Master of the House

I lay propped on my side and slid my hand beneath the covers, seeking the lazy warmth of his body. My fingers tiptoed up his flank and found with ease his stiff upstanding part. I stroked it gently on the underside, enjoying its softness coupled with its rigidity. He squirmed and moaned and almost woke up, but not quite.

I relished the thought of what he must be feeling in his dream as I crept beneath the covers into that subterranean place of close heat and male scent. My first breath on his rounded tip made him sigh and shift again. I put the tip of my tongue on the very base of his erection and dragged it slowly upwards. He rippled and gathered around it as I rose, then his heels crashed into the mattress and his pelvis jolted. I supposed that meant he was awake.

I knew it when he cried, ‘Oh, Jesus, what …? Lucy? Oh, God.’

I poked my head out of the covers.

‘Sorry. Thought I’d wake you up gently. Shall I stop?’

‘No,’ he said, after collecting himself. ‘No need. Carry on.’

I carried on, kissing and licking and sucking on him until he was ready to give me my good-morning mouthful. He returned the favour after that, and I almost fell back into a satiated sleep but remembered in time that I had places to be.

‘I’ll try and get back as early as I can,’ I said, making the finishing touches to my wedding outfit. ‘I want to come with you when you try to speak to Voronov.’

‘It’ll have to be before he gets into party mode,’ said Joss glumly, still in bed. ‘He won’t want me trying to discuss business while he’s … getting down to business.’

‘No, well, I’ll stay for the ceremony and the speeches, then I’ll slip off if I can. Leave mum as my proxy.’

I darted over to the bed and kissed him, jingling with my quantity of silver bracelets. I was wearing traditional salwar kameez at Jamila’s request – it was lighter than air and made me feel almost giddily feminine.

I left the room in a swirl of scarves, promising myself that I’d put the Hall and Voronov from my mind for just these next few hours.

Mum still wasn’t dressed when I let myself into the flat. She was sitting drinking tea in her dressing gown, staring at a satellite TV show about angling.

‘Mum?’

‘Oh, love,’ she said with a sigh.

‘What’s wrong? You’re coming to the wedding with me, remember? We bought outfits from the sari shop on Coventry Road.’

‘I don’t think I’m up to it, angel. Sorry.’

She had that awful blank staring look I remembered from my childhood. I remembered too the feeling of helplessness that went with it. Then I remembered that I was an adult, took her mug from her and said, ‘Come on. Have a shower. It’ll perk you up.’

‘Take more than a shower,’ she said. ‘I’m not well, Lu. I’ll call the CPN later, don’t worry. You go and enjoy yourself. I’ll be all right.’

I sat down beside her, frowning at all the loose tobacco that attached to my lovely clothes.

‘What’s happened? Where’s Animal?’

‘Gone.’

‘Oh.’ That accounted for a lot. Another broken basket of hopes and dreams. ‘I thought you two were solid.’

‘So’d I. But … it’s not that, anyway.’

‘No?’

‘Look, you go. I just need a day to sort my head out. Do some thinking.’

‘Thinking’s dangerous, especially when you’re like this. Come to the wedding. It’ll be lovely – all the celebration and colour. It’ll take you out of yourself. Please?’

I helped her to her feet, hustled her into the shower, stood in the bathroom handing her the shampoo and soap. The last thing I wanted was for her to lock the door of a room that contained razors. Once she was out and wrapped in her towel, I led her into the bedroom, laid out her clothes and helped her into them.

I was no hairdresser, but I dried it and fought it into some semblance of an up-do, containing a huge number of grips. She remained silent, placid and doll-like throughout.

‘Do you want make-up?’ I asked her. She rarely wore it, unless it could be proved beyond reasonable doubt that it had been nowhere near an animal, and she shook her head this time too. ‘Fair enough. Let’s get our handbags and shoes and get out of here.’