Undone Page 11

  I was flattered and pleased he’d opened up. Having to safeguard the secrecy of our involvement with Misha required strong bonds of trust. Together, we had to lie to the rest of the world. And our reasons for doing so were, I had to confess to myself, not honourable. We were lying to save ourselves, to make life easier and to keep others out of our sexual business. At times, I’ve tried to convince myself we’re also doing it to prevent Misha’s name from being dragged through the mud but, deep down, I know it’s about us, the living. I feel guilty that we’ve distanced ourselves from Misha. We’ve effectively abandoned him, have turned him into a lost, lonely soul in his final hours, wandering friendless around Dravendene before going for that fateful swim, no witnesses to his activity. With our false story, we’ve made a restless ghost of him before he actually died.

  I don’t feel able to discuss this anxiety with Sol. Instead, I’m keeping my thoughts close.

  ‘So what are you doing now?’ I asked. ‘Why Saltbourne?’

  ‘I’m renting in Brighton.’ He leaned forwards to stub out his cigarette and then sat back in his chair. ‘My gran left me a lot of money. Crazy amounts. I’m in the process of selling her Hendon house. Well, it’s a bit of hole so I’m renovating it. I used to do casual labouring as a student, learned some joinery and bricklaying, and I’d dabble back in the States. I was just going to work on the house but, oh man, after a few months, I seriously needed to get out of Hendon. Everyone my gran ever knew wants to marry me off to some nice Jewish girl they know.’

  I laughed.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ he said, grinning. ‘I feel … used. Exploited. Can’t even have a conversation without wondering if someone’s got an ulterior motive. So anyway, I’ve put the renovation on hold. Might contract it out later. And now I’m signed with an agency. Had to take a couple of courses to update my skills and get on their books but I’m officially A OK. I’m just taking odd jobs here and there. It doesn’t do to be idle. Bad for the soul. And I like the physical grafting.’ He patted his taut stomach. ‘Keeps me in shape.’

  ‘Looks good to me,’ I said. ‘And cheaper than gym membership.’

  ‘So do you work out?’ he asked. ‘Quite a body on you.’

  ‘Good genes,’ I said. ‘And a tongue that favours sour and bitter rather than sweet and rich.’

  He grinned. ‘Tell me about that tongue. I like what I know of it so far.’

  I laughed. ‘You have a one-track mind, Sol Miller.’

  He twisted in his seat and addressed me in a deliberately creepy voice. ‘I do when it comes to you.’

  ‘To return to my question,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here? Today?’

  ‘The agency offered me some work yesterday. Bit of a schlep from Brighton but hey.’ He shrugged, sitting back in his seat.

  ‘I meant here. In this bar.’

  ‘I wanted to see you.’ His tone was casual and surprised, as if he were responding to a really dim question. ‘That’s not a problem, is it?’

  ‘No, course not.’

  I didn’t know what else to say. I wanted to ask him what his feelings were; what this meant to him; if he had any hopes for this burgeoning relationship, or any fears and doubts. But engaging with those very issues entailed putting the relationship on another level, a more emotionally honest level. And that was what I wanted to know: what level are we at? The emotionally honest one? Where are we going, do you think? Are you as infatuated as I am?

  The thing to be discussed was affected by the discussing of it. And that potential discussion might bring us to a more mutual understanding or result in us hightailing it in opposite directions. Broaching the subject was too great a risk to take.

  ‘So are you seeing anyone else?’ I asked. ‘Early days, of course, but I’d just like to know…’

  I trailed off. The phrase I’d been about to use was ‘to know where I stand’. But that wasn’t what I meant. Or, actually, it was, to my shame. But I didn’t want him to realise that, as far as I was concerned, the cards were stacked in his favour. A forty-one-year-old divorcee with a cocktail bar might sound like a great catch, but experience had shown me otherwise. I’d tried online dating and had been open-minded when friends had tried to match-make. But it seemed the guys who found my status attractive were either feckless twenty-somethings who regarded me as a cougar with beer-dispensing boobs; men older than me who hadn’t aged terribly well; or men around my age who wanted to cheat on their wives. Basically, all the good ones were taken.

  ‘Not seeing anyone else, no,’ said Sol. ‘But, you know, we’ve only just met and I—’

  ‘Oh, no, no! I wasn’t expecting anything. Not at all. I just thought it would be good to be, um, transparent.’

