His eyes were dancing again. ‘Come tonight, and I’ll show you. Where I do it, I mean. Not me doing it.’
* * *
By the time she’d bought a book about Arundel to add to her collection and they had followed one of the walks that itsuggested, up and down the steep little lanes, over cobbles and flags and elevated sidewalks, in and out of quaint shops, it was early evening before they began to make their way back to Eastingdean.
Fresh air and exercise and the passing Sussex scenery had almost rocked her to sleep by the time he drew up in the small lot behind the shops of Starboard Walk. Although she had only tentatively accepted his dinner invitation, somehow she slipped into following him up the metal stairs. Yeah, ‘somehow’. Right.
Inside his apartment, Honor again kicked off her shoes in deference to the blond carpet, which felt like velvet on her feet as she prowled around and Martyn took trays from his stainless steel refrigerator and posted them into his stainless steel oven. The sofas, black suede, were angled towards a huge TV on the wall. Cream slatted blinds shielded the French doors that led out on to a curved black metal balcony. She pressed her nose against the glass and saw Marine Drive rumbling by, right below. No nude sunbathing on the balcony, then . . .
The open-plan design meant windows all around, overlooking not just Marine Drive and the backs of the houses that ran along the road, and The Butts, but also any cars parked behind the flat. If not for the dips and folds of the land, she might have been able to see the back of the bungalow.
Between the sofas stood a piece of leather-topped furniture that, she guessed, doubled as both table and footstool. A large black laptop computer, the kind that was only portable if you were a weight lifter, lay folded shut, on top. Beside one of the sofas, papers and magazines were piled haphazardly on the floor with untidily kicked-off blue canvas shoes and a khaki jacket that had landed like a parachute.
‘Red, white or rosé?’ Martyn called.
‘Rosé, please.’ There was no point asking what they were eating because she could never remember what to drink with what. Rosé meant she didn’t have to bother.
Then he was strolling across the acre of carpet, a glass in each hand. The sun, slanting through the rear window, threw shadows across his face. He gave her one of the glasses. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ she echoed, suddenly aware that she was alone with him in his apartment.
‘Let me show you the rest of the flat.’ He led her back to the entrance hall, where the wooden floor was suddenly chill to her toes. He opened a door, ‘Downstairs loo.’ Mainly white, but for a cobalt-blue-tiled floor.
The next door: ‘Office.’
A desk, a printer, a fax machine, some filing cabinets, trays piled high, a roll of tape in a dispenser, a spilling holdall. ‘It looks like an explosion happened in here.’ She liked the untidiness, liked that he was only perfect when captured by the camera.
‘It looks better when I remember to shut some drawers.’ He shoved shut one filing-cabinet and four desk drawers, improving the situation only slightly but at least allowing Honor to squeeze into the small square space. Over the desk was a glossy image of a younger Martyn, hair shorter and spiked, staring down at a pouty, tousled female model, gazing up at him. He was easing a strap from Pouty’s perfect shoulder with such an expression of hunger that it seemed the shutter must have clicked only an instant before he ate her right up. Honor swallowed. He’d looked at her like that, too, as if she were on the menu. But, in her case, not on his diet sheet — like Robina’s cakes.
He shifted self-consciously. ‘That was the first ad that got intoFHM. It’s a bit narcissistic to frame it but nobody usually comes in here. It was a career landmark.’ He bustled her out as if he wasn’t much more at ease with Martyn Mayfair the Model than she was. He steered her towards the staircase that spiralledup from the centre of the floor. ‘The other rooms are in the roof, so the upstairs is a touch smaller.’
The stairs were steep, each one a wedge of polished wood on the black metal frame, opening up on to a landing and three doors. The first stood open. ‘Spare room. That’s where Ace will sleep tonight.’
‘He’s staying over?’ She glanced in at the white-and-cool-green room.
‘He’s a friend, not just my agent.’ Another door. ‘Bathroom.’ The floor and wall tiles were palest blue and a bathtub in size XXL took up a quarter of the space. The final door he opened and walked through. She followed into a huge bedroom with windows set in the sloping walls, and a super-king-sized-this-is-the-biggest-I’ve-ever-seen bed. She looked away. Beside the bed, another pair of French doors was set into a dormer. He threw them wide, exhibiting a few square feet of balcony and a great view over the gardens and rooftops of the houses on Marine Drive. ‘It’s nice to look out but looking down isn’t so hot — at the car park and the outbuildings belonging to the shops.’
She glanced down and saw what he meant. But a few flat roofs one level down didn’t seem a high price to pay for such a view. The sun, dipping towards the sea beside Brighton, spread an elongated patch of light over the balcony and onward, inside, on a thick blue rug.
‘There you are,’ he said, indicating the pool of sunlight on the floor. ‘That’s where I do my nude sunbathing. Nobody can see.’ Then, before she could lick her lips and formulate a reply around the burning image of Martyn baking his nakedness in his private slice of sunlight, he clicked shut the doors and led her back to the winding stairs, just as the doorbell pealed out like a fire alarm. Martyn said, ‘That will be Ace. We can eat.’
* * *
Ace Smith. His silvery suit, black shirt but no tie, looked all-designer; he probably wore nothing but. Hair and beard were buzzed down to the stubble, giving his head a suede look, like Martyn’s sofas. He wasn’t exactly handsome but had interesting cheekbones and big brown eyes. He smelled of alcohol.
She knew there was an appropriate formal response to his ‘How do you do?’ but couldn’t remember what it was so just said, ‘I’m good. How are you?’
Ace looked at her, long and slow. ‘Martyn was right, you’re pretty.’
Coolly, she responded, ‘Thanks.’ And sipped her wine.
Martyn poured another glass for Ace and began setting out cutlery and plates. ‘She won’t fall for your bullshit, Ace. She’s too switched on.’
‘But she has a real look,’ Ace objected, tossing his jacket and taking the stool next to Honor’s, edging it closer.
‘She does. But she either doesn’t know, doesn’t care, or takes it for granted. Unresponsive to compliments, anyway.’
Ace fixed his seal-pup eyes on her. ‘Interesting. See, in our business, we’re more used to women who suck in compliments like the rest of us breathe air.’ He let his elbows slide along the polished granite until his arm brushed Honor’s. ‘You’re in good shape. Sure you’re not in the biz?’
