Our Little Secret (6 page)

There’s a vase of fresh flowers on the dressing table – tight buds of orange and coral roses – and a thick cream-card envelope propped up next to it. I sink onto the velvet stool and open it:

MP. Marnie Parker. That’s nice of her. I sniff the roses. They smell of summer. Just then there’s a buzzing noise and I realize there’s a phone on the dressing table. I pick it up. It’s Gundred.

‘Miss Henshaw, if you’d like to have a shower and freshen up, I’ll show you around,’ she says.

I get naked, stripping off my travelling clothes and chucking them in the corner of the room, and twirl into the bathroom. The sunlight through the blind catches my skin and I smile at myself in the full-length mirror, amazed by how different I look at this level of luxury. I look good, I think. Even though I say so myself. Surrounded by soft cream carpet and flattering lighting, my skin looks smooth and my eyes, despite the long flight, are shining.

I scoop up my breasts, admiring them, and then bend over the bath to reach for the soap and loofah.

‘Oo-er,’ I laugh out loud, catching my reflection, like I’m Betty Boop, before picking up the expensive-looking unused loofah and admiring the long, smooth brown handle.

Lewd thoughts immediately fill my mind and I realize that I have a residual horniness from the plane that I haven’t shaken. Or perhaps it’s more that this kind of luxury is an undeniable turn-on.

I wonder what kind of people Edward and Marnie Parker are. Whether they too have a bathroom like this. Whether they’re used to it, or whether they get down to it on the bathroom floor every time they step into it.

The shower is filling the room with steam and I pull open the door and step inside. Jets assault me from all sides and at first I giggle, grabbing at the dial, until I’ve worked out how to control everything.

I grab onto a handle above in the tiles as the power-jets assault me, blasting away the flight and the long journey and all my doubts. After a few moments of pounding, I turn the water to a different setting. Now tinkling jets of water squirt deliciously from below, catching me between the legs. I move, letting the jet rush against my clitoris. Beneath the rivulets of soap, I see my nipples stiffen. I rock against the jet, closing my eyes, letting the water massage me into sexual alertness.

In my mind, someone I imagine to be Edward Parker comes to me, stepping in behind me in the shower. I call fantasy-guy ‘Edward’, but the truth is, the guy is fairly faceless – a mixture of my dance partner in the club and Scott, and the guy on the plane and just someone older and rich, all rolled into one. Even so, it feels illicitly thrilling to steal my boss’s imagined persona.

I imagine him naked behind me in the shower, soaping my breasts, our wet skin sliding together. I imagine pressing back against this thick cock. I think about how I feel for him to ease into me from behind. I watch us in my mind, as if I’m watching a film.

I feel my throat constrict. I see myself being pressed up against the wall in the steam, being filled up, as the shower jets send my nerve endings into overdrive.

The fantasy feels so real, but I yearn to be filled up. I grab the loofah with its smooth handle and ease it inside me, pushing it slowly in and out of me, as the water massages my clitoris.

‘Oh Edward,’ I mutter. ‘Oh yeah, that’s good.’

11

Half an hour later, after my sensational and unbelievably satisfying power-shower, I’m smothered in the free designer body cream I found, and I’m almost ready to explore with Gundred. I pull out my best jeans and a V-neck jumper and my pink ballet pumps from my case, before shoving my case in the closet. There’s plenty of hanging space and shelves, and I resolve to unpack my stuff later.

I reach into my washbag for my deodorant and perfume and see the photo of Scott. He’s naked in it, leaning back, with a smouldering ‘come to bed’ look in his eyes. I’ve had the photo for ages and it’s always turned me on, but now I look at it, thinking that he looks almost like a stranger. I’ve just had the most sensational wank with an entirely fictitious person that I named Edward, and now I feel confused as I look at Scott’s face. Should I feel guilty? Unfaithful even? Because I don’t. I’m still high on endorphins from fantasy-Edward.

I suddenly remember Scott’s bedsit and the grotty duvet. I put the photo back in the pocket of my case. I don’t want to think about home now; I’m too excited about being here.

Outside my room I get a bit lost. Corridors lead off in all directions, but eventually I find the grand staircase leading down.