  I wondered if now was the time to raise the issue of our failure to use condoms in the forest. Sol reached for his cigarette pack and slotted his lighter into the box.

  ‘I don’t want to fall in love, Lana.’

  ‘Nor do I.’ My voice was sharp, panicked.

  ‘Good. Then let’s keep things light, shall we?’

  I shrugged, turning aside. ‘Not a problem. I think you’ve got the wrong idea. I was only asking.’

  He sat back in his chair. The silence between us stretched. Jeez, did he think all women were out to snare him and needed to be warned off?

  We acted relaxed, sipping our drinks, gazing downslope at all the mismatched rooftops. How do you keep things light when they’ve started off in darkness? Is there a switch you can flick?

  At length, trying to make my tone neutral, I said, ‘I need to get back to work soon.’

  ‘Yeah, I need to head off, too.’ He reached for his T-shirt and dressed. ‘Thanks for the drinks.’

  ‘Any time.’

  We stood. I collected our two glasses in one hand, suddenly aware that, despite looking as if I were in professional bartender mode, beneath my nice, smart skirt I was knickerless and damp.

  ‘Lana?’

  As I turned, he drew me to him, his hand low on my back. He nudged my body towards his, pressing his hip into my belly while his fingertips skimmed the upper curve of my buttocks.

  ‘Good to see you again,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘And you.’

  I smooched against him. His sexual eagerness arriving on the back of his emotional distance confused me. But, no, he’d been fairly revealing about his past. This was a relationship distance, wasn’t it? His other hand slid up to the nape of my neck. It bothered me that Raphael might see us from behind the bar. He didn’t have enough customers to occupy him. Sol wound his fingers into my hair, gradually pulling harder. Sensation tingled between my thighs.

  Keep things light. I needed to hold on to that, to not mistake one set of emotions for another. Our relationship had started off in tragedy. I mustn’t import the intensity of feeling generated by Misha’s death into the connection I had with Sol.

  With my free hand, I reached around to encircle his waist, pressing into the slab of strength beneath his T-shirt. I thought we were going to kiss but, instead, he held my head in place as he scoured his rough jaw over my neck. The sandpapery caress fired up my pulses. His lips dabbed at me; then they were moving by my ear, his breath warm on my skin. The delicacy of his touch aroused me too. His hair swept against my face. I couldn’t see anything except a jigsaw of near and far, the blur of his face, a seagull taking flight against a mellow blue sky.

  ‘Come to Brighton,’ he said gently. ‘Mine for one night. My sweet submissive slut. That right?’

  My heart went pitter-patter. I swallowed, closing my eyes. ‘Whatever you want, boss.’

  His lips brushed against my lobe. His voice was low, tender and approving. ‘Good girl,’ he whispered.

  Oh God, how that phrase makes me melt. Delivered in that dirty, voluptuous accent of his, and I was practically a puddle.

  ‘You know you want this too.’ His thumb nudged under my top and stirred hard, tiny circles in the small of my back. ‘And you know I’ll look after you, don
’t you, Cha Cha?’

  His promise to care for me made me weak with a surge of lust I couldn’t comprehend. Hit me, bind me, make me beg for mercy. It made sense that these would turn me on, but lust sparked by protectiveness confused me. Don’t dwell on it, I told myself. This apparent kindness is meaningless. Ours is a highly charged sexual relationship. That an expression of caring could excite me didn’t mean I wanted more from him.

  That was almost a week ago and I’m longing to see him again. The fetish night is this weekend. I’m not sure if I can cope till then. I am beyond horny, beyond sanity and reason. I feel as if I’m sixteen once more, utterly and absolutely consumed by thoughts of him and what he might do to me. I don’t know what the weekend will bring but I’m quite certain it can’t be as deliciously twisted as some of the scenarios I’ve been conjuring up late at night, fantasies so dark I can’t even bring myself to record them in this journal.

  Nothing is safe once it leaves the confines of your own brain. If you don’t want anyone to know your innermost thoughts, say nothing and write nothing. After all, the only person you can completely trust is yourself. And even then, not always.

  Wednesday 9th July

  He emailed today and wrote:

  Hey Cha Cha, this is the deal:

  Wear a costume that disguises your face but exposes those cute little tits.

  Be ready for me at nine, on your knees, in the Metropole hotel. The room’s booked in my name. Reception know you’ll be arriving first. Bring along some of those fancy handcuffs you told me about.

