The Nature of Cruelty (31 page)

The feel of him inside me stings again, so I bring my mouth to his shoulder and instinctively bite down. He lets out a low curse, his head tilted so he can watch me. Then he looks down between our bodies, seeing himself move in and out of me. His mouth hangs open. I take back everything I’ve said previously —
this
is the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.

The pain becomes bearable the more he thrusts into me, slow and steady, biting his lip to keep from going faster. Harder. The sound of him slapping against me sounds above the music, above Damien Rice singing for Amie to come sit on his wall, and for some reason hearing it makes me throw my head back into the pillows and softly moan.

“Jesus,” says Robert, a drop of sweat trickling down his nose. “I don’t know if I can…hold back.”

His body moves faster, the rhythm somehow possessive, like he’s marking me. Then he’s falling on top of me, pouring himself into me as he comes. I breathe quick and heavy, my eyes wide as I watch him groan with pleasure. He wraps his arms around me and rolls so that I’m lying on top of him. Running the tips of his fingers down my ribs and along my hips, he seems to pulsate with satisfaction, a warm smile touching his lips.

“You’re almost too sweet,” he says. He’s still inside me, and, despite the discomfort, I don’t want him to withdraw. I want to fall asleep just like this, the two of us connected in the most fundamental and perfect way possible.

“Hmm?” I make a questioning noise, too lost in my own thoughts to voice proper words.

“Those little moans and whimpers you make,” he explains, his tone gentle. “They have the power to completely undo me.”

Liking the sound of that, I snuggle my face into his neck and run the tip of my nose back and forth over his sweaty skin. He smells and feels so good. A long while later he finally moves me, pulling out and removing the condom. He throws it into the bin in the corner of the room, and it takes me a moment or two to notice he hasn’t returned to me yet. When I move to look at him, I see he’s staring at the bed sheets, staring at the blood on them. He reaches out with his hand, almost like he’s going to touch it, but then stops himself.

His shoulders straighten with resolve just before he pulls the duvet over to cover the stain.

“Are you okay?” I ask, worried.

He runs his hand through his dishevelled hair. “Yeah.” He’s silent for a second before continuing, “It’s not like I didn’t expect the blood — it just feels different seeing it, like I’ve hurt you or something. I’m sick of hurting you.”

Gripping his shoulder, I pull him back to me and curl myself around him, dragging the duvet up further to cover us. “We’re starting with a blank slate, Robert. Just don’t hurt me anymore. That’s all I ask of you.”

His arms tighten around me like a vice. “I won’t,” he whispers, a quiet promise. “I won’t.”

After that he uses his fingers to send me off into the most perfect orgasm-induced slumber. Waking up the next morning, all I can smell in the room is sex and Robert. The scent invades my senses, drowning me. I nervously wonder if Sasha was home to hear us last night, but then I remember her car not being in the drive when we’d gotten back, so she must have come home later…after Robert and I had fallen asleep.

Robert’s face is pressed into the hollow of my neck as I stretch out my limbs, the area between my legs feeling distinctly different. It’s kind of like after you do a new exercise that works a muscle you’ve never used before, and the next day you feel all achy. That’s the closest I can get to describing it.

The man who made love to me stirs beside me, gloriously naked and more perfect than any Greek statue I’ve studied over the years. The symmetry of his features has been programmed into my brain to bring forth attraction and lust, whether I like it or not.

He smiles into my skin. “Morning, beautiful.”

“Morning. Are you going to work today?” I ask, seeing it’s just gone seven o’clock.

Sighing, he drags his body up and scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, I wish I could stay right here, though.”

“Mmm, that would be the ideal day.”

He chuckles and cups my breast tenderly. “We’ll do that this Saturday, then.” His eyes grow serious as he gives me a concerned look. “How are you feeling? Any soreness?”

“I’m a little sore, but it’s nothing a long soak in the bath won’t fix.”

Robert groans and lets go of my breast, leaning down to give it a mournful kiss goodbye. “Don’t put ideas in my head. I’m this close to calling in sick.”

“You shouldn’t, not after what happened yesterday with your dad.”

