I tried to remember how long it had been since my last decent fuck and thought back to two weeks ago and a doe-eyed young bank teller who had wandered into Benedicta’s. Too damn long: I decided to allow myself this. ‘Let’s take this to the bedroom,’ I suggested. ‘We don’t want to knock anything over in here do we?’
*****
My bedroom was a study in minimalism. It was nearly as big as the studio and dominated by a king-sized bed that was covered in white linen sheets and pillows and placed dead centre on the marble floor. An abstract canvas hung above the headboard, a set of industrial metal drawers held clothes folded as if still on display in a boutique, and a single orchid stood in a vase fashioned from a test tube. Nothing out of place, nothing excess to need: my life summarised in a single room.
Nat’s sun-bleached blond curls bounced across a bank of pillows as I pushed him back onto the bed. In one move I pulled his shorts down and threw them onto the floor, releasing his eager erection. As he scrabbled at a condom wrapper I crooked my thumb into the waistband of my jeans and G-string, stepped out of my clothes and kicked them under my bed to be retrieved and folded when I’d finished.
‘Oh God, you’re gorgeous. Don’t think this is going to last very long,’ Nat gasped as I straddled his hips, parted my damp labia with paint-stained fingers and slid onto his erect cock, suddenly desperate for a quick, hard fuck.
‘Go for it.’ I dropped my left hand to my clit and rubbing gently as Nat began to thrust his hips upwards in a race to see who might come first.
He won, pushing deep inside me and climaxing in moments, but before his cock began to soften I had brought myself to my own silent, contained orgasm. I fell across his chest and placed a lazy kiss on his cheek. ‘I needed that. Thank you.’
Nat returned the gesture, planting his kiss into my hair. ‘Used and abused again,’ he murmured, already heading towards sleep. ‘Good job I like you.’
*****
I stood with my head bowed under the pounding force of the shower, letting the scalding water continue Nat’s work on my shoulder. My visitor would sleep like a reclining Adonis for an hour or so, before reluctantly leaving for an evening shift at the café. We might meet again later that night if I still felt like his company, or it could be days or weeks before our paths crossed again. Whatever, Nat would be flirtatious and benignly opportunistic and the threads of this easy, low-maintenance friendship could be gathered up without issue.
I was just starting to consider a more leisurely repeat performance when I heard voices. At first I assumed Nat was calling to me and I was just about to reply when the second voice drifted through. In that instant, my warm, tidy world froze and cracked around me and I reached into my bathroom cabinet to grab an inhaler that hadn’t been used in months. I pulled my bathrobe over my tensed shoulders and stepped out to meet my unexpected guest.
Nat sat on the bed, a hastily grabbed t-shirt just about covering his modesty as he faced the intruder. ‘Sorry mate. Didn’t think her next client was due for another hour.’
I stood on the threshold. ‘Nat, I don’t think you’ve met my father.’
*****
Sir Simon Montfort CBE sat at my table in his crumpled, grubby linen suit and polluted the air with his presence. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’ he asked. I made a note to count my cutlery once he had left.
‘There’s mineral water in the fridge. Help yourself.’
‘I’d appreciate something stronger.’
‘That’s reserved for invited guests. How the fuck did you get into my apartment?’
‘It was quite simple, really.’ My father gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘I told the concierge I was your adoring daddy – armed with a few old school photographs as proof – and I needed to tell you your grandmother was dead.’ He surreptitiously brushed the dandruff from his shoulders; whatever dye he was currently using to keep his hair a hideous shade of chestnut clearly wasn’t agreeing with him. The dust spiralled and floated across my kitchen on a shaft of light from the setting sun and I felt sick.
‘I know. Three years dead. The first time you told me she was gone I cracked open the Bollinger and stayed pissed for a week.’
That my father didn’t reproach me spoke volumes. Yet again, he clearly needed me far more than I had ever needed him.
‘So. What do you want?’ I finally asked.
‘This might just be a social visit. Perhaps I thought it was time to rebuild bridges. Did you consider that, Clarissa?’