Ghigau 15

Hermione’s eyes were closed and she bit her lip in an effort to stifle a groan. The sheets beneath her were soaked with perspiration. Even with the curtains closed and the ceiling fan on, the room was suffocatingly warm. She ran her fingers through the hair of the man who was doing things to her that she had thought were only done in adult movies. The feel of his strong, taught body and masculine smell was intoxicating, and the things he murmured in her ear were so thrilling, so forbidden, that she experienced a kind of dislocation of her mind. 

    In that moment she would have done absolutely anything he’d asked of her.

Afterwards, they showered together. He soaped her breasts, flashing a smug grin when her nipples hardened.

    “You are a bad, bad girl.” He growled.

    “I think they’re clean now.” Hermione said, matter of factly, feeling somehow patronised.  She wasn’t all that fond of the afterglow period. In fact, she would have preferred to shower alone. Once the moment had passed, she always awoke from her fugue and the inevitable, unwelcome thoughts crowded in. For Christ’s sake Hermione, she scolded herself, he’s way too young for you. She was aware that to him, she was a kind of trophy. A MILF as he, rather disgustingly in her opinion, liked to say. She wasn’t, in fact, a mother. But that detail didn’t seem to bother him. 

    “Do you mind if I have a minute to finish up?” She said, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

    He looked disappointed at first, then sullen. “Sure,” he said, stepping out of the shower cubicle, dripping water onto the tiled floor, and grabbing a towel from the heated rail, pulling it round his waist in a makeshift skirt. The action made his arm muscles bulge. When he’d left the bathroom she finished showering, keeping her hair up to avoid getting it soaked.

    When she came out, he was lying on the unmade bed, legs crossed at the ankles, hands clasped behind his head. A frisson of irritation passed through her that she knew was unreasonable. According to popular wisdom, most women longed to be cuddled after sex but she preferred her own company. She crossed to her dressing table and sat down to apply a little concealer and eye shadow.

    “Want to go and get something to eat?” He said.

    “I really have quite a bit of work to do sweetie.” She said, not turning round. She watched him in the mirror and could see he was disappointed. “But you don’t have to go just yet, you could make us a couple of drinks if you want?”

    His expression brightened. “Ok, what do you fancy? G & T?”

    “That would be lovely. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” Hermione said.

She had feelings for him, that she was sure of, but where could it go? Realistically?  She was almost twenty years older — though she only admitted to ten — and had no intention of suffering the ignominy of being left by a younger man once her looks faded and her body succumbed to the inevitable ravages of time. She lifted her chin and looked at her neck in the mirror. It was still firm, but not as smooth as it was. And it would get worse, lines would appear, skin would sag, hair would dull. 

    There was something else that nagged at the edge of her consciousness whenever she thought about him. Why had he chosen her? 

    When he had first come in to the gallery, ostensibly to buy a piece for his South Bank apartment, she had immediately felt his gaze on her. He was polite enough when she showed him some works she thought might be suitable, but she’d felt his interest was feigned, an act. She’d put it down to embarrassment at the time; a lot of inexperienced buyers were afraid to say they liked something, as if they might be judged for choosing the wrong piece. 

    When he had suggested a coffee it had seemed innocent enough, a young man seeking the advice of a more mature, experienced expert. Nikki had been away on that day, or, she mused, perhaps his efforts would have been spent on her rather than Hermione. Now she wasn’t so sure. It was if he had been looking for exactly this; an older, perhaps more grateful, woman. He was very good looking, in that sporty way young men favoured so much these days, and extremely fit. So why her? Couldn’t he get someone his own age? She shook her head and reminded herself that there were worse things than being seduced by young handsome men. It’s fun while it lasts, she thought, so don’t complicate it.

    After getting dressed in her pink silk lounge-wear and matching slippers, Hermione went to go downstairs and join him. Half way down, she glanced to her left and saw that the door to her home office was ajar. Hadn’t she left that closed and locked? She was very careful about keeping all of her work related papers secure. She held her breath and listened but she couldn’t hear him in the kitchen or living room. Then she heard a small scraping noise, like a drawer being slid shut carefully, coming from her office. She turned around and on tiptoe, went back upstairs. 

    In her bedroom she took out her phone and opened the security app that allowed her to view all the cameras inside the house. She tapped on ‘Study’ and the image flickered and then steadied. He was in there. And he was reading something. 

    What the hell? She zoomed in but the image wasn’t clear enough to see what he was looking at. It was a sheet of paper but that was all she could tell. She put down her phone. Did this explain his interest in her? Why on earth would he be going through her office?

    Hermione decided not to confront him, unsure what his reaction would be. What did she really know about him?  He had never been abusive but he occasionally liked to be rougher with her than she would have liked, and he definitely enjoyed demonstrating his strength. She would wait until he was out of her office and then act as if nothing had happened. After a little while she went to the top of the stairs and called down.

    “How’s that Gin and Tonic coming on?”

    She heard the sound of his expensive Italian shoes on the hallway tiles. 

    “Ready when you are, sexy.” He called back.

She came down the stairs, noting that the door to her office was closed. He handed her a drink. It was ice cold, made just the way she liked it, with orange gin, Fevertree mediterranean tonic and a twist of lemon. She stood close to him and cupped his crotch.

    “Good boy.” She squeezed, a little harder than was necessary.

    “Whoah there, tiger.” He stepped back.

    “Just making sure you know how grateful I am.” Hermione said breathily, thinking perhaps she should have kicked him there instead.

    They sat on the sofa and chatted for a while. He always seemed interested in her work whilst being vague about his own,  something to do with climate change, and though she tried to draw him out more than she would have normally, he wasn’t forthcoming. ‘Really boring stuff’ he would say and fire another question at her about the art world.

    “I’d like to see your place sometime.” She said, trying a different tack.

    “Sure babes, I’d like that. You could cast your expert eye over my interior design.” He stretched out a hand and ran his fingertips down her arm.

    “Ok, when?” She wanted to put him on the spot.

    He looked slightly flustered for a second but recovered quickly. “I’ll take a look at my diary for next week and we’ll fix something up — how’s that?”    

    Hermione knew bullshit when she smelt it and this stank to high heaven. Whatever was going on, one thing she was sure of, his interest in her was not innocent; and if that was true then their meeting was not happenstance but had been orchestrated. She felt a pang of disappointment that her desirability might not be the only reason he wanted her. 

    It seemed she was being watched, spied on. Why on earth would anyone want to spy on me? She wondered.

    Later that evening, after he had left to drive back to central London, she went straight to her office. She stood in the centre of the room and looked around, trying to remember exactly how she had left it. Had anything moved? There were no open drawers, but of course he would have been careful to put everything back as he found it, she presumed. She went over to her desk. Her laptop was closed and plugged in. The charge light was green. She pulled the top drawer of her desk open. The papers inside, none of which were sensitive or secret,  were stacked neatly as she’d left them. She walked over to the filing cabinet and noticed that the key was in the lock. She normally put this in the little paper clip tray that slid out from under her desktop, but she couldn’t be completely sure she had done this last time she used it. There was always the chance she’d forgotten to replace it.

    She opened the top drawer. The files almost all related to the gallery. HMRC correspondence, health and safety certificates, insurance policies, building lease, etc. The drawer below related to her personally. She slid it open. The front folder was marked ‘Contracts’. She slid the folder out and spread it on the desktop. The first document was her business contract with Nikki. It contained about twenty pages, bound together using a metal paper fastener. She flicked through the pages and that’s when she noticed something. A small raised area on the top right hand corner of the second page. She touched it with her finger. It was damp, as if a drop of water, perhaps from wet hair, had recently fallen on it.