While he was kissing me I climbed onto his lap and straddled him so I could control this, even though I was so drunk I was having trouble balancing. He held me steady, his hands on my waist. Oh, God, I thought, this was probably a mistake.
At last I stopped to give him a chance to breathe.
“I seem to remember saying this shouldn’t happen,” he said.
“Well, I’m not very good at following instructions.”
“Even more so because we’re both drunk.”
“You’ve never had drunken sex before?”
“Of course I have. Is that what’s happening, then?”
“What?”
“Drunken sex.”
“Well, maybe we’ll sober up eventually. Then we can have sober sex, too.”
It was dark in my bedroom, and chilly: the heat from the stove had warmed the main cabin and the alcohol had warmed us from the inside, but going into the cold room I found myself shivering. I undressed as quickly as I could and got under the clean duvet. Carling took longer to get undressed, folding his clothes and leaving them in a neat pile on the chair onto which I’d already thrown my clothes with far less care. He was thinking about it too much, and maybe I wasn’t thinking about it enough.
He had a good body. Even in my drunken state I could tell: he was warm and solid and had kept himself in shape, athletic rather than muscular, long-limbed, taut. He climbed in bed with me and immediately pulled me against him. The skylight over our heads bugged me. I still remembered the shock of seeing that face, framed against the dark sky. Was that only last night? It felt like a long, long time ago.
It was drunken sex, but it was still good. Tangled in the darkness, unfamiliar bodies reacting in unfamiliar ways; breathing hard, and sweaty limbs against each other in a sort of desperate dance to which neither of us was certain of the correct steps. The conclusion of it was something of a relief for both of us. He fell asleep right away, not snoring but breathing heavily, his body securely between me and the door of the bedroom. If they came for me tonight, they would have to get past him first. Even if it took a lot to wake him from his drunken sleep.
I liked him, that was true. Was it enough? Was it wrong of me to have fucked him when my feelings for him amounted to less than what I felt for most of the people who lived on the marina? God, I suppose I was even fonder of Malcolm than I was of Carling—though I wouldn’t have fucked Malcolm if he was the last man alive.
I thought about Dylan, wherever he was. What he would say if he knew what I’d just done. I could almost picture myself saying it. Him standing there in front of me with his arms folded across his massive chest.
I fucked that policeman.
He would raise one eyebrow at me as if to say, So? And he would pull that face that implied he had somehow expected better.
I was still angry, hours later, when I finally got to the Barclay.
The club was packed: more than one bachelor party group by the look of it as I made my way toward the dressing rooms. I saw no sign of Fitz, but that meant nothing; it was early. Maybe he’d show up later.
Dylan was talking to Nicks, by the largest stage. They seemed to be deep in conversation, but Dylan looked up as I passed, gave me a nod.
I got changed for my first dance and did some stretches to warm up. Not for the first time, I wished I could choose my own music. I needed something fast, something brutal. Something to work off the aggression so that I could calm down for my routines later in the evening. When I got onto the stage for my first dance, fortunately it was “Sexy Bitch” by David Guetta and Akon. That would do the trick. Not exactly girl power, but I would embed my stilettos into the crotch of any man who felt like challenging me about my attitude tonight.
Fifteen minutes later, and my first routine was over. I’d put effort into it, done some high twirls and spins and an upside-down split against the pole that I’d tried only a couple of times before. It looked inelegant if it wasn’t done right. The last time I’d tried it had been at Fitz’s party.
I watched the faces of the men gathered around the stage when I finished and I knew I’d done a good job.
In the dressing room I drank water and cleaned up. I scarcely noticed Dylan until I’d finished, and only then because Crystal called out, “Dylan! You’re perving over Viva—stop it.”
He wasn’t perving, of course; he was standing in the doorway like a brick wall, his face impassive. When he’d finally gotten my attention, he said, “Fitz wants to see you.”
I checked the clock over the dressing table. I didn’t want to waste time; I could be out there in the club, earning money.
Dylan walked up the stairs to the offices and I hurried after him, tottering on those ridiculous heels. “What’s it about, do you know?”
“Don’t ask me,” he said.
I was half-expecting to see several guys gathered in the office as usual, but today Fitz was alone. Despite the warmth I’d generated dancing, I felt a shiver. I wondered what it meant that he was on his own, if I had cause to be afraid.
“Viva. Can I get you anything?”
I wasn’t really thirsty but I needed a reason for Dylan to come back. “Water, please.”
Dylan was dismissed from the room with a nod from Fitz. He crossed the room and shut the door.
I smiled at him.
“Have a seat, my dear,” he said, indicating the sofa.
I did as I was told. No wonder I was shivering—the window behind me was open, the heavy curtain moving gently as the breeze stirred it. I could hear the noise of the traffic in the street below.
“So,” he said at last, “you enjoyed the party the other week?”
“Yes,” I said. “It was a good night.”
“Would you like to do it again?”
“Sure.”
“Next weekend?”
Was that it? He could have asked at closing time, or sent a message through Dylan.
