Never Alone (13 page)

‘You need to take the next right – there, look.’

‘What – here?’

The only right turn is through a metal five-bar gate into a field.

‘Aye, that’s it. Turn in there.’

The Land Rover bumps over ruts and dips, finding an overgrown track at the edge of a ploughed field. They follow the hedgerow to the end and there is another gate standing open, leading into a rough, partly concreted yard.

‘I’ll just wait in the car, leave you to it.’

‘What? Leave me to what?’

Then she looks. There is a row of five polytunnels, a Portakabin, an old timber barn and a newer one made of breeze blocks and corrugated iron. Tucked behind the barn is a concrete yard on which a dark green Jeep is parked.

Sarah doesn’t need to ask where they are, or what they are doing there. Will’s huge smile has returned, and as she turns off the engine and looks at him she has just one question. ‘Does he know I’m coming?’

She finds Louis in one of the polytunnels. He is wearing a black bodywarmer over a grey sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up
to his elbows.
He looks thin
, is the first, difficult thing that crosses Sarah’s mind.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ is his greeting. He doesn’t smile.

‘Hello, Louis. How are you?’

‘Okay. How’d you get here?’

‘Will showed me where it was,’ she says, by way of explanation. ‘It was a surprise.’

‘Right. Where is he?’

‘He wanted to wait in the car.’

‘Bet he did.’

‘So all this is yours?’ she says, looking around. There are trestle tables to the end of the polytunnel, long rows of seed trays all showing bright green foliage. ‘What is it?’

‘These are all salad,’ he says, staring at her as if she has asked a stupid question. And of course: she has. She has grown lettuce in the garden. She knows what lettuce looks like, for God’s sake. Why is it so hard to talk to her own son?

‘Have you spoken to Kitty?’ she asks. ‘She’s coming home on Friday.’

‘Yes, I know.’ He hasn’t moved, but now he lifts one of the plastic trays near to the door. It’s full of lettuce heads, glistening with water. ‘You can bring that one if you want to help.’

She picks up a second tray and follows him out of the door. He heads over to the barn and does not speak on the way, which gives her a chance to think of things to ask him, things to talk about. In the barn, a wheeled cage of the type used in supermarkets is waiting on the concrete floor. He slots his tray into it, and then takes hers and adds it.

‘I miss you,’ she says. Even to her ears it sounds desperate, lame.

He stops, briefly, but does not answer. Instead, he pushes the trolley towards the open barn door. The wheels
make a tremendous clattering noise which prohibits further conversation until he stops.

‘If you’d just answer your phone sometimes,’ she tries, ‘or even send a text every now and again. Just to let me know you’re okay.’

He does not look round, but slams the metal gate of the trolley shut with a clang that echoes off the walls. ‘As you can see, I’m fine,’ he says.

She follows him out of the barn. He is heading towards the Portakabin, which she imagines is where his office is.

‘I’m finding it really tough now Kitty’s gone,’ she says.

He looks up, meets her eyes, finally. His gaze is cool, not quite hostile but not far off it. ‘Hindsight is great, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Dad should still be here. Then you’d have someone to talk to, and you could bloody leave me alone.’

Outside the Portakabin is a Formica table with metal legs, three fold-up picnic chairs. Judging by the fag butts and the bin full of crisp packets, this is where the workers – whoever they are, wherever they are – take their breaks.

‘Have you got lots of people working for you?’ Sarah asks, in an attempt to make conversation.

After Louis’s stinging comment in the barn, she had wanted to get straight back in the Land Rover and head for home, but then there was Will to think about, and to walk away when he’d gone to all the trouble of bringing her here would have felt ungrateful.

‘Not many,’ Louis says. The table has a mug on it, half-full of what might be coffee. He throws the liquid into the weeds growing around the base of the cabin. ‘It’s only busy at certain times.’

‘And you’re selling it at the farmers’ markets?’

‘Hotels,’ he says, ‘mainly.’

‘Really? That’s good going. How did you get into that?’

He doesn’t answer this, and she doesn’t blame him. She’s trying too hard.

‘Would you like to come over for lunch?’ she says. ‘On Sunday, maybe, before Kitty goes back? I know the dogs would be pleased to see you.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he says, slamming down the empty mug, heading back towards the polytunnels. ‘See yourself out,’ he calls.

