Tread Softly (41 page)

‘I hope to God we won't,' Charlene grumbled, returning to the scanner. ‘Now, where were we?'

Lorna couldn't say. Her mind had strayed to Ralph again. She still felt awfully guilty leaving him with the house to sell – guilty leaving him at all, now she'd discovered that he had only got drunk because they'd lost the Sherborne job, which meant the business would fold. So perhaps she'd been too hasty in …

‘
Lorna?'

‘Sorry, yes?'

‘Do watch the screen. See, she's got her left foot out in front, with the weight on that foot and the knee bent, and she's holding her knee with both hands and pushing it across the body.'

Yes, but her knees aren't draped in this lot, Lorna thought crossly, heaving aside swathes of interlock. She couldn't seem to concentrate: the dim light was soporific and the deep male voice kept reminding her of Oshoba – his luscious, pink-lined lips; the exquisite feel of his tongue against her nipples. Luscious or no, she really ought to end things with him or he'd continue writing, which could be risky for them both. Ralph was forwarding her letters, but what if he chanced to open one? Clearly she had to avoid entanglements just now. But in that case why was she seeing Paul? Should she cancel tonight, or at least …?

‘Lorna, roll the heels inward, not outward. And keep the weight on the left foot.'

Outside, the rain was sheeting down as they proceeded wearily through tests 4, 5, 6, 7 …

By the time they reached the last, she was beginning to feel not just physically inadequate but intellectually challenged, as if she'd taken eighteen GCSEs and failed every single one. She stepped off the scanner with aching feet and great relief. ‘Is that it? Can I get dressed and go?'

‘Dressed, yes. Go – mm, better not.' Charlene had returned to the screen. ‘The computer's flashing a message: “Error 900 Joliet tree sort failed.'' What on earth does
that
mean?'

‘No idea, I'm afraid.' Lorna released the safety-pin and the under-pants flopped swiftly to the floor. ‘Would Kevin be able to help?'

‘No. He hasn't a clue about software.'

‘Or Mr Weekes?'

‘Bertram? You must be joking! He doesn't know a mouse from a modem. Of course I'm hardly an expert myself. I've only been doing this job a fortnight.'

God – Lorna yanked her trousers up – you'd think they could afford a state-of-the-art operator to match their state-of-the-art scanner. ‘Or how about his secretary?'

‘Oh, Bertram doesn't employ Polly for her computer skills.' Charlene gave a knowing smirk. ‘She has
other
talents.'

‘So what do we do now?'

‘Well, whatever happens, stick around until I've sorted out this glitch. The error message keeps flashing and I can't get rid of the bloody thing.' Charlene pressed various buttons, muttering expletives that grew more and more obscene. In the end she banged both fists on the desk, making the keyboard bounce alarmingly. ‘There's nothing for it – I'll have to phone Seattle. Let me see, what time is it over there? Yes, they should be in the office – just. Sit down and rest your feet, Lorna. This may be a lengthy business.'

Lorna remained standing. ‘Charlene, I've got an appointment in Weybridge, which will take me a good two hours from here, given the unreliable trains. And I'm already very late.'

‘I'm sorry, I'm doing all I can … Hello? Hello? Could you speak up? Is Sinclair in yet? … He's not. Shit! Is anyone in? … Randy? Yes, OK … Hi, Randy. Look, can we cut the pleasantries? It's this sodding machine – it seems to be frozen … It's no good you saying press the Enter key when it just won't … Are you positive we can't lose the tests? … You're
not
positive … Yes, I've got the patient here … No, I won't let her go … Of course I don't understand. Why the hell would I be phoning you if I could work it out for myself? … Nothing happens – just an arrow. It still hasn't changed … Wait, everything's gone blue. Should it have? Now it says, “Are you sure you want to delete?'''

‘Don't delete!' Lorna gasped. This was farcical. Should she offer to take over herself? In fact she could probably run the whole clinic more efficiently than this crew. She'd sack Polly for a start, and all practitioners with sub-standard English, limit staff holidays to one week per year (to be taken in the British Isles), get rid of the clutter on Bertram's desk and, last but not least, ship this useless scanner back to Seattle.

