Breaking Joseph (12 page)

Charlotte’s
recipe was not for a love potion. Oh, enough of it sloshed about,
and some poison too, but mostly it was a festival of cock. Once,
Charlie took advantage of the deviant-in-waiting who interned at
his law office, and crumpled her morals like paper in his palm.
Soon she lay in his bed–or over his desk–more than in the arms of
her boyfriend, and he showed her what it was to have secrets. She
liked the taste.

When she lost
him, Charlotte curled nameless and waiting, clawing for the life in
shadows that he stole away. With whom would she share her urges?
Blood, like desire, tasted bitter when she drank it alone.

Then came the
excuse for the oldest profession. Time for Charlotte to get a name,
a job and a world of her own. Time to drag her bones from the
closet. As the whore was made flesh, so everything awful about
Leila came to be. Everything awful about me.

Wolves eat
little girls
, said Joseph, the hungry man with appetite of
Eve.

You are what
you eat, see. Eve ate an apple.

Joseph ate
me.

* * * *

Goodbye, New
York.

I refused
Poppy’s offer to swap seats again on the flight home. Matt remained
cool with me at the airport–sulking a little, I think–but soon
after we boarded, we were sharing magazines and squabbling over
what to put on his iPod. We weren’t fixed, we were never going to
get back to the flirtatious friends we had been, but it was
progress.

His metal play
list squealed in one ear and a blur of paradoxes crept into the
other. It occurred to me that if Joseph had never discovered
Charlotte, if I’d put paid to the whoring and come out here with no
obligation to anyone…I would still likely have ended up in Matt’s
bed. Things might have progressed a lot further between us without
ever having to tell him about the night job and when I finally
discovered the truth about Charlie, it would have been ten times
messier.

When I thought
about it all like that, what had transpired seemed preferable,
tears and sweat and all. It was a blond, chiselled shape to the
right of me, and every time I glanced at him, he was watching.

* * * *

“So what
happens now?”

The leather
seat of the cab felt sticky, and I slumped on Aidan’s shoulder as I
peeled my thighs away. It was like ripping off a bandage. “We go
home to sleep. You’re not actually suggesting drinks, are you?”

“No, no. Not
that, Lei-Lei.” He elbowed me lightly. “What happens now with you
and the Marquis de Sade?”

“I haven’t
decided yet.”

His copper
eyebrow rose in a cynical arch. “You get to decide?”

“Last night…he
asked me if I wanted to date him.” Saying that out loud made it
feel real. It could have been the first time I’d heard it.

“You mean he
asked for freebies,” Aidan scoffed. “Come on, we both know that
one.”

“I know, I
know. But it’s not like that.”

“I think we’ve
been here before. And the food was better,” he said forlornly,
scrunching a half-empty crisp packet in his fist. “Do you know what
you’re going to do?”

“I…I like him,
Aid.” I tugged at a broken cuticle. “But–”

“But he’s a
prick.”

“Well. Yes.” I
exhaled, and the burden hovered in the air. “For a lot of the time,
anyway.”

“You’ve got
awful taste. Have I told you that?”

I elbowed him
back. “Do you remember what you told me when we first met?”

“That you had
the hips for a strap-on?”

“Apart from
that,” I grumbled.

“Erm. No.”

“You said that
there are three ways to get someone to sleep with you: the first is
to make them think you’re great, but that’s pot luck. The second is
to pay them. And the third–the most effective, you said,” I counted
on my fingers, “is to make them think you’re a cunt.”

“What’s your
point, you pedantic cow?”

“Just because
he’s making me
think
he’s a prick, doesn’t mean he is.”

“Denial doesn’t
suit you. Just doesn’t work when you’re ginger.” The crisp packet
crackled in his fist. “We’re too shifty-looking.”

I snorted. “Oh,
so the wisdom of Aidan Reaper only applies when he’s the one who
says it?”

“S’pose I have
to hand it to him that he’s managed a weird combo of all three.” He
narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell Mattman I said that.”

“I won’t.”

“So that’s
that, then? Am I losing you to a cunt?”

“Shut it. I
don’t know. Ah…I said I’d think about it this weekend, okay? He’s
going to call on Sunday.”

“Well, you know
what I think,” he said.

