‘Sorry,’ Jarvis said, removing his hand. His eyes had acquired theobscured, semi-opaque look he got when he fucked her. ‘You just make me so horny, with your slutty little shirt open like that.’
‘Jesus Christ, Jarvis, get a grip. Anyone could come in and see us. This is ridiculous.’
He sat back, mouth twisted. She had embarrassed him, she saw.
‘I was trying to say: this has been fun but it has to stop. You know that as well as I do.’
Jarvis cocked his head against the back of the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. She could sense the fury radiating from him and, underneath that fury, something sharper and more menacing.
‘How are we doing here?’ The moustachioed man had entered the room without either of them noticing and was now topping up their glasses. ‘Anything else I can get you? A menu, perhaps?’
‘No, thank you,’ Serena said.
When the waiter had left, Jarvis looked at her. He made no move to touch her.
‘You’re ageing,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’
The insult sliced through her, lodging itself like a knife in her stomach.
It was as if he had slapped her. She hadn’t expected it. She’d anticipated him being upset but not mean and cold.
She retrieved her jacket and her bag and stood to leave. Jarvis reached across and tried to grab her hand.
‘Serena,’ he said. ‘Don’t.’
She shook herself from his grip. He followed her down the stairs.
‘Serena,’ he kept saying. ‘Please.’
On the first-floor landing, she stopped and turned to him.
‘Leave me alone,’ she said.
For a moment, he looked stricken. Then the meanness returned to his eyes.
‘You were always so superior,’ he said. ‘Both of you. You and Ben. Walking around, thinking you’re better than everyone, looking down your noses at us—’
‘I don’t have time for this,’ she said, cutting across him.
On the ground floor, the moustachioed man was now seated at the reception desk, tapping at a computer and pretending not to listen.
‘But you’re not the ones with the power,’ Jarvis was saying, his voice louder now, almost shouting. ‘You think you are, but you’re not. You know who has the power?’
She turned to see Jarvis pointing at his chest with his two thick thumbs.
‘Me.’
She managed to laugh at him. Serena knew the thing these men hated most was being made comical. His leering smile dropped. She looked him straight in the eye and then – she still isn’t sure where this came from – she blew him a mocking little kiss and left.
In the cab on the way back to the train station, she took out her phone and deleted their WhatsApp chat and all the incriminating photos they’d sent each other – apart from one. She’d keep it as insurance: a nude Jarvis had taken of himself, reflected in a full-length mirror, the flash rebounding off the glass and throwing out a ghoulish light. She hid the picture in a locked album labelled ‘Scenic views’ and then texted the housekeeper to let her know she’d be skipping dinner.
The IV bag is almost empty. A coolness sinks into Serena’s veins. Her muscles loosen and she imagines her chest opening up like one of those time-lapse videos of flowers blooming – each petal unfurling with shuttering speed until the whole becomes visible.
‘Mrs Fitzmaurice?’
Serena opens her eyes and stares at the nurse. She hates it when people call her ‘Mrs’ and not ‘Lady’. If you’re going to be disrespectful, she thinks, you might as well choose to say ‘Miss’. At least that implies youth.
‘You are done,’ the nurse says, taking out the cannula and blotting the bruised skin with a piece of cotton wool.
