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We were in a pub in Holborn, so small and packed that we were practically shoulder to shoulder with the people at the table next to us. I didn’t care — the food in front of me was too good. One scan of the menu and I’d decided I could always loosen Clare’s belt a notch, so I ordered a game pie and a glass of red wine that was a meal in itself. Marcus had hand-cut chips and a steak that, to my amusement, he’d ordered well done.
‘I thought that almost guaranteed the chef will spit on it?’ I asked him. ‘Isn’t rare more the thing?’
‘All that gore makes the chips soggy. And I refuse to waste a good chip.’ He picked up three with his fingers and shoved them in his mouth all in one go. ‘It may be months before I get to eat another.’
‘Why is that? Doctor’s orders?’
‘On the contrary, I am in the rudest of health. If I die young, it will be at the hands of some jealous husband or in a hijacking incident. No, it’s because I associate with people who don’t eat and I want to ingratiate myself.’
‘Is it really that bad?’
He gave me a look. ‘No one in in Los Angeles — not one soul, male or female — lets a food item of any kind cross their lips. Why California is the world’s fourth largest agricultural economy is a mystery. Thank God for cocaine and the local all-night 7-Eleven.’
I found myself jolted into a state of unease. Cocaine and people who didn’t eat were as foreign to me as the high street of Dar es Salaam. I had smoked a joint once. It made me hungry. Marcus was not only in another league romantic action-wise; he lived in a world so removed from mine it may as well have been Gallifrey.
‘You did it again,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Your mouth turned all upside-down glum, like in a cartoon.’
I could hardly explain. ‘It must have been the thought of not eating. I could never not eat, if you can see what I mean through all those double negatives—’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Disappointing. I was hoping to polish off the rest of that pie.’
‘Oh, go on, then—’ I pushed the plate across to him.
‘Why did you choose the film business?’ I asked, as he ate. ‘Did you start out wanting to be an actor?’
There was a small shower of pastry crumbs. ‘Christ, no!’ he spluttered. ‘Have you any idea how boring acting is? All that standing around waiting? Why do you think so many of them take drugs? It’s solely to relieve the relentless tedium.’
He reached for his beer bottle, no glass again, and took a swig. ‘No, I got into film because I followed a woman to LA and found an industry that required you to have no qualifications other than overweening self-confidence. I met that criterion with ease, plus I had charm, boyish good looks and a posh English accent.’ He grinned. ‘You can imagine how quickly they embraced me. I don’t even mind when they insist on calling me Hugh.’
I frowned. ‘You must need some qualifications, surely? It is a multi-bazillion-dollar business, after all.’
‘There are people employed in senior positions in Hollywood,’ he replied, ‘who anywhere else in the world would struggle to get a job that required them to say “Can I supersize that for you?”’
‘Why do you do it, then?’ I asked. ‘If you’re so down on it?’
‘Because the money’s good, the weather’s good and woman with enormous breasts are plentiful.’ He spread his hands. ‘What can I say? I am both sybaritic and shallow.’
I made a face. ‘I’d never fit in in Hollywood. I couldn’t be bothered with all that waxing.’
Marcus smiled and leaned forward. ‘Did you know that Ruskin — you do know who Ruskin is, don’t you?’
‘Yes! I’m not a complete dolt!’
‘Ruskin,’ he continued, ‘was so appalled by the sight of his wife’s pubic hair on their wedding night that he refused to consummate the marriage. He’d expected her to look like a Greek statue. Mons pubis marbelus.’ He shook his head. ‘What an almighty git.’
‘Jilly Cooper’s women — you do know who Jilly Cooper is, don’t you—?’
He grinned. ‘When I was thirteen, I picked up a copy that my mother was reading and opened it to a page where the hero dropped his boxer shorts to the ground, flipped them up with one foot and caught them on his erect cock. I practised it for ages but never quite nailed it. So to speak. Anyway — you were saying?’
