I’m just about to declare my intention to halt our arrangement when he speaks. ‘Tell me how it’s possible that you’ve not been taken by a man in seven years,’ he asks, pushing some wet hair from my face.
I sigh, dropping my face until it’s quickly forced back to his. ‘I . . .’ Whatever can I say? ‘It’s just that . . .’
‘Go on,’ he pushes soothingly.
I find avoiding his question easy when I suddenly recall his previous statement. ‘Given our “arrangement”, I thought we weren’t going to do chit-chat.’
His frown matches mine. He looks embarrassed. ‘So I did.’ My neck is gripped by his hand over my wet hair and I’m directed from the shower. ‘Forgive me.’
I’m still frowning as he dries me off with a towel, and then takes my neck again, leading me from the bathroom towards his giant leather bed. It’s dressed beautifully, all plush with deep-red crushed velvet and gold scatter cushions placed delicately. I didn’t notice it before, but I know it couldn’t have been this neat when I got up earlier, so it’s been remade. I don’t want to ruin the preciseness of it again, but Miller releases me and starts taking the cushions and placing them neatly in a chest at the end of the bed before he draws back the quilt and nods for me to climb in.
I step forward cautiously and slowly clamber onto the huge bed, feeling like the princess and the pea. Nestling down, I watch as he slips in beside me and plumps his pillow before resting his head and snaking his arm around my waist, gently tugging me towards his body. I move instinctively into the warmth of his chest, knowing this is wrong. I know it’s wrong, even more so when he takes my hand, kisses my knuckles, and then places my palm on his chest and lays his over it, beginning a guided caress of his skin.
It’s quiet. I can hear my mind ticking over with endless hopeful thoughts. And I think I might hear his, too, but there’s an invisible strain now, and this invisible strain between us is far outweighing the great things that have come before. His heart is beating steadily under my ear, and the odd squeeze of his hand around mine is a gesture of comfort, but I’m never going to be able to sleep, even though my body is exhausted and my brain drained.
Miller suddenly shifts, and I’m removed from his chest and positioned neatly to the side. ‘Stay here,’ he whispers, kissing my forehead before removing his na**d body from the bed and slipping his shorts on. He leaves the room, and I prop myself up on my elbows and watch as the door closes quietly behind him. It has to be the early hours of the morning. What is he doing? The absence of the awkward silence should be making me feel better. But it doesn’t. I’m nude, sore between the thighs, and I’m tucked up neatly in a stranger’s bed, but I can do no more than lie back and stare up at the ceiling with only my unwelcome thoughts to keep me company. He makes me feel wonderful and alive, and in the next breath, awkward and an inconvenience.
I’m not sure how long I’m there, but when I hear a few bangs and definitely a polite curse, I can stay no more. I shuffle to the edge of the bed, taking the sheet with me, and pad across the bedroom, gingerly letting myself into the corridor and wandering quietly towards the source of the commotion. The noises and muttered curses get clearer and clearer until I’m standing in the doorway of the kitchen looking at Miller wiping down the fridge’s mirrored doors.
What should be making me stagger in disbelief is Miller’s frantic hand swirling a cloth over the surface, but it’s the muscles of his back, all rippling and sharp, that have my breath catching and my hand darting out to the door frame to steady myself. He can’t be real. He’s a hallucination – a dream or a mirage. I would be sure of this, if I wasn’t so . . . broken in.
‘Fucking mess!’ he hisses to himself, plunging his hand into a bucket of soapy water and wringing the cloth out. ‘What the f**k was I thinking? Fuck!’ He slaps the cloth on the mirrored doors again, continuing to curse and rub frantically.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask quietly, smiling like crazy on the inside. Miller likes everything just like him; perfect.
He swings round, surprised but scowling. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ The cloth gets thrown viciously into the bucket. ‘You should be resting.’
My sheet gets pulled in closer, like I’m using it as a protective shield. He’s mad, but is he mad with me or with the smeared mirror of the fridge? I start backing away, a little wary.
‘Fuck.’ He hangs his head in shame, shaking it a little and ruffling his dark mop with a frustrated swipe of his hand. ‘Please, forgive me.’ His eyes lift and gush with genuine regret. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. It was wrong of me.’
‘Yes, it was,’ I agree. ‘I’m not here to be snapped at.’
‘It’s just . . .’ He looks at the fridge and clenches his eyes shut, like it hurts him to see the smears. Then he sighs and walks forward, holding his hands out, silently asking my permission to touch me. Stupidly or not, I nod, and he visibly relaxes. He wastes no time and crowds me, pulling me close and sinking his nose into my damp hair. The comfort it gives me can’t be ignored. When he said that he wouldn’t sleep, he really meant it. He didn’t look at the mess when I hinted at it, but clearly it was playing on his mind, tormenting him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats, kissing my hair.
‘You don’t like mess.’ I don’t ask it as a question because it’s painfully clear, and I’m not giving him the opportunity to insult me by denying it.
‘I’m house proud,’ he counters, turning me and pushing me back towards the bedroom.
Every step we take, I’m reminded of my palatial surroundings. ‘Don’t you have a cleaner?’ I ask, thinking a businessman who lives in a place like this, dresses like Miller and drives a prestigious car, would at least have a housekeeper.
‘No.’ I’m unwrapped from the sheet and lifted into bed. ‘I like doing it myself.’