Chapter Nine

 

 

 

Mo answers my summons without delay or comment. It’s only when I’d called her that I’d realized I don’t know where Hangley Grange is. I left it to Mo and Google Maps to find out and she arrived twenty minutes later. She’s shouting swearwords into the security entry phone by the time I work out how to open it.

“You took your time answering! Effin’ hell, Iz. Just look at this gaff,” she says, slamming her car door.

I know it’s grand. But I’m only appreciating a tiny inch of how palatial it is myself given that I’ve spent most of my time here in bed, in one way or another. But I’m not telling Mo that.

“How did you end up ’ere?”

“I was ill and a shining knight helped me.”

“Rich bloody knight. It’s like an effin’ safari park. Has he got a woman? Is he lookin’ for applicants?”

“I’ll ask when I see him.”

“Tell him I’d give him free chocolate for life.”

Admittedly her tiny, battered Fiat 500 looks humorous in the driveway fit for a palatial Dorne set from Game of Thrones. But this is no time for comparisons. “Give me your phone. Mine’s kaput and this call’s urgent.”

“I need to leave,” I say to Will, on the number he’d left in the kitchen, as soon as I’m through. “How do I set the locks and shut the door? Must go. My pal Mo’s here and she’s going to drive me.”

“Sure you’re well enough?”

“Yes. This is a big problem. It needs sorting.”

“Let it lock on double bolt. I’ll get the property maintenance company to set the alarm. If you don’t mind hanging on for twenty minutes, they’ll sort it before you leave.” Will’s voice is all serious school master, so I can tell he’s occupied with people waiting for him to put the phone down. I’d smile if I wasn’t stressed.

“Tell them it’s your mad wife. I’ve escaped from the attic and I’m boiling the pot-bellied pigs.”

Come to think of it, he’d make a wonderful Mr. Rochester. He’s that kind of magical mix of dark and changeful grumpy bastard and super stud hunk. He also has strange secrets about nobody touching or getting access to his member. Shit. Why do I keep coming back to that?

“Thank you for your suggestion.” I can almost hear his teeth grinding and the image of that flexed jaw is so worth it.

“Later then, Mr. Stroppy.” With that, our conversation’s over.

No ‘Hi, how are you?’ No chitchat in the aftermath of his orgasm mastery. No friendly, brief banter. Just terse instructions. But right now Janey needs me more.

“Do we have to go?” Mo whines at me. “I’d give both my legs for a tour. It’s effin’ amazeballs.”

“Be sensible, Morag!” She hates it when I call her that.

Mo pulls a face. “You can’t call me here then not let me see. I want to look. I want to do cartwheels over the lawns and snoop through cupboards!”

“You have thirty minutes. Knock yourself out.”

As we leave, I put the offending newspaper article into Mo’s hands. “Take me to Janey’s. That needs fixing.”

Mo reads, “‘Teacher Janey by day. Pole dancing vamp by night. For demure-looking special needs teacher Janey Woodside sidelines as a pole dancing pro. Her sexy tricks are some of her many charms. And it’s her asset-showing moves that have Ben Lindhurst hooked! Close friends say Ben’s talking long-term futures.’ Effin’ hell on a fire-spitting Harley!”

I urge Mo to stop talking and get driving.

The action squad are on the case. From wrist-bound sex to S.O.S. Today I’m covering it all.

 

* * * *

 

“You look better than when I last saw you,” Janey tells me as we hug. She’s remarkably chipper for somebody whose life’s been tabloid-marauded. No sign of tears and she’s acting like her usual happy self.

“Thanks for sending me stuff. You’re a rock.”

“Ben, meet Izzy and Mo, my friends,” Janey says and we all shake hands and exchange ‘pleased to meet yous’ with the global football icon that is Ben Lindhurst. He’s handsome. And he has a nice vibe, as far as it’s possible to know.

“Didn’t you go to work?” I ask, fearing Janey’s hiding from the world now that she’s tabloid fodder.

“I had a dentist appointment this afternoon and Ben took me. Ben’s staying over. He’s cooking dinner tonight. Why?”

Janey’s golden, light-filled sunroom is decorated like a cream-themed film set fit for a princess to preside in. Bronzed, virile and dressed in neutral loungewear, Ben is the latest accessory to complement her perfectly executed tableau.

But while Mo and I are hyped and stressed about things, we’ve walked into serenity corner. Scented candles flicker, lilies stand in a gleaming vase. Tinkly spa music drifts on repeat. Ben’s outfit goes with Janey’s cream linen shirt and palazzo pants. It’s as if they’ve walked out of a catalog shoot. Um, where’s the drama? WTF? Why isn’t Janey in floods of tears?

I hold up the newspaper. “Have you seen this?”

We watch as they smile and blow tiny kisses to each other. If I hadn’t been so ill, this act may well have challenged my stomach’s fortitude.