“I know. Fuck, I really don’t want to have to face him today. Promise you’ll come to the office at one and have lunch with me. That way I’ll at least have something to look forward to.”

“Okay, sure. I’ve never been to your dad’s offices before.”

Standing up from the bed with not a scrap of clothing on him, he begins reciting directions.

“Take a left turn after Baccino’s, keep walking for about five minutes, and you’re there. You can’t miss it. Tell the girl on reception you’re there to see me, and she’ll let you in. My office is on the sixth floor. I’ll order something in.”

I smile. “Righteo. Looking forward to it.”

He kisses me deeply, and then goes to take a shower and get ready. I fall back into the bed, closing my eyes and breathing in the smell of him on the pillows. Once he’s left for work, I do have that bath, taking a book in with me and allowing myself a nice long soak. Afterwards I feel more like myself again. Images of last night shift through my head, making me blush, even though I’m completely alone. And then, all of a sudden it hits me. I’m no longer a virgin.

The concept seems strange and foreign now that it’s behind me; this airy, mythical thing that once made me feel so alienated is gone. Should I feel different? Like a new person? Well, if I should, I don’t. I’m still me, and all the hours I’d spent worrying about it seem so ridiculous in retrospect.

Later on, I get ready for my lunch with Robert. I’m all too curious to see what Alan’s offices are like. I wonder if there’ll be any celebrity clients hanging around.

On the Tube to Knightsbridge, I see that somebody left their copy of
The Daily Mail
on an empty seat. Having forgotten to bring my iPod with me, I pick it up and flick through the pages. I search for the showbiz section to see if there’s anything in here that Sasha wrote. Her stories are mostly only published on the website, but every so often one of her articles will find its way inside the actual paper. Unexpectedly, I open a new page to see a fairly long article credited to Sasha Phillips. The caption reads:
Pop Star Molly Willis Admits to Miscarriage
.

Jesus, Sash, give us the hard-hitting headlines, why don’t you?

The article details how Molly actually
was
pregnant several weeks ago as rumoured, but that when she miscarried she covered it up by claiming she hadn’t been pregnant at all and that someone had fabricated the entire thing. Yesterday afternoon, a source close to the pop star revealed what had really happened.

I feel slightly sick as I read about how several well-known commentators have been hitting out hard at Molly, calling her a careless monster and saying she miscarried because of all the hard drinking and partying she’d been doing in the early stages of her pregnancy.

I’m glad that Sasha only states the facts, not expressing any of her own opinions on the matter. It’s actually surprising, considering her bosses tend to encourage her to express such opinions. They like a bit of controversy, do
The Mail
. She must have stuck to her guns on that one. And then, all I can think is,
poor Molly
.

I remember back to when I’d seen her on television that time, and there had been something sad in the set of her mouth. Right at that moment she’d probably been mourning her lost child but had to put on a brave face for the public.

It’s a bizarre world where one day you’re being proclaimed as the most beautiful woman in Britain, and the next you’re labelled a monster for being so unfortunate as to have miscarried a child.

These days the media interacts in brutal ways, with the thin façade of moral outrage, when really it’s all
schadenfreude
, taking pleasure in seeing another person suffer. In this information age, swords and knives are no longer the weapon of choice – words are.

Somehow the swords and knives seem more straightforward, less insidious. No one’s pretending to be a good person when they’re stabbing you in the gut.

Pulling out my phone, I send Sasha a quick text:
Saw your article in today’s paper. Wish you didn’t have to write stuff like that. The poor girl.

As I exit the Tube station, I get a long text back from her:
If you knew what other journalists are writing about her, you wouldn’t be saying that. My article was veritably cheerful by comparison. My editor wanted me to change a few things, make it more sensational. I told him no. I’m about two protests away from getting the sack at this point. But yeah, I know. It’s all find-hype-destroy these days. Molly was found, she was hyped, and now she’s being destroyed. How depressing.

A minute later she sends another message:
Thinking of becoming a greeting card writer. That way the worst thing I’ll ever have to compose is sympathy and condolence messages.

