‘Shall we have a drink before bed?’ Karl tugged the metal door open as the lift groaned to a stop at their floor. I don’t want you to think either. Because I think you believe you’ve made a terrible mistake.’
She said nothing.
‘I’ve bought some beautiful port,’ he continued, relentless. ‘It was made in Oporto, which is a few hours from here. The name, port, like the name of Portugal, comes from the name of the city. So it’s just the thing for your first drink here.’
If only she could make him disappear, thought Caroline. Along with his fucking travel commentary. And herself too, but to a different place of course – you had to specify all the details with magic spells. Anna’s house would do her fine. Oh, to be with someone that she knew almost as well as she knew herself – in the way that Anna knew Christopher. Someone with whom the mating dance had been done long before. Someone who felt like home.
‘I think I’d like to have a shower,’ she said. ‘I feel so sweaty and tired. I’ll have a drink after that. OK?’
‘But of course,’ said Karl. ‘I’ll leave my door open. See you soon.’
As soon as Caroline had locked her door she tore off her crumpled black dress and flung it to the floor. She gasped with cold as she stepped under the shower, directing the icy jet of water on to her face and, when she could bear it, down her body. Pressing her forehead against the cool white tiles of the shower recess, she sighed as the water rushed down her back.
Ten minutes later she was towelling herself dry. What should she wear? Not a nightdress. Not that she’d brought one anyway. She always slept in the nude. Except in winter, of course. In her freezing little bedsitter in London, she’d often gone to bed in jumpers and two pairs of tights and wished fervently for a man with a body like Karl’s to keep her warm. Now it was summer in Lisbon and she didn’t need another body for warmth. Did she require one for any other reason?
Caroline pulled a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt out of her bag and put them on. She looked in the mirror as she brushed her hair. A fraught-looking face looked back. She did up the top button of her shirt and unlocked her door.
Karl was lying on the queen-sized bed smoking, wearing only a pair of jeans.
‘Help yourself,’ he said, gesturing at the two small glasses of port and the packet of cigarettes which sat on the bedside table.
Caroline took a port, sat in the armchair next to the window and tried to sip it as if she were at a wine-tasting. The local port was, as he had said, supposed to be excellent.
And perhaps it was. She glanced at the swell of Karl’s biceps and the tufts of blond hair under his arm and then looked away, gulping her port down as she did so.
He was smiling. ‘You’re not supposed to gulp it like that,’ he said. ‘It’s a delicate taste.’
‘You can give me the port-drinking lesson tomorrow.’ Caroline stood up. ‘I’m too tired now. Goodnight.’
Karl swung his legs off the bed. ‘Allow me to walk you to your front door,’ he said lightly. ‘Or at the very least to my front door.’ Caroline remembered the last time – the only other time – they had said goodnight. She felt a twinge in her stomach at the thought of it.
‘Goodnight.’ She raised her face to his.
Karl brushed his lips past hers, paused, and then ran the tip of his tongue gently along her bottom lip. When she opened her mouth, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his body against her.
Caroline leaned back against the door and surrendered to the familiar delicious tension. Karl fumbled her fly buttons open and sank to his knees on the floor.
As his hands caressed her stomach and wandered down her thighs, she let her knees buckle until she was on the floor beside him.
Chapter 2
Caroline woke to find herself alone in a large double bed. But the initial sweet tide of relief receded when she spotted the two sticky glasses of port on the bedside table. Groaning softly, she stretched weary limbs. So last night had been more than an especially vivid erotic dream.
‘Idiot,’ she moaned, running her hands over her forehead. It felt hot and dry. What – or who – was going to save her from behaving like this when she was 40? There had been several occasions in her 20s when she had woken up in a strange bed, sated with sex and burning with shame at her lack of discrimination. But that was the 70s: open marriage, platform shoes. Poor taste had been the order of the decade. Now she was older and supposedly mature.
What was wrong with her body – or her mind – that a few lingering kisses, done in just the right way, could trigger a heat that blocked out her brain, sweeping all sensible thoughts aside in a rush of sensuality?
Men did this sort of thing all the time – and then made jokes about biting off their own arm so as to escape without waking the woman they’d been stupid enough to fall into bed with the previous evening. Women did it too, of course. But they were supposed to have better sense. Something to do with being biologically programmed to find the best possible father for their children. This was meant to make them more inclined to be selective.
Caroline’s body didn’t seem to want to follow this rule.
Only six months ago she had been minutes away from fucking a man she had known only half an hour. It had been a hot sweaty London summer night and she’d gone to a rock club with Jane, who lived in the flat upstairs, to see an Australian band. By ten o’clock, Jane was nearly fainting from the heat and smoke. Gratefully accepting Caroline’s assurance that she didn’t mind being left there alone, she fled in a taxi. Caroline, reared on a childhood of Melbourne summers where century temperatures were celebrated with front page newspaper stories, had leaned against a wall while the band set up, enjoying the sensation of sweat trickling down her back. That’s when Dave had approached, or was it Mike? Close-cropped hair. Bright eyes in a bony face and a knowing, cheeky smile. Muscled arms swelling out of a sleeveless T-shirt. A tattoo. A rose was it? Or an anchor? A slight Cockney accent. After 20 minutes of smalltalk he had leant over and licked a bead of sweat from her neck, smiling as she shivered with pleasure. Within seconds she was leaning back against the wall, oblivious to the pulsing crowd in front of her, as he kissed her throat and pushed his hands under her skirt.
‘Can we go to your place?’ he whispered sharply. Then reason dragged her back from the edge of sweet oblivion and she was suddenly clever enough to feign regret.
‘I can’t,’ she smiled. ‘I’m married. This is my night out with the girls but my girlfriend’s gone home.’ He had smiled understanding and shrugged.
‘I’ll just go to the loo,’ she had said, straightening her skirt. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Be quick,’ he said, his teeth wolfish in the dark. ‘I’ll have to make the most of you here, won’t I?’ She had headed for the ladies’ and then doubled back, making for the exit. Then, pushing through the theatre crowds, she ran through Covent Garden and along the Strand, not stopping until she saw a vacant taxi’s welcoming yellow light.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor and she heard a key fumble in the lock. Pulling the covers over her head, she assumed the foetal position and started breathing deeply.
Fantasies of escape rushed through her mind while she listened to Karl moving about the room. She heard the creak of an armchair as he sat down, the rustle of a newspaper, the click of his cigarette lighter. An exaggerated breath inwards as he inhaled the first smoke. Almost a sigh.
Perhaps he’d tire of waiting for her to wake up and would go out for the day. Then she could check out and make for the airport. Why hadn’t she fled the minute she’d woken up? By now she could be barricaded in her room. Or, passport in hand, she could be padding down the street in her T-shirt and jeans.
But she hadn’t fled and he wasn’t going to leave. There