Lemonade and Lies (10 page)

Don’t you hate chilly atmospheres
? This one had started out pure ice, like the cold Norwegian weather, but was now beginning to melt. Some of that was due to the bottle of wine David had produced, pouring generous tumblers for all three of us.

We were in Jamie’s bedroom in the luxurious Hotel Bristol and although we still had a way to go, we were slowly evolving into one big happy family. It helped that we had good news of course.

One of Jamie’s team from the Met had managed to bug Viktor Kabak’s phone. The Russian had become careless, made himself an easy target. Maybe it was the strain of trying to keep the angry voices in his own organisation at bay that had made him vulnerable.

Whatever the reason, his misfortune was our gain. Note the use of our! David and I were hardly part of the team, and we’d promised the professionals that we
amateurs
would keep a low profile and not get in their way. Seemed to do the trick and at least we were all on speaking terms. But that didn’t mean that the two of us were any less interested in the downfall of Kabak than the guys with the warrant cards.

We’d listened anxiously to the playback of Kabak’s phone call. It was a tense and abrupt conversation, setting up a meeting for the next night. You could tell it was an important meeting, though, for as well as coldness, there was an edginess to Kabak’s voice. He didn’t mention the location, spoke only of the ‘usual place’, and not once did he call the other man by his name. But I could confirm the name. I’d lived with the guy long enough.

Hearing the familiar voice, remembering the danger he’d knowingly put our family in, focused my hate for him. Condensed it into just one simple word. REVENGE. I wanted revenge. I needed to see the man in pain. The thought shocked me, for I’d thought myself a decent human being.

“Think this meet’s at his office?” David’s voice was coated with excitement and nervous tension. And I figured he was having second thoughts about agreeing to stay in the background.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Jamie. “He’ll be followed as a matter of course. Bit of luck we could bag both of them.”

Jamie seemed in his element, the thought of action buoying him up.

“You doing the surveillance?” asked David.

“My lads will do the close-up stuff.”

I tried not to smirk. I didn’t want Jamie charging me with being smart-arsed again, but one of his lads looked as if he’d be drawing his pension any day now.

“Oh?”

“Viktor and I are old friends. He’d make me.”

But that didn’t stop Jamie getting in on the act. He’d arranged to follow in a commercial van and park at a safe distance from the rendezvous. Purely as a backup. And guess what? After a bit of horse-trading, he agreed that David Ovenden would be allowed to join him, as long as Dave stayed in the back of the van. I wondered how Alice would feel about that. And if I should have protested more.

Jamie threw me a consolation prize, a sympathetic smile that said he knew how I felt. How
did
I feel? Well, slightly pissed off, obviously - to see that I figured nowhere in the plan. But apparently they also serve who only stand and vacuum.
As you know, I don’t vacuum. All right! A bit, but not often.

Jamie went to great lengths to explain why it was important for me to stay under wraps in the hotel, out of harm’s way. I didn’t argue, what was the point? But I didn’t fancy being stuck in a hotel room on my own. That wasn’t what I’d come to Norway for. Besides, there was safety in numbers.

He could see I wasn’t convinced, and maybe he felt guilty. Maybe that was why, when David headed back to his own room, Jamie went to the mini bar and poured us both another drink. So many maybes should have put me on guard, but they didn’t.

Everyone needs companionship and comfort and, above all, touch. No one had touched me for a long time. I’d tried not to think about it. Had been too busy struggling to survive. But, hell. I thought about it now. Now as Jamie stroked my hair.

The small, intimate movements were like tiny shock waves to a system that had been trying to smoother feelings. We were both slightly tipsy now and I didn’t protest, because it felt so good.

A small, sensual moan of pleasure left my lips. God, but it was great to have the presence of a man so close, breathing his man-breath into your ear, making your flesh tingle. The movements of his long, slender fingertips were erotic, acting as an aphrodisiac. It was like food to someone who has fasted for too long and I responded hungrily and greedily almost overpowering Jamie with the sudden pressure of my mouth on his.

