While her friends were still out at the bar getting drunk, and Stephen was downstairs waiting to continue where they’d left off, Renée was standing under the shower, watching the grit from her body run red into the tray. The fierce streams of water penetrated through the alcohol and sobered her up very slightly, made her heart a little steadier and her legs a little stronger.
Renée felt ashamed of her behaviour now, and not only because of Juliette. Although she knew rationally it wasn’t her fault, she couldn’t stop thinking about the man in his kitchen, couldn’t stop blaming herself: ‘So all I need you to do (giggle) is sign here.’ (Provocative lean forward – had she been fucking mad, she’d known he was a weirdo; she must have been on auto-pilot, irrefutable proof of the book company’s fail-safe training methods.) She’d been unbelievably lucky to have got away, she might even have been murdered if she hadn’t managed to fight free of him – what man does that in his own home unless he’s going to kill you, dump your body, destroy the evidence?
And now here she was, less than two weeks later, drunk, making out, rolling around in the dirt like a sow on heat. And with Stephen of all people.
Renée realised as she stood there, water pouring over her like from a bucket, that she wasn’t falling for Stephen after all, absolutely not. What had she been thinking? She must simply have been lonely and drunk and depressed – unnerved by bookselling, freaked out by the double dose of trauma on that terrible day a fortnight earlier, what with almost drowning too. It couldn’t have helped her state of mind, and this line of thought comforted her in a way. It really wouldn’t do to sleep with Stephen, he was her best friend’s boyfriend after all. She had her standards. OK, it was embarrassing, but they hadn’t done anything much more than snog, thank goodness, and she knew that Juliette would eventually forgive her if she left it at that – she and Stephen were officially on a break, after all. Thank God Stephen had tripped over in the driveway, pulling her down with him like a lassoed calf. Getting all that orange grit over her bare legs and arms had brought her to her senses, had bloody hurt for a start. Who knows what would have happened if they’d ended up in the house still all over each other? They wouldn’t have fallen into bed though, seeing as there weren’t any beds to fall into, maybe they’d have jumped into floor together.
Renée stopped herself. She knew it wasn’t funny. She couldn’t bear to lose Juliette’s friendship for a start, she was far more important to Renée than Stephen ever would be, but it was more than that. She was vaguely aware that her attitude to men had been somehow changed since the attack – she needed to be careful, she thought, she mustn’t get unhinged by what had happened, as though she were an open door to push against these days. But then again, what was the point of saying no when no-one listened?
As she pulled back the shower curtain she was swaying again. It was almost as if the streams of water had created a force field around her, keeping her upright, and now she was standing just in air she found she was still horribly drunk.
I need to go to bed, she thought. No, not bed, floor, and she giggled again. Get a grip, Renée. She pulled her towel around herself and unlocked the bathroom door to find Stephen standing outside on the landing, big and bulky, in only a towel too, as if he were waiting for the shower. He took one look at Renée, barely covered, and grabbed at her and started kissing her again, and although in her head she didn’t want to any more she found herself snogging him back, there was something about the alcohol and the steamy heat and his solid-looking body that made the desire build in her all over again, and he propelled her along the corridor and into the room he shared with Jason, one of the other (mainly under-tree-dwelling) booksellers – but Jason wasn’t there, he was still getting hammered at the bar. Stephen pushed the door shut behind him and started kissing her even more passionately, and she didn’t much like it now; his breathing was heavy and ragged, and anyway her towel was coming down, they should stop, and although she tried to push him away he bent her backwards until she thought she was going to hit the floor, but he managed to get down on one knee and catch her somehow, and before she knew what was happening he was heavy on top of her and she could feel the roughness of the carpet beneath her, and he carried on kissing her like he was trying to eat her, his tongue rigid and choking, and then she realised he was pushing himself into her and although she screamed at him to stop his face was vacant and his eyes were cold, and he started moving backwards and forwards, hard, fast, and each time he thrust into her he hurt her deep inside herself and she beat her fists against his chest and screamed at him to stop, get off her, but he didn’t seem to want to hear, he was in his own world, looking down at her as if he owned her, and it was only once he’d finished that he seemed to realise she was even there, and he sank down next to her and muttered something although she couldn’t work out what, and then he turned over and went to sleep.