘Mmm, how interesting,’ on average seven times, and had to hold myself back from stabbing my fork repeatedly into his windpipe approximately 588 times.

Steve’s stuffed mushroom sat on his plate, getting cold. Butter congealed around it while the melted cheese cooled and hardened to a crisp. Eat your sodding starter, you ignorant bloody dullard, I wanted to yell at him as he launched into a monologue of new Bill Gates jokes.

I looked over at Lizzie to see how she was enjoying Steve’s witterings. For once, she wasn’t nodding enthusiastically at key moments, laughing along obediently as he mistimed the punchline to another of his ‘gags’. She stared dully at her mushroom as she cut it up – sawed it, actually; had I overcooked hers? – and on a closer look that was just short of leaning across the table to peer at her, I noticed how red her eyes were. Had she been crying?

I kicked her gently under the table and she jerked in her seat. I lowered my eyebrows in a ‘You all right?’ kind of frown. Wordlessly, she shook her head. A tiny movement, side to side, then down again to her mushroom with the same miserable expression. God, surely the mushroom wasn’t
that
bad? My cooking wasn’t exactly Michelin starred, but it had never caused anyone to look quite so pained before.