‘They’re always hairless. Jilly’s women. It made me worried to the point where I actually bought an issue of Cosmopolitan which came with a free do-it-yourself Brazilian kit. There were four choices of stencil: arrow, heart, triangle and vertical rectangle.’
‘Otherwise known as the landing strip,’ he said, and added, ‘My mother has one of those.’
I blinked at him. I know Michelle said posh people were freaks, but surely—
He saw my face. ‘Oh. No. An actual landing strip. For light aircraft.’ He screwed up his mouth. ‘Pretentious cow—’
I couldn’t help a little exhalation of shock. There had been real venom in those words. Marcus heard me, and his expression became partly sheepish, mostly defensive.
‘She isn’t my real mother,’ he said. ‘I don’t have to like her.’
‘So she’s your — stepmother?’ I ventured.
‘No, she’s my adoptive mother.’
All his ebullience had vanished. It was clear this wasn’t a subject he enjoyed. But I was far too intrigued to let it slide.
‘You were adopted?’
‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘Call me Heathcliff. Claude, on the other hand, is more Little Orphan Annie. Minus the spunk.’
‘Claude was adopted too?’
Well, that would explain why they looked nothing alike.
‘And Gus. Our sister.’
‘Your parents couldn’t have children?’
‘They might have been able to if our mother had ever let our father in her bed.’
It was probably good that the waitress turned up when she did. She wedged herself with practised ease between our table and the next, and gathered up our plates. ‘Can I get you more drinks?’
Marcus’ sulkiness vanished with an almost audible pop. Clearly it didn’t take much to restore his equilibrium; he was naturally buoyant. He raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Another?’
‘Oh—’ I dithered. ‘I really shouldn’t—’
‘She’d love one,’ he said to the waitress. ‘In fact, bring a bottle and another glass. I’m done with beer for the evening.’
‘I’m not going to drink it,’ I told him crossly, when she’d left.
‘Why?’ he grinned. ‘Because you’re worried you’ll cave in and let me have my way with you? Which is, let’s face it, exactly my plan.’
‘You do realise,’ I told him with some heat, ‘that all your talk about being shallow does nothing to make me feel special! I could be anyone! I could be a goat, for all the sense I get that you’re in any way fussy!’
‘Hm,’ he said. ‘You’re right. But does that mean that if I make you feel special you’ll sleep with me?’
‘No!’
He stared at me. ‘Even so — it’s nice to be wanted for more than a bit of fluid exchange and genital friction, isn’t it?’
‘Well—’
He leaned forward again and propped his forearms on the table. ‘This is what I can tell you. My primary incentive for bedding you is because you wanted Claude, and I have a deep-seated, possibly pathological need to compete with him. Even when he has no idea it’s a competition and without doubt couldn’t care less. But I also like you. I like being with you. And I find you physically attractive. I understand if that doesn’t compensate for the rest of the motivation, but it’s the truth. And that’s the best I can do.’
The waitress arrived with the bottle, and filled our glasses. Marcus gave her a charming smile which, to my immense gratification, she ignored.
Then he raised his glass to me. ‘Here’s to you.’
‘Greaser.’
‘It’s a gift,’ he replied. ‘Now drink up.’
‘You’re not coming in.’
Marcus was leaning against the front door jamb, watching me rummage for my key.
‘But I have nowhere else to go,’ he said. ‘Claudie won’t let me in at this hour.’
‘Go to a hotel.’
He glanced across the road at the estate. ‘If I stagger off down the street in search of a cab, I’ll undoubtedly get mugged and next morning some poor innocent passer-by will find my violated, beaten body in an alleyway.’ He spread his hands. ‘Still, if you’re prepared to have that on your conscience . . .’
‘I’ll call you a cab.’ I got the key in the door and began to open it.
‘Good—’ He pushed the door wide and strode through beside me. ‘I’ll wait for it inside.’
He made a beeline for my couch and flopped down on it, feet outstretched.
‘You’re not staying.’ I picked up my phone. ‘Look. This is me. Dialling the minicab company.’
