Sabotage.
She repeated the word aloud. She stood thinking for a minute. Slowly her face lit up. “Yesss,” she shrieked. Swaying slightly from the wine, she went into Sam’s bedroom, pulled the rubber stopper out of his
Yentl
money box (Greg had found it at a flea market in Tel Aviv) and tipped the contents onto his bed. She picked up eight pound coins and returned to the kitchen. Then she opened the washing machine door, tossed the coins into the drum on top of a load of dirty laundry waiting to be washed, threw in a couple of Persil tablets and pressed the on button.
CHAPTER 9
Seeing Matt standing in the doorway in his crumpled shirt and grubby Levi’s, she suddenly felt extremely horny. But then again, alcohol always did go straight to her clitoris.
“Hi,” she said with an awkward half-laugh, standing back to let him in. “Thank you ever so much for coming over so quickly. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” he smiled. “I’d been called out to an emergency in Highgate, so I was in the neighborhood anyway. Sorry about my clothes—turned out to be a really messy job. This woman phoned me in a panic an hour ago because her Siemens was leaking.”
“Oh right. Does that happen to women too, then?” she found herself saying.
She led him into the kitchen, aware that she was finding it difficult to walk in a straight line.
“There you go,” she said, pointing to the washing machine, which by now had finished its cycle. “The moment I switched it on, it started making this horrendous slanking cound.”
She could see he was trying not to smile.
“Sorry, I meant clanking sound.” She felt herself redden. At the same time it occurred to her that it was late and that he probably hadn’t eaten.
“God, you must be hungry. I can make you a sandwich. . . .”
“Thanks, but I’m fine, really—I picked up a burger on the way over.” He turned to the machine. “Right. Let’s take a look,” he said, putting his toolbox down on the floor. He pressed the on button. Almost at once there was an almighty racket from inside the machine.
“Blimey,” he said, switching it off again. “Sounds like there’s a load of loose change caught up in the works. Maybe you forgot to empty your pockets before you put in your last load.”
He took off his jacket and put it down on the counter.
“More than likely,” she smiled anxiously.
He knelt down and opened the washing machine door. “Mind if I take out the laundry?”
“Sure,” she said easily. She bent down toward the machine, intending to help him remove the laundry. What she hadn’t noticed was Matt’s hand moving toward the door at precisely the same time as hers. Their hands touched for a beat, maybe two. Their eyes met for a moment longer.
“Sorry,” she said, pulling her hand away and smiling an awkward smile. “You carry on.”
A moment later, as she watched him reaching into the machine, she bitterly regretted uttering those last words. First out was her oldest, saggiest gray bra. This was followed by three pairs of Hampshire-sized, granny knickers—the ones she wore under her joggers on fat days, or while she sat front of the telly stuffing her face with Galaxy when she had PMS.
“Where shall I, er . . . ?” Matt said, holding the wet underwear.
She could feel her cheeks burning. “Oh God. Sorry,” she said, grabbing the bra and knickers. “Of course, they’re not mine. They . . . er . . . they actually belong to my friend Shelley. She lives downstairs. Her washing machine’s on the blink too, funnily enough. Strange how these things always happen in pairs. I mean washing machine breakdowns, not knickers. I mean, yeah, they happen in pairs too, knickers. And . . .” Her fuddled brain suddenly went blank. She stood stuttering and stumbling for a few moments. “And . . . and anyway . . . I offered to do a load for her. You . . . you might also find a pair of bed socks, some flannel pajamas with teddies on them . . . oh, and a pink fluffy hot-water bottle cover. She’s sweet, Shelley, but a bit dull. You know the type—wears a lot of fawn, never misses
Antiques Roadshow
.”
She stood looking round for the laundry basket. When she couldn’t see it, she tossed the bras and knickers into the sink.
While Matt knelt with his head in the drum, she asked him how he became a washing machine repairman.
He told her it wasn’t something he’d set out to do. “After I left school, all I wanted to do was go to drama school, but even though he was on the fringes of show business, my dad wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Money. Said actors spend most of their lives out of work. I daresay he was right, but I was furious at the time. Plus he’d seen how much time I used to spend as a kid messing about designing machines and gadgets. Still do in fact. So anyway, I went to university, got my engineering degree. Then after I graduated, I insisted on taking a gap year. A friend of my dad’s took me on helping him repair washing machines and my gap year sort of turned into a gap life.”
“So becoming a repairman was some kind of late-onset teenage rebellion?”
“Pretty much.”
“Sud’s law, eh,” she said with a hiccup.
Matt smiled.
“So do you still want to go to drama school?”
