Our Little Secret (19 page)

Is she bisexual?

Surely not?

Because if she is, then does that mean I am? I’ve never been turned on by a woman before, or had a lesbian relationship of any kind, although I know plenty of girls in school who experimented.

Marnie’s note seems to imply that she knows how I was feeling when I fell into her arms. It’s one thing to have had a crush on Edward and to have overstepped the mark, but feeling like I did about her seems altogether more dangerous. It makes me feel out of control.

I put the vibrator down and stare at it. If I accept this gift – if I do anything with it – then it’s acknowledging the secret feelings I had just now for Marnie. She knows that.

But then, at the same time, she’s been sweet enough to worry about my embarrassment. Her note has let me off the hook. I don’t need to panic about her saying anything to Edward. Or losing my job. Perhaps, as far as she’s concerned, what happened just now between us was perfectly normal and innocent. That kind of thing probably happens to her all the time.

I sink back on the bed and it rocks beneath me, then seems to cocoon me, as I lie back with a sigh.

I don’t know if Marnie’s gift has made me feel better or worse. I can’t imagine that she would have discussed me with Edward and then written that note.

I think of her dancing in her red kimono. I think of Edward watching me, like he watched me dance in front of Marnie’s portrait in the gallery downstairs.

I grab the vibrator and push the button. Then, not giving myself time to think, I push it underneath my pyjama bottoms.

The smooth hardness slides against me. It feels warm, unlike the ones I saw in the sex shop in town with Tiff, which looked cold and painful and not a turn-on at all. In fact this one feels surprisingly like the real thing. I wriggle my pyjama bottoms off and let my knees fall apart, then I push the tip of the fat end inside me a little way and gasp.

I think of Edward in the doorway of Marnie’s room. I think of him finding Marnie and me in our almost-naked embrace. Then I think of him on the bed, lying there, Marnie watching us from the window seat, smoking a spliff, her red gown open as I dance for them both.

I gasp, sliding the vibrator out again, thinking of Edward’s eyes, as I let the buzzing drift against my clitoris. I feel sweat breaking out on my forehead.

Marnie’s right. This does help.

38

I don’t see Marnie Parker the next morning. Or Edward. They must have left the house at the crack of dawn, because I was up, listening out for sounds in the house, as soon as I was awake.

I have a long shower and try and make sense of the previous evening. In the clear light of day I decide that it’s stupid to read too much into that moment I shared with Marnie. We were both stoned. Nothing happened. We were mucking around, that’s all. I have nothing to be ashamed of.

I won’t mention the vibrator.

Laura is in the kitchen alone. Once again she won’t even so much as look at me, let alone engage in conversation.

‘Where is everyone?’ I ask her, going to the sleek white unit and filling up the kettle at the sink.

She flinches at the sound of my voice. ‘Mr and Mrs Parker won’t be back until the day after tomorrow. Mrs Gundred is away in town, too, so I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.’

‘Isn’t there anyone else who stays here? A groundsman or something?’

She looks at me and shakes her head, like she’s scared. She turns away, busying herself with a pile of napkins that she’s folding and putting in one of the spotlessly neat drawers.

It’s weird Marnie and Edward have left when there’s still so much unpacking to do. I thought Marnie wanted everything sorted.

‘Laura, do you know anything about the boys? About when they’ll be back?’

She turns away, so I can’t see her face.

‘Laura?’ I ask her again.

‘Don’t ask me,’ she says. It’s as if I’ve threatened her. She really is the oddest person I’ve ever met. She’s so jumpy and timid. It’s like I really could scare her to death.

‘But . . .’

She turns around then, suddenly, shocking me with the aggression in her tone. ‘I said don’t ask me. I don’t know anything about them. Anything at all, OK?’

I watch her go, feeling slack-jawed at her reaction. I only asked!

I don’t see her for the rest of the day. I think she’s making herself scarce. With nothing to do and unable to go anywhere at all, I feel completely useless. I wish I had just a small bit of information and could prepare myself for the boys’ return. I resolve to try and discover their bedrooms, but as I go around the house I find that most of the doors on the upper two floors are locked.