He checked his watch. ‘Sweetheart, it’s one a.m. By the time I get to any hotel worth a damn, it’ll be after two. Grant me an extra hour’s precious sleep and let me crash here.’
‘I don’t trust you.’
‘And you have very good reason not to. But I have an important meeting mid-morning tomorrow, and if I have to trek all the way back to Claude’s for my clothes—
‘Oh, all right! Jeepers. I’m too tired to argue.’ I pointed to the ceiling. ‘Spare bedroom is first on the right. Bathroom’s on the landing. Clean towels are in the chest outside my bedroom, which will remain a no-go area for the entire duration of your stay. Comprende?’
He touched a finger to his forehead in salute. ‘Absolutely.’
‘I don’t like the way you’re smiling.’
‘And again, you have very good reason.’
I put my hand on the banister and my foot on the first stair. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to bed now. I’ll see you in the morning. Maybe—’
Up in my room, I regretted that the door had no lock. I briefly considered shoving the chest of drawers across it, but gave up the idea as requiring too much effort. Then I sank down on the edge of the bed, kicked off my shoes and started to undress.
I don’t know if any of you have this problem, but I am extraordinarily uncoordinated when it comes to the putting on and taking off of clothes. I stick my arms in the wrong sleeves or, more usually, my head in an armhole, temporarily blinding myself. I have fallen over while pulling on jeans too many times to count. Even when I double-check where the label is on a top, I must somehow breach the law of physics when I pull it over my head because it always ends up on backwards. I’m incapable of doing up a zip without it catching on the fabric and refusing to move either up or down. My worst moments have been when I’ve tried to pull off a dress in a shop changing room and found it’s got stuck under my boobs and won’t budge. I stand there, with my arms trapped pointing skywards like I’m in a stick-up, the skirt over my face and my knickers on show to the world, knowing that if I can’t suck in enough to make it shift, I’ll have no choice but to ask the shop assistant to cut me free. The only time I can imagine feeling more panic would be waking up in a coffin and finding I wasn’t dead.
So I was incredibly relieved to get Clare’s Matthew Williamson over my head without incident. God knows what she would have done if I’d ripped it; had me killed, probably. I laid it carefully over the back of the chair and was just reaching around to unhook my bra when I heard a creak on the floorboards outside my door. I froze, arms in the duck dance position, and listened with all my might. Another creak, the squeak of a wooden lid being opened, the clunk of it being shut. Thank God. He was only getting a towel.
I did wonder why he needed a towel at one-thirty in the morning but, frankly, I was too tired to care. I tensed as another floorboard creaked, but then I heard the sound of a door being shut. He was in the spare room. With his towel. I could relax.
I unhooked my bra, shed my pantyhose and pulled Tom’s Captain Awesome t-shirt out from under my pillow. As I put it on, I felt a sharp jolt of something like regret. I realised just how long it had been since I’d been held and kissed and caressed. The remembrance of another’s skin against mine was so intense and vivid that I was compelled to wrap my arms tight around myself for comfort.
I knew that in the next room was someone who would welcome me into his bed without hesitating. I also knew that it would be easy — no strings, no demands — just as he’d said. It would also, unless he was full of shit (which was possible) be rather good. But was that what I wanted?
What did I want? That was quite a question. I sat on the bed, staring out of the window at a night sky that was less black and more dirty yellow from the still-lit city. I could hear my head saying things like: You want a good man, someone you can trust, someone you can rely on. My heart was yelling: Hold me! Love me! Don’t let me die alone!
I tried to imagine what Tom would have advised. I know he thought Hugh Grant was a wanker. But in the end, I think he would have said to me: Choose well. Don’t waste time being unhappy.
I sat there a while longer until I realised that if I wanted to sleep tonight, I should really close the curtains.
With a sigh, I shuffled off the bed and schlepped to the window. I had one hand on the curtain when I froze for the second time that evening. And then I lifted my bathrobe from the corner of the closet, threw it on as I dashed to the bedroom door, yanked it open and ran through.
