Asking For Trouble (15 page)

He stayed there until his size began to dwindle, both of us dragging in fast uneven breaths. When he slipped out of me, I remained slumped over the work surface, unable to move. I was utterly done in. And when I felt his hands on the hem of my dress, which was up round my waist, I still couldn’t move. I needed to bask a while longer in my orgasm-induced weakness.

Ilya wrinkled the dress into decency, tugging rather than smoothing it down.

He did it silently, abruptly, and it felt horrible – as sexy as tissues. He left the kitchenette and I was reluctantly tucking my breasts in my dress when he returned.

‘Knickers,’ he announced, and I looked over my shoulder to see the scrap of red and black hanging from
one finger. ‘For what they’re worth,’ he added. ‘Bend over again.’

I sighed and leant across the Formica, allowing him to guide my feet into the leg holes.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’re a real gent.’

I swore softly when I felt my heel catch and heard the fabric rip. Ilya pulled the knickers up to my thighs then left me to finish the task. Depleted of strength and wanting nothing more than to sink into a comfy armchair, I followed him into the living room.

He was already picking up my leopard-print mac.

I stood there, sticky with banana and sex, my arse sore, knickers torn, dress stained, hair and make-up no doubt wrecked, and with a knee that was on its way to a great big bruise.

I felt dirt-cheap and thoroughly debased.

‘You can see yourself out, can’t you?’ said Ilya, grinning faintly as he handed me my coat.

I was a whore to the very end, it seemed. I wasn’t even allowed to breathe in the fumes of his post-coital cigarette.

‘Sure,’ I said, putting on a brave smile.

Just as I was about to leave, Ilya said, ‘So did I take you anywhere close to saying cuttlefish?’

I stood in the flat doorway and shrugged, unsure of the wisest answer. ‘I didn’t like it much when you laid into my arse,’ I replied. ‘You were too aggressive. I told you before, I’m not into pain. And my knee –’

‘Fine,’ said Ilya breezily. ‘I’ll remember that: she doesn’t want more pain; she wants more humiliation, more degradation. Is that right?’

‘Suppose so,’ I mumbled, unnerved by his cold assessment of my coy desires.

Ilya gave a quick laugh. ‘Ah, Beth,’ he said, tipping my chin up. ‘Sooner or later, you’re gonna wish you
were
into pain. Now go on. Get out. You look disgusting.’

‘
BETH BRADSHAW, YOU
look like shit.’

‘Thanks, Clare. I feel like shit.’

‘No, I mean really shit. I know you’ve got a hangover but –’ Clare touched a hand to my cheek and angled my face to a dusty shaft of sunlight. I winced and jerked away.

Clare grinned, smug as fuck.

‘Well, well, well,’ she said. ‘I do believe that’s a beard rash. What did I miss last night? Who’ve you been snogging? Jenny never said anything. Who –’

‘It’s nothing,’ I said, going behind the bar. I pulled down the door of the glass-washer and a great cloud of wet steam hit my face. I almost keeled over. ‘Just exfoliated too much this morning,’ I added, rattling out a tray of gleaming pint glasses.

Clare’s got a dark, boyish crop and trendy, not-much-of-a-handful tits, and, even when she’s wearing, as she was then, just flared jeans and a skinny-fit vest, I always feel slightly chaotic and dishevelled in comparison. That morning, I felt like a positive tramp.

‘Bollocks,’ replied Clare, helping me stack upturned glasses on the shelf above. ‘Who is he? You’ve been
weird lately. You hardly come to the pub any more. You borrow my shoes. You –’

‘Christ, Clare,’ I snapped. ‘Will you be a bit quieter with those fucking glasses? My head’s killing me. I just haven’t been to the pub for a while ‘cos it’s at your end of town and sometimes I like staying in. OK? I like having my own place. I like being in it. It’s no big deal.’

‘And you’re a grouchy cow,’ she said brightly. ‘What do you want me to do next?’

‘Get that banner down from the stage,’ I replied. ‘Please. Sweetheart. And then could you do the posters as well? Just bin ’em. Cheers, Clare.’

Clare wandered off.

My venue for Body Language is a small room above a pub. I don’t pay for it. The management makes its money on the beer; I make my money on the door. At night, when I’ve got a gig on, I do my best to create a cosy lounge-cum-bar atmosphere: couple of sofas, dinky little tables with candles, a low stage, decorations dangling here and there. It looks good in a subterranean sort of way.

But the place just doesn’t suit daylight. It looks stark and harsh. You can see the cracks, the peeling burgundy paint, the rough floor where varnish has worn away, the tops of buildings across the street.

