Carrion: A Story of Passion Page 8

  “Then why did you ask?”

  In the navy-light I can only just make out his face, but his eyes glitter. “No reason.”

  “No, come on, you can’t just ask a question like that and expect the conversation to evaporate.”

  He fidgets uncomfortably and sighs heavily. “This thing with Anya,” he says, “ – the way you are with her...” his words trail off.

  “What about the way I am with her?” I ask defensively.

  He shrugs.

  “What about the way I am with her?” I repeat.

  Cornered, he blurts out his response, “I don’t know Charlotte, you’re like a cat playing with a mouse – you had a glimmer in your eye that looked a little crazy!”

  I burst out laughing, mainly because I can’t think of another response. “Me?” I cough. “You are worried about me? I’m not the one introducing snuff movies into our pillow talk.”

  “That’s the problem, Charlotte, talking about something is one thing, but desiring it is another.”

  I’m regretting not being sober. Somehow this conversation is rapidly heading towards loony-ville. “Are you suggesting that I want to...? What are you suggesting, exactly?”

  “Nothing more than I think you’ve found a muse, Charlotte.” He turns his back to me and settles down for sleep. The conversation is over.

  When I close my eyes, I see Anya’s porcelain face and green glass eyes. ‘Ridiculous!’ I whisper to my thoughts.

  I text Anya the next morning to let her know that supper next week is cancelled. I make no attempt to fix another date and I do not see her again. I convince myself that it is to protect her from the darkness I see in Alexander, but really, I know it is to protect her from the darkness inside myself. Alexander does not mention the idea of introducing someone into our bed again. We carry on as before in a whirl of sensational entertainments, but we are on a spinning, giddy round-a-bout and there is only so fast it can go before the centrifugal force starts to split us apart.

  One Sunday afternoon, when the parties have become tiresome and we haven’t spent any time on our own in weeks, I stand at the bottom of our Antique French bed, dressed in a cream silk set and draped in opera beads with a bottle of half drunk champagne in my hand, and I say to him half teasingly, half serious,

  "I love you."

  The silence roars in the space between us, and I falter because he thinks that I was being serious. I was.

  Not able to bear it, I ask, "Do you love me?"

  He smiles awkwardly, "No, Charlotte. You know I can't love anybody."

  ...and the walls are falling in as if they were nothing more than stage flats. In all the months we have been together, he has not shown me a single act of love. I had known the answer before I'd even asked the question. Now it has slipped out, there is no taking it back.

  "Come to bed. Are we fucking or what?" he smiles beguilingly from the bed and holds out a hand. He has no idea about the internal storm raging in my body. It takes him almost a minute - a very long minute as I stand there, my brain crashing - for him to register that I am hurting. He starts to laugh nervously, "Come on Charlotte," he coaxes. "You know how I am?"

  I try to focus on him through the teary film in my eyes.

  "Come to bed. Don't go getting all... significant on me. Friends don't do that to each other."

  It’s finished. I’ve woken from the dream and I’m facing the cold, stark reality of a grey-city morning.

  I’m fixed to the floor, staring at his perfection and thinking that it is the most monstrous thing I have ever seen. He pulls back the cotton sheet and approaches me, naked with his arms outstretched like some terrible perversion of Christ. He has lowered his voice so that it is barely more than a coaxing whisper, "Charlotte, if I was capable of love, it would be you that I loved."

  The words twist in my stomach. That’s as much as he has to give.

  I respond in tears, which seep down my cheeks and I'm doing my best not to become a mess, because tears no longer mean pain and suffering – tears mean beauty. That is what Alexander has taught me.

  "Please, darling, please don't cry." He takes my chin in his hands and kisses my tears away. He lips leave a cold frost. Seeing there is nothing he can do, he stands back with his jaw clenched.

  "You can stay here with me, just as we have been, or you can leave. You're not a prisoner, Charlotte."

  My head jerks up and I focus on his face, trying desperately to seek out some kind of desire to make things right. There is nothing but a mask.