I’d made barely four steps when the spare bedroom door was also yanked open, and Marcus stepped in front of me so fast I almost collided with him.
‘God almighty!’ I gasped. And then I yelled, ‘Jesus—!’
Marcus was naked. Fully naked. Not a stitch on him. I had no idea where to look, although trust me, there were plenty of options.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘Why are you running?’
‘What are you doing?’ I had my fingers splayed over my eyes. ‘You had a towel! Wrap it round you!’
‘Ah.’ He screwed up his face. ‘That towel may be just a fraction used.’
I didn’t have time for this. Trying to put as much distance as I could between me and his nakedness, I sidled around him and started off down the stairs.
‘Darrell!’ he yelled after me. ‘Where the hell are you going?’
‘I’ll be back!’ I yelled in reply.
I ran down the stairs and out the door. I didn’t bother to look before I ran across the street because everything was quiet. I dropped to my haunches in front of Big Man, who was sitting on the grass verge outside the estate, head sunk deep between splayed knees. I shook the shoulder of his blue jacket.
‘God! Are you all right?’
He lifted his head so suddenly and with such a huge, rattling intake of breath that I gasped in shock.
He gazed at me, blinking as if trying to focus. Or as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
‘You!’ he said. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’
I was so relieved, I collapsed onto the ground beside him. ‘Oh, thank God. You’re not dead.’
‘Dead? Does it look like I’m fucking dead?’
‘Yes, goddamit! From up there it did!’
‘Up—?’ He lifted his head and went still. I followed his gaze to my bedroom window. For a moment, we both stared in silence.
‘Does he know we can see him?’ Big Man asked.
‘Oh, I don’t think he cares.’
‘Hmm. I can see why.’
Marcus was wrestling with the sash window. With some effort he hauled it up and leant out on the ledge.
‘Darrell, what in the love of Christ is going on?’
‘What is going on?’ I demanded of Big Man. ‘Why are you sitting here?’
‘I went shopping.’ For the first time, I noticed the shopping bags behind him. ‘It took a bit more out of me than I expected.’
‘What the hell are you doing shopping at one-thirty in the morning? The all-night Tesco’s is miles away!’
His stare was mutinous. ‘I don’t like crowds.’
‘But you can’t—!’ I stopped and sighed. And changed the subject. ‘When did you get out of hospital?’
‘This morning.’ He shrugged. ‘A man’s got to eat.’
‘This morning! Don’t you have any help?’
Big Man’s expression became mutinous again, and he opened his mouth to say something. But—
‘Darrell!’ came impatiently from on high.
‘Go back to bed!’ I yelled up to him. ‘I’m fine! I’m just going to carry B— er, Mr Hogan’s shopping to his flat.’
‘No, you’re bloody not,’ said Big Man. He began to struggle to his feet.
‘Why can’t he do it? Is he tight?’
‘He’s not well!’
‘I’m fine!’ Big Man was panting with the effort. I offered him a hand, but he slapped it away.
‘Hoy!’ Marcus yelled from the window. ‘Right! I’m coming down.’
Clearly, he’d had practice at getting dressed fast. In less than two minutes, he was standing beside us, looking down at Big Man, who had failed to get up under his own steam.
‘You can fuck off,’ Big Man informed him. ‘And she can fuck off as well.’
‘Now, now.’ Marcus had recovered his composure. I got the feeling he was now finding all this quite amusing. ‘Be polite. Or spend the rest of the night on the grass.’
‘I can get up—’
He tried. He couldn’t. He sank back with a muttered curse and looked up at us resentfully.
Marcus regarded him, and then held out his hand. Big Man looked as if he would like to crush its each and every bone into dust. But he took it. Marcus braced himself and managed to haul the older man to his feet. I saw Marcus’ expression flicker fractionally as he realised how many inches Big Man had over him. But Big Man was in no state to commit violence. I wasn’t even sure whether he’d be able to walk.