  Your safeword is ‘blanket’. I figured we needed a fresh one.

  Be mine until the morning. Then we’ll take stock.

  He included a link to the event but I’d already checked it out. The theme for the evening is uniform. Now, while I like a man in uniform, I don’t much care for me in uniform so I’ve been racking my brains for an outfit. And I’m wondering what will happen when Sol walks into the hotel room and I’m on my knees in readiness, his until the morning. If I gift him with my submission, what will he do with that? Where will he take me?

  I’m so ridiculously excited at the prospect of relinquishing control to him that I keep forgetting we’re ostensibly attending on business. I didn’t notice anything odd about the atmosphere at Dravendene so I’m not sure where Sol is coming from with his suspicions of ‘underground’ sex, whatever that means. But if he wants me to accompany him on an amateur sleuthing exercise, then it’s Miss Marple at the ready. The roles we’re playing here are layered and complex. Hard to say which is the most authentic, which is closest to our real reason for attending Club Sybaris together.

  I keep hoping he’ll pop into the bar again when he clocks off from work. Since we didn’t use rubbers in the forest, and because I’m eminently sensible (except when I’m not), I recently took the precaution of getting checked out at the sexual health clinic and taking a pregnancy test. Going skin to skin is presumably atypical for both of us. I wonder if we should discuss it or just pretend it didn’t happen. Probably the latter. People in the grip of passion can be relied upon to do dumb things. I figure we both understand that, so no point making a drama out of minor regrets. Either way, I’d happily spend more time with him before the fetish night. I’d invite him over for a drink but I keep replaying his knock-down: I don’t want to fall in love, Lana.

  As if I’d even suggested that! Anyway, I reckon it’s generally best to play it cool. Don’t want to scare him off. Jeez, listen to me! I really have turned into a schoolgirl. Next thing you know, I’ll be writing his name over and over, and pouring out my heart in a diary. Haha! I am forty-one-and-a-half years old!

  Sol Miller

  Sol Miller

  Mr Solomon Miller.

  Lana and Solomon sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

  I really must stop this and do some work! There are limes in need of squeezing and a floor in need of sweeping.

  Saturday 12th July

  Living by the sea thrills me. Normality has a sense of holiday excitement. Most days in Saltbourne, I only glimpse the sea but you can feel the buzz of excitement in the air. I get up late, I go to the bank, the pool, the shops; then my working day starts mid-afternoon and continues until midnight. If I have a delivery, I’ll rejig things but, somehow, I always manage to swim. I still haven’t skipped a day since Dravendene, and forty lengths is now my regular total. Fears are to be pushed past. I’m pretty good at doing that in order to regain control. If I weren’t, I doubt I’d be here now.

  I’m in Brighton, waiting for Sol, and feeling that rush of heady, seaside joy. The Metropole is swanky and, I assume, paid for by Sol’s deceased grandmother rather than by a labourer’s wages. I wanted to split the bill but he insisted not. His idea so his treat. I could get the next one. I have a bottle of white wine chilling in a sink of cold water in the en suite, two toothbrush glasses downed while I was getting ready.

  I’m writing at the mirrored desk, dressed like a debauched, dip-dyed Marie Antoinette. I customised a ball gown from eBay to make a flouncy skirt from shot-silk taffeta. Its iridescent shimmer flickers between deep forest green and aubergine-black, the colour of bruises and a sea gone awry. An underbust corset would have been the obvious garment to complement the skirt but I figured I’d never be able to find a colour-match and, anyway, my tits are too small to carry off the look. Instead, I’ve opted to play to my strengths and gone for a hint of androgynous glam. I’m proudly bare-breasted and rocking a pair of braces. Or suspenders, as Sol would probably call them. And I’m not fully bare-breasted. I’ve bought sequinned nipple covers, shaped like stars. The packaging tells me they’re called pasties, the word stemming from the adhesive paste used to glue them to the skin. This is a whole new world I’m entering here. I’ve wrapped a dark purple sash around my waist to conceal the clips of the braces. My concession to the theme is a medal on a ribbon pinned to my braces and a black beret in my hair.