I reach over and hand Janey the article, guilt stabbing me for shattering this little nook of Namaste.

She dismisses it with a hand wave. “We’ve heard about it from Ben’s agent.”

“It’s kinda bad,” I say.

“It’s toxic, Izzy. By absorbing the story, I’ll be contaminating my mind.”

“She’s right, ladies. Tomorrow it’ll be another headline. Another story. We must rise above the frequency of drama,” Ben advises.

I’m pausing here. This isn’t the Janey I know. She has been known to like Pilates and occasional yoga classes. She enjoys a trip into a hippie shop for the odd CD. She usually likes a good random wallow in the fountain of drama like the rest of us, however. Usually.

Am I wrong in thinking she’s somehow swum a good stretch farther into the New Age lake of mystical mellowness than we’ve realized? I’m thinking Ben’s big when it comes to vibes.

“So you don’t care?”

“No.”

I watch him with a pinch of worried wary. “It’s patently untrue. But Rogerson might get concerned when he sees it. Did you talk to him about it yet?”

“I have. It’s cool.”

“So he knows the story is lies? How did they get a pic of you coming out of a pole dancing club anyway?”

Janey stares at Ben. Ben stares calmly back.

Their serenity reminds me of the big Buddha statue on a lotus flower at the local museum. “I am a pole dancer. I don’t perform—I teach. Rogerson was shocked. But it’s not a problem. He won’t sack me. I’ve agreed to help with the BBC filming project.”

Mo and I are staring, our jaws dropped lower than low. “You pole dance? You’ve never told us.” Mo asks.

I’m glad. I need it repeated too. In triplicate.

“I’ve done it for years.”

“Shit.”

“It’s very good for body and mind. I don’t tell anyone. I don’t go to Pilates. I only tried it briefly. I consider it a white lie. Pole dancing is my passion and I go three times a week. But not in the seedy way you imagine.”

“So how did they know?”

“No idea. Somebody must’ve told newspapers or seen me with Ben and followed me. I taught a class on Wednesday. A photographer must’ve followed.”

“Holy Mariachi bands and jumping jalapeños!” Mo loves her Batman exclamation speak. Each one’s a creative event in itself.

“Wow. Janey. This is news,” I marvel.

“Actually, ladies,” Ben clarifies, “it’s only the start of Janey’s new future, taking pole dancing to the masses. We’re not doing drama, are we, Janey? You’re facing things and making your mark.”

Janey looks at us all in turn—so serene she could give the Mona Lisa a run for her money. “I welcome the opportunity. I’m an athlete and I’m creative in choreography. I am Janey and I pole dance—now the world’s going to know the truth.”

Um, it already does love, says the cynical voice in my head. And I have a hunch you’re going to be in the papers for a long, long time to come.

 

* * * *

 

I’m back at home, lying on my sofa, pushing Janey’s random, raunchy secret surprise from my mind.

I’m feeling better but as soon as I got in, I showered and donned my PJs. I’m planning on a solo chow mein takeaway from Wongkee Garden tonight and, hopefully, a chapter or two of my current erotica read.

The doorbell rings as I’ve pulled my coziest throw over my legs. I swear then get up to answer. I’m pretty sure from the male silhouette through the door glass that it’s Will. Or a pretty damn good doppelganger.

“Will Darby.”

“You didn’t stay. I might consider that warrants a penalty?”

Shit. I’d forgotten about his arse-slapping preferences until now.

“Did you find your crazy escaped wife?” I ask him.

“Just have. She’s at home in her bunny pajamas. She’s lookin’ pretty hot too!”

My, but something inside me swells and thrums—ah, that’s it. Estrogen and the impact he has when he fantasizes about me as his wife. Fuck. What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

“Hi, Temptress Tennant.” He raises an eyebrow. He’s debonair. He virile. He’s hot. Even in a shirt without tie, and chinos, he rocks. My womb is purring like a vixen escaped from foxy town.

“I knew those rabbit pajamas would be a hit.”

“Hardly.” I narrow my eyes. “Why are you here? Is it because I forgot to pay for them? Can I write a check?”

Will says, “Invite me in?”

“Isn’t that what vampires say?”

Will scowls. So I step aside, let him in and close the door. “I’m here because I wanted to check on the patient. And Jack was all for coming over and doing this job for me. I figured you might rather have me. Who would you rather give you a tuck in and a kiss?”

I sigh. “So Jack wasn’t available.” I suck in my urge to laugh. I welcome in the man who excites my loins like no other.

“Did you sort out your problem?”

“I’d tell you but it’s all so bizarre I can’t even begin. I’m feeling tired and emotional. Think it’s caught up on me.” I put my wrist to my head in a pure drama meets weary pose.