  I walk out of the bedroom, pulling the noose of pearls from my neck. As they scatter across the wooden floorboards it is the only sound in the flat. I grab my black trench from the peg and swing it on, doing up the buttons, hoping with each one that Alexander might come out of the bedroom and protest. I tie the belt tightly, as if it's the only thing holding me in. I zip myself into my leather boots and grab my bag. I glance back through the bedroom door to see that he is sitting in bed, flicking through the pages of a book. I’m not sure if he is actually reading or just doing it for show. I’m not sure that anything he does is actually real anymore. His whole life is a performance of his life, and he plays each and every role to perfection – except the lover.

  I hail a cab and head to a hotel. If the doorman thinks it strange that I have no luggage, he is too well trained to let it show; he probably thinks I'm some high-end hooker. I suppose he wouldn't be too far wrong. I hand the business account card over to the receptionist and she books me in. I am lucky; they have just one room left. I pay up front for three days. (I am hoping that Alexander will have begged me to go home by then.) I ask if there is a possibility that a concierge could go and purchase some things for me. I scribble down a list; size 12 Gap slim-fit jeans, 4 white t-shirts SM-M, navy V-neck, a five pack of cotton briefs, a small leather travel bag. Most other things are provided by the hotel in a basket.

  Three days pass and despite sending Alexander a text to let him know (out of courtesy as we are still business partners) where I am staying, there are no bouquets of flowers, or phone calls from reception to say that he has visited.

  I head down to reception with the intention of staying a few more days and hand over my card. She regrettably informs me that the card has been declined. I know that in my personal account there is just enough in it to buy me a train ticket home. I curse myself that I haven’t seen all this coming. I curse myself that I didn’t listen to Arabella.

  I stand on my mother’s doorstep with my travel bag in hand, and I ring the bell, hoping mum is in and not out walking the dog. When I see her blurred figure in the glass of the door, I try to find a casual smile that might suggest I'm just popping home for an overdue visit. Instead, when she opens the door, I collapse into a sobbing heap. She wraps me up in hug and ushers me through to the kitchen, plonking me down on a chair, before filling the kettle.

  "Oh, sweetheart! Never mind, you're home now!" she says, wringing her hands in pig novelty tea towel.

  Yes, I’m home now. I want to scream and not stop.

  Chapter Eight: Home

  After several days of non-stop crying, mum tired of offering sympathy and urged me to go to the GP to “get a little medicinal help during the ‘grieving’ period. Break-ups are always hard," she offered from her singular experience. Apparently Valium really does help. I pretended to make an appointment at the doctors but in truth I sat in the coffee shop, texting Alexander with pleas for forgiveness. With each press of the send button, I cursed my own weakness. Eventually, I ceased any hope of reconciliation and sent one last text, informing him that I was going to the flat to pick up my things and to discuss the ‘financial settlement’. At last he replied.

  O.K

  And that was all – the sum of Alexander’s words on the matter – they weren’t even words, just letters. That’s all I had been worth – two letters and a full stop.

  When I arrived at Alexander’s flat, the front door had been barricaded by a pile of paper carrier bags, stu
ffed with a selection of my clothes and underwear, my washbag, a couple of pairs of shoes and sat on top, almost as an after thought, my ballerina mouse. A large brown envelope was tucked into the side and scribbled on the front were the words, Financial Settlement. I fought back the tears of humiliation as I opened it up and saw three thousand pounds in fifty-pound notes. A post-it-note was stuck onto one of them. It simply said, "For services rendered." It was the same amount he had paid Celia, our whore.

  And in that moment I understood entirely, how at twenty-three he had his own office and was on the board of directors. He’s a capitalist bastard.

  I wanted to leave everything behind as a statement, but I needed the money and three thousand pounds would save me from the hell of suburbia for a while. I took the envelope and the mouse and I left the rest, hoping it was statement enough.

  I spent the afternoon with a smiling mask and I nodded with a lack of commitment as I was tugged along, room after room by a letting agent. In the end, bored of the endless damp and misery, I say to the guy,

  “I’ll take this one. This one will be fine.”

