‘What kind of woman gets wet when she thinks about money?’ he asked.
She knew the answer that was required of her.
‘A whore,’ she said.
He laughed, running his fingers steadily over her nub, to and fro. With his other hand he reached behind her and smacked her bum.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Get on your knees, whore.’
She obeyed, regretting the absence of his touch at her most intimate spot.
‘Earn your money,’ he said gloatingly, opening his trousers. ‘Get that mouth to work.’
She reached for his cock and warmed it between her palms, breathing down on its tip. It was big and firm, ready to do all kinds of things to her.
She took it in her mouth and he held her hair and told her over and over that she was a cocksucking whore who lived to suck cocks until he filled her mouth with bitterness and she swallowed it down.
But Jenna couldn’t come. The fantasy left her feeling desolate and empty and more than a little dirty. Was that what she was? Was it what she wanted?
Deano had said that money was her only true love. He had been wrong, of course he had. She loved music, she loved the cut and thrust of business life, she loved the moments of glory and the little luxuries of her daily existence. And she had loved Deano, once.
It did seem a long time ago now, though.
She stiffened.
Another noise – a muffled thud, two storeys up. It had to be coming from the attic or the roof. What was it?
Whatever it was, she didn’t want to go up there. Every frightening urban myth she had ever heard crowded into her brain. Psychopaths on roofs, in adjoining rooms, making phone calls from feet away.
She lay utterly still, barely breathing, her ears listening for something to break the rush of black sound around her. No creaks, no taps, no footsteps came.
That’s it, she thought. This was a terrible mistake. Tomorrow she would call the estate agent and put the place back on the market. Go to the London office. Forget about the sabbatical. Try and work through the humiliation of being left by her husband and biggest client until everyone was too intimidated and too polite to ever mention it again.
The room was not as dark now. Dawn wasn’t quite breaking, but it was on its slow way. It wasn’t too early to get up, she thought. She had got up at five for years, drunk a glass of wheatgrass juice, done an hour in the gym or pool before taking her calls. There hadn’t been enough hours in the day, then. She strongly suspected that there might be too many, now.
She drew back the heavy, dusty curtain and looked out into the wet, dark garden. It was overgrown and needed a lot of tender care. She would have to hire a gardener.
But what was she thinking? She wasn’t staying. She was going to pack up and get out of here, as soon as possible. The split with Deano had infected her brain. What on earth had made her think this was a good idea?
She pulled out one of the bottles of water from her bag and drank it on the mattress, letting its cold clear stream flow down her throat and revive her. She would have bags under her eyes. She needed to apply some gel. God, she needed a shower. This was just dire.
She put her head in her hands and began to sob.
Three hours later, she woke again, having cried herself into an exhausted sleep. Now it was light, quarter past eight by her watch, and things looked slightly less desperate, in that odd way they always did once the darkest hours were past.
She’d call the estate agent at nine, as soon as they opened.
She put on the same pair of 7 jeans and cashmere hoodie she’d worn yesterday – perhaps the first time she’d worn the same outfit twice in a row this millennium – and sauntered, barefoot, into the front hall.
Nothing was disturbed. Everything was as it had been the last time she saw it.
So what had caused the noise up above her? She peered up but the staircase held no clues. Harville hadn’t shown her the attic. He hadn’t even mentioned it.
Perhaps she ought to check it. Or perhaps she should just leave its rats, or birds, or whatever were up there, for the next lucky owner.
She sat down on the bottom stair, overwhelmed by a need for some human contact – a voice, a word, anything. Before she could stop herself, she was keying in Lawrence Harville’s number.
‘Hello?’