Truly Madly Guilty(80)

Hit me, she thought. She lifted her face. It would feel so right. It would begin something. It would end something. Please, please hit me. But he took a sudden step back, hands lifted, like a guy in a pub brawl making it clear he isn’t getting involved.

‘We were all doing it!’ shouted Clementine. ‘All four of us!’





chapter forty-four



The day of the barbeque

‘Why? Do you want one?’ Tiffany couldn’t resist. These people were so freaking cute, so easily shockable.

‘A lap dance?’ Clementine’s eyes shone. Tiffany knew she was just drunk enough and, yes, vanilla enough, to be the perfect target. ‘No!’

‘Sure. A lap dance.’

Oh God, Tiffany had forgotten how much she enjoyed this. It had been so long since she’d felt that rush of sexual power straight to the head like a line of cocaine.

‘Do we get a discount?’ said Sam.

‘No charge,’ said Tiffany. ‘On the house.’

‘Enjoy my wife’s lap dance,’ said Vid to Clementine. He pulled out a chair. ‘I insist.’

‘Oh stop it,’ giggled Clementine. ‘Anyway, the music is wrong. She can’t do a lap dance to a cello concerto.’

‘I could give it a shot,’ said Tiffany. She had no intention of giving her next-door neighbour’s friend a lap dance. It was a joke. It was all in good fun.

‘She is very adaptable,’ said Vid.

‘It’s very kind of you but I really don’t want a lap dance,’ said Clementine. ‘Thank you anyway.’ Her voice sounded husky. She cleared her throat self-consciously.

‘I think you do,’ said Sam.

‘Sam,’ said Clementine.

Tiffany watched Sam and Clementine look at each other, their faces flushed, their pupils dilated. It would be a kindness. A public service. She could see exactly where their sex life was at. They were tired parents of young kids. They thought it was all over and it wasn’t, they didn’t need an affair or a mid-life crisis, it was all still in them, they were still attracted to each other, they just needed a little electric shock to the system, a little stimulus, maybe some sex toys, some good-quality soft porn. She could be their good-quality soft porn.

Tiffany caught Vid’s eye. He raised an eyebrow. He was loving this, of course he was. He moved his chin just subtly. It meant: Go on. Blow their nice little suburban minds.

Sam stood behind Clementine and pushed her shoulders so she sat. His eyes locked onto Tiffany’s. He was her favourite sort of customer. Appreciative, friendly, he wasn’t taking it too seriously but he was taking it seriously enough. He’d tip generously and gratefully.

He really wanted to see his wife get a lap dance. Of course he did. The man was only human. Tiffany looked at Clementine, who was so weak with laughter (and desire, Tiffany knew it, even if Clementine didn’t) she could barely sit up straight in her chair.

Tiffany wasn’t going to do it, not properly, not in the backyard with kids around, but as a joke, for the fun of it, she moved, slowly, in time to the freaking concerto (oh yes, you can do a lap dance to a cello concerto, no problem at all), almost in parody of herself, except not quite, because she still had her professional pride, and she’d been one of the best in the business; it was never just about the money, it was about making a connection, a human connection, and playing it with just the right amount of theatricality, reality, poetry.

Vid wolf-whistled.

Clementine smacked her hand over her eyes and peeked between her fingers.

There was a tremendous crash of crockery and an extraordinary scream that tore straight through the night: ‘Clementine!’





chapter forty-five



‘Hope you feel better soon,’ said the police officer as Oliver stood at the front door to wave her and her partner off.

‘Thank you,’ said Oliver with maybe excessive gratitude, because the police officer flicked him a look as if she’d missed something. It was just that he was genuinely touched by her taking the time to comment upon his health. Did his gratitude seem suspicious? Guilty? He’d never been one of those people who felt guilty when they saw a police car drive by. His conscience was generally clear. Most people drove ten kilometres over the speed limit while he made a practice of driving five kilometres under.

The police had been there following up on Harry’s death. They were having trouble tracking down his next of kin. Oliver wished he could be more helpful. He admitted that his conversations with Harry had never crossed over into the personal. They’d chatted about the weather and the garden and that abandoned car in the street. He’d felt, rightly or wrongly, that Harry wouldn’t have appreciated personal questions.

The police wanted to confirm again when he had last seen Harry and he was able to give them an exact date: the day before the barbeque. He said that Harry had seemed in good health. He didn’t mention anything about Harry complaining about Vid’s dog. It didn’t seem relevant. He didn’t want to paint Harry in a bad light.

‘You seem very sure about that date,’ said the nice policewoman.

‘Well, yes,’ said Oliver. ‘It’s because the day after that there was … an incident. Next door.’

She raised her eyebrows and he gave her the details, briefly, because to his surprise he found he got strangely breathless as he talked about it. The policewoman made no comment. Perhaps she already knew. There was a police report on file, after all.