The tears burn Sarah’s cheeks and she rubs them away with the heel of her hand. When she gets back in the car, Will notices. He says, ‘Hey,’ and puts his hand on her shoulder as if he’s going to give her one of his hugs, but she raises her hand to ward him off.

‘No, I’m fine, I’m fine,’ she says.

‘Ah, try not to worry,’ he says. ‘He’ll come round. At least you’ve seen him. It’s a good start.’

‘Really? How’d you work that out?’

‘He’s talking to you, isn’t he? Better than before.’

‘If you say so.’

Driving back up the lane a few minutes later, Will says, ‘I’ll keep working on him for you, if you like. He’s not a bad lad. He’s just been through a lot.’

‘I know that,’ she says.

They are back at the main road. Sarah indicates left, even though there is probably not another moving vehicle within five miles.

‘Done well for himself,’ Will says. ‘Not bad going, for a few bits of salad.’

But Sarah isn’t listening; she is thinking of her baby boy, her son, smiling and laughing and running towards her, his arms raised for her to pick him up. 

Karine Hoffmeier is relaxing in the lounge area of her hotel suite. You left her, briefly, to prepare the bedroom.

You have known Karine for about seven years, and you’re pleased to see her again. She lives in an eight-bedroomed town house in York city centre, with her husband and their three dogs. They have children – four of them – at various private schools and universities around the world. You have never met any of them, although you have seen photos. Identical, beautiful golden-haired children of various sizes. You like Karine: she is not any trouble. She always knows exactly what she wants out of your encounters. Usually, it’s a quick, fast orgasm, followed by a long, slow massage, which usually brings about at least one other climax. Her husband knows about you, that Karine meets you sometimes – whether he approves or not, you haven’t a clue. You suspect Karine would not tolerate his disapproval.

She was two minutes late, proclaiming that she couldn’t find the hotel – her Teutonic sense of punctuality clearly put out by having to travel out into the sticks. Your previous encounters have all taken place in London. Nevertheless, when you tell her that you have moved to the area, she positively beams with pleasure.

‘I would have brought you some champagne, darling, if I’d known,’ she purrs, as you start to help her out of her clothes.

‘I’ve got some for us, later,’ you tell her.

She’s still half-dressed, bum up on the dressing table, when she grabs you by the wrist and pushes your hand under her skirt. You hold her tightly – she likes a firm touch; not to be pushed around exactly, but to feel as though someone else is in charge. She spends her whole life in control, of her husband, her household, her finances, and for these few moments part of the deal is that she gets to relax.

‘You’re ready for this,’ you say, murmuring it into her ear.

‘Yes,’ she says, the word ending on a groan.

Not for the first time, you marvel at the seemingly limitless variety of the female orgasm. To you, that makes it a beautiful thing, a thing of wonderment and awe. Every woman comes in a different way, and you consider it part of your skill that you do not presume to know how to bring any woman to that stage. It involves conversation, discretion and a little bit of intuition.

Karine is ready for you, as she usually is. You wonder about the anticipation, the fantasy that lies behind the readiness. The fact that she needs hard fingers pushing into her, your other arm supporting her upper body. Her hands are gripping the edge of the dressing table. One of your legs between hers, keeping her knee apart. This bit requires no talking. She makes a noise, stifles it. When you’ve met before in London hotels she has been vocal, even yelling. Today, for some reason, she is clearly feeling inhibited.

‘Yes,’ you say, encouraging, ‘come on. Shout for me if you want to.’

She gasps. ‘I can’t…’

‘Yes,’ you say. ‘You can and you will. I’m telling you it’s time for you to come.’

That does the trick. Well. You have found a new thing to add to your repertoire for Karine. Normally she wants you silent for this bit – just a firm, authoritative hand – but now you know you can order her to come. Not only is
this effective, it’s exceptionally effective. Moments later she comes, wetness flooding into your hand, her knees giving way. You hold her up. She lets out a long, vocal groan, ending in something that sounds like a sob.

‘Shh,’ you say, holding her. It’s not an instruction but a reassurance. ‘That’s it. You needed that, didn’t you?’