‘Randy, I haven't time to discuss your peanut allergy. I've got two other patients waiting … No, I didn't know that chicken marsala contained nuts. Is Sinclair in yet? … Ill? … What, nuts? … Oh,
mumps
. I see. I'm sorry. When he does come back to work, tell him Mr Weekes will want a refund on his phone-bill. And
I
‘m claiming compensation for the stress of the last two weeks … I know it's not your fault, Randy. That's the trouble, it's never anybody's fault … Oh, God, hold on. Now it's saying, “Please insert blank CD.'' Which means it must be about to start at the beginning again. In that case has it lost the tests? … You think it has … Do them all again? You
are
joking, I assume … You're not joking. But how do we know it won't go wrong a second time? … We don't. OK, I'll tell the patient …'

All at once there was an ominous noise: a fizzing sound like a small firework going off. It was followed by a blue flash, and suddenly the lights went out.

‘Bloody fucking hell!' Charlene had dropped the phone and was staring at the wisp of smoke curling out of the socket.

‘Armageddon!' shrieked the Monster. ‘Prepare to meet thy doom!'

Lorna picked up her coat and made her way in semi-darkness past the now blank computer screen. For once the Monster had been right: she was never
meant
to have orthoses. ‘Goodbye, Charlene,' she said, tight-lipped, then added a little more kindly, ‘Good luck!'

After all, she had just saved herself £500.

‘Don't stop! Don't stop! It's wonderful. Fantastic. Go on, go
on
! Harder. Yes. Oh yes …' Lorna collapsed back on the bed. Her pounding heart seemed to shake the room, the whole flat. She closed her eyes. Deep black velvet plush behind the lids – Oshoba's skin, Oshoba's feel, Oshoba's touch. She worshipped him. Who cared what Kathy thought? Or Ralph? She had been
born
for this. Her life before meant nothing. ‘Oh, Oshoba, I …'

‘Don't speak.' His lips moved towards hers again.

The kiss travelled down and down, alchemy turning her base cells to gold. Then he drew back a little and looked at her. The gaze was like the kiss: passionate, intense. She could see herself reflected in his eyes: a tiny surrendering figure lost in deep black pools. As he must be in
her
eyes. They were part of one another, skins and bodies exchanged. She was black now; he white. Even their smells had fused, the tang of coconut hair-oil overlaying her rose scent.

He picked up a strand of her hair, ran it through his fingers, pressed it to his lips. Then he took her hand and kissed her broken thumbnail. Every part of her became precious when he kissed it: the sole of her foot, the tiny bruise on her left thigh, the space between her shoulder-blades. Their faces were so close she could see the pores of his skin and the individual hairs in his eyebrows. She adored each pore, each hair.

He sat up at last, disentangling his body from hers. ‘I'll fetch the wine.'

‘No,' she said, wrapping her legs round his again. ‘I want you just … here.' She put her arms around his neck and drew his head down, to her breasts. He was the bulwark against her fears. If he moved they would flood back.

Gently he loosened her arms. ‘I'll only be two seconds.'

When he'd gone she pulled the nylon sheet up to her chin. What was she
doing
lying naked in this bed? She had come to tell him it was over and that he mustn't get involved now she was thinking of leaving Ralph for good.

But who need ever know? Ralph was hardly likely to track her down to a shabby council flat. No, not shabby – resplendent. The grey walls seemed to glow, and the saggy single divan had become a damask-hung four-poster. Even the balding hairbrush on the dressing-table was an object of fascination. Just because it was his.

The door opened softly and he came in with the wine. ‘See? I'm back already.' He handed her a glass – a cheap thing, with garish coloured fruits stencilled round the rim (Waterford crystal once he'd touched it). It was she who had brought the wine, to ease their parting, but now it was for celebration.

He leaned forward and held his glass teasingly between her breasts, cold against her flushed skin. ‘To my beautiful lady,' he whispered.

‘To my beautiful man.'

‘You look happy now.'

‘I am.'

‘Not sad and stern like when you first arrived.'

‘Was I stern?'

‘Terribly!' He moved the glass against her nipple.

His voice was so languorously caressing, just hearing it made her want him again. And his penis was still stiff, she noticed with surprise, with pride. She pulled him down beside her, moving over to make room for him. ‘Is this your brother's bed or yours?'