I bent and picked up the shopping. It was unexpectedly heavy. I checked and discovered it consisted entirely of cans.
‘Right then,’ I said. ‘Which way?’
Big Man looked at me, and then at Marcus, and then at the shopping.
‘Fuck,’ he muttered. He flipped a hand in the general direction of straight ahead. ‘Second entrance. Third floor.’
Marcus stepped forward. ‘And if you so much as touch even my elbow,’ Big Man warned him, ‘I’ll deck you.’
‘As it happens, I’d consider it a good night’s entertainment to see you fall on your arse again,’ Marcus replied, cheerfully. ‘So that’s settled.’
The second entrance to the council estate building was badly lit and malodorous. Marcus and I exchanged a glance.
‘You go first,’ he said. ‘I’ll provide back up.’
I gave him a look. ‘My hero.’
Then Big Man said, ‘Are we going to stand here all fucking night?’ And in we went.
Marcus raised a finger to the lift button and paused. ‘Is there any point?’
‘It’s working,’ said Big Man. ‘Well, it was when I came down.’
He was leaning against the wall. The dim light may have been responsible for his skin’s grey tinge, but there was no mistaking its sweaty sheen.
I heard the rumble of the lift. The door pinged and rattled open. Marcus stepped inside, and stood against the door to keep it open for us. I held up a hand to say indicate ‘just a moment’.
‘Do you want to wait a bit?’ I asked.
Big Man shook his head. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself upright and then walked slowly and with care into the lift.
Marcus pressed button three and the lift jerked and rumbled upwards. I did my best to ignore all the graffiti, and I was definitely not going to look any closer at the brown stuff in the corner.
‘It’s not all bad,’ Marcus remarked. ‘Sharleeze in 454 will suck cock for any motherfucker, apparently. How very community-minded of her.’
Fortunately, the lift shuddered to a halt and scraped open with a noise that made my sinuses ache. Marcus held the door open again. I looked to Big Man.
‘Right or left?’
He pointed right. He was still ashen and sweaty, and I saw Marcus frown in concern. But there was no way in hell Big Man would allow him to help, so he didn’t bother to suggest it. We accompanied Big Man at glacial speed down the corridor, until we came to flat 312.
Big Man felt in his pocket for his key. It took him an age to get it in the lock, but all I could do was bite my lip and wait. Door finally open, Big Man said, ‘Put the bags down here. I’ll take ’em in.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I told him. ‘You can barely stand.’
And I barged my way on in to Big Man’s home.
Marcus, a good half-minute later, said what I was thinking. ‘Christ almighty. How does anyone live like this?’
The flat was a tip. No — tip suggests some kind of order. Bulldozers shifting stuff into neater piles. Bins for recycling. A man helping you to reverse your trailer. In that respect Big Man’s house was nothing like a tip. It was more like his ceiling had been opened up and all the garbage in the world had been dropped through it. You could see one chair. You could see the stovetop, such as it was. I assumed that if I went in his bathroom, I might be able to see the toilet seat. Every other available surface, high and low, was covered with crap. Newspapers, cardboard, magazines, envelopes, bills, the odd dog-eared book, used paper plates and plastic cutlery, crushed takeaway coffee cups, pizza boxes, milk cartons, Coke cans, baked bean cans, orange peel, a ripped sock, plastic shopping bags, apple cores, crumpled tissues, phone books, a broken pair of spectacles, encrusted cereal bowls, blackened saucepans, an old shoe covered with mould, things I couldn’t identify covered with mould — and this was just what I saw in only one swift, appalled glance around the room.
Big Man made it to the one visible chair and sank down in it. For a moment, he hung his head, trying to get his breath back. Then he turned on the two of us a look of pure hatred and said, ‘No one asked you. So you can fu—’
But I refused to let him finish. ‘I can’t even find a place to put this shopping,’ I told him. ‘You can not live like this!’