“Go lie down again. Have you eaten yet?” Will has a bag. It’s marked with the Italian deli’s logo. Crazy, given all the ingredients in his pantry, but I let it pass.

“I’ve nothing in—haven’t shopped. I planned takeaway.”

Will shows me the goodies. “I’m cooking. I said I would. Mario at the deli has gone a bit overboard. So…let’s get to it!”

I point him to the kitchen. “You’ll make somebody a lovely wife.”

“Lie on the couch, woman. We’ll eat, then I’ll put you to bed. Then I’ll leave you to recover.”

I lie down and pull up my throw to my starting position. “Um. Will?” I’m feeling naughty.

From my follicles to my toes, it’s zizzing inside me like live voltage.

“Yeah.” He’s already out of his jacket and rolling up sleeves, chopping things up with my big chopper. I knew he’d be a big chopper man. Knew it sure as eggs are eggs.

“I am feeling tired. But I’m kinda not sure I want you to leave me all alone tonight yet…” I bat my lashes on super speed.

He smiles. “No touching still applies.”

“I can handle that.” Oh, believe me, babe. I can handle all you can give me.

“I’m so very pleased you said that,” he tells me.

My womb is happy dancing and hitting a piñata till it’s pulverized.

 

* * * *

 

I resist the urge to give a blissful moan at how good the food is. Pasta salads with a light dressing and something amazing made from roasted sweet potatoes. Who knew this would rock my world?

“I spoke to Rogerson regarding your wariness about me mentoring you in football.”

“You did?”

“For some reason I think Rogerson reacts well to me, no idea why.”

I tell him with my mouth full. “Tottenham fan. Why bloody else?”

“Anyway, I told him and he says if you don’t want to do it, then that’s fine. But the English teaching element is his main ‘must do’.”

I chomp as I mull this over. “Wow—you did that for me?”

“I did. Call it my softie side.”

“Do you mind if I leave you to the perils of Musical Annie? She’s a nympho by the way.”

“I know. She’s my idea of hell on heels.” Will shakes his head. “I want you to be happy, Iz. Though, for what it’s worth, I think you’d be great. If you gave yourself the chance to try, you could master a few football tricks and that’s honestly all that’s being asked here.”

I push in another delicious, sublime forkful. “I’ll think about it. But I’m pretty sure if I have a get-out clause, I’m going to take it.”

“Shame. I was looking forward to a bit of rough and tumble on the pitch with you.” Will places his fork on his empty plate and pushes it aside. He crosses the space between us like a green-eyed, sleek panther intent on a kill. He takes the fork from between my fingers and pushes the morsel between my lips. “Let me feed you…”

I moan as I bite down on the fork. “You’re bad for me.”

“You’re hungry. Let me satisfy you. There’s dessert so keep room for something indulgent…”

“Tiramisu?” I bat my lashes.

“Don’t spoil the surprises. I said I’d make your night tonight and I still intend to,” Will tells me and pushes his mouth to mine.

It’s going to be a long evening. And, for the first time ever, I’m jubilant I got so ill. It’s brought such amazing fringe benefits.

 

* * * *

 

I’m raw molten heat inside as Will stares at me across my bed. My bedroom was recently styled in muted shades of taupe in an effort to keep it minimalist and trendy. I now realize that Will is the only ornamentation this room has been yelling for. And now I have him I don’t intend to waste the opportunity.

“Strip for me,” he commands.

I’m wearing PJs so it’s an easy enough feat. Three seconds and I’m bare. And every pore is goosebumping—for him. I know I’m blushing.

“Don’t be coy, lie down. Wait for me. I don’t have to prove how much I want you.” He’s right—there’s plenty of evidence tenting out his trousers.

I grin up at him as I lie back. I feel like a model in a painting by one of the Old Masters—voluptuous and come hither and uninhibited, all at once. It feels damn good. He kisses me and in a matter of moments his mouth is on my thighs. I’m not complaining, it’s blissful and I find I have a particular preference for his own unique brand of five o’clock shadow against my sensitive, intimate skin.

But already it’s back to Will’s mouth on me. I daren’t complain when he’s as good as he is, but I’m sensing a pattern.

“You taste so good, I have to savor.”

I lie back and welcome him like donning a favorite outfit. We fit so well. And when his tongue meets my clitoris and circles my folds, I’m utterly at his mercy again. Will manages to induce orgasm in record speed. I’m weak and quaking at his touch as he licks me into a stellar orgasm that pulses on and on so deep I wonder how he and I can breathe.

“Wow. You do that so well you must’ve taken classes!” The sheen of perspiration makes me feel like I’m marathon woman.

Will sits back and grins. “Let’s say I’ve an inspiring subject.”

“Please tell me we’re going to do it,” I say, staring at his proud member to relay my true meaning. It’s tenting his trousers as if trying to capture our attentions. It certainly has mine.