‘Oh, mine. I wouldn't dare use my brother's. He might find a wisp of your toco-hair lurking in his sheets.' He kissed his fingers and leaned forward to plant the kiss on her bush.

There was a sudden awkward silence. He seemed embarrassed all at once, for no reason she could fathom. He was no longer looking at her, but staring down at his glass. ‘I … I have to speak to you about my brother,' he said, in a completely different tone – defensive, almost terse.

‘Oh dear. Is he cross that I'm here? I know he doesn't like me.'

‘It's not that. He has a … problem.' Oshoba put his glass down on the wooden box that served as a bedside table. ‘He has to go back to Nigeria. Our sister is ill.'

‘I'm sorry. What's wrong with her?'

‘I'm not sure. Except it's serious. The thing is, he hasn't any money for the fare. He keeps saying
I
‘ve got to pay.'

‘You? Why?'

‘Because he's lost his job.'

‘Heavens! When did that happen?'

‘Last week. They gave him the sack.'

‘But you said he was working – tonight, I mean. You told me to come at seven, so he'd be gone.'

Oshoba looked confused for a moment. ‘That's … only a temporary job. Just for a day or two. He has to fly out as soon as he can.'

‘But if you haven't got the money, Oshoba …' She wondered why
he
wasn't going. Surely a carer in a nursing-home would be of more practical use than a chef? ‘Why does Olu have to go, not you?'

‘He's the eldest and we can't afford two fares. We can't even afford one unless …'

‘How much
is
the fare?'

‘Seven hundred pounds return.'

‘That sounds a lot. Can't he get something cheaper from one of those bucket shops?'

‘Maybe. But he'll need money while he's there as well.' Oshoba seemed increasingly nervous. He went over to the window and stood fiddling with the curtain. ‘I was wondering, beautiful lady, whether you … you might be able to help.'

‘Me?'

‘Well, I know you're selling your house.'

She stared at him, incredulous. Was he trying to turn their sex into a sordid cash transaction? ‘But it's not sold yet. And most of that money's earmarked anyway.'

‘What do you mean? It's a big house, isn't it? It must be worth a lot.'

Don't say any more, she pleaded silently. Don't spoil things.

They were already spoiled. Irredeemably. As they were between her and Paul. (Paul hadn't demanded cash in return for sex: he had demanded sex in return for dinner. And as he'd admitted having several other girlfriends she wasn't keen to join the harem.) ‘Oshoba, the money's tied up, mine and Ralph's. We have a joint account.'

‘But you said you were divorcing him.'

‘Not yet. Things are very … uncertain.' Uncertain all round. They did have a prospective buyer for the house, but he had put in a depressingly low offer. Should they accept and get Bowden off their backs, or hold out for the asking price?

Oshoba looked thoroughly wretched, his brow creased, his fingers drumming on the window-sill. Perhaps she was being unfair. If he was genuinely worried about his sister's health he might be forced to take desperate measures. And yet it did seem an awful cheek to expect
her
to shell out. ‘I'm not working at the moment myself. Money's very tight.'

‘But your aunt's house – the one she left you in her will. That should bring in a good bit.'

All the things she had told him in good faith were now being turned against her. She heard her voice, listless and dejected. ‘We have to wait for probate to be cleared.'

‘I don't understand.'

No, he didn't understand – only the needs of her body. Had he planned it all deliberately? Shag the woman till she's stupefied, then stand over her while she signs the cheque? But how could he have faked his own excitement? That noisy, shuddering climax? And what about the last time? He hadn't asked for anything then. In fact he had always been gentle and caring; a giver, not a taker. She sipped the wine to allow herself time to think – expensive Chardonnay that tasted flat and sour. ‘Oshoba, I'd like to help but I … I can't. Things are very difficult financially.'

‘My brother says your house is worth a million.'

She flung the covers aside and stood up. ‘Well, he's wrong – completely and utterly. And what does
he
know about it? Unless you've been talking, of course.'

He grasped her arm, so tight it hurt. ‘You know I wouldn't do that. But he's always asking questions, and then I found that he's been checking up on you.'