Having parked up, she rang the bell three times and waited. The buzzer sounded—like a warm welcome—and she stepped inside.
Jake was waiting for her, the door wide-open. Helen knew he didn’t do this for other clients—the dangers inherent in his business meant he always verified a client’s identity through the spyhole before opening the reinforced door. But he knew it was her—the three rings being their code—and, besides, he knew now what she did for a profession.
It hadn’t always been that way, of course. For the first year of their association, she had told him nothing, despite his numerous attempts to open up a conversation. But recent events had changed all that—dominators read the papers too. Thankfully, he was too professional to mention it. He was tempted to—she sensed that—but he knew how much she had suffered, how much she loathed the exposure. So he kept his counsel.
This was Helen’s space. A place where she could be the closed book she used to be. A throwback to a time when her life was under control. If she hadn’t been happy then, she had nevertheless been at peace. And peace was what she craved now. It was a risk coming here, for sure—many other coppers had been driven out of the force in disgrace because of their “unconventional” lifestyles—but it was a risk Helen was prepared to take.
She stripped off her biking leathers, then removed her suit and blouse, hanging them up on the expensive hangers in Jake’s wardrobe. Slipping off her shoes, she was now just in her underwear. Already she could feel her body relaxing. Jake had his back to her—his usual, discreet self—but Helen knew he wanted to look at her. She liked that—it made her feel good; she wanted him to look at her. But you can’t have it both ways. Privacy and intimacy are mutually exclusive.
Closing her eyes, Helen waited for him to strike. Finally, on the cusp of release, dark thoughts suddenly reared up unbidden, surprising and unsettling her. Thoughts of Marianne and Charlie, of the people she’d hurt and betrayed, the damage she’d done—the damage she wasstilldoing.
Jake brought the crop firmly down on her back. Then again, harder. He paused as Helen’s body reacted to the blows; then, just as she began to relax, he whipped her again. Helen felt the sharp spasm of pain dissipate into an all-over tingling. Her heart was pumping, her headache receding, the endorphins pulsing round her brain. Her dark thoughts were in full flight now—punishment, as always, her savior. As Jake brought the crop down for the fourth time, Helen realized that for the first time in days, she felt truly relaxed. And more than that, she felt happy.
16
He had left his wedding ring on. As he turned the steering wheel, maneuvering the car over Redbridge Causeway, he caught sight of the gold band nestling on his fourth finger. He cursed himself—he was still bloody green at this. Looking up, he noticed that she had clocked his discomfort.
“Don’t worry, love. Most of my punters are married. Nobody’s judging you here.”
She smiled at him, then turned to look out the window. He chanced another, longer look at her. She was just how he’d hoped she’d be. Young, fit, her long legs clad in thigh-high plastic boots. A short skirt, a loose top that revealed her large breasts, and elbow-length gloves—were they to arouse or simply to ward off the perishing cold? A pale face with high cheekbones and then that striking hair—long, black and straight.
He had picked her up on Cemetery Road, just south of the Common. There was no one around at that time of night, which suited them both. They headed west, crossed the river and, on her instructions, cut off down a narrow side road. They were approaching Eling Great Marsh, a lonely strip of land that looks back toward the docks. During daylight hours, nature lovers came here searching for wildlife, but at night it was used by a very different clientele.
They parked and for a moment sat in silence. She delved in her bag for a condom, placing it on the dashboard.
“You’re going to have to tip your seat back or I’m not going to be able to do anything,” she said gently.
Smiling, he shunted his chair back abruptly, then slowly lowered it to allow them more wriggle room. Already her gloved hand was casually brushing over his groin, provoking an erection.
“Mind if I keep these on?” she asked. “It’s more fun that way.”
He nodded, desire rendering him mute. She began to unzip his trousers.
“Close your eyes, honey, and let me take care of you.”
He did as he was told. She was in command and he liked it that way. It was nice to be taken care of for once, to be free of responsibility, to please oneself. When did he ever get the chance to do that?
Unbidden, an image of Jessica popped into his mind. His loving wife of two years, the mother of his child, unsuspecting, betrayed... He pushed the thought away, swallowing this sudden intrusion of real life. It had no place here. This was his fantasy made flesh. This was his moment. And despite the feelings of guilt that now circled him, he was going to enjoy it.
17
It was nearly midnight when he returned home. The house was dark and still, as it always seemed to be. Nicola would be sleeping peacefully upstairs, her caregiver camped by her side, reading a book by torchlight. Usually this was an image that cheered him—a cozy cocoon for his wife—but tonight the thought of it saddened him. A fierce sense of loss ripped through him, sudden and hard.
Dropping his keys on the table, Tony Bridges hurried upstairs to relieve Anna, who’d been helping look after Nicola for nearly eighteen months now. Tony was suddenly aware that he’d had too much to drink. He’d left the car by the pub and cabbed it home, allowing him the luxury of drinking. Caught up in the emotion of Charlie’s return, he’d ended up having four or five pints and he swayed slightly on the stairs. He was allowed to have a life, of course, but still he always felt ashamed when Anna—or, worse, Nicola’s mother—caught him drinking. Would his speech give him away? The smell of alcohol on his breath? He tried his best to look sober and walked into Nicola’s bedroom.
“How’s she been?”
“Very good,” replied Anna, smiling. She was always smiling, thank goodness. “She had her dinner and then I read her a few chapters.”
She held upBleak House. Nicola had always loved Dickens—David Copperfieldbeing her particular favorite—so they were working through his back catalog. It was a project, something for Nicola to achieve, and she seemed to enjoy the stories with their plucky heroes and diabolical villains.
“We’re just getting to the exciting bit,” Anna continued, “and she wanted to read on, so I gave her a couple of bonus chapters. But she’d pretty much nodded off by the end of it—you might have to recap a bit tomorrow. Make sure she doesn’t miss anything.”
Tony suddenly felt very emotional, moved by the tender care Anna lavished on his wife. Fearing his voice would falter, he patted Anna’s arm, thanked her quickly and sent her on her way.
Nicola was his childhood sweetheart and they had married young. Their life was set fair, but two days before her twenty-ninth birthday, Nicola had suffered a massive stroke. She survived it, but the resulting brain damage was extensive, and she was now a prisoner of locked-in syndrome. She could see and was aware, but was able only to move her eyes due to the paralysis that gripped her body. Tony looked after her lovingly, patiently teaching her to communicate with her eyes, dragooning in family or hiring caregivers when he had to work, but still he often felt he was a bad husband to her. Impatient, frustrated, selfish. In reality, he did everything he could for her, but that didn’t stop him from castigating himself. Especially when he’d been out having a good time. Then he felt callous and unworthy.
He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead and then retreated to his bedroom. Even now, two years after her stroke, the fact that they had separate bedrooms still hurt. Separate bedrooms were for couples who’d fallen out of love, for show marriages, not for him and Nicola. They were better than that.