‘I did.’

She shudders. You peel away her jacket, unbutton her blouse. She goes to help you, but you push her hands away. They are shaking. ‘You’re all right?’ you ask, just to check.

She nods, dumbly. Eventually she undoes her skirt and steps out of it. Every item of clothing you’ve taken from her slowly and folded, leaving it neatly on the chair. This is part of your routine with Karine. You did it the first time and she liked it, so, ever since then, you undress her. When she’s naked, she lies on the bed on the towels you have put down in preparation. You run your hand from her neck to her lovely feet. You have always liked her feet, dainty, with little painted toenails.

‘Now,’ you say, ‘it’s time to relax. Right?’

‘Mm.’ Her face is turned away from you.

‘Warm enough?’

‘Uh-huh.’

You pour oil into your hands, smoothing them over her body. It’s easy to lose yourself in this part, the rhythm of it, the pressure, varying the speed. Feeling the muscles under the skin, loosening the tension, untying the knots. You can feel the stress as it leaves her body. She sinks into the towels beneath her. Around her shoulders she is particularly tense, as she invariably is. You think of her carrying the weight of responsibility on her shoulders, and bit by bit you take it away from her. Little pieces of pressure, self-doubt, the wearying nature of having to maintain control, all of it slowly melting away. It’s hypnotic, and beautiful.

You tell her this. Talking is part of what makes this work for Karine, this bit of it anyway. ‘I’m learning more about your body every time I see you,’ you say. ‘I love the way you feel under my hands.’

She doesn’t acknowledge you.

‘Does it feel good,’ you say, ‘letting go? Does it feel better?’

She murmurs her assent.

‘When you go home, you’ll feel all brand new again. You come to me, and I fix you.’

She is poured out, liquid, her body one long pause. Your hand, running up the inside of her thigh, dips into the cleft between her legs. Her lips are still swollen with the pleasure of her earlier orgasm and the sensitivity of it makes her jump a little.

‘Relax, Karine,’ you say.

She pushes her hips towards you.

‘Not yet,’ you say. ‘You have to wait for it this time. My rules.’

She shivers, but not with cold: her skin is hot, alive, tingling under your oiled hands. Again, you slip down, with more purpose this time.

She arches her back slightly, pushing towards you. As a punishment, you move away from her bottom – firm and tempting as it is – to her shoulders, relaxing away the tension that has once again built up.

‘You’re a tease,’ she says.

‘Yes,’ you say, ‘I am. But you only come when I let you, Karine, that’s the rule.’

Half the challenge is in the timing. You want to make her wait for it until the optimum moment, the point at which her orgasm will be utterly amazing. If you get the timing wrong, if you take her too far, she will be frustrated and then the satisfaction will be more of a release, which is
disappointing. But you know Karine, you know her body, you know how much it can take. Her fingers have gone from relaxing to tense again, clenching and relaxing. You return to her legs, more oil here so that your hands are slippery with it. Between her legs she is wet enough. Your fingers slip between her lips and inside, stretching her. Gently this time, soothing.

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘
yes
.’

‘Slowly,’ you say. You massage her purposefully now, just for a minute. You can feel her clenching around you. ‘Turn over.’

She obeys, shifting awkwardly. Her chest is flushed. She smiles up at you, her eyes closed. ‘You’re getting better at this,’ she says. ‘Every time I see you, it’s better.’

‘No talking,’ you say.

‘Mm.’

‘And I think it’s nearly time for you to come again. But not quite.’

It’s easier this way; you can see her face, the concentration on it, even with her eyes screwed tight shut. Your rhythm is strong, with pauses when you slow down. You build it up to a point when you think she’s there, bring her back from it. There’s an edge. You need to find it.

You see her hands clenching around the edge of the massage bed, her knees coming up, her bottom rising off the bed as she pushes herself against your hand.

‘Uh-uh,’ you say. ‘Not yet. Not quite yet.’

‘Aiden!’ she gasps. ‘Please…’

You speed up for her. Her body tightens around your hand. ‘Now,’ you say. ‘Now you can come…’

And, a moment later, she does. Her body lifts off the bed, her toes clenched into a point, her head thrust back. She grips the towel. Seconds pass. You keep the pressure just there.