‘I’d prefer it if you’d use the service lift,’ Gundred greets me, as I arrive downstairs in the hall. Can she tell, perhaps, that it took all my self-control not to slide down the bannister on my bum?

‘Oh, OK,’ I tell her.

The removal men have gone and Gundred looks exhausted.

‘I’ll quickly show you everything and then I’ll leave you to it,’ she says. Her tone, once again, makes me feel like I’m some sort of inconvenience. What is she? The housekeeper? The manager of this place? Just an agent for the Parkers? And where is she going? She’s not going to leave me alone here, is she? I see now that she has her bag over her shoulder. She’s not kidding. She really is about to leave.

I think of the friendly note from Mrs Parker upstairs and the lovely flowers, and try to calm down. There must be a plan.

Gundred pulls out a folded piece of paper from her bag and hands it to me. ‘First, and most importantly, you’ll need this.’

I look at the paper she’s given me. It’s a floor plan of the house. There are rooms shaded in blue and others in red.

‘This will help you get your bearings,’ she says. ‘The red rooms are off-limits.’

Off-limits?
Why, I wonder?

‘Where are the kids?’ I ask, trying to take it all in.
What the hell happens in the red rooms?
‘I mean, where are their bedrooms?’

‘The kids are still away at camp,’ she says. ‘They’ll be back in a week or so, but Mrs Parker wanted you to have some time to settle in first. Get acclimatized. As you can see, they haven’t finished moving in themselves, which has somewhat delayed their schedule.’

I’m totally flummoxed by this news, my mind racing. Why the rush to get me here, if the kids aren’t here? And what the hell am I going to do for a week without them? And how old are they, if they’re at camp? Not babies, then. Phew.

Come on, Sophie, I tell myself. You’re in five-star luxury. How hard can it be? When was the last time you actually had a break? Let alone a paid break?

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Can you tell me anything about them, though?’

‘Who?’

‘The kids,’ I tell her, confused.

She cocks her head on one side and then she smiles. I can’t tell if she’s amused by me or feels sympathetic. ‘The kids? Oh, well, there are two boys. Twins. Luther and Tobias. Haven’t I told you that already?’

‘No,’ I tell her. My tone is more petulant than I’d like.

She pauses. Then she seems to make a decision and, when she speaks next, her tone is reassuring. ‘Oh, well, I really wouldn’t worry about them. Just enjoy yourself this week. Believe me, you’ll be busy soon enough.’

Relief rushes through me. Twin boys. Luther and Tobias. Nice names. OK. I can deal with boys. I’m used to Ryan. I’m a lot more confident now that I know what I’m dealing with.

I’m picturing the boys in my head as Gundred shows me around, and start to realize how easy it might be to enjoy myself. It’s a busy, bustling home and I soon lose count of the number of corridors we walk down.

Don’t panic, I tell myself. This is just like the first day at a new school. You’ll soon know your way around like you’ve been living here all your life.

There’s a swimming pool downstairs, with the giant sauna and steam room. In the kitchen I meet Mrs Janey, the cook, and there are lots of other people coming and going, too. They seem to be busy, either cleaning or decorating. It’s hard to tell if they’re permanent staff like me, or not.

Permanent staff.
The thought trips me up. Is that how I see myself already? As permanent? As part of all of this?

England seems a very long way away.

12

Once Gundred has gone, I take myself off back up to my room and unpack and then lie on the bed and call Dad, but I can hardly get a signal. We have a ridiculous conversation of echoing feedback and half-sentences. I think I manage to get across the gist of my call – that I’ve arrived and I’m OK.

‘Have fun. Love you,’ he shouts, before the line cuts out, and I smile, although I can picture his face: I know he’s missing me already.

It’s all been so much to take in and I haven’t slept for more than twenty minutes in nearly twenty-four hours. At first I amuse myself, trying to get comfortable on the waterbed, but there’s no denying it’s a ridiculous sensation. It’s like being swept away in a boat and, when I shut my eyes as an experiment, I’m asleep in seconds.

It’s dark in the room when I wake up and for a moment I have absolutely no idea where I am. I jolt upright, the waterbed lurching beneath me, and I yelp in shock.

I roll over cautiously and turn on the china lamp on the bedside table and yawn. A soft glow falls over the room and I get up and stretch and, as I do so, my stomach growls.