  The agent rings my mum for a guarantee, we sign papers, he hands me keys. It’s no different to any of the others: A single box-room in a house that I have to share with six other people, four of who are Australian and are in London on a gap year. There is only one bathroom and there’s a rota for the shower that nobody sticks to and which causes daily conflict.

  In the first week I am there, I don’t speak to a single member of the household. I am as invisible as the washing up and rat droppings that nobody ever bothers to clear. I eat out of paper bags and drink wine straight from the bottle. I am a refugee from my own personal war. I look out of the window, over the No man’s land of the city, and I search for Alexander’s flat. It was always his – never ours.

  I spend the nights wine-softened and aching. I close my eyes and imagine the feel of Alexander’s skilled fingers tugging my nipples, working my sex. The feel of tightening satins around my wrist as I writhe under the heat of the leather whip. I hang off the bed with my head upside down, and hold my breath as I run my fingers over my slick sex. Backwards and forwards, in some melody of motion, that is a sad song – a song of longing and loss. My orgasms wash over me. They are not accompanied by moans of pleasure but by violent sobs that break something inside.

  I find work in a café. I reconstruct my life all over again.

  All this time, I search for Alexander on the tube, in cafes, in restaurant windows. I walk past The Olde Curiosity Shoppe several times but don't have the courage to enter. Instead, I stand there like a child with its nose pressed against the window. I look at the program of events; there's a dissection lecture taking place next Wednesday. My heart flutters; it's so long since I've felt something other than boredom. I put my hand against the brass doorplate and stop.

  On the way home, I stop at the astrology shop. The fifteen pound offer is still chalked up on the board and I wonder how long it is before it’s no longer an offer but just the price it is.

  The woman reads my tarot and tells me I am unhappy and that I’m lacking direction. She tells me that I mustn’t lose heart, and that death is a symbol of new life. I go away fifteen pounds lighter and no wiser. She doesn’t mention anything connected to Alexander.

  I go home and wait in line for the microwave. In front of me is Tristan; one of the few housemates who I’ve actually spoken to in the month that has passed. I watch him move around the kitchen in his vest and board shorts. My eyes drink in his strong physical form hungrily. I am longing for the feel of heat and urgency. He catches me gazing at him and flashes me a smile that indicates he knows exactly what I am thinking. He’d be wrong. I’m imagining him bound and merciless – tied to a pillar, his legs spread wide whilst I reign down the kiss of the whip over his cock. He’d make such a delicious sub. I bite my lips, inflicting sharp pleasure on their blood-thickened softness.

  As he gathers up his dinner and sets to leave, he smiles at me flirtatiously. After a moment of calculated consideration, I abandon my meal and head up the stairs towards his room.

  I knock and wait.

  When he opens the door, he laughs lightly, amused – curious.

  I’m not sure what to say so I say nothing. I don’t need to. He widens the door, allowing me in. As I pass, our mouths connect, furious and hot. He lifts me to my feet and throws me down onto the bed, pinning my arms above my head. His kisses turn to bites that tease my ear and pinch the soft skin of my neck. I test his resolve, pushing my wrists against his firm grip, but they fasten tighter as he pushes his hand up under my top and squeezes my breasts, grazing my nipple in delicious circles. He pulls me up, eager to liberate me from my clothes. Within seconds, I am naked, arched over the bed as he showers me with kisses, grazing me with his teeth as he travels down my body and down between my legs. He opens me up and his tongue flits backwards and forwards over my sex, and then he pushes it in, filling the space with a hard-softness. I push myself against him, thrusting my hips out. He cradles my buttocks rocking me backwards and forwards in a delicious rhythm. I feel the first waves of orgasm and jerk his head up. I kiss him deeply and taste the warm oily fluids of my sex mix with his saliva. My hands frantically search out his cock, which is already hard as a bullet case. His shorts slip to the floor and I see, with a smile, that I am not going to leave unsatisfied. He leans over me, his hard cock nudging my sex.