At last she relaxes, falls back. She laughs with it, pushing her hair back out of her eyes with one hand. ‘Aiden, you kill me. You really do.’

Your hand is resting on her belly, the pressure firm and reassuring. You can feel her taut abdominal muscles under the skin. ‘You’ve been working out,’ you murmur. She’s always kept herself fit. You wonder if she’s feeling the pressure of age encroaching – she must be, what? Fifty? Older? You find it difficult to tell, and you’ve never much cared. One woman in Sydney told you proudly that she was seventy-three. You wouldn’t have guessed.

With your other hand you stroke her cheek, soothing. You brush the stray hairs out of her eyes, waiting for her to come back to the room. After a moment she opens her eyes. ‘That feels so good,’ she says.

‘I know. You ready for some more?’ you ask.

‘I think I’m done for today. I don’t think even you can top the last one.’

‘In that case,’ you say, ‘would you like a back massage?’

‘Oh, yes.’

She turns over again and you add fresh oil to your hands. This is going to be different, a therapeutic massage this time, the pressure gentle. You feel her relaxing again. A good place to end it. You continue until you think she might actually be close to falling asleep. You lay a fresh towel over her, and a coverlet that has weight to it, up to her shoulders. You place a hand in the small of her back.

‘Relax for a bit,’ you whisper. ‘Come and have a drink in the lounge when you’re ready.’

If you’re in a hotel, and the client can afford it, you always opt for a suite. It gives you space to leave the client to relax; and if there is any noise, on one side at least there is a whole room between you and the neighbouring guests. You
have also found that hotels are less likely to ask questions if they’ve been paid the top whack.

You have only been confronted once, and that was in London. The night manager stopped you early the next morning as you were leaving, pointed out that the hotel was not the place to conduct ‘overnight business meetings’. You supposed, perhaps, that he recognised you; it was a hotel you had visited several times. You asked if he would prefer it if you advised your clients to go elsewhere. He backed down, then, saying that your clients were always welcome; hoping that you would continue to be discreet. You reassured him, shook his hand, and never went back to that hotel.

You close the door quietly behind you, leaving Karine lying on the bed. Only then do you check the time. Your session so far, from her arrival to now, has been an hour and three quarters. Actually this is about right. You estimate another half-hour or so for her to relax, dress, and drink something with you in the lounge. Once that’s done and she’s out of the door, you can phone Sarah. While you would not think of her while you’re with someone else – for some reason this feels unprofessional – now that you’ve closed the door on Karine you can think of nothing else.

There is an element of sexual frustration that comes with this career you have chosen for yourself, and it is a frustration born of your own boundaries. You could, of course, fuck these women if they wanted you to, and if you felt comfortable with it. Many of them would. But, with most of them this is the line you do not cross. And the result is that often, having spent hours caressing smooth, naked skin, running your hands over curves and seeing women laid waste by their own sexual release, you are so aroused you can think of nothing else. In the past you have gone home and masturbated, sometimes several times, to release this tension. Sometimes you do it before you go to meet women, just so
you don’t have that distraction between you, but you have found that it helps to be turned on. You are alert, focused and more intuitive if you are hard yourself. If you’ve just come, you are drowsy and distracted.

Now, you are aroused. You think this is because you know you are going back to Four Winds Farm later, and Sarah is there, and maybe you will fuck her tonight. You start to think about it, about taking her clothes off – it starts off slow but in your head, possibly as it will be in real life, you’re tearing them off her and pushing them aside within moments.

The door to the bedroom opens and Karine comes out, dressed in her sharp business suit and killer heels. ‘Hey,’ she says, smiling.

‘What would you like?’ you ask. ‘Champagne? Or coffee?’

‘Oh, definitely champagne, darling.’

You pop the cork, pour it carefully into two glasses, brought with you for the purpose. She sits on the couch, watching.

‘Cheers,’ you say, clinking her glass. You sit next to her, close enough for you to touch if she wants you to. Technically, your session isn’t over until she leaves. This is important to you, that your clients don’t ever feel rushed. You give them your full, undivided attention because that’s what they are paying you for. Massage, orgasm, it’s all incidental. What they actually want, all of them, is someone whose sole focus is them.