Guy pressed his full, red, hot lips to Trixie’s ear, slipped the third finger of his right hand between the third and fourth fingers of her own and pushed it, more and more quickly, back and forth. Trixie tried, not too determinedly, to move away. She did not appreciate that it was only the fact and duration of the journey that caused her to be exposed to all these rousing preliminaries. Guy’s usual idea of foreplay was to check if the girl was awake.
The car swung into the winding drive of Chartwell Grange and Trixie smoothed down her hair. Furneaux parked and unloaded the bags. The reception area was huge with many glazed-chintz sofas, deep armchairs and little tables holding magazines of a sporty or countrified nature. There were also two magnificent flower arrangements perched on Corinthian-style columns.
If Guy had been the sort to apprehend other people’s sensitivities, he might have spotted a certain coolness behind the ‘Welcome’ sign at reception. Little Jill Meredith, who had taken the Gamelin reservation, had been most distressed at his secretary’s manner. When Jill politely inquired if both guests required a double en suite the girl had drawled: ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. Haven’t you got an annexe or something? Put the chauffeur in there.’
There was no call, Jill’s boss had agreed whilst comforting his employee with an iced Malibu, to take that tone. Politeness cost nothing. Jill nodded and wished she’d thought of such a witty comeback at the time. Now she handed over the keys without a smile. A pageboy in a musical comedy get-up with white gloves under one epaulette went off with Guy’s case.
‘Now the drinks - hmm?’ Guy turned to his companion. Keeping his arm tightly round her waist.
Trixie nodded, looking up at him with a thrilled, slightly nervous possessiveness. She was sure that everyone in the hotel must know who he was and consequently believed her own status to be elevated accordingly. But middle-aged businessmen bringing secretaries, personal assistants, girl Fridays or just companions of the night were regular features at the Grange. These youthful appendages were described by the staff as excess baggage and universally despised, not on any moral grounds but because they never tipped.
‘Some Scotch ... Gin. Ice. Soda.’
‘When would you -’
‘Now.’
‘Would that be in the Tally Ho lounge, sir?’ asked reception.
‘If you want it emptied in five seconds flat.’ Jill Meredith blushed. ‘Otherwise outside my door.’
‘All the ice’ll melt,’ giggled Trixie as they entered the lift, blissfully unaware that the lightning and brutal rapacity of Guy’s technique would hardly give a single cube as much as a chance to sweat.
Hands up her skirt before the lift door closed, grand-standing crotch rubbed her thigh. Once inside the room he was on her like a wolf. Tearing, pinching, nibbling, biting. Non-stop obscenities poured from his mouth. Unzipped but fully dressed, he drove into her with effortful satisfaction. At the last, forcing her head towards his groin.
‘No,’ squealed Trixie ... ‘I’m not doing that -’
‘Go down ...’ Guy grasped her hair and she shrieked with pain. ‘Go down you obstinate bitch ...’
When he had finished Trixie ran into the bathroom, opened the complimentary brush and toothpaste kit and scrubbed her teeth and gums, her tongue, even her lips. Then she gargled, rinsed several times with mouthwash and drank a tumbler of water. But the taste of him remained.
She stared at herself in the glass. At her bruised and bitten breasts and at the red weals on the stinging flesh of her arms. She walked stiffly back to the bedroom, picked up her torn pants and rag of a blouse and looked around for her skirt.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, becoming conscious of an agonising cramp in the muscles of her back. Not wishing to look at Guy, she focused on a bowl of fruit. The card read: Having a wonderful time? Great. Tell your friends. If not tell us. Best wishes, Ian and Fiona.
Guy had brought in the drinks and was mixing a large Scotch. He took a deep draught then removed a wallet from his inside pocket, extracted a note and dropped it on the bed saying, ‘There you go.’
He always paid for casual sex. There was no come-back then. No one owed anyone a thing. No rubbish about meeting again and keeping in touch or giving each other a bell. And no dreary monologues about unhappy childhoods. In and out. That was it.
Trixie stared at the money. Guy took off his jacket, hung it on the back of a chair and started tugging at his tie. He took another swig of Scotch and jerked a thumb at the tray: ‘Help yourself.’ Receiving no reply he said: ‘What’s the matter?’
‘The matter? The matter?’
‘Fifty’s all you’re getting if that’s what you’re yelping about.’
‘I don’t want it.’ Trixie crouched, hunched and shuddering. ‘I don’t want any of it.’
‘What’s this then?’ He grinned, stretching froggy lips. ‘Free bonking for millionaires’ week? Go on - take it. Buy yourself a new top. Not much of that one left.’
‘You’re ... you are ...’ She wrapped her bruised arms tight across her chest as if for protection. ‘Hateful ... you’re hateful.’
Guy stared at her, genuinely puzzled. ‘I don’t get any of this.’ He pulled off his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt. ‘But I’m already bored to death. Now you can help yourself to a drink and start behaving normally or fuck off. I’m indifferent either way.’
He disappeared into the bathroom, turned on the shower and came back to remove his trousers and underpants. Trixie watched, sick with rage and self-loathing. How could she ever have let him as much as touch her? He was repulsive! Shiny with sweat, covered all over with flattened, long black hairs. Even his dong, she’d noted sourly, looked hairy; dark and sleek like a rat’s pelt. He was peeling off his socks.
Trixie outsmarted, outgunned closed her eyes and sought refuge in fantasy. She took the Scotch and smashed it down upon those closely sheared curls then rammed splinters of glass into his eyes and mouth. Possessed of superhuman strength she leapt upon him in the bath, seizing soapy, slimy shoulders, forcing his head under the water till the bubbles ceased. Then she had an inspiration and called across the room: ‘I forgot to tell you - I’ve got Aids.’
Guy looked at her briefly, sharply then laughed. ‘Dear, oh dear. I was telling better ones than that before I was born.’
‘It’s true.’ But they could both hear the weak, almost pleading undertow. Guy gave a slow contemptuous shake of the head.
But then, her mind filled with yet more bloody scenes of annihilating splendour, Trixie came across a weapon of devastating accuracy. At the time this seemed accidental. Later she remembered their conversation on the terrace and the shadow on Guy’s face as he had talked about his daughter. She sat up.
‘Funny Suhami being at the Windhorse, isn’t it? With her background. And all that money ... You’d think she’d have everything she’d want at home.’ The change in Guy’s expression frightened Trixie, but the longing to get even forced her on. ‘Of course she thinks the world of the Master. I suppose he’s a sort of father figure. A bit peculiar really. Not as if she hasn’t got one of her own.’
Trixie faltered on the last words for Guy was walking towards her. She willed herself not to shrink back into the pillows. He shoved his face close to her own. She could see the open pores, the thready veins and spiny hairs in his nose.
‘I’m going to have a shower now. Wash the stink of the gutter off. When I come out I want you gone. Five minutes - OK?’ He spoke in a whisper but the whisper was so gorged with hatred that his breath scorched her skin.