Nicci French: Killing Me Softly

He leaned right forward over me and touched my belly-button with his tongue. ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘that the hair under your arms, here, is just like your pubic hair. Here. But not like the lovely hair on your head. And I was thinking that I like your taste. I mean, all your different tastes. I would like to lick every bit of you.’ He was looking up and down and over my body as if it were a landscape. I giggled, and he looked into my eyes. ‘What’s that for?’ he asked, with a look almost of alarm in his eyes.

I smiled at him. ‘I think you’re treating me like a sex object.’

‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t make jokes.’

I felt myself blushing. Was I blushing all over my body? ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t. I like it. I feel blurry.’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘You lie back,’ I said, and he did. ‘And close your eyes.’ I ran my fingers over his body, which smelt of sex and sweat. ‘What am I thinking? I think that I’m completely mad and I don’t know what I’m doing here but it was…’ Istopped. I didn’thave words for sex with him. Just remembering it sent little ripples of pleasure through me. I felt a throb of desire again. My body felt soft and new and open to him. I curled my fingers on to the velvety skin of his inner thigh. What else was I thinking about? I had to force myself. ‘I’m also thinking… I’m thinking that I have a boyfriend. More than a boyfriend. I live with somebody.’

I don’t know what I expected. Anger, maybe, evasiveness. Adam didn’t move. He didn’t even open his eyes. ‘But you’re here,’ was all he said.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘God, I am.’

We lay together for a long time after that. One hour, two hours. Jake always said that I can’t relax for long, can’t stay still, can’t stay silent. Now we barely spoke. We touched. Rested. Looked at each other. I lay and listened to the sounds of voices and cars in the street below. My body felt thin and peeled under his hands. Finally I said I had to go. I showered and then dressed while he watched me. It made me shiver.

‘Give me your number,’ he said.

I shook my head. ‘Give me yours.’

I leaned over and kissed him gently. He put a hand on my hand and pulled my head down. I felt an ache in my chest so that I could hardly breathe, but I shook him off. ‘Must go,’ I whispered.

It was after midnight. When I let myself into the flat, it was dark. Jake had gone to bed. I tiptoed into the bathroom. I put my knickers and tights into the washbag. I had a shower for the second time in an hour. The fourth time that day. I washed my body again in my own soap. I washed my hair in my own shampoo. I crawled into the bed beside Jake. He turned and mumbled something.

‘Me you too,’ I said.

Jake woke me up with my tea. He sat on the edge of the bed in his towelling robe and smoothed my hair back from my forehead while I surfaced from sleep. I stared at him, and memory flooded back, disastrous and overpowering. My lips felt sore and puffy; my body ached. Surely he could tell, just by looking at me. I pulled the sheet up to my chin and smiled at him.

‘You look lovely this morning,’ he said. ‘Have you any idea what time it is?’

I shook my head.

He looked theatrically at his watch. ‘Nearly eleven thirty. Lucky it’s the weekend. What time did you get in last night?’

‘Midnight. Maybe a bit later.’

‘They’re working you too hard,’ he said. ‘Drink up. Lunch at my parents’, remember?’

I hadn’t remembered. Only my body seemed to have a memory now: Adam’s hands on my breasts, Adam’s lips at my throat, Adam’s eyes staring into mine. Jake smiled at me and rubbed my neck, and there I lay, sick with desire for another man. I picked up Jake’s hand and kissed it. ‘You’re a nice man,’ I said.

He pulled a face. ‘Nice?’ He leaned down and kissed me on the lips, and I felt as if I was betraying someone. Jake? Adam?

‘Shall I run you a bath?’

‘That’d be lovely.’

I poured a stream of lemon bath oil into the water, and washed myself in it all over again, as if I could wash away what had happened. I hadn’t eaten anything yesterday, but the thought of food was horrible. I closed my eyes and lay in the hot, deep, fragrant water and let myself think of Adam. I must never, ever see him again, that was clear. I loved Jake. I liked my life. I had behaved appallingly and I would lose everything. I must see him again, at once. Nothing else mattered except for the touch of his hands, the ache of my flesh, the way he said my name. I would see him once, just once, to tell him it was over. I owed him that at least. What rubbish. I was lying to myself as well as to Jake. If I saw him, looked again into his beautiful face, I would fuck him. No, the only thing to do was just turn away from everything that had happened yesterday. Concentrate on Jake; work. But just one more time, a last time.

‘Ten minutes, Alice. All right?’

The sound of Jake’s voice brought me to my senses. Of course I was going to stay with him. We’d get married, maybe, and have children and one day this would be a memory, one of those ridiculous things one had done once before growing up. I sluiced myself down one last time, watching the bubbles stream off a body that suddenly seemed strange to me. Then I climbed out of the bath. Jake held out a towel. I was aware of his eyes on me as I dried.

‘Perhaps we can be a bit late, after all,’ he said. ‘Come here.’

So I let Jake make love to me, and tell me that he loved me, and I lay under him damp and acquiescent. I groaned with pretended pleasure, and he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell. It would be my secret.

We had spinach flan for lunch, with garlic bread and green salad. Jake’s mother is a good cook. I lifted a piece of curly lettuce on to my fork and put it in my mouth, chewed slowly. It was difficult to swallow. I took a gulp of water and tried again. I’d never be able to eat all of this.

‘Are you all right, Alice?’ Jake’s mother was looking fretfully at me. She hates it when I don’t finish meals that she’s cooked. Usually I try to have a second helping. She likes me better than Jake’s previous girlfriends because I usually have a large appetite, and eat several slices of her chocolate cake.

I speared a chunk of flan and pushed it into my mouth and chewed determinedly. ‘Fine,’ I said, when I had swallowed it. ‘I’m getting over something.’

‘Will you be all right for this evening?’ Jake asked. I looked baffled. ‘You know, stupid, we’re going for a curry with the Crew over in Stoke Newington. Then there’s a party if we feel like it. Some dancing.’

‘Great,’ I said.

I nibbled some garlic bread. Jake’s mother watched me.

After lunch, we all went for a slow walk in Richmond Park among the docile herds of deer, and then, when it was beginning to get dark, Jake and I drove home. He went to the shops for some milk and bread, and I took out an old Interflora card from my wallet, with Adam’s number on the back. I went to the phone, picked it up and dialled the first three digits. I put it down again and stood over it, breathing heavily. I tore the card up into lots of bits and flushed it down the lavatory. Some of the scraps wouldn’t go down. In a panic, I filled a bucket with water and swilled them away. It didn’t matter anyway, because I could remember the number. Jake came back then, whistling up the stairs with his shopping. It will never get worse than this, I told myself. Every day it will get a little bit better. It’s just a question of waiting.

When we arrived they were all there in the curry house. A bottle of wine and glasses of beer stood on the table, and everyone’s faces in the candlelight looked merry and soft.