Find-hype-destroy. I never thought of it that way before, but it describes recent pop culture perfectly. Sasha is so clever. You’re an artist, you rise out of obscurity to fame, fortune, and endless admiration, but then one day somebody decides you’ve gotten too big for your boots, or they’re jealous of your success, and they decide they’re going to cut you down a peg or two.

When you think about these kinds of consequences, it really doesn’t seem worth trying to become famous in the first place.

With these dark thoughts in my head, I make my way towards the offices of Phillips PR.

Sixteen

J
ust before I get to Robert’s work, I send Sasha a quick message back:
That would be a fun job. Let’s have dinner at the house tonight and hang out. Sounds like you’ve had a rough day.

She replies:
The roughest. It’s a date.

A dark-haired receptionist smiles at me as I enter through the large glass and steel door. I’m wearing a loose open cardigan over my dress, and the sleeve gets stuck slightly on the handle. There are workers coming and going, and I’m awkwardly getting in their way. Grimacing sheepishly, I tug it free and continue to the reception desk. A tall security guard standing to the side of the lobby tightens his lips to keep from laughing at me.

“Hi, I’m here to see Robert,” I say, glancing around uncertainly. I stick out like a sore thumb in this place.

The receptionist arches her brow in amusement. “It’s a big building with several different companies. You’ll have to be a little more specific, love.”

“Um, Robert Phillips, from Phillips PR?”

Her eyes immediately light up in a dreamy way. Yeah, she knows exactly who I’m talking about now. Who wouldn’t notice the work of art that is my brand-new boyfriend, however messed up he might be on the inside?

“Oh,
Robert
,” she says, and I don’t know how to interpret her tone. “He did mention someone would be coming to see him for lunch. Take the elevator up to the sixth floor, and I’ll buzz him to let him know you’re on your way.”

Giving her a tight smile, I thank her and step inside the elevator with several other people. By the time I reach the sixth floor, it’s emptied out, and I’m the only one left in the carriage. The door pings open, and I step into a corridor with grey walls and coffee-coloured carpet. Robert is nowhere in sight, so I walk along, reading the names on the office doors to see if I can find him on my own. I laugh when I finally reach Robert’s office and see that Jimmy’s is right next to his. I wonder if the guy is still pestering Sasha for that date.

I can hear voices chatting inside, so I knock and wait for someone to let me in. A few seconds later a woman in her late thirties opens the door. She looks like a red-haired Sarah Jessica Parker; one of those women whose features don’t seem like they’d make an attractive face, but somehow they do. I also notice that our hair is almost the exact same shade of red. Her eyes are different from mine, though, all brown and gold like caramel.

She gives me a polite smile. “Oh, hello, are you the new intern they were sending me?”

Before I can answer, Robert steps in front of her, smiling brightly. “She’s not your intern, Olivia. This is my girlfriend, Lana.”

He wraps his arm around my waist, and while my brain is still processing the name “Olivia” and coming up with the shocking fact that this is the married woman Robert was with, I thrust my hand out to shake hers.

Her eyes widen by a tiny fraction as she returns the handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, smiling and appraising me at the same time. She’s probably thinking how unsuited Robert and I are for one another. We look like polar opposites; him in his suit and me in my quirky vintage wear.

“It’s lovely to meet you, too,” I say, withdrawing my hand and allowing Robert to tuck me tighter under the crook of his arm.

“I take it you’re from Ireland?” she says, folding her arms and hooking one high-heeled foot behind the other. She’s got a tight navy shift dress on, her long hair twisted up at the back of her head in a clip.

Surreptitiously looking to the side, I see that Jimmy and another man are in Robert’s office as well, and I breathe out a relieved sigh. At least she wasn’t in here alone with him.

I laugh. “Yeah, did the accent give me away?”

She makes a gesture with her thumb and forefinger. “Little bit.” Her eyes wander to Robert, and she grins at him in a satisfied way. “Who would have thought it? You have a thing for redheads, Rob. I must have given you a taste for them.”

Robert frowns, and Olivia’s lips purse with the pleasure of having outed him. Little does she know, I’m already well aware of their history.