“Maybe not in the way you think.”

Damn. This man is all confusions and contradictions. Why doesn’t he peel down his pants and let me welcome him home to mamma? Okay, I’m not Mrs. Experienced. I’ve never been ultra-wild but I’m certainly keen and I know enough from my reading to give this a stellar attempt at enticing the man. Whether it be a blow job or a happy hand of heavenly pleasure, I’ll give it my best. If reverse cowgirl would stir his stallion, I’d happily get to it.

I want to touch, to taste and to explore. I’m definitely picking up severe constraints and reticence issues in this department and it bothers me more than a touch.

“Will. I want to see you naked.” Turn-on makes me bolder. I thrust my chest out a bit for emphasis and he hisses between his teeth. He’s shucked off his pants and his shirt’s flown across the room pretty sharpish as if it’s outside Dorothy’s shack in Kansas during the tornado. All that’s between us and another very good time are clingy sports boxers. “Come to Iz, I promise I’ll be kind,” I urge, as if they’re the magic red ballet shoes and I’m about to seize the upper hand.

But reticence lingers heavily like the smell of party poppers after the New Year’s bells.

“I’m going to be specific. I’ll make you come with my mouth, my hand. And if this goes further, in lots of other varied ways. I’ll do it so well and so fast your head won’t be on straight for days. That’s a promise, Iz. But when it comes to touching me, there are rules.”

An ice wash trickles through my bloodstream and my cells go on sensitivity wary mode. “Um… Will. What’s up here?”

“Can’t you go with me on my needs? Can’t you follow orders?” His tone’s changed. “It’s not a lot to ask.”

Hell, the whole vibe in the room’s changed. From tones of neutral to shades of scarlet and dark-striped Will-who-must-be-obeyed. He has a firm expression I don’t want to cross, and a tone that’s pure RSC lead hero part at Stratford-upon-Avon during a pathos scene.

“I care for you, Izzy. But when it comes to sex, we have to do it my way or no way.”

“Why so strict, Sir? Surely a little fun might cheer you up?” I’m gulping down more reservations than a box set of Bonanza. But simply because I don’t know what’s up or how this dynamic has changed. I realized he wanted a slow lead-up but a little more info would help here.

I want him—but I want to know the score. I sit up. I hug my knees. And I pull for my robe from the end of the bed.

“I can sense you find my preferences difficult.”

“It’s not your preferences. It’s the mystery and cloak and dagger shit. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on here?”

Will stares at me, then simply shrugs. “I can’t be what you want me to be.”

“But all I want is to turn you on.”

He sits beside me and his hand is on my thigh, rubbing lightly. “It’s something you’ll have to get used to. And it’s not up for discussion.”

“Will. I want you. I think we share a connection. But if this is going anywhere, you have to tell me what this is all about.”

Will stares at me. He’s looking down at his feet, but then I notice the problem is staring me in the face. It’s in his lap. His hard-on is gone.

“Are you getting my signal?” he asks. “I can’t promise the earth will move. Sometimes it will. Sometimes…not.”

I gulp as realization dawns on fast flow. “Shit, Will. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. This is the very reason I didn’t want to tell you. Apologies are even shitter than the obvious disappointment.”

Will’s eyebrows furrow so hard he must’ve had input from a plow and oxen. He sits on the bed, like a man defeated after battle, and every pore of me wants to take back my words and hug him close.

“Will. I… I don’t know how to…”

He gets up swiftly and I can tell he’s brimming with fire, rage and humiliation. A mix that, if it were to go on a Guy Fawkes bonfire, would combust in a deadly fashion.

“Ironic. I’m the striker who can’t score in the goal mouth. Now you know. Satisfied? Or should we make that decidedly unsatisfied in a very important way.”

“Will, that’s not even funny. But… How did it happen?”

He stares at the now flaccid wreck of his earlier erection. He turns to face me. He pulls me close to gently kiss my cheek then my forehead. I kiss him back and the gesture’s tender and arousing—I notice, from the feel of him at my groin area, that his pants are telling me that he’s finding it that way too. We’re back in business.

A big part of me lets out a sigh of relief. So…he’s not exactly impotent because he clearly gets excited, like now. It’s not me being the biggest turn-off ever in the history of the world. But there’s still something else…

Will rises and retrieves his shirt. He dons it and does up the buttons with his back to me. “Don’t say anything. You don’t need to. I like you, Izzy. And nothing you’ve done or said is wrong. I need space.”

He walks to the door, his expression darker than his hair. But he’s stooping some and that leaves a dent of pain in my heart.

“Don’t go, Will! Please? I’m so sorry I brought this up.”

“No, you’re right. You need explanations. But I’m not ready to give them. I need time. I’m sorry. This won’t work.”

Will walks out of my room. I hear his heavy footfall on the stairs then the door slam. And he’s gone.