The afternoon is hot. There’s a barometer on the back terrace against the wall and I study it. Grandad had one in his allotment and taught me how to read it when I was little. It looks like there’s going to be a heatwave.

I walk along the back terrace and cup my hand against the bay window, looking at the patch of carpet where Edward and I danced. Nothing is out of place. The room is stylish and modern. The drinks cabinet is closed. It’s as if we were never there. It’s just odd being in a huge house alone like this. Especially when so much of it is out of bounds. Don’t they trust me?

I look at the bookshelves and see if I can see the photography book, but I can’t, although I’m sure I left it on the end of the shelf.

I make myself a sandwich, grab a towel and a magazine from the downstairs loo and make my way back down the garden to the lake for a swim. I’m too creeped-out to use the indoor pool by myself.

It’s a glorious day and the sun beats down, making it too hot to step in bare feet on the platform. I go to the other side of the lake and try to explore the summerhouse, but it’s locked. I sit on the wooden slats of its porch and turn my face up to the sky, guiltily remembering my fantasy about Edward.

Which is when the phone in my pocket buzzes and continues to buzz. I’d forgotten – there’s reception here.

There are ten messages from Scott. The first he’s made from work and he’s talking in a hushed whisper. Alfie, his sales manager, is big on personal calls. That is – not making them.

The second and third are from the car, back-to-back, as Scott runs out of space. He tells me how he’s missing me. How Derry has finally given up weed (ironic, since I’ve just started smoking it) and how he was seeing Derry, to play Xbox. The fourth is from the pub. His voice takes on that whiney tone. He’s missing me, but he’s also annoyed that I’m not returning his calls. The fifth message is aggressive. He’s taken it personally that I haven’t called him back. I sigh and brace myself to continue listening.

The sixth, as expected, is apologetic. It’s late. He’s in bed alone and just wants me home. As he speaks, his voice cracking with emotion, I picture his bedsit, the traffic outside. I scan myself for a physical reaction, for some lurch of my gut that would make me know that I’m missing him, too. That I want to go back to his bed. But there’s nothing.

The seventh message starts with heavy breathing. He’s masturbating. I can tell.

I hear him grunting on the phone, the staccato ‘Ah’ as he comes. Once, the noise of that would have turned me on, but now I feel slightly soiled that he’s been masturbating on my answering machine. He’s so immature.

The ninth message is a giggly, gleeful one. He’s delighted at his phone message. ‘That was for you,’ he says. I know that he’s probably already told his mates.

The tenth message, the last and most recent, was from a couple of hours ago, just before he would be leaving work. He’s five hours ahead of me here. If I call him now, he’ll probably be at home, but having listened to the gamut of emotions on his phone messages, I’m not sure what there is left to say.

I dial his number quickly, not giving myself an excuse to back out. I feel breathless and nervous.

‘Where the FUCK have you been?’ Scott demands. He sounds really cross. I’m sure he is, after his messages.

‘I’m sorry. There’s no reception in the house.’

‘You could have emailed, or Facebooked. I’ve been writing you messages on your timeline.’

‘I mean there’s no connection. I can’t get online. I think they’ll sort it out, but they’ve been busy.’

They. The Parkers. Two people who are so vivid in my mind. People I’m talking about like it’s them and us. But it’s not. Scott’s the one who is the outsider. Even being on the phone to him feels alien.

He lets out a small growl of frustration. He hates things being out of his control. ‘So when are you coming home?’ he demands. He doesn’t sound like he believes me about the phone.

I know this kind of mood of his. This petulant mood where he behaves all stroppy and I stroke his ego, calm him down, bring him back to me. It’s all part of the game we’ve always played: me soothing the big, moody bear. Me making all the right noises until everything is OK. I can tell that he’s expecting me to do it now. To tell him how much I’m missing him. But I don’t.

‘I’m not sure. And I haven’t met the kids yet, so I don’t know whether I’ll be staying on long-term.’

I picture his ear tips going red, like they do when he’s angry. He hates me being vague. I can tell my answer has confused him.

‘So . . . so what are you doing, if the kids aren’t there?’

I bite my lip and look up at the sky through the trees. What have I been doing? A very good question. How can I even start to tell him?