That morning, I didn’t suit daylight.

Owen came over to the bar and set down a stack of emptied ashtrays. ‘Shall I make a start on the PA?’ he asked. ‘Or are you still waiting for Denny?’

Instinctively, I checked my wrist, cursing when I remembered my watch wasn’t there. I’d already hunted around for it in the club, but to no avail. Which meant I’d left it at Ilya’s, along with the feather boa. I’d have to call in on the way back, maybe apologise again for being a drunken lush.

‘We’ll give him a few more minutes,’ I said. ‘If he hasn’t turned up by then, make a start and I’ll give you
a hand. Just need to reload the washer first. Oh, and thanks, Owen. Above and beyond the call. You’re an angel.’

He grinned. ‘Good night last night, wasn’t it?’

I could see Clare casting suspicious glances our way. ‘No,’ I wanted to shout. ‘I am not shagging Owen.’

‘Yeah, it was,’ I said. ‘Bit blurry in parts, though.’

‘Likewise,’ said Owen, and he ambled off to put chairs on the cleared tables in readiness for the arrival of the cleaner.

Very blurry in parts. Oh, the demon drink.

The previous night we’d done the final Body Language gig of the season – a poetry slam that ended up being pretty wild and boisterous. I usually shut up shop for several weeks in summer because people have got better things to do with those long, warm evenings. And so have I. It starts kicking in again in October when the students return, though I might do some low-key events in the run-up. But, basically, last night was the start of me being a bit less hectic – not exactly on holiday, just less hectic.

And that plus the fact that one of the bar staff was leaving – an Aussie guy called Paul who was truly lovely – had called for some serious after-hours drinking. It was a kind of celebration combined with my way of saying thanks to all those people who had mucked in over recent months.

So we’d ended up getting completely blasted and stayed up far too late for a Tuesday – apart from Clare, who’d had a cosy night in with Tom, which was why she was so annoyingly out of synch with the rest of us. Still, deep down I appreciated her being there, stepping in for Jenny who – ‘Course I’ll help out tomorrow, promise I will, Beth, I love clearing up’ – couldn’t quite make it out of duvet-heaven.

I didn’t have the luxury of staying in bed – partly because I was the boss and partly because, for the very
first time, I’d woken up in Ilya’s bed and he’d kicked me out at the brutal crack of dawn.

Well, it had seemed like the brutal crack of dawn, but, in truth, dawn was probably cracking as I was staggering my way home, grinning inanely and thinking, Wouldn’t it be great to call in on my lovely, sexy Ilya and say, ‘Hi there, you gorgeous hunk of a man. Fancy a fuck?’

So that’s what I did, more or less.

‘Speth,’ I slurred into his intercom.

‘What?’ came a sleepy voice.

‘Beth,’ I pronounced carefully. ‘It’s Beth. The luvverly Beth.’

‘Christ,’ came a fuzzy whisper.

Then buzz, push and I was stumbling up the dark stairs to his flat. I had Jenny’s purple feather boa round my neck, which can’t have looked too great with my trainers, pencil-skirt and body-warmer; but it was purple and it matched my fingernails so I’d insisted on the right to wear it and take it home for the night because it was so, soooh soft.

At the door of his flat, there was Ilya, tying the cord of a navy bathrobe and looking none too pleased.

‘Don’t do that,’ I’d protested, crashing past him and clawing at his robe. ‘I’m here now. Don’t get dressed.’

Ilya unpeeled my clutching fingers and made me sit on his sofa. I heard him turn on the tap in his kitchenette.

‘Drink this,’ he said, returning with a full pint glass. ‘It’s water.’

‘But I don’t wanna drink water,’ I complained, slinging the boa over one shoulder. ‘Water’s really boring. Water’s the most boring drink in the world. Hasn’t got any colour. Hasn’t got any taste. An’ it’s free. ‘Sgotta be shit if it’s free. I like coloured, expensive –’

‘Drink it,’ he said firmly. ‘Or I’ll turf you out.’

‘I’m drunk,’ I declared, proud and belligerent. ‘Aren’t you gonna take advantage of me? Fuck me up the arse or something, like you keep on promis–’

‘Drink it, Beth,’ said Ilya, putting the glass in my hand.

So I did. Then Ilya led me into his bedroom and set about undressing me with patient efficiency while I stumbled, swayed and smooched at him. Then he put me in his bed, got in beside me, switched off the lamp, and said, ‘Shut up, Beth, and go to sleep.’

I was out like a light.

Next thing I remember was the sound of phone, trilling into the thick, black fuzz of my mind.