  I like the contrast of the huge skirt and minimalist top half. The skirt hem sways just above ankle length, exposing my Chie Mihara shoes with the Pompadour heels, so I’m hoping the skirt won’t get trodden on and torn. Heck, I worry too much, I know. I need to learn how to go with the flow, to stop wanting to be so in control of things. In control of everything except when it comes to sex. But no, I’m in control of that too. In control of how I want to abandon control. Or I was until I met Sol.

  I keep gazing out of the hotel room window to the charred black skeleton of the derelict West Pier, its frame hunched over the sea. The sky is a blaze of apricot and pink as the sun slips towards the horizon. Swarms of starlings swoop around the pier, making ribbons in the air. Low foamy waves ripple across the blue water. It’s so peaceful.

  When I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I barely recognise my own face. My eyes are smoky hollows, my cheekbones studded with sequins and glitter, deep purple swirls dotted with hints of emerald green to match the skirt. My lips are encrusted with silver and lilac. I’ve tonged my hair, too, so blonde ringlets hang from the black beret for that retro hint of land girl. It isn’t a mask, but it’s as good as.

  I need to stop writing now. Sol will be here soon, and I’ve got to get on my knees, dressed in this crazy costume. I do love how weird this get-up feels. My wardrobe generally takes its inspiration from the classics, usually 1950s or 60s vintage. My clothes are either snug and tailored or cute and a little flippy. Dressed like this, I feel reckless and wild. I’m a warrior-witch-spider, emerging from the woodwork. I’m nervous too. Part of me wishes I were dressed in a more stylish, modest outfit and that Sol would swing by in Doug Hayward tailoring. And we’d go out for dinner to a fancy Brighton restaurant where we could be unknown and ordinary with a hint of swish. We’d finish up in a cosy bar, dimly lit but twinkling with our own tipsiness. We’d make eyes at each other over our nightcap of choice; then, hand in hand, we’d stroll along the seafront under a starry sky. Back at the hotel, body to body, we’d fall apart and together, over and over until we
’d forgotten who we actually were. Instead, I’m going to stop writing and work out how to fix a pair of sparkly pasties to my tits. If anyone recognises me, I will die of embarrassment,

  But I have to remember, this isn’t about me. It’s about Misha. We’re doing it for him.

  Saturday night or Sunday morning? Hell, I don’t know.

  That was beyond anything I ever expected. I’m still not sure what to make of it or where it leaves us. I guess I should begin at the beginning to get my thoughts in order. Yes, that’s what I need to do. Everything in order, Lana. It’s Sunday 13th July, around 4.30 a.m.

  Last night, shortly before nine, I knelt in the room, waiting for him, curtains drawn, lights dimmed. I’d brought handcuffs from my collection with me, as instructed, and had placed three pairs on the bed in case he wanted to use them as soon as he arrived. No point being shy about these things. He was approximately five minutes late. That might not sound like much but when you’re on your knees in a hotel room, waiting for a guy you’ve got the hots for, every second is magnified. I listened to the sounds of the building, the odd murmur in the corridor or the closing of a door. Traffic hummed and rattled along the seafront road outside windows which wouldn’t open. The aircon whirred. I wished I’d thought to put some music on. I contemplated slipping out of role to log on to Spotify. But he might arrive any moment. So I didn’t. A tap dripped in the en suite. Jeez, it was torture. Should I risk moving to turn it off?

  I’d like to say I knelt there, full of shivers and arousal, contemplating my submission, but in truth it was somewhat boring and awkward. Maybe I’m not cut out for obeying a guy in this manner. Maybe I like things on the more physical side. Fucking rather than waiting for him to turn up.

  Then the door clicked with a key card, and my heartbeat whooshed. The doorway, backlit by the bright corridor, framed him. For the briefest instant, I thought I’d slipped back to a distant era. He stepped fully into the room, shutting the door behind him. He carried an overnight bag on one shoulder and he was broader and more powerful than I’d ever seen him before, a wide grin on his face, his dark eyes sparkling. He was dressed to the nines in a vintage military uniform in airforce blue, chevrons on one shoulder, gold detailing glinting in the half-light. His jacket bore the winged RAF insignia above one pocket, and the buttons and belt were unfastened, baring his hairy muscular torso. He wore a peaked cap at a rakish angle and he looked fabulously dissolute, an officer decidedly off duty. His grin was infectious. I wanted to leap up to give him a hug and a kiss, ask how he’d been, where he’d got the uniform from. Had he driven here, got a taxi or walked? Ordinary stuff.