He shook his head. “I’m thirty-five. It’s probably too late now. Plus I think I’ve moved on from that. Thing is, although I’ve never turned my nose up at making money, I’ve never really been into it in a big way. What I really want to do—and you’ll probably think this sounds dead naive—is put my engineering skills to some really worthwhile practical use—in one of the developing countries, maybe. God, sorry—I sound like a Miss World contestant.”
She laughed. “No, you don’t. I know exactly what you mean.”
Rachel suddenly realized the wine was making her feel quite nauseous. She wasn’t used to drinking a bottle by herself and she still hadn’t eaten anything. The sicker she felt, the more impossible she found it to carry on chatting. While Matt wrestled the washing machine out of its housing, she moved away, sat herself down on a kitchen stool and rubbed her forehead with her hand.
“Rachel, you OK?” Matt asked.
“No, not really. I’m feeling a bit queasy. I think it might have been something I ate.”
She saw him eyeing the empty wine bottle on the counter. He said nothing. Instead he picked up a glass from the drainer. “Got any fizzy water?”
“Yeah, in the fridge.”
He walked across to the fridge, took out a bottle of Highland Spring and poured some into the glass. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “This’ll settle your stomach.”
“Thanks,” she said, looking at him as she took the glass. Sick as she felt, she couldn’t help thinking he had the kind of sexy boyish face that could melt knicker elastic.
She took a sip. The cold, gassy water hitting her stomach made her feel worse. She grimaced.
“Look,” he said, “why don’t I finish off in here while you go and lie down.”
“No, I’ll be all right, really. I’ll just sit and watch.”
As he worked she sipped the water. Bit by bit the nausea lifted and drowsiness kicked in. Eventually she could fight it no longer. She folded her arms on the counter, lay her head down on top of them and passed out.
CHAPTER 10
Rachel groaned as the alarm went off, but made no attempt to open her eyes. Still lying on her stomach, she stuck her hand out from under the duvet and ran it over the bedside table, groping for the clock. She was vaguely aware that along the way her fingers brushed past a small metallic object she didn’t recognize, but being half asleep she was distinctly uncurious as to what it was. Having found the alarm, she couldn’t be bothered to locate the off switch. That would mean opening her eyes. Instead she stuffed the clock under her pillow. It would go off in a second or two.
She felt lousy. Her head was thumping and her tongue felt like a Body Shop foot sander. She lay still, waiting for the alarm to switch itself off. But it didn’t. A minute later the muffled beep was still providing an excruciating backing track to the throbbing in her head. Finally she opened her eyes and propped herself up. Blinking against the light (she must have forgotten to draw the curtains), she pulled the clock out from under the pillow, thumbed the off switch and put the thing back down on the bedside table.
Rolling onto her back, she began making chewing motions in an effort to get her saliva flowing again. She stared up at the ceiling, feeling her mouth slowly rehydrate. It dawned on her that she had no memory of the previous night beyond arriving home and sitting on the sofa drinking wine.
She turned her head toward the bedside table. The small metallic object she’d felt while she’d been trying to locate the alarm clock was in fact a stack of pound coins. How they’d gotten there she had no idea. She also had no idea why her blue plastic kitchen bucket was sitting on the floor next to the bed.
As she stretched across to the bedside table and picked up the coins, she noticed her arm was covered in white T-shirt sleeve. Yesterday’s white T-shirt sleeve. She peeked under the duvet. Yesterday’s trousers. Oh my God. She could only assume she’d got so drunk last night, she’d forgotten to undress.
She held the coins in her open palm and counted them. There were eight. Her failure to undress she could understand; why she had gone to bed leaving eight pound coins on the table, she could not. She looked from coins to bucket and back again. She carried on like this for a couple of minutes until images of the previous evening gradually began to return—in mortifying, Technicolor flashes.
Her face turned crimson as she remembered being drunk, phoning Matt’s work number assuming she would get his machine, only to have him answer in person. She saw herself tossing the pound coins into the washing machine. She remembered him arriving and how sexy she’d found him.
“Omigod,” she muttered, covering her face with her hands. “The knickers. He saw my granny knickers.”
She remembered their conversation about his former acting ambitions and his remark about having a gap life and how he wanted to do something useful to help the Third World.
After that her mind was a blank.
It remained a blank for a couple of minutes until bit by bit, another extremely clear and vivid picture emerged. She remembered falling asleep in the kitchen and half waking as Matt scooped her into his arms, carried her into the bedroom and put her to bed.
Her face turned from crimson to purple. She was being struck by the most mortifying memory flash of all. She screwed up her face in horror as she recalled what happened next. As he’d covered her with the duvet she’d draped her arms round his neck, snuggled up to him and called him . . . and called him . . .