‘Hello,’ I call, as I retrace my steps along the dark corridor.

Ignoring Gundred’s instruction, I get to the staircase, peering over. The bottom floor below me is in darkness.

‘Hello?’ I call again. My voice echoes in the stairwell.

I can’t possibly be here alone, can I?

I run fast down the stairs and press all the lights on the panel at the bottom of the stairs. Now there’s light, I feel slightly better, but it’s still a bit freaky.

‘Hello?’ I call again. ‘Anyone? Anyone here?’

I stare down the corridor towards the kitchens. It’s dark beneath the doors. The silence is thick and conspiratorial.

I notice now that a row of uplighters has come on around the edge of the gallery room on my right, illuminating the walls. As I walk towards it, the glass door slides open and I walk inside.

Since I was here on my tour earlier, one of the large paintings that I saw being delivered has been hung on the wall. I realize, as I walk towards it, that it’s the one I saw on the tiny thumbprint picture on the Internet. It is of Marnie Parker.

The splodgy oil painting dominates the whole wall. It must be at least five or six yards wide and as many high. Marnie Parker is naked and lying on her side, her hand on the gentle swell of her belly. It’s an incredible painting – made more so by its sheer size. The oil paint is thick, like it has been trowelled on, but despite that, the more I look at it, the more detail I can see, like how the light falls on the upturn of her breast and nipple. I cock my head and gawp at it, but after a moment it feels illicit, like I’m prying. Her semi-closed eyes seem to stare right at me, challenging me. I look at the dark patch between her legs, then flush and deliberately turn away.

What kind of person poses for a painting like that, I wonder? Someone with a whole bucket-load of self-confidence, that’s for sure. Will Marnie Parker be an intimidating boss? What will it be like to meet her, now that I’ve already seen her nude? Will she be embarrassed, or will I?

Me probably. She’s had the painting hung on her wall, I remind myself. She obviously doesn’t care who sees it. Not even the removal men. Let alone her young boys.

The parquet floor shines ahead of me. There must be fifty feet or more of clear space. There’s not a blemish on it. The lighting in the room makes it intimate – despite its size. It’s like a stage.

I remember earlier on, when I first saw this room, I wanted to do a sock-slide across it. I put my hand on my shoulder and rotate my arm. It clicks. I need to move my body.

I take off my pumps and, glancing around me to check that I really am alone, I tiptoe back over to the corner of the room, where I came in. I glance into the corridor. Nobody is there.

I haven’t really planned this, but somehow I can’t help it. It’s just feels rude not to. With a quick run-up sprint, I cartwheel across the diagonal of the room. It feels astonishing – at once thrilling and shocking. I’m so out of practice that I’m panting by the time I come to a stop. But God, it’s fun. I laugh out loud.

Revelling in the sheer space, I do a few twirls back the other way, a couple of arabesques, and all at once my dancing days come flooding back and I’m like a kid in class again. I wonder if I can still
jeté
, I think, rucking up my jeans onto my thighs.

I run back to the corner and check again that I’m still alone. Remembering how I used to pretend I was Darcey Bussell, I focus on the far corner, then take a run up and spring like a gazelle into the air and land like a hippo. I turn and
jeté
again, trying for a softer landing this time. Then I try once more, and in no time I’ve crossed the room.

I come to a stop and lean forward, my hands on my knees, panting. Christ, it’s been a long time since I did that.

Which is when I hear a sound like a whip, but it’s actually one slow handclap. Followed by another.

13

It scares the shit out of me.

I yelp and turn to see that it’s him: Edward Parker.

Of that I have no doubt. He’s standing in the corner, leaning up against the door, like he’s been there for ages watching me. He’s wearing a cool grey suit with a collarless linen shirt.

Panicking, I try and control my breath. I know my cheeks are pulsing with embarrassment. Where the hell did he come from?

He looks different in the flesh. And very different from my fantasy shower-Edward. For a start, he’s taller than I imagined and he’s younger, too.

‘Oh, I . . . I’m so sorry,’ I gulp. ‘I . . . I . . .’

I have no words.

I have totally and utterly fucked up.

Only then, as he pushes nonchalantly off the wall and walks toward me, do I see that rather than being stern, an amused smile is dancing on his lips. He has a dimple in his cheek.