Chapter Seventy-Four
Christ on a bike—spanking hands!
Eating cheese causes bad dreams, right?
That’s what I’ll blame; seared halloumi, served on a bed of sesame greens. Yes, let’s blame the delicious inflight entrée, and maybe jet-lag, for making me wake in a blind panic. Though not blind to the images scorched onto my retinas, unfortunately.
I come awake, bolt upright in Kai’s bed, maybe five minutes ago, my heartrate so erratic I’m sure I’d short-circuit an electrocardiogram, and my mind in major need of some kind of brain bleach.
I’ll bloody kill Kai.
He’s to blame for the thought to worm at all into my head, especially after I’d managed during waking hours, at least, to keep it at bay. But in my subconscious, the spank—No, I won’t say it. Thescenariorather, must’ve festered and fermented under the effects of cheese, champagne and interrupted sleep, releasing itself in lurid technicolour as I’d dreamed.
I was home.Homehome, in Australia, and Mum answered the front door in her apron with the most serene smile on her face. The apron is one she doesn’t use often. The one I’d bought her last Christmas, in fact; the one with pink begonias on the front. But it wasn’t the blooms that disturbed me. It was when she’d turned around to walk back into the kitchen... and I saw she was wearing a red G-string.
Just an apron and a lot of colour...
Holding a hand to my mouth I try not to gag, remembering the more disturbing detail of the distinctly begonia-pink hand prints on each cheek of her bum. Her laughing voice as she’d informed me I was to call herMama Cynfrom now on.
Then I’d woken in an empty bed, slicked with a sheen of cold sweat. Though it’s probably just as well I’m alone. I think the way I’d woken screaming might’ve frightened him.
With a still bleary-eyed glance around the room, I can see neither sign of Kai nor our bags. I wiggle my legs from the enormous bed, determined to find one or the other. Or maybe go to the bathroom and retch.
My purse lies on the dresser, my phone along with it.Flat, of course.Kai’s phone lies on the opposite nightstand. I imagine he can’t have gone far, as it’s usually glued to his hand. I consider taking a peek, wondering if it contains any new images in the collection I’ve christenedKate Catches Z’s,when the central air turns over, flooding the room with a frigid burst of air. Shivering, I catch a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror, abstractly recalling the last time I’d visited the mall with Niamh. We were sitting in some corporate coffee emporium when a woman walked past in a skin tight T-shirt. The waiter, delivering warmed muffins to accompany our coffee, had frozen to the spot; mouth open, the only sign of animation was his head as it slowly turned to follow her progress. Though I imagine there were other signs of animation, namely the in-the-pants kind, not that I looked. Some men are just easily pleased, I guess, because Niamh’s assertion was right. The girl was a total butter-face.
‘Banging body, but ‘er face...’Let’s just say it looked banged.‘But, Jaysus, y’could dial a phone with them nipples!’
Getting back to my reflection in the dresser mirror, it agrees. My nipples are huge. Maybe it’s the pallor of my skin which makes them appear so, because as well as having the unfortunate appearance of the last chicken on the supermarket shelf, my skin seems much more pale this morning, hence the, er, enhancement of stiff, rosy and pink.
I could probably hang a towel from them.
Crossing my arms across my body, I rub chicken-flesh from my arms before heading into the closet in search of something to wear.
My, my. Someone’s a bit obsessed.
With a snigger, I consider messing with the colour-coded rows. Despite the thought, I’m too bloody cold to fart-arse about and just lift a lilac one—a shade I’ve never seen him wear, thank God—from the shelf.
Lilac shirts hanging before the blue ones, but after the grey.It’s like a Ralph Lauren showroom.
Slipping it from the hanger, I’m relieved that it’s not one of the more expensive brands, neither Armani nor custom Saville Row, but Boss Orange.
Oh, the deprivation! How does he not hang his head in shame?
Chuckling, I fasten the buttons then begin pulling open drawers in search of something that resembles, well,drawers.
Man, who colour co-ordinates their socks?
Pulling out a pair, I’m not exactly thrilled to find Kai’s Armani boxer briefs don’t exactly hang from my hips.Or need to be knotted at my waist.Fat bitch.I resolve to cut out carbs, from one meal a day, at least.
Grabbing mine and Kai’s discarded and dirty clothes, but not seeing a laundry basket in the room, I open the door to the upstairs-living-room-snug-space and make my way down the very grand staircase, thinking there’s bound to be a washing machine somewhere down there.
At the foot of the stairs, the front of the house is bathed in bright sunshine so I don’t quite notice the floor is wet until my foot slides on the marble and I skid, nearly falling flat on my arse.
Not a great start to the start of the day.
A mop and bucket stands nearby, causing me to smile as I imagine an insomniac Kai with a touch of OCD, waking in the early hours with a desperate need to clean. It’s a silly thought but preferable to the conclusion I jump to as I turn the corner, finding myself in the reception room. Majlis, I think Kai called it. A huge stone fireplace dominates one wall. Black and white leather sofas are the second things I see, almost not noticing the woman bent over the arm of one of them. A woman with jet black hair pulled tight in a bun. An improbable shade, I notice, as she turns to face me, the bright yellow duster forgotten in her hand and falling to the floor. Her craggy eyebrows lower once she’s martialled her surprise and dark, heavily wrinkled eyes sweep from my own, down my bra-less chest and mostly bare legs. Reaching the tips of my toes, her eyes sweep up my body again. Then she opens her mouth.
‘Aeeeiiii!’
