JEMMA rubs her foot up the side of MALCOLM’s calf, while maintaining eye contact with him. She winces from betrayingGavinin this small but significant way.
MALCOLM
Have you ever seen a Premier Inn Plus room? They really are exceptionally comfortable.
41
It turns out a Premier Inn Plus room is actually noticeably nicer than their standard fare. A fancy coffee machine, wee bars of chocolate to enjoy with your espresso, the walls a less lurid purple. The artwork is as devoid of emotion as one would expect from a hotel painting, but it’s pretty. I admire it from where I stand at the end of the bed.
‘The production manager tries to act like I’m a diva when I ask for the Plus room. I think you can agree it’s well worth the extra tenner a night.’
‘Yeah, absolutely.’ I swallow, my mouth wet in the way it only usually ever gets right before I vomit.
Malcolm is on the edge of the bed, unlacing his shiny, heeled brogue shoes. When they’re off, he places them neatly beside his feet and then pats the space beside him, beckoning me to him.
‘Is this something you do a lot?’ I don’t know why it matters, why I need him to tell me I’m special before I ruin him.
‘Not as much as I’d like.’
I sit next to him, straighten the buttons of my dress.
‘The thing is, I have quite particular interests, so it’s about finding people who share them with me.’
The blue poly bag I noticed him holding when he checked in is on the desk, next to the coffee machine. I imagine its contents: whips, chains, handcuffs. And something worse, more degrading, that I can’t fathom because it’s so niche.
‘I’m extremely open-minded. I would love to hear what you’re interested in, if you fancied sharing it with me.’ I run a finger across his forearm, not able to force myself to touch anywhere more intimate.
‘Yes, well.’ He sniffs, jiggles his legs up and down a few times in preparation of the big reveal. ‘The thing is, I’m really into feet.’ I wait for more. Feet being pissed on. His feet being tortured. Sucking on fungal toenails.
‘Just feet?’
‘The feet of beautiful women. Younger than me, if possible.’
I am sure Malcolm feels exposed, like he’s baring his most vulner-able self, his secret shame, but it’s so pedestrian I could almost pat him on the head, tell him everyone is into everything these days, Malcolm, you shouldn’t be ashamed for liking the feet of a pretty woman.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ I say. ‘I am also into feet.’
He lets out a puff of disbelieving air. ‘Yeah, right’.
‘No, really.’ I pull out my phone, bring out my hidden photo album of the pictures I sold to Dave. ‘These are all me. I love sharing my feet with the right men.’
The very first picture of my toes in the old tacky nail polish, the one I took after I’d watched my flat onFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer, has a nostalgic air to it. I almost explain to Malcolm the significance of this image and how it leads to here. I turn and consider Malcolm’s profile; we are both troubled people trying to find joy. My intentions soften until he swipes eagerly at my screen wanting to see more than I’m offering him. I’m aware, as he flicks through the shots – my feet in sandals, my toes splashing in shallow bath water – that the material over his crotch is bulging, and his desire repels me.
‘You like what you see?’
He grunts. ‘Very much.’ He’s whizzed through my entire portfolio in seconds. So greedy, not savouring the treasure I’ve bestowed upon him. Wanting more, more, more. It’s that kind of greed that’s got him into this mess in the first place.
‘Is there anything in particular you’d like me to do with my feet?’
He licks his lips. That won’t help the chapped skin he has on them. ‘I would like to rub cream into them and then have you walk on my back.’
The idea of his hands on me takes some getting used to. I’m still in my heels. The removal of them is not time-consuming but I eek the task out as long as I can. At his crotch, a small patch of moisture creeps across the material.
‘You’re making my cock wet.’
He has barely seen a toe and this is how excited he is? No, I decide, he does not do this often at all.
He sinks to his knees – they crack and pop as he bends down – takes my feet in his cold dry hands and sniffs their soles deeply, then groans into them. ‘Delicious.’
