Asking For Trouble (22 page)

They made me crawl and catch semen on my out-stretched tongue.

I had to stand behind the sofa, bent over the back, wrists tethered, while Pete fucked my arse, while Ilya fingered me, while the blood rushed to my head and I climaxed wildly.

They made me colour my vulva with lipstick then lie starfish-style on the floor. They prodded and poked me, jotting down a punishment tally for my every moan and squirm. Then they spanked my buttocks, counting out the score.

Throughout they avoided all male-genital collisions. I pleaded with them to take me at the same time – one front, one back. But they wouldn’t. ‘Homophobes,’ I cursed.

They phoned for pizza and I had to collect from the
front door, wearing my dress-to-please-him undies. I think the pizza boy was more embarrassed than I was.

The two men ate, with me as coffee table, and I didn’t get a morsel.

The abuse continued until, finally, Pete and Ilya decided they were shagged out. They had no use for me any more.

Pete rang for a taxi.

I was sent home, my body aching, my mind reeling.

I don’t know why, but it just hadn’t occurred to me that Ilya could threaten me with cuttlefish if I refused to submit.

I’d thought that cuttlefish was my power; that Ilya wouldn’t dare do anything too nasty in case he pushed me too far and forced me to call time. And yet suddenly it seemed to have changed.

I had no idea if Ilya was serious or bluffing. But I wasn’t going to risk finding out by disobeying him.

Had he seen through me? Had he realised that only under pain of death would I scream out that final word?

If so, then Ilya had a lot more power in this game than I was comfortable with. And, in turn, I really didn’t have much.

Things were starting to look pretty damn scary.

HOT SEX.

That was to be the name of my new-style gigs.

In a powwow at the pub with Jen and Clare, we invented lots of acronyms using Body Language: Blush, Blue and Blister. But we couldn’t think of any decent phrases to fit the letters. We had silly names, like Blow-job, with silly words to match – Body Language orders women to jump on boys; and better names, like Bliss, still with silly words – Body Language is Shaun’s shite.

In the end, we all plumped for Hot Sex.

Jenny was full of ideas to make the room look good, and I was happy to let her deal with it. ‘Bordello chic,’ she’d said. ‘Trashy, glam and sumptuous.’

She was going to make some great big love hearts to dangle from the ceiling – cut from polystyrene and covered in red fur – because, Jenny said, you’ve got to have love. The biggest and best heart was going to have the words ‘Hot Sex’ sewn on glittery fabric and it was going to hang in the landing outside the room, over the desk where you pay your money.

Or maybe that would be a waste and we’d use it as part of the stage backdrop. Or maybe, if there was time,
Jenny would make two great big furry hearts with Hot Sex lettering.

There wouldn’t be time. It was a serious rush-job because Shaun was eager to get the nights up and running – so eager that I’d persuaded him to invest three hundred quid in my new venture.

And I’d been so busy that I’d actually had to say to Ilya ‘Sorry, no can do’ when he’d phoned once or twice to fix a dirty date. Maybe that was a good thing.

Jenny and I merged into the leisurely bustle of Bond Street, Jenny swinging a carrier bag of glitzy bits.

It was hot and sticky and the streets were milling with all the bright young things being sexy for summer. They strolled along in the middle of the road, drifting blithely to one side whenever a car tried nosing its way through.

‘Martin was round at ours again yesterday,’ said Jen, hooking her plump arm in mine.

‘Oh God,’ I murmured, my heart sinking. ‘Has he got over me yet?’

‘I think he might be getting there,’ replied Jenny. ‘He still thinks you’re a bitch, though, only he doesn’t say it with as much venom these days. I think you’ve been a bitch as well, just cutting him out of your life like that. But you know my position.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said wearily.

‘Oh, come on, Beth,’ said Jenny. ‘You used to be bosom buddies. It’s not right to throw it all away because of a stupid affair you had together. You’ve got to put some effort into getting it fixed. You can’t just brush it under the carpet and –’

‘I’ve been busy,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a lot on my mind. Look, I’ll get in touch with him soon. I know I’ve been rotten but . . . I’ve been busy, that’s all. Anyway, it was Martin who suggested we didn’t see each other for a while, not me.’