“That we should
run off to Japan and make bukkake movies?”

“I’ll probably
be on tour with Cockspank.” He sighed wistfully. “It’s a hard life,
being a supergalactic musician-slash-manwhore.”

* * * *

Back in my
building, I staggered up the stairs with my suitcase and turned my
key in the lock. The metallic little groan was achingly
familiar.

In my dark,
cool flat, shadows reached out with spindly fingers and caressed me
toward bed. Sleep was impotent; it refused to swell. I found myself
tossing and turning, old memories swimming to the surface of choppy
tempests.

Dylan, his name
was–Elliot’s best friend and the first boy I felt more than simple
sin for. The one who left me embarrassed and alone on a stranger’s
bedroom floor.

I was sixteen,
had not long begun sixth form and felt adult in my new freedoms. A
friend of a friend held a house party.
He
would be there,
everyone said so, and I stood by the mirror with Clemmie and our
classmates and giggled over outfits and hairstyles. A few inches of
cleavage seemed a heady, exciting idea.

He approached
me sometime past ten, crushing paper cups into the carpet as he
climbed over the fawning couples. Observed me with that twitching,
lopsided grin. Held out his hand. His soft Welsh accent made his
words fall out in funny shapes. I pressed my warm palm to his,
accepted the drink he offered and managed not to splutter at its
strength. He introduced me to Elliot, to boys from his five-a-side
team, and I laughed at their jokes–I’d have laughed if they gave me
a first-person account of Auschwitz, if I’m honest. I had no idea
how to behave for this wonderful lump of flesh.

When he
suggested we find somewhere quiet upstairs, I heard no warning
bells, just the thick thud of my pulse in my ears. The bedroom was
dark and smelled damp, musky, of boy. He pushed me against the
wood-chipped wall and mumbled that I was gorgeous, that he’d been
watching me all night and kept thinking about my pretty mouth.
Could I have turned to syrup and slithered through his fingers,
he’d have found himself stuck to the floor.

There was no
skill to his kisses, no design to pattern he pawed. I didn’t know
any better and it didn’t matter, any of it–I’d been watching him
across corridors for months. His tongue tasted like beer, his
breath sweet with hops, and when he shoved his hands into my
bra–when I gasped against his mouth–he seemed surprised that I
liked it. Pleased.

My stomach
twitched as he got braver. Cold little scrunches. I bit his lip
involuntarily and he swore. God, I remember every internal
tremble.

He never really
asked permission. It was more of a statement, a box to tick. Eyes
shut, I nodded, and the shame built already–that I should want it
like this, that I should want it at all. But I was pancake batter
in his curved palm and needed…something–

“Dylan!”
Someone banged on the door. “Sarah’s here!”

“Shit.” He
thrust me away, wiped his fingers on his jeans. Fumbled with his
belt.

“Who’s Sarah?”
I said.

The door fell
open and light pooled in. Strange faces stared as I stuffed my
breasts back into my top. Dylan stomped out without answering me,
and I heard him chatting and laughing as he went down the
stairs.

Dark. Again.
The sounds of the party were fuzzy, and my teeth chattered as I
tried not to cry. It was bad enough that I’d been so willing but at
least I’d wanted
him
; he, it seemed, had wanted anyone.
Until Sarah arrived.

Often, I
wondered if this was where I split, and Charlotte rose like a
phoenix from acid blue flames. Slumped in that strange bedroom, I
was not quite myself. I was absurd mitosis.

Some time
passed before Elliot put his head around the door.

“Are you
okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”
My shoulders rose with a stifled sob.

“I’ve got my
Dad’s car,” he said. “I could take you home.”

He’d already
found my coat, bless him, and it hung at the end of the banister.
The quiet of the car was so comforting, the bucket seat almost
swallowing me up.

“Thanks for
this.” I was so embarrassed at my red eyes in the mirror.

“He’s a twat,
you know,” Elliot said. “I wouldn’t have left you like that.”

“Oh.”

“I mean it.
You’re lovely.” He lost the gear stick, had to grab for it. “Not
that I’m coming on to you or anything, not like that.”

“No.” I found
myself smiling back.