‘No one asked you—’
‘Serial killers live better than this! Jeffrey Dahmer had a nicer flat — and he had chopped-up body parts in the vegetable crisper!’
I heard Marcus say, ‘Darrell. Let the man be.’
I turned on him. ‘How can I? How can I let him stay here? For God’s sake!’
‘Darrell, it’s his house. He’s his own man. He’s the one who has the right to decide.’
‘But surely?’ I was flabbergasted. ‘Surely, if this is a council estate — don’t they expect some standards?’
‘If they’ve never received a complaint, I doubt they’d care.’
‘How can they not have?’
Then I glanced across at Big Man and shut my mouth. No one would ever have been in here. Apart from the strong reek of nicotine, it didn’t, surprisingly, smell all that bad; he must get rid of the worst of the waste. He paid his rent on time. He never caused trouble. He was, in almost every respect, a model tenant.
He was looking at me, warily, furiously. He’d kept this secret for God knows how many years, and now through no fault of his own, he’d been made vulnerable. Suddenly, my heart went out to him.
I held up the shopping. ‘Where do you want this?’
He shrugged. I picked my way over debris and into the kitchenette. There was no clear bench space anywhere. I opened a cupboard and to my amazement found an empty shelf. I realised its emptiness was why he needed to go shopping. The cans in the bags were what he lived on. There were fourteen — baked beans, spaghetti, baked beans and sausages. One each day for lunch, I guessed. One for dinner. I placed them on the shelf and shut the cupboard door.
Marcus caught my eye, and indicated with a nod of his head that we should leave. Big Man was slumped in the chair, but his colour was better, his breathing more regular. Still — even though I knew his shopping would, by his reckoning anyway, last him a week, I was not at all keen for him to be left alone.
Marcus had the front door open. He said, ‘Come on, Darrell. Time to go.’
‘I could bring you a cup of coffee tomorrow?’ I ventured.
Big Man’s eyes widened briefly in surprise. Then they settled into hard anger. ‘You come here again and I’ll do you.’
Marcus tutted. ‘No, you won’t, you cantankerous sod. But don’t worry. She won’t come here again. Will you, Darrell?’
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t look at Big Man, either, as I left the flat. But all the way down the corridor and in the lift, I could feel Marcus’s eyes on me.
‘You’ll regret it,’ he said, when we once more outside the estate. ‘He doesn’t want your help.’
I continued to ignore him. I heard him chuckle softly in the darkness.
But at my front door, I was forced to speak. ‘Oh shit! The key!’
And there it was, in his hand. ‘Call me ever-prepared,’ he said. ‘Actually, no, it was sheer luck. I saw it on the hall table. But I’ll accept your thanks, nonetheless.’
Inside, in the quiet and peace of the house, my legs suddenly started to wobble, and I had to sit down where I was, at the foot of the stairs. I lifted my hands to wipe my face and found they were all clammy. I wiped my face anyway.
Marcus let out a breath, and lowered himself onto the stairs next to me. There wasn’t much room. I felt his body press against mine, and the warmth and solidity of it was astonishingly welcome.
‘Was it his flat that distressed you most?’ he asked. ‘Or something else—?’
I couldn’t answer him. I had no idea.
He hesitated. ‘Would you object if I hugged you?’
That forced a quick smile from me. I shook my head, and he reached around behind me with his arm and pulled me to him, so that my head rested on his shoulder. I felt his cheek press against my hair. He smelled slightly sweaty with a hint of nicotine. It wasn’t at all unpleasant.
‘I can’t help him, can I?’ I said after a while.
‘I very much doubt it.’
I stared at him. ‘How can he do that to himself, though? How can he?’
Marcus regarded me in return. ‘It’s his choice. No one has forced him to live like that. So why let it bother you?’
He frowned. ‘And why him, anyway? How on earth do you know him?’
‘I don’t really,’ I admitted. ‘I know his name and that’s about it . . .’
‘Then why? Why bother about him?’