“Omigod,” she cried, turning to bury her face in the pillow. “I called him my Rinse Charming.”
* * * * *
Xantia rang just before eight to tell her not to bother coming in, as she and Otto were still in Klagenfurt and there would be nothing for her to do. It turned out that the only journalists waiting for them when they arrived at the design fair to protest against Lego Auschwitz were a man from the
Jewish Chronicle
and a film crew from
Eyewitness News,
Zagreb. Enraged at not receiving the full broadsheet publicity they were convinced they deserved, they had decided to stay on an extra day in Klagenfurt to “chivvy up” the newspaper editors back home. No doubt Xantia would sit on the phone for as long as it took, hectoring and bullying every editor in London, until they finally caved in and agreed to send their reporters to Klagenfurt.
* * * * *
More than a little relieved that she didn’t have to go to work, Rachel put the kettle on and ran herself a bath. After a couple of mugs of tea and a long soak in hot water, her headache, although not her embarrassment, had virtually disappeared. She was just about to blow-dry her hair when the phone rang. It was Matt phoning to see how she was.
“Oh, I’m fine. Had a bit of a headache, but it’s gone now.”
“Didn’t need the bucket then?” he joked.
“Oh right. You put it there.”
“Yeah, just in case you chucked up in the night.”
“Thanks. That was really thoughtful. And thanks for putting me to bed. I drank a bit too much on an empty stomach. I don’t know what you must think of me.” She paused. “And if I embarrassed you with anything I said, I’m really sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t say anything even remotely embarrassing. Honest.”
“Well, that’s not how I remember it,” she mumbled.
“Well, it’s definitely how I remember it. You passed out and I put you to bed. You didn’t even wake up.”
“Really?”
“Really. Now come on, let’s forget it.”
“OK,” she sighed, “if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Tell you what,” she heard herself say, “how’s about I cook you dinner tonight, to apologize?”
“Rachel, how many more times?” He was laughing, but there was a definite hint of frustration in his voice. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I know, but I’d like to. Really. Please.”
“OK. Great,” he said kindly. “I’d like that.”
“Eight o’clock?”
“Eight o’clock.”
* * * * *
She tried phoning Shelley a couple of times during the morning, but there was still no answer from the Peaches. They must have all gone out—shopping for the baby probably. But she couldn’t help feeling uneasy. Even if she hadn’t gotten yesterday’s message, it was unlike Shelley not to phone for a chat.
She tried her again that afternoon when she got back from Waitrose with the ingredients for dinner, but again there was still no reply. By now she was starting to panic. She was convinced something had happened to Shelley or the baby. Then just before five, Mrs. Peach rang and confirmed her suspicions. Rachel listened with her heart in her mouth as her friend’s mother explained that just after Rachel had phoned the day before, Shelley had started having contractions.
“She kept saying it was nothing, but I insisted on driving her to the emergency room. Course they take one look at her and decide she might be going into early labor. Then after a couple of hours it all stops. Anyway they’ve been keeping her in, just for observation.”
“So she’s all right—and the baby’s OK?”
“They’re both absolutely fine. But I was in a state for a few hours there. I mean, one minute, there I was standing in the kitchen stuffing a couple of hearts for me and Mr. Peach—not for Shelley—’cause as you know she’s not a big meat eater. Time and again I tell her it’s not red meat that harms you, it’s blue meat and green meat. But she never listens. Anyway, where was I? I’ve completely lost my train of . . .”
“When are they sending her home?” Rachel asked.
“Tomorrow, all being well. They’ve decided it was probably a false alarm and nothing to worry about. But they said she shouldn’t take any chances. Even though she’s seven months along, they don’t want her going into early labor, if it can be avoided.”
“Will she stay with you?”
“Well, I want her to, but she says I fuss round her too much. She’s insisting on coming back to the flat. So we’ll drop her home tomorrow evening. Rachel, you will make sure she rests, won’t you? If anything happens to her or this baby I don’t know what . . .”
Rachel could hear Mrs. Peach starting to cry.
“Mrs. Peach, please, please don’t worry. I’ll look after her. Promise.”
* * * * *
Feeling much calmer now that she knew Shelley was OK, Rachel made a start on dinner. Then she went to her wardrobe to find something to wear. She decided on her new Ghost dress. Everybody said how great she looked in it. After another bath and ages spent defuzzing, she carefully blow-dried her hair and did her makeup.
It was only when she started hunting through her drawer for her best silk knickers and bra that she stopped short.
“What am I doing?” she said out loud. “This is simply two friends having dinner. He is not going to be looking at my underpants.”
* * * * *
Matt arrived on the dot, carrying a bottle of expensive red wine.