He was standing in front of me, his legs slightly apart, hands thrust into the pockets of his expensive silk suit. There was a knock at the door and a few seconds later Dylan opened it. He brought a tray with water on it, exactly as he had done the last time. Ice and a slice of lemon on a silver dish. He set it down on the table next to the sofa and left the room again without a word, or a look at Fitz, or at me. He shut the door behind him.
Fitz cast a glance behind him at the door and turned back to me, head cocked to one side as though he were considering something. “He likes you,” he remarked.
“Could have fooled me,” I said. “He never so much as gives me a second glance.”
“You had a nice long chat with him last weekend,” he said. “What was that all about?”
“He was asking me for advice on some girl he likes,” I said, without missing a beat. Whatever I’d said would have been a lie and I was sure he would have seen straight through it, but I wasn’t about to drop Dylan in the shit.
To my profound relief, Fitz laughed. “Sly old dog,” he said. “I still think it’s you he likes. Maybe it was some kind of double-bluff.”
I laughed, too, and Fitz went to his cocktail tray. He poured himself something that could have been whiskey, a tumblerful.
He came and sat next to me on the sofa. Next to me, but with a discreet distance between us. “See,” he said, “I have a problem with that.”
“With what?” I said, feeling uncomfortable again.
“With him liking you.”
“Why’s that?”
Fitz drank from his glass, then he sighed heavily and put the glass down on the table, reaching across me as he did so. “Because, my dear Viva, I like you, too. And that big bastard is better-looking than me.”
I smiled at him. “You like me, Fitz?”
He was watching me coyly from his end of the sofa. “Come on. You know I do.”
I drank my water to give myself a few seconds to consider how to play this. “I didn’t think you had any free time for girls,” I said at last. “You’re a very busy man.”
&
nbsp; He looked at me steadily, as though he was evaluating my response. “You’re different from the others,” he said. “That’s why I like you. You’re not going to fuck around with me, are you, Genevieve?”
“Depends what you mean by that,” I said. “I work for you and I’m very proud of what I do. I don’t want to stop dancing, Fitz. And, whatever happens, I don’t want anything to interfere with work. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Well,” he said at last. “You are different from the others. You really are.”
“I need to go,” I said. “They’re busy downstairs.”
“Yes,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to come between you and your dancing.”
He stood and held out a hand to help me to my feet.
At the door he kissed my hand gently. “I don’t do casual fucks, Genevieve,” he said. “If I can’t have your heart, I’ll have to make do with having you as a valued employee.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I half-walked, half-ran back down to the dressing room, feeling as though I’d been in the lion’s den and come out again without so much as a scratch. Could that have gone any better? Only if I’d managed to renegotiate my payment for the next private function—the question of remuneration had somehow failed to come up in the light of the other revelations.
Dylan was waiting for me outside the dressing room and he walked back with me to the door to the club. “Well?” he said.
I smiled at him. “He thinks you like me,” I said.
Dylan laughed, and I went off to find some nice gentlemen to chat up.
I woke up and my head was splitting with pain even before I opened my eyes.
I was alone—Carling was gone. My head fell back onto the pillow, and that hurt, too, the bump on the side of my head jarring with the impact.
I needed water.
I dragged myself upright and found a T-shirt on the floor, pulling it over my head as I went into the bathroom. I drank from the tap, ran my hand under it and over my hair, holding a cupped hand of cold water against the bump on the side of my head.
I washed my face and finally looked in the mirror. I’d looked worse, I thought. It would have to do.
It was cold, so I went back into the bedroom and pulled on some jeans and socks. Then I went through to the kitchen.
He hadn’t left, after all. He was at the table in the dinette, flicking through a copy of Waterways World that he must have found on the bookshelf, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He was sitting in a shaft of sunlight from the skylight overhead, almost as though he was about to be transfigured. He looked a hell of a lot better than I did.
“Morning,” he said cheerfully.
I cleared my throat. “Hello,” I said.
He put the kettle back on the stove while I sat down on the other side of the dinette. I thought about the Tylenol in the drawer and wondered if I could muster the energy to stand up again to get it.
“You look as if you need to go back to bed,” he said with a laugh.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”
“Oh,” he said, pouring the water into the mug, “I just met your neighbor. Again. I think he was quite surprised to see me.”
“Which one?”
“I remember seeing him last weekend. Fiftyish. Wild gray hair.”
“Malcolm? What did he say?”
“He just said, ‘Oh,’ and I said you’d be around later if he wanted you. And he said, ‘Thanks,’ and then he went away.”
We sat sipping our coffee for a few minutes. I wondered why he was still here, torn between liking the feeling of not getting up to a lonely, empty boat and not enjoying the thought of having to make conversation. Although I liked that he stopped reading now that I was here.
“I’m glad you stayed,” I said.
He looked surprised, and pleased. “Oh, good. I was hoping I hadn’t outstayed my welcome.”
“Don’t you have to work today?”
