was alone, tensing her muscles, arching her back, opening her mouth wide, nothing to fill it, nothing to assuage her emptiness and bring satisfaction but the quick, impatient movements of her own fingers, angry and dissatisfied with her own, too-familiar flesh, but still practised enough to know what they must do.
She made herself come again and again until at last her bed was empty and she could fall asleep.
She didn’t want to see Rachel again. But they were going to have to meet. Rachel had the key to Imogen’s flat. Even more importantly, she thought she had permission to use it. Imogen could not be like the evil landlord who changes the locks without warning. Even if she couldn’t tell her the real reason, she was going to ban her friend from using it, and demand the key back. She didn’t care if they fell out over it and never spoke again; that would only prove that Rachel had never been such a good friend as Imogen had thought.
They met on Saturday morning, at a Starbucks in a mall, in the middle of a heaving mass of shoppers hunting for a bargain.
“I have to meet Andrew at Ikea in thirty-five minutes, but that should be plenty of time for a coffee,” Rachel said, with a hug and kiss Imogen was not quick enough to avoid. She was as beautiful and bouncy as ever, and Imogen felt like a coward, evading her direct and happy gaze. She ordered a skinny vanilla latte for the look of the thing, but knew by the roiling in her stomach that she would not be able to drink it.
“What’s up? Your text was so—”
No point wasting time. She blurted it out: “I want my key back.”
“Oh.” Rachel’s shoulders slumped. She stared down at her hands. Her wedding band made its own comment. “Well. Of course. In fact, I’d already decided . . . decided to end it. It’s crazy – I love Andy, we have a good marriage, I don’t want to risk everything for a bit of . . . well,
Imogen’s tension began to ease as she realized she wouldn’t have to argue. “Good sense wins the day. Did you bring it?”
“Bring what?”
“My key.”
“Oh! God, no, I didn’t think – that’s not important, is it? I mean, it is a spare, right? And somebody ought to have it, in case you lock yourself out or something happens while you’re away – you shouldn’t have both keys yourself.”
Imogen recognized the wide-eyed, honest gaze that went with the perfectly logical argument. She’d seen her friend use it on others to get something she wanted. When she was hiding a lie. Her stomach clenched again.
“Ray, this is not about a stupid key. I don’t want that man in my flat again.”
“What happened? Did he do something? What did he do? Have you talked to him?”
Imogen felt her ears get hot and prayed she wasn’t blushing. “Talk to him? Of course not! I don’t know who he is. You won’t even tell me his name.”
“Only because I don’t want you involved in this.”
“But I
Something flared in her friend’s eyes and for a moment Imogen thought she’d guessed; somehow Rachel knew exactly what she’d experienced—
“Just once more. Please, darling. I’ll finish with him this week. I promise.”
“Good. Break up with him in a pub. Or have your final fling in the Travelodge.”
Rachel shook her head. “It’s not that easy. I can’t get in touch with him before Thursday. But this Thursday will be the last, I promise. And then, if you really insist I give your key back—”
“I do.”
Rachel made a dramatic gesture. “Next week, same time, same place. I promise I will bring it. And I can provide all the sordid details you like.”
The following Thursday night, at 9.47 precisely, Imogen turned the key and stepped inside. Refusing to let herself be driven again by the now-expected impression that there was someone else in her flat, she did not waste time looking around, but went straight to the bedroom to put away her gym gear.
The light was on and there was a man there, kneeling on the floor. He had been crouching, apparently examining the carpet, but when she opened the door he straightened, although still on his knees.
Her mouth dried. She looked past him, to the bed, which had been roughly re-made, but Rachel was not there.
He was not someone she would have picked out as the hottest guy in any pub. He had a muscular upper body, but his face was forgettable, and his thinning grey hair straggled down as if length could make up for what was missing on top. He was older than she had expected, a forty-something clinging rather foolishly to the style of his youth. Most surprisingly, he didn’t look surprised to see her, but smiled seductively.
“What are you doing?” She spoke sharply, annoyed with Rachel for leaving this strange man alone in her flat.
He looked down at the carpet again. “She lost her necklace – chain broke. Gold chain. Had to leave . . . couldn’t miss her train . . . but so upset, I said I’d find the missing bit.”
Imogen peered down at the thick pile of the carpet, knowing immediately what necklace it must be, a diamond and amethyst pendant on the finest of thin gold chains, a twenty-first birthday present from Rachel’s grandmother.
“She could have asked
He pushed up her shirt and rubbed his face against the bare skin of her midriff. The shock of it froze her in place. She caught a familiar whiff of dried sweat and hair grease at the very moment that his wet, warm tongue darted into her navel.
She opened her mouth to protest, but the incoherent sound emerged sounding more like encouragement. Her arms did not want to push him away. Her muscles seemed to have turned to jelly, and she might have collapsed entirely without his support. She seemed to have fallen into a helpless dream as he touched and rubbed and kissed her from the waist down. When he unhooked and unzipped and pulled down her trousers, she did nothing to help or hinder, and they fell to her ankles, followed soon by her pants, and hobbled her. He carried on with his more intimate explorations as she closed her eyes and surrendered to whatever he would do to her with his hands or his mouth. He sucked and licked, rubbed and poked and prodded, sometimes hurting her with a rough touch, but generally skilful, increasing her arousal to an incredible pitch.
This was no dream. He was doing it all. Doing everything to her that he had previously done to Rachel, things she could only imagine before now. Her own hands, unoccupied, hung at her sides, now loose, now clenched. Her breath sighed and whistled and caught in her throat. She moaned softly and tried to open her legs wider, wanting more, but she was trapped by her own clothes. As she tried to kick free of them, her knees buckled and she almost fell, but he caught her, and lifted her – so easily; his arms were even more powerful than she had guessed. He quickly and efficiently freed her from shoes, pants and trousers, and dropped her on to the bed.
Remembering Rachel’s description of how he’d looked into her eyes the whole time he’d caressed her to orgasm that first time in the pub, Imogen waited for him to look at her, but he was absorbed in the task of removing his own shoes and socks and jeans, and when he came back, wearing only his shirt, he stared at only one part of her, so fixedly that she wondered uneasily if he found her hairy pubes disgusting. (Rachel was religious about depilating, but Imogen could not be bothered.) She was disturbed to notice his penis was flaccid, not even half-erect, but that changed as he pulled it, still staring, so it was obviously not a turn-off.
With unexpected suddenness, still without a word or even an affectionate look, he plunged inside her and began thrusting away with an odd, jerky rhythm. She was just starting to get comfortable with it when he suddenly withdrew and ejaculated on her shirt.
She gave a startled, disappointed cry.
He stood up and backed away, looking at her now with a smile that was more of a sneer. “You slut,” he said, without heat. “You didn’t think I’d let you have my baby?”
He began putting his clothes on. She lay where he’d put her, afraid to say or do anything that might provoke him, and wondering what had been going on inside his head while she’d been caught in her own fantasy. She was grateful when he left without another word, and sat up when she heard the definitive closing snick of the lock on the front door.
She felt sick, and desperate for a wash. She wanted to wash away every trace of that awful man. She stood