We let the dawdling North Laine crowds dictate our pace while I wallowed in some silent guilt – a double
load of it: guilt because I’d neglected Martin who was once so important to me; and guilt because I still hadn’t told anyone about Ilya. I was always lying, making excuses, pretending I was in such-and-such a place when I was actually with Ilya.

Maybe I’d tell Jenny soon. Not in detail, just that I’m seeing some guy but I’m not ready for you to meet him yet.

At the end of Gardner Street, we merged with a jumble of people, some waiting for the traffic lights to change, others trying to squeeze past. There was a great gaggle of language students there, all with their little yellow rucksacks.

A bunch of them jostled and screeched and a couple of kids lunged heavily into Jenny. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she cursed quietly.

Two pairs of big brown eyes gazed up blankly at us. ‘
Pardon
?’ pronounced one kid.

Jenny gave him an enormous smile. ‘You daft tosser,’ she said politely.

And then the kid was off, giggling and shoving at the ones who’d just shoved him.

‘C’mon. Let’s detour,’ said Jen, as the cars collected and the man went green. ‘I’m not getting stuck behind that lot.’

The kids crocodiled across the road like a yellow-humped monster, and we snuck up between the cars to escape the rabble.

Upper Gardner Street was, as usual, quieter. The shops along there aren’t really shops. They’re more like open-fronted garages – small warehouses, I suppose – and they’re stuffed full of antiques and junk.

I had a memory pang of the time I’d trailed Ilya down the very same street. It seemed so long ago and it was strange to remember him as a man I hardly knew; strange to think of him rounding on me when he realised I’d
been following him. Given the chance, I thought, would I do the same thing again?

I reckoned I probably would, even though the mysteries of Ilya’s life didn’t concern me as much as they once had done. I was more concerned about the way our game was developing and whether it might start getting too nasty because Ilya had the driving reins in a pretty tight grip.

Jen and I strolled along in a lazy, summer’s day fashion. Jenny was telling me some story about a friend of a friend that I’d heard before. Jenny’s good at repeats so I was only half listening.

My eyes were drifting over the motley assortment of furniture on the pavements in front of the garages. I was fantasising about spotting a neon sign for sale that said
HOT SEX
or maybe a lush chaise-longue for a tenner.

Then, all of a sudden, my attention was grabbed because there, just inside one of the garage entrances, was Ilya.

I carried on walking, fed Jenny with a little laugh. In my head, a confusion of thoughts whirled, but there was only one image, clear and sharp: Ilya, leaning against a clunking great wardrobe, a mug of something in one hand, talking to someone deeper in the room, laughing. He’d looked very at home. He wasn’t shopping.

What was he doing there? Had I stumbled on the reason for his secrecy? Was he some kind of dodgy antiques dealer?

Oh, please, I thought, don’t let that be true. Don’t let him be a wide-boy in sex god’s clothing. I’d rather have him as an unemployed builder. Or a powdery-fingered drug baron with foreign connections

Maybe it wasn’t him at all. Maybe my eyes were just playing tricks. Perhaps I ought to go back and take a second look, just to put my mind at rest.

We reached the end of the street and turned down towards the shops again.

‘Ahh,’ said Jenny, drawing me over to some little chess-board-top table. ‘Tom and Clare’ve been after one of these. I told them to come down here.’

Please linger, I thought. Give me a chance to decide what to do. I recalled Ilya’s anger the time I’d followed him. He’d accused me of being a weirdo obsessive. I didn’t want any of that shit again.

Jenny stroked the table. ‘It’s not in very good nick though, is it?’ she said.

‘Jen,’ I said. ‘I’m just gonna bob back to one of those places we passed. Won’t be long. Will you be hanging round here?’

‘I’ll come with you in a sec,’ she said, bending low to inspect the table legs.

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s OK. Don’t. I just . . . I saw something.’ I struggled for a reason to deter her in case I had to do something odd like a sudden about-turn. Inspiration hit me.

‘It’s a certain somebody’s birthday soon,’ I said, putting on a mystery voice. ‘And I spotted something she might like. So you can just stay right where you are.’

Jenny beamed. ‘Well, if that’s the case, you take all the time you need. Still got some of that money left from Shaun, have you?’

I made a mocking retort then retraced my steps. Was I doing the right thing?