And right then and there, I know that too much has happened for me to be the person I was, who left Manchester not even a week ago. I’ve already seen too much, felt too much, experienced too much.

I think of Edward, and how he was in the back of the limo when I told him about Scott. Just the thought of his face makes my tummy flip over.

A
girl as stunning as you . . . mustn’t ever settle for anything but the best.

‘How long are you expecting me to wait?’ he snaps. I swallow hard. Leave the pause too long. ‘Soph?’ His voice goes up. We both know something’s coming. I hear the catch in his voice. The fear.

I have to be brave. I have to take this leap of faith into the unknown. It’s the only way.

‘Scott,’ I say, quietly. ‘Scott. I don’t think it’s a very good idea if you wait for me.’

39

I feel bruised after my conversation with Scott, and it’s even harder having to process these feelings all alone. He was furious, of course. Then upset, then angry, then dismissive and then nasty. He called me a bitch several times, and I am. It made it so much worse that it all happened somewhere so beautiful.

I call Tiff straight away and, in typical Tiff style, she presents me with a long list of Scott’s faults and how delighted she is that I’ve finally seen the light. I don’t tell her about Edward, or what’s been happening to me here. I know as soon as I hear her voice that she wouldn’t understand; and it’s that, rather than the conversation with Scott, that really makes me cry. I’ve never felt so cut off or alone.

Exhausted, I return to the house and mooch about, feeling at an utter loose end. I root around in the fridge, but I’m not really hungry. The heat doesn’t help.

In the evening I turn on all the lights. I try not to get too scared, but I can’t help going through a whole psychodrama about what might happen if someone breaks in. I picture myself in all sorts of scenarios in which I’m tied up and forced to answer questions about the Parkers, for which I have no answers.

I’m anxious that the Parkers think it’s perfectly OK to leave me all alone in the house like this, with no means of contacting the outside world. Is this how it’s going to be when the boys are here? We’ll be all alone here? Will I ever be allowed to take them out? And if so, will they give me a car? But even if they do, where would I go? I think of the drive I took with Marnie – how far it was until the next town. There’s nothing around here at all, except the other houses along the long road to the gatehouse. But I can’t imagine any kind of neighbourly scenario in which I pop round for a natter. People are in Thousand Acres because they want to be private. Besides, even if I wanted to go and visit a neighbour, I’m not sure I’d be able to get out of the big gates guarding the drive.

Telling myself to be grateful for what I have, I retrace my steps to Marnie’s room. I don’t know if I’m searching for her, or if I’m just searching for someone to talk to, but her room is locked and the corridor remains dark.

In the main gallery, the light comes on and the door automatically slides open, as if it’s been waiting for me, and I stare at Marnie’s portrait. Now I’ve met her in the flesh, she seems even more enticing. I stare at her breasts, remembering how she touched me and applied the nipple-tassels. How she stared right into my eyes as I fell into her embrace and our flesh touched. Her eyes stare at me, as if she knew, even then, what she was doing. That she has the power to undo people.

By the wall there’s a stack of pictures, waiting to be hung. Curious, I flick through them. There’s one at the back with a thin strip of tissue paper over it. Carefully, I peep beneath.

It’s a framed black-and-white photograph of a man. He’s naked except for leather chaps, which show off his glistening, smooth buttocks. He has a concave, muscular dancer’s body and he’s leaning over a square counter and resting his nakedness on it.

I immediately feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I gawp at his impressively large, semi-erect cock and plump balls beneath it. It’s so brazen, yet such an unashamedly beautiful image that I feel a spasm in me as I stare. This is art, of course. Of course it is, but it still feels pornographic. Is Edward really intending to hang it on the wall in here? Is this what he and Marnie are all about? People who like to shock? Am I supposed to play along with their game?

I stare again at the photo and it stirs a sexual longing in me that feels scarily out of reach.

I think of Scott and how I’ve exploded my life back at home. What if I never have sex again? What will I do if I never get to see a cock again? Not that I’ve ever seen one as large or perfect as the one in the photo. As I stare at it, my mouth starts to water. I just want to feast on it. Take it in my mouth.