His movements were as urgent as mine, his lips, his tongue, his hands, working together in a pleasurable counterpoint that brought me to a state of sexual arousal. Eagerly he picked me up and carried me to the bed on the far side of the room. My head was light not only from the rum, but the charge of excitement that surged through me.

Clumsily I clawed Jamie’s jeans from him with my one good hand and at the same time, felt my own clothes being tugged roughly, urgently from my body. There was no finesse in our foreplay. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t gentle. It was raw and animalistic. But we were both desperate to be satisfied. It was a glorious – even ecstatic – coupling of two lonely human beings greedy for physical touch. It was pure sex, lust, carnality. It was unforgettable. But it wasn’t love.

*

It wasn’t until I awoke the next morning in Jamie’s bed that the guilt trigger clicked firmly into the ‘on’ position. It had been good sex. Scratch that – it had been bloody great sex, and we were two consenting adults.
So what was the problem
?

I couldn’t pin down my uneasy feeling, other than the fact I hadn’t had much casual sex before. Not that there was anything casual about what had gone on last night. And I marvelled at where the energy had come from.

I wondered if Jamie felt the same (about the guilt thing). But then why would he? He had a get-out-of-jail-free card, for he was a man and they approached the whole sex business differently. Women tended to romanticise it, call it love making. Whereas men saw it more as a bodily function. So for Jamie, it may have been little more than flexing sexual muscles to keep them in trim.

Even though I’m a realist, I still replayed the stuff from last night in my head. The things he’d whispered when the heat and the sweat and the Moorish indulgence had melted away. And we’d reached our pleasure peak.

As I’d drifted happily into that twilight land between reality and dreams, he’d told me to ‘sleep the sleep of angels’ and that I had ‘hair that glinted like burnished gold’, lips that ‘put rubies to shame’ and ‘eyes the colour of malachite’.

Wow! Don’t men talk bollocks sometimes? Still, it had been a long time since any man had tried to impress me - even with such naff clichés. It felt good. I made a mental note to look up the meaning of malachite.

He was no longer in bed. And he wasn’t in the bathroom. It didn’t surprise me, he probably felt awkward and embarrassed. The cold light of day can do that to you. The magic vanishes and the alcohol wears off and regret sets in.

I had no regrets, despite the twinge of guilt. And I knew that whatever happened next, I would always remember the look of pleasure on Jamie’s face and the passion that had touched both of us.

I savoured a long, leisurely shower and found to my surprise that I was singing. An image of the psychiatrist popped randomly into my head. The woman who’d tried to convince me that I’d become detached from reality, and I mentally stuck two fingers up to her. I doubted she’d had such phenomenal sex last night. The thought made me grin and sing even louder.

I gorged on the overpowering sense of well-being that flooded my mind with the pounding of the hot water.
Could
it be true? Could I be mentally disturbed?
Certainly not! I was happy. What was wrong with plain, uncomplicated happiness? Why couldn’t we just be allowed to enjoy it? Wallow in it. What was it about the human condition? Did we need to be so conforming and stuffy, worried what others might think. And all that embarrassment about showing emotion in public, touching each other, showing love, fear, joy. We all seemed so buttoned up, (except the French of course). And why would we allow the guilt that others weren’t sharing that same joy to blunt our own?

I pulled myself up short. What total crap! Who else but someone in urgent need of a psychiatrist’s couch would go through mental handstands in the shower? You had to laugh. So I did. As loudly as I could. It probably qualified as hearty. And it went on for ages. But then I was apparently in the grip of some kind of psychotic episode. I was allowed to laugh.

By the time I dressed, the restaurant had opened for breakfast. I didn’t always eat breakfast, but someone else was cooking it now. And I was paying to be pampered in these elegant and self-indulgent surroundings, so I got ready to attack the kåltbord.

