Dirty Bad Wrong(15)

“Does that feel better?”

“What?” she snapped. “Admitting my boyfriend wanted it elsewhere even though he was a boring, conservative joke in the bedroom?”

“Venting the pain. Does it feel good?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “It’s new. I don’t vent, I just deal with shit. I don’t even know why I’m talking about it.”

“Venting is healthy.”

“Says he who doesn’t talk either.”

“I vent,” I said. “I just prefer a more physical outlet for my emotional discomfort - at the gym, or in the bedroom.”

“You vent in the bedroom?” she smiled.

“Sex is my preferred choice, although I have to say I utilise the gym more at this present point in time.”

“I’ve heard. Every lunchtime, at the gym down the street.”

“People talk about that, do they?” I felt the familiar bristling of the hair on my arms, the rage at the whispered discussions.

“It’s hardly a secret. You look sculpted from bronze.”

I forced the irritation back behind the veneer. “So, what’s your question, Lydia Marsh. What do you want to know about James Clarke, CTO?” I forced a smile, an easy one, relaxing back in my seat to diffuse the tension.

“Have you always been like this? Private, I mean.”

I smiled at the relatively easy question. Maybe I’d escape this little round of truth or truth unscathed after all. “No. I wasn’t private with Rachel. She saw all sides of me.”

“Do you miss the intimacy?”

“That’s another question.”

“It’s an extension of my earlier question,” she grinned.

“Give someone enough rope and they will hang you with it eventually. Either intentionally or not, the result is the same. I don’t miss the intimacy, no.”

“So, what happens now? You’ll never have a relationship again? Never let anyone in?”

“Not in the conventional sense. I value my sanity far too much.”

“I think I shall adopt the same philosophy,” she said, raising her glass. “Here’s to us. Single and sane.”

“Here’s to us, Lydia Marsh. Non-talkers anonymous. Private and proud.”

“That should be our new tagline. Single and sane, private and proud,” she laughed.

“I’ll have it printed up and framed for my living room.”

“I’ll have it printed up and framed when I get a living room,” she smiled sadly. “I really need to get my shit together.”

“Where are you living?”

“On a friend’s sofa. It’s not the greatest. I need to find a house share or something, but I die a bit at the idea of all the smiles and questions and rigmarole of finding suitable housemates. I need to get a grip.”

“You have to allow yourself a bit of slack, given the circumstances.”

“A bit of slack won’t find me somewhere to live.”

The idea was there in a heartbeat. Maybe it had been there all the time, lurking under the surface. No, James, no. Don’t fucking do it, no fucking way. My mouth turned dry, my throat tightening around the words in my throat. “I’m sure you’ll sort something out.”

“I’d better had,” she said. “I think Steph’s boyfriend is getting sick of me. I hear her shushing him at night and pushing him away. Paper-thin walls.”

“Always a bitch, those.”

“They should just get on with it. I’m a big girl, I can handle the odd grunt in the night.”

I itched to ask her more questions, to scratch at the pain under her skin until I found her soft and raw inside, but the conversation was over. Her head was firmly back on planet Earth, complete with its accommodation nightmares. I tried to convince myself it was for the best, but one flash of her eyes put paid to that.

She’d compelled me to talk, bored into my privacy like a hungry worm. For that small deed alone she deserved to go over my knee. Her perky little ass would feel just right under my palm.

She checked her watch. Game over.

“We should get to bed. Another early start.”

“Yes, we should.”

I summoned the bill and signed the evening to my room as she watched me. We walked up slowly, the silence hanging heavier with each step. She slid her keycard into the lock and turned to me with cold, cool eyes again. Professional Lydia.

“Thank you, James, I had a great night.”

“My thanks for a job well done.” She gave me a smile as she pushed her way into the room beyond, and I was there outside the bushes again, autumn leaves under my shoes. “Lydia, wait.” She stepped back, eyes full of questions, and there, underneath them was the tiniest hint of potential. I could almost taste the what-if coursing through her mind, even if she didn’t know it. I took a step towards her, forcing her to tilt her head up to meet my eyes, approaching so close I could feel the heat of her through my suit. “I have a friend who’s looking for a housemate. She won’t pry. No false smiles or interviews, just a room there if you want it.”