Rachel thanked him profusely. She thought about giving him a peck on the cheek, but thought it might make him feel awkward. He was wearing the same trendy black windcheater he’d worn when they’d had lunch at Bonjour Croissant, over a charcoal ribbed polo neck.
She took his jacket and hung it on the coat stand.
“Why don’t you come into the kitchen,” she said, “and talk to me while I finish dinner.”
He followed her down the hall. “Umm. Something smells good,” he said.
“Delia’s roast lamb in Shrewsbury sauce.”
His face dropped.
“Oh God,” she said, feeling panic rise inside her, “you’re not veggie, are you?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that I had shrewsburys for lunch.”
She stared at him blankly for a moment and then started to giggle.
* * * * *
While he uncorked the wine, she opened the oven and pulled out the pan of roast potatoes. Another twenty minutes, she thought.
“Oh, by the way,” he said, “I thought you’d better have these back.”
He slipped his hand into the pocket of his khakis and took out a crumpled paper bag. Perplexed, she took it from him.
“I don’t remember lending you anything,” she said, frowning. She peered into the bag. It contained a white lace G-string. Her white lace G-string.
“How on earth did you get hold of this?” she said, feeling herself redden.
Matt said nothing. He simply finished pouring the wine. Finally he turned to face her, holding two glasses. He was smiling what she took to be a cryptic, knowing smile.
“Oh my God,” she said slowly. “Last night . . . I, that is we . . . I mean we didn’t, did we?”
He carried on smiling.
“Look, I know I was pretty slaughtered, but I’m sure I would have remembered if we’d . . . you know . . . And I’m certain that when I woke up I still had my knickers on.”
“Rachel,” he said finally, “it’s OK. I’m just teasing. I found the G-string in my toolbox this morning. It must have fallen in when you chucked all that washing into the sink.”
“That was very cruel,” she said, trying her best to sound put out, but unable to stop herself giggling. “I mean . . . for a moment there, I thought. . . .”
“What?” he said, clearly still teasing her.
“C’mon,” she said, casting her eyes down to the floor. “You know.” The wine was starting to go to her head.
Matt put down his glass and moved toward her. Then he took hers and put it down too. Placing his hand under her chin, he lifted her face so her eyes were level with his. A knowing glance passed between them. After a moment he pulled her toward him and kissed her on the mouth. For a second her body froze as she thought about Adam and their committed relationship based on mutual trust and honesty. But she couldn’t help herself. She found herself wrapping her arms round Matt’s neck and kissing him back.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” he said afterward.
“How long?” she whispered, aware that her heart was racing.
“Oh, ever since you behaved like an imperious bloody cow that time at Xantia’s.”
“Really?” she said, blushing.
“Really.”
He pulled her toward him again and began tracing the outline of her lips with his tongue. He tasted of wine. As he parted her lips and his tongue came deep inside her, she felt a delicious shuddering inside her belly. She put her arms around his neck and moved her pelvis toward him. She could feel his erection against her. He carried on kissing her, probing her. She imagined his tongue between her legs. As he started running his hand over her bottom, she could feel herself getting more and more wet. She couldn’t remember ever wanting anybody as much as she wanted him at that moment. Again she found herself thinking about Adam. She knew she should put a stop to this now. But she didn’t have the strength to fight it.
As their kissing became more and more urgent, she was aware of him half pushing and half guiding her across the room. Eventually she realized her back was leaning against the cold metal of the washing machine. Still kissing her, he pulled up her dress and slid his hand underneath the skirt.
“Oh my God,” he whispered, running his finger over the wet patch on her pants. She let out a tiny whimper. He forced her legs apart with his hand and touched her a second time, tracing the outline of her labia. Her heart was beating even faster, her breathing slow and deep. He ran his tongue the length of her neck. The next moment he had found her mouth again.
“Blimey,” she said, pulling away in panic, “what about my lamb in Shrewsbury sauce?”
“I told you,” he smiled, “I’m all shrewsburyed out.”
She reached out, just about managed to locate the oven dial and turned down the meat.
* * * * *
Somehow he managed to lift her onto the washing machine and at the same time pull her dress up round her waist. She couldn’t tell if it was his idea of a joke, or whether it was pure coincidence. Whatever the answer, she was far too turned on by now to stop and ask. He could pleasure her with the roller ball dispenser for all she cared.
As he began stroking the insides of her thighs, she leaned back onto the tiled wall, gripping the edge of the machine for support. He pulled the crotch of her pants to one side and allowed his fingers to brush over her skin. She let out a long soft moan and lifted her bottom as he tugged at her tights and pants. When they were off he simply stood staring at her.