*

David Ovenden was a large man and his appetite was robust. He demolished his food with a natural and uninhibited enthusiasm, especially the fish. Maybe he really was a Viking.

I’ve never fancied eating fish for breakfast. The British version (kippers, even kedgeree) leaves me with a feeling of dread. And now, gazing at the Norwegian equivalent, I felt queasy. The Maitre d’ led me along the enormous buffet table of the kåltbord, proudly explaining the different items.

He smiled and introduced me to the joys of
Lutefisk
, the Norwegian delicacy of dried white fish soaked for days in lye and water. It comes out looking like greyish-white jelly. My stomach revolted at the thought of the strange sticky looking stuff. I shook my head, but the man didn’t seem put out.

Instead, he pointed me in the direction of the pickled herrings. He didn’t grasp the idea that I wasn’t a fish person, at least not first thing in the morning. I eyed the herrings malevolently, even though they’d done me no harm. But they looked slimy and disgusting and might frighten small children.

Unwilling to give up, the Maitre d’ drew my attention to the
Fiskebolle
. Fish balls? I knew I could never bring myself to eat the small round mini fish dumplings, but at least the theory of harvesting fish balls made me smile.

I thanked the man and went to join David.

“Here, eat something,” David ordered, and shoved his plate under my nose. I took a sweet roll with a tiny jar of honey to show willing.

“Where’s Jamie?” he asked.

Hadn’t anyone ever warned the man not to speak with his mouth full?

“Search me,” I said. “I haven’t seen him since last night.” It was the truth, but I could see he didn’t believe me. That he had his own ideas, especially about last night.

“We were supposed to meet for breakfast.” He sounded pissed off, as if Jamie’s absence was somehow my fault. “We were going to talk tactics.” His voice took on an annoying whining tone. “He knows how important this is.”

I couldn’t take him seriously, someone his age and impressive bulk, sulking like a kid.

“Maybe something came up,” I said. “He doesn’t have to tell us anything. We’re only civilians.” I was used to being cut out of loops, but David seemed to take it as a personal slight. Maybe it was a man-thing.

He eyed the remaining food on his generous buffet plate regretfully and came to a decision.

“You stay here. Remember what Jamie said. You need to keep to your room.”

With those final, terse instructions, he left the table and marched towards the exit.

I took a lift to the room, my own room this time. It just wasn’t on. Why should I be cooped up here all day when I could be out in Oslo, or taking a ferry along the fjord? I’d go stir crazy.

What was the point of even being here when all I’d done was swap one confinement for another? Admittedly these were pretty plush surroundings, but it still felt like a prison cell. It was okay for Jamie and David. Apparently they could go wherever the hell they liked.

I compromised. Didn’t go outside the hotel, but I definitely wasn’t going to spend the day in my room looking at mass produced furnishing prints that masqueraded as artwork, or watching the Discovery Channel. I could have done that at home.

Instead, I went to the hotel’s Health Club and did some low level exercise. My physical condition was still on the wobbly side, and my left arm was in plaster, but I had a go.

I was the only one in the Jacuzzi, and one of the staff fitted a bizarre looking plastic thing over my cast to stop water getting near it. The woman seemed happy with her effort. So I guess it was the first time that piece of kit had been used, and that I’d justified its place on the inventory.
One aims to please
.

After that I went for a massage and a pampering steam facial. I could hear Alice’s voice in my head and knew she’d be gob-smacked that I’d finally ‘taken myself off to a spa’. It wasn’t real life, of course. Well, not my life. But a little oasis that I figured I’d deserved.

The rest of the time was spent in the hotel lobby, listening in on conversations. Watching how the other half live. The half that doesn’t have to worry where its next pound, euro, krone or dinar is coming from. When that became too boring I went back to my room with a novel I’d picked up in the hotel shop. It was a page-turner and I wanted to stay with it, but could feel my body fighting me, trying to nod off.