“I’ve got a day off today, and tomorrow. I was going to head out and do all the stuff I don’t get a chance to do during the week—you know, shopping, laundry, all kinds of exciting stuff. How about you? What do you have planned?”
“I was going to go and look at bathtubs,” I said.
“You mean like in a showroom?”
“Not unless I have to. Salvage yards, that kind of place. If I can’t find an old bathtub I like I’ll have to go for a new one. Most of them aren’t really designed for boats, though.”
A pause. I wondered if he was hungry, and if I actually had any food in the house that hadn’t gone bad.
“I wanted to ask you something,” he said.
“That sounds ominous.”
“I’m going to ask once, and if you don’t want to give me an answer you don’t have to. All right?”
“Sure.”
“What happened to your wrists?”
I looked down at my hands on the table of the dinette. I hadn’t thought to put a sweater on to cover up the marks. Thin scabs had formed in arcs around both wrists, not all the way around but in those sections where the skin had been broken by the cable tie. It looked almost as though I was wearing bracelets, threads of pink. I put my hands on my lap, out of sight.
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
I shrugged, still a little drunk, and too tired to argue or fight it. “Some men broke into the boat when I was asleep. They tied me up. That’s about it.”
“When was this?”
“Night before last.”
“Didn’t you call the police?”
I shook my head. “Malcolm found me in the morning and cut the ties. By that time there didn’t seem to be any point calling anyone.”
He was staring at me.
“What?”
“I can’t believe you’re so casual about being attacked.”
“What am I supposed to do—lie down and cry?”
“Aren’t you afraid they’ll come back?”
“Of course I am,” I said. “But what can I do about it?”
“Genevieve. You can’t not report things like this. If anything happens again, you’ve got to promise me you’ll dial 999.”
“Sure,” I said, feeling a bit chilled that he’d suddenly become all official.
He rubbed a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t be here,” he said. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I’m not keeping you prisoner,” I said, turning my back on him and heading for the bedroom. “Shut the door on your way out.”
I stretched out on my bed again, listening for the sound of his feet on the steps up to the wheelhouse, waiting for the sound of the door slamming behind him, and hearing only silence. At least the room wasn’t spinning anymore. There was just a hint of nausea, and the headache grinding behind my eyes. If I could catch up on some sleep, everything would be fine. An hour or so of sleep, and then I would go out in the fresh air, get on my bike and go and look at bathtubs.
He appeared in the doorway a few moments later. I turned my head to look at him, thinking that maybe I should apologize; thinking that I should get up, at least say something. Instead, I watched as he came back into the room, pulling his shirt over his head as he approached the bed. This time he didn’t bother folding up his clothes, putting them in a neat pile. He got them off as quickly as he possibly could and left them where they fell.
I bumped into Caddy on the way back down the stairs. “What did he want?” she asked, an urgent whisper above the thumping bass from the main room.
“Another party,” I said.
She looked upset.
“I thought you didn’t want to do them?” I said.
“It’s not that. It’s just . . .”
“What?”
Dylan passed us, heading back up toward the offices. He gave me a pointed stare, and a quick glance up at the CCTV cameras.
“Look,” I said, “let’s talk later.”
Caddy
looked at me as though she was about to refuse, then shook her head. “Whatever.”
I had three private dances booked in the Blue Room before the end of Friday evening. The final appointment came as a surprise, to say the least. I went into the room and found that the only person sitting in there was Dunkerley.
He looked pleased with himself, lounging on one of the sofas as if he owned the place.
I wanted to turn around and leave, but if he was in here he must have paid. If he’d paid, then I was going to make myself very unpopular by asking to have him thrown out.
“Good evening,” I said. “What brings you here?”
“I wanted to see you,” he said, a smug smile on his face. I had to fight the urge to smack it away.
“That’s nice,” I said. “Would you like a fast dance, or a slow dance?”
“Mm,” he said. “Surprise me.”
I went through my list of music quickly, trying to find something that was even vaguely appropriate to dance to for the benefit of a man I couldn’t stand. All the music was in this list because I liked it, and I had routines worked out for all of them. Whichever one I picked I probably wouldn’t use again because it would always remind me of dancing for this asshole.
I found one. The Pussycat Dolls’ “Don’t Cha.” It wasn’t one they appreciated in the club as a rule—it was a little overused.
I did the dance; I even did some of my most intense moves, before winding down by gyrating in front of him, spinning, and twisting. I watched his self-satisfied smug-ugly face change. At the end, he applauded.
I went straight from the Blue Room upstairs to the offices. Nicks was standing guard at the top of the stairs. Dancers didn’t usually come up here unless they’d been summoned, and then only with a chaperone.
“I’d like to see Fitz,” I said to him.
“I’ll ask him,” he said. “You wait here.”
I waited. I felt hot and uncomfortable, not even sure what I thought I was doing. But knowing I had to do it anyway.
A few moments later Fitz emerged from the main office, at the end of the hall on the right. He shut the door behind him and came over to me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, giving him my best Viva smile. “I wanted to ask you something.”