We went to the
cinema a few nights later. Went to bed in a couple of weeks. He
would murmur that he loved me as he inhaled against the hollows of
my neck, and I said it back, though I was too broken to mean it. I
severed one Leila from the other a little more each time I spoke
the words. A year later, there was Charlie, and sometimes I still
wore him as I moved against Elliot’s sheets. Maybe Joseph’s knife
wasn’t really meant to cut me…but to remind me how sharp a blade
can be.

I never thought
I was as selfish as Dylan. Not that crass. But my desire for Joseph
said otherwise–he was a mirror, and the reflection an evil twin.
Now she laughed, unbridled, unleashed.

I was afraid of
what I’d become. Ashamed of what
she
had done.

Off with her
head?

* * * *

Saturday was a
blur of dull domesticity. I did the washing, sorted through the
post, stocked the fridge. Put my black gown in for dry cleaning for
a charity ball the following week. I cashed Joseph’s hefty
check–I’d earned every penny and the notion echoed in my stiff
thighs. I was all paid up, now, and anything else was a bonus.
Technically, I had one of three jobs left, but with my parents’
debt covered, my childhood home was safe.

“Good trip?”
Clemmie’s voice was buoyant down the phone.

“Uh…kind
of.”

“How’s it going
with Shares-Your-Desk?” Bath water swilled about. She had a thing
about a gossip in the bubbles.

“Erm.” I
twisted hair around my finger. “We broke up before we even
left.”

“Crikey. I
didn’t think it’d be that soon!”

“But you
thought it? Cheers.”

“You know what
I mean. Oh my God. How did he take it?”

“Not well.” I
sighed. “But we’re being civil now. It’s not as bad as I first
thought.”

More splashing.
“What made you do it, then?”

My boss had
paid me to screw him all week. Also, “Charlie thinks his wife
probably knows about me. She’d have told Matt. And like you said…I
think I was settling, a bit. We wouldn’t have made each other very
happy.”

“Bugger.”

“I know. How
are things with James now?”

Air hissed
through her teeth. “How are you fixed for a flat? Have you
re-signed the lease yet?”

“Yep, a few
weeks ago. Why?”

“I’m going to
need somewhere else to live,” she said glumly.

“Oh crap, Clem.
I’m sorry.” I wanted to give her a big hug, bubbles or no.

“He’s such a
know-it-all. So bloody smug. I get enough of that at work, you
know?”

“Are you sure
it’s over?”

“Pretty much.
He’s already started packing but I don’t want to stay here–too many
memories. Still.” Her tone lightened. “We can be single and
miserable together now.”

I was going to
tell her about Joseph, attempt to talk it out. Crap. “Yeah. Well.
Hopefully not miserable for long, hmm?”

“And we’re too
slut-faced and whore-bagged to stay single, either,” she said. “We
must go shopping for skirts like belts and fishnets we can rip
holes in.”

“Don’t forget
the thigh-high boots.”

“PVC is coming
back, isn’t it? Let’s get PVC.” She splashed again. “God. Remember
when we were teenagers and we didn’t need to stoop to skintight
industrial products to get men?”

Yep. All too
well.

Chapter 7

Sleep had
barely descended when my phone beeped:
Have sent a car. Will be
with you in twenty. J x

Adrenaline
surged in scalding ribbons, and my hand shook as I punched in his
number.

“What do you
mean, you’ve sent a car?” I mumbled.

“You don’t have
to come.” He sounded amused. “I was just…I’m impatient. I want to
see you.”

“It’s gone
midnight, Joe.”

“We both know
you’re going to get in the car.”

“Is this my
last job?”

“If you want it
to be.” He took a deep breath. “Or maybe it’s more.”

I hung up,
annoyed–at him or myself, I wasn’t sure. Probably a bit of
both.

I brushed my
teeth, slicked on lip balm, swept back my still-damp curls. In my
sleepy haze, I couldn’t quite remember what sexy looked like and
made do with jeans–a New York purchase, and Charlotte’s first pair.
No underwear, mind. Seemed too much like hard work.

It was surreal,
tumbling into the back seat of the taxi with an overnight bag. He’d
ordered me in like a pizza and there was something sweetly erotic
about it, that he would call and I would come. Not that it was the
first time this had happened to me, of course.

The first time
was the most interesting of all. It went a little something like
this…

* * * *