  I whisper in his ear to put something on, and there is little more than a moment before I hear the sound of tearing foil. I cover his fingers and take over, slipping the oiled sheath over his straining cock. He emits a deep moan as I sweep my hands up and down the length of his shaft, pinching the end lightly. It quivers. He pushes me back and plunges into me deep and hard. My legs wrap around his waist and we collide and wrestle, each of us straining for our own satisfaction with little care for the other. I feel his orgasm rush to meet my own and we thrust into one another, riding out our climax. He tumbles onto the bed next to me, laughing and there is something delicious about such frivolous selfishness.

  I lay for a moment, looking at the patch of mould in the corner of the ceiling, and then to the curtains that are hanging by far too few curtain hooks. These little details are glorious. I sit up, pull on my sweater and retrieve my jeans from the floor. I leave him, spread out on the bed, silent, and watching me with a smile. His room, his way.

  The next night, as I’m sat reading the trashy novel someone left behind in the café, I hear a knock at the door. I know before I open it, it will be Tristan. My room, my way, I think smiling to myself. I open the door just wide enough for my face to fit through.

  “Hello,” I say smiling.

  “Hello,” he replies, a smirk dancing over his lips. “I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out. I really enjoyed last night.”

  I wrinkle my nose and say, “I’m sorry. I’ve already got plans tonight.”

  His face falls with disappointment. “But, how about tomorrow,” I say.

  Pleased, he nods and heads off in the direction of his room, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I close the door and lean against it, grinning.

  It’s my afternoon off, and I spend it walking through the back streets of Covent Garden and Shaftsbury Avenue, looking in the windows of the shops, lusting after satins and bustles and miniature top-hats decorated with crow feathers. I am shopping for this evening. I am in need of black silks and a small cane. I am quite sure that Tristan is not initiated, and I do not want to push him too far.

  Before I really know where I am, I find myself standing in front of The Olde Curiosity Shoppe, thinking of going in and buying a ticket to ‘The Lost Soul's’ Halloween Ball.

  The bell above the shop tinkles and Quentin, now sans beard but sporting an incredible curled moustache comes out through the curtain. It takes him a moment to recognise me. He smiles and with his arms open in a hug that will fade before it reaches me.

  "Charlotte. Such a long t
ime and no see."

  I blush. I hadn't been sure of what reception I might get. Hearing the commotion, Emeline comes through and offers a weak, uncomfortable smile. She is heavily pregnant. She is wearing a loose t-shirt decorated with the large image of a skull that curves over her bump, taking on a disturbing three-dimensional form. I worry about contamination.

  "I've come to purchase ticket for the Halloween Ball," I say as casually as possible.

  Emeline and Quentin exchange looks. Quentin coughs with embarrassment. "Oh, Charlotte," he fidgets, "I'm afraid tickets are for society members only."

  "But I am a member," I say.

  They exchange looks again.

  Emeline walks up to me, her feline hips still slinking. "I'm sorry, honey, but Alexander was the member and..." she shrugs, smiling sympathetically.

  "Oh," I say. "Can't I become a member by myself?"

  Quentin shakes his head slowly. I'm afraid we're not taking on any new members at the moment.

  I know this is rubbish. Pretty much anybody can sign up. There's another message here. A message I am not welcome, that I no longer belong.

  "I see," I say, squeezing my lips together. I’m trying to stop a question forming between them, but I can’t help myself, "Have you seen Alexander lately?"

  Emeline goes to shake her head but Quentin says, "Yes, we had dinner with him at the weekend."

  "Oh."

  Knowing that these people are a connection to Alexander makes me ache. They sat with him, and drank with him, and laughed with him - and I did not.

  I turn and walk out of the shop before they see me cry. Laughably, within the hour, I get a ticket online through their website. There is no gold edging or embossed velum, just a printed copy with a holograph in one corner, like a ticket to a tourist attraction. It means I have to queue but no matter. The ball is that evening. I retire the idea of shopping for an evening of pleasure and education with Tristan, and set my mind to the more pressing task of preparing for the ball.