A thought darted into my head. It said: Because he lived. Because death decided to give him a second chance—
‘I have something to tell you,’ I said to Marcus.
‘Tell me, then.’
‘I was married. My husband died.’
He was silent. I felt him take a deep breath, in and out. ‘I can’t imagine what that must be like,’ he said eventually. ‘That kind of loss . . .’
‘It’s hell,’ I said. ‘Because it seems like it will never go away. You think it’s lifting and then — wham. There it is. Back again, just as bad as before. No — worse. If it was constant, it wouldn’t be half so awful . . .’
‘How long has it been?’
‘Twenty-one months and three days.’
‘Ah.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He stared at me, genuinely astonished. ‘What on earth for?’
‘For putting a damper on things.’
He chuckled and tightened his arm around my shoulder.
‘Angel, I’ve had more fun and excitement tonight than I’ve had in eons. Beer, chips, a laugh — topped off by a midnight mercy mission.’ He turned his head and placed a gentle kiss on my temple. ‘Thank you.’
The need rose up in me with such force, I had no chance of deflecting it. I grabbed the back of his neck, pulled his mouth onto mine and kissed him for all I was worth. I felt him give the briefest startled jerk, but then his mouth opened to mine and he began to kiss me back.
But after only a few seconds—
‘Mmph—’ He broke away. I reached for him again, but he put a hand on my shoulder and held me apart from him.
‘I can hardly believe I’m saying this. But I’m not sure this is a good idea.’
The need was still so strong, I almost smacked him around the head in frustration. How dare he stop? He wouldn’t stop with anyone else — it’s not fair! I’ll make him kiss me again! I’ll make him sleep with me—!
As I reached out to him again, I felt a surge of sick horror. What was I doing? What kind of desperate saddo did I think I was? I shoved my traitorous hands in my lap, and tried to breathe.
‘I’m sorry,’ I managed to say. ‘Again.’
He sighed. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m regretting it.’
I offered him a quick wry grin. ‘Well, I do have more towels.’
He screwed up his face in sheepish apology. ‘Ah. Yes. Sorry about that. It was the thought of you undressing only ten feet away that did for me, I’m afraid. I’ll wash it. You’ll never know, I promise.’
Relief and gratitude rushed through me. I had to revise my opinion of him being an arse. Despite the fact he had no humility and — let’s not forget — had jacked off in my spare bed, he really was all right. He’d been patient and kind, and he had not taken advantage of a desperate sad case when, to be quite frank, I was fully there for the taking.
‘Thanks,’ I said with a smile.
He smiled in return, and then checked his watch. ‘Christ! It’s nearly three!’ He blew out a breath. ‘Is it even worth going to bed—?’
I felt a clutch in my gut as the need raised its stupid head again. Wearily, I beat it back down.
Marcus was watching me. ‘Your mouth did the cartoon thing again.’
I sighed. ‘Did it?’
‘Darrell—’ He hesitated. ‘One of the other reasons I like women in my bed is because I find it comforting. There’s probably some Freudian urge behind it, or it could just be the result of ten years of nights on a narrow, iron-hard plank, surrounded by evil little bastards who intended to do me ill at the first opportunity.’
He saw my raised eyebrow. ‘Yes, well, my point is — would you like me to come to bed with you? Only to sleep—’ he added hastily. ‘No hanky panky. I promise.’
I gave him a long, hard look. ‘That sounds like an absolute crock, you do know that?’
‘Then say no,’ he replied. ‘It’s only an offer.’
No was the right answer. I knew that. Well, my head knew that. My heart, my gut—
‘All right,’ I said. ‘But none of your naked shenanigans. I’ll lend you a t-shirt. And I’ll expect you to keep your underpants on.’
He got to his feet and held out his hand to help me up.
‘And if you grope me even a little,’ I warned, ‘I’ll cut it off with a nail file.’
‘Sleep time now,’ he said, as he led me up the stairs. ‘You can threaten me more in the morning . . .’