As I neared the warehouse, I decided my best bet would be to play it lightly. I wouldn’t risk trying to be sneaky in case he spotted me and thought I was spying on him. I’d be open about seeing him and I’d just make it seem like a little tease, a jokey dig at him for always being so cagey.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t fly off the handle like the first time. But I didn’t think he would; we knew each other better now.

Ilya was no longer standing in the big square doorway.
Had he seen me and disappeared inside? No one seemed to be around, so, tentatively, I walked in.

The floor was cobbled stone and, either side of me, furniture was stacked on top of furniture, making the room feel more like a corridor. There was a fair amount of junk: a floral armchair with foam spilling out, a broken bookcase, some lumpy shapes covered in green canvas, an enormous mirror dulled with dust.

The corridor opened out into a broader space, which was heaped with wooden furniture, and bright with sunlight because the roof was corrugated plastic. A pair of stone lions stared impassively at me.

High on the far wall, near a fringe of brown, withered ivy, was a sign saying:
SORRY – STRICTLY TRADE AND EXPORT
.

I felt uneasy. Did that mean Joe Public browsers weren’t welcome in here? Maybe ‘strictly trade and export’ was a code for ‘strictly small-time crooks’. Or was I getting carried away with the mythology of the antiques trade as being full of wheeler-dealers, stolen goods and fakes?

But no. The more I gazed around, the more lifelike that myth became. A lot of the furniture was quality stuff: sturdy, well-polished, delicately carved – the kind of thing you’d expect to find in a posh antiques shop. That didn’t sit too well with the child-size billiard table or the West Ham fixtures list taped to the wall.

The place just smacked of people who wanted to make grubby money, rather than people who cared about antiques. They wouldn’t say, ‘Fine example of Neoclassical design’; they’d say, ‘Yeah, nice bit of wood that, darlin’.’

I ran my finger over a marble-topped table. Somewhere down the line, I thought, if you could trace it back, there are some seriously miffed toffs who used to own all this stuff.

Was Ilya really part of this scene?

I wandered through to an adjoining room. The roof there was made of rafters, pointing upward like a barn, and it smelt musty and damp. In the midst of the tall furniture were several rows of stripy chairs, all facing the same way – like a congregation of ghosts. Fluorescent striplights buzzed quietly above.

Where was he?

And, more to the point, what was he? Honourable rogue? Vicious criminal? A friend just passing who’d stopped for a coffee?

I feigned interest in a glass chandelier until a noise in the far corner caught my ear. A door opened and three men emerged, laughing and chatting. One of them was Ilya.

Now what?

He glanced my way. When he saw me, his smile faded a touch before he forced it back. He walked a few paces with the two men, slapped one on the shoulder, then turned towards me. I wove my way through the clutter to meet him.

‘Well? he demanded, his tone hushed. ‘Aren’t you even going to fake surprise and pretend you’re looking for furniture?’

We were standing between a tall chest of drawers and a round table with a travelling trunk on top. Once again, Ilya was not pleased to have me on his tail.

I smiled, attempting lightness. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I was looking for you. Do you have contacts here? Because, if you do, I quite fancy a cheapish pine –’

Ilya seized my wrist.

‘Come into the office,’ he hissed, giving my arm a sharp tug.

He strode away and I followed. Maybe we were getting somewhere at last.

Ilya led me along another junk-lined corridor with another garage-style doorway at the end. It looked out on to the street and for a moment I thought he was
showing me the exit. But instead he opened a side door, urging me inside with a brisk nod.

The office was pretty small, with a huge, leather-topped desk dominating one half. There was hardly anything on the desk except some pens in a pot, a phone and a notepad. Its sole function was obviously to make whoever sat behind it feel important.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ said Ilya as he rattled the door shut.

‘I might ask you the same question,’ I replied coolly, folding my arms.

‘No,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve had enough of your fucking questions so why don’t you just give it a rest because I’m fast getting sick of it? It’s none of your fucking business where I go, what I do, blah, blah, blah. It doesn’t affect you. It doesn’t fucking –’

I was about to protest that all I’d ever been was mildly curious and that he was exaggerating wildly, but Ilya just moved closer and carried on with his rant, jabbing a finger at the air. He had that mad, angry glint in his eyes again and it made me wonder what he was capable of.