‘Yeah, right,’ Ilya was saying. ‘Got that, yep. Uh-huh. OK. Got that. Yep.’

I rolled over, squinting into a room full of cruel, filtered sunlight. Ilya, mobile phone crooked into his shoulder, was scribbling something down on a bit of paper.

Oh God. It was morning. What the hell was I doing here, in Ilya’s bed? We never slept together, not literally. Far too intimate.

I pieced the night back together in rapid jigsaw fashion: tequila slammers; Ilya fastening a blue bathrobe; Jenny tripping over a cable when she went up on stage; Paul introducing me to the delights of curaçao and beer depthcharges; Ilya in a blue bathrobe trying to undress me; being loudly drunk with Helen in the bright, white, 24-hour shop; Ilya making me drink water; me buzzing his flat.

Oh God.

Had we had sex? No, impossible.

Ilya pressed off his phone and turned to me with a smile. ‘How’s your head?’ he asked, his jade and blue eyes veiled with sleepiness.

I groaned. ‘Oh God, I’m so, so sorry.’ My voice was croaky. I had to cough to clear my throat. ‘I was well out of order. What time did I call? Was it really late?’

‘Three fifty-two,’ he replied.

‘Oh shit. Sorry. What time is it now?’

‘Nearly eight.’

‘Ohhh. I need three times as much sleep and I’ve got to go and clear up soon. Have you got any pills?’

‘What sort of pills?’

‘Anything. Just pills. Pills to make me feel better. Pills to put me to sleep. Pills to wake me up. I love pills. Anything.’

Ilya went away with a jaunty morning erection and returned carrying a glass of water, some stuff for colds and flu, and some stuff for headaches. I was quite touched. He cares, I thought.

‘Cheers,’ I said, and swigged back a couple of pills. ‘Was I bad? Did I say anything embarrassing? I didn’t release my inner child or tell you I loved you, did I?’

‘Nah,’ he said, rolling into me and sweeping a hand over my contours. ‘But you did mention something about wanting a good hard fuck when you woke up.’

He thrust his hand between my legs and crushed it into my sex. I gave a loud groan of rejection.

‘Liar,’ I growled, and then suddenly he was tender, his lips touching mine in little fleeting kisses, his hand stroking lazily on my thigh and smoothing caresses over my buttocks.

‘Liar,’ I murmured.

He began edging down my body, sowing kisses from my neck to my breasts. I curved my hand to his shorn silky head as he licked my nipples into peaks, his unshaven jaw scouring lightly against my skin.

Sympathetic to my hangover, Ilya demanded nothing of me. I just lay there, sprawled on the pillows, moaning quietly while he teased me to sweet arousal and indulged me in sensation. We exchanged long, humid kisses, hence the stubble rash that Clare got so excited about later on; he sucked my fingers, my toes; he kissed the creases of my elbows and knees; he went down on me and lapped between my thighs and I climaxed, feeling as if I were in some underwater dreamscape.

And we fucked missionary-style, which, as far as I’m
concerned, is the only way to do it when you’re hungover. Too much moving about and your head’s in danger of exploding. Ilya, supporting his weight on his arms, drove his prick deep – nice and slow building up to good and hard. I came for a second time and he quickly followed.

My headache didn’t feel half so bad after that. Don’t know if it was the pills or the orgasms. Didn’t really care.

I lay there, feeling perfectly blissed out until the phone rang again. The shrill noise seemed to hit a nerve in my brain and my headache began pulsing into life once more.

‘Yep,’ said Ilya. ‘On my way. Just waiting for the taxi.’

It was all a bit weird. I didn’t know anyone who had a mobile phone. They just weren’t part of my world. They were things other people had, busy people, family people, sad people trying to appear popular. And not only did Ilya have a mobile: he had it by his bed and took important-sounding phone calls first thing in the morning. Definitely not part of my world.

‘Come on, Beth,’ said Ilya. ‘Shift your arse. I’ve got things to do, places to be.’ Then he bounded out of bed, whipping the duvet from me as he did so. I cursed him and reluctantly slouched over to my clothes, which were draped over a chair back.

‘Where’re you off to, then?’ I asked, trying to make the question sound conversational. ‘Have you got a high-powered job or something? Are you secretly rich? Because, if you are, I think you should take me to a big, posh restaurant.’ He was buttoning up a shirt, virtually dressed, and I’d just about managed to get my knickers on.

‘Long story,’ he replied, picking up the mobile. He punched in a number and ordered a taxi. He didn’t say where he was going. He half left the room then returned to grab the bit of paper he’d written on.