Spin Cycle (13 page)

“Please . . . you have to believe me,” Rachel pleaded. “I’m not a thief. I’m a stand-up comic. I can prove it.”

She told her the gag about the morning-after pill for men, but the store detective’s foundation didn’t crack. Rachel was pretty certain she hadn’t even been listening. Clearly all was lost.

The woman unfolded her arms. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, placing her hands on the desk, either side of her, “if twenty-five years in the police force taught me one thing, it’s that genuine shoplifters make at least some attempt to conceal the merchandise they are about to steal. At the very least they remove the price tag. You did neither. You are either a highly incompetent thief or the stress of Christmas shopping got too much—you became confused and made a genuine mistake.”

“Oh, I did,” Rachel gushed excitedly, sensing a reprieve could be on the way. “I got so confused. Very, very confused. Didn’t I, Shelley?”

Her friend nodded eagerly.

“Well, seeing as it’s Christmas,” the store detective said, allowing her face to break into a smile. “I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“You are?”

The woman nodded.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much,” Rachel said breathlessly, adrenaline still pumping through her. “You see, I have this tendency to confusion. It runs in the family. Goes back generations. My grandmother was the worst. When she heard ninety percent of crime happens in the home, she moved house.”

At this point Shelley, smiling awkwardly at the store detective, took Rachel gently by the arm and began leading her to the door.

“Oh, and for years,” Rachel said, twisting round as she and Shelley reached the door, “she thought a gargoyle was olive-flavored mouthwash.”

CHAPTER 12

When Rachel arrived to do her usual weekly gig at the Gas Station in Islington, where the Joke for Europe contest was going to be held, she was still reeling from the day’s events. Seeing Faye with Simon had knocked her for a loop. As a result her timing was off and the audience had turned against her—big time. When she described diaphragms as being a pain in the arse, some woman had yelled out, “You’re putting it in the wrong place.” Everybody roared. She struggled on until finally some bloke’s mobile phone went off.

“It’s my mate,” he announced, leaping to his feet, “with some decent jokes for you.” There was a loud burst of applause at this and Rachel brought her set to a close as quickly as possible.

She trotted offstage, wiping the sweat from her forehead, and virtually collided with Lenny. He usually emceed at the Anarchist Bathmat, but tonight had been performing a ten-minute set along with all the other stand-ups.

“Hey, Rache,” he said, looking concerned. “What went wrong? You OK? I thought maybe you weren’t feeling well or something?”

“No, I’m OK,” she said with a smile. “Been one of those days, that’s all—put me off my stride.”

“Oh, what, this bloke of yours giving you a hard time?”

“No, as it goes,” she said, “my mum and dad.”

“Bugger,” he grinned. “I thought I was in with a chance, at last.”

She knew he was joking. He’d been living with his girlfriend for years. What was more, there had never been any sexual chemistry between them.

“That’s better,” he said cheerfully. “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer. I have news.”

As they walked over to the bar, Lenny told her that the Channel 6 people had phoned him that morning to tell him he had been chosen to emcee the Joke for Europe contest.

“Lenny, that’s amazing, well done,” Rachel exclaimed.

Lenny, who had been on the circuit far longer than Rachel, had taken her under his wing right from the moment she’d started out and she thought the world of him. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and he blushed.

At the bar, the small gang of comics who’d been on in the first half—all of whom Rachel had known for ages—were standing around bitching about who did or didn’t stand a chance in the comedy competition.

While Lenny queued for their drinks, Rachel joined the others. It was clear to her that tension was beginning to mount and that people were working their bollocks off on new material. When somebody turned to her and asked her how her writing was coming along, and she told them she hadn’t started yet, they all looked at her as if she was either mad or lying.

“There you go,” Lenny said, handing her a bottle of Grolsch.

“Thanks, Len.”

He motioned her to a table. “Rache, whatever you do, don’t let this lot get to you. Panic is catching. Just keep your cool and you’ll be fine. You know, secretly, everybody thinks you stand a good chance of winning this thing, don’t you?”

“You reckon?” she said, looking down at her drink and sighing.

“I don’t just reckon. I know,” he said.

* * * * *

They carried on chatting in the bar while everybody disappeared to watch the second half. Then, after a couple of minutes, Rachel became aware of tumultuous laughter coming from the audience.

“Jeez,” she said, “somebody’s going down well. Who is it?”

“Well, believe it or not—it’s Pitsy.”

“Pitsy? When did she suddenly get funny? Mind if I go over to the door and listen?”

“Be my guest.”

Rachel stood up and went across to the double doors that led into the Gas Station’s sizable auditorium (it had once been a theater). Lenny followed. Pitsy was in full flood.

“. . . Of course me and my boyfriend are totally incompatible. I’m a Virgo. He’s an arsehole. I mean we’re lying in bed the other day and he announces he wants to do it. I tell him we’ve run out of condoms. To which he says, ‘Oh come on, I’ll only put it in for a minute,’ and I go: ‘What do you think I am, a bloody microwave?’ ”

There was another burst of uproarious laughter.

“He also kept going on about what a gentleman he is. I said, ‘Why, because you get out of the bath to piss in the sink?’ ”

More laughter.

Rachel looked perplexed. “I don’t get it, Lenny. What on earth’s going on? She almost sounds like a proper comic.”

He grunted. “I have two words to say to you,” he said, picking a hair off his tartan trousers with a precise, pincerlike action.

“What?” she said.

“Noeleen Piccolo.”

“Come again.”

“Noeleen Piccolo—Australia’s most popular female comic. It would seem that our Ms. Carter has been nicking all her material.”

Rachel was aghast. “You have to be kidding.”

“I’m not,” Lenny said. “I was over at my mate Gary’s house the other night—he’s just got back from Oz. We’d sat down to eat our takeaway and I’d just put on this amazing three-hour video of the Kobe earthquake made by the Japanese Seismological Society, when he said did I fancy watching this tape he’d brought back of this stand-up called Noeleen Piccolo. I was a bit pissed off, but, anyway, we watched it, and she was top. Then the next night, I’m emceeing here and Pitsy goes on and does the same act—word for bloody word.”

“No. I don’t believe it.”

“Honest. Gaz lent me the video. You can see it anytime you like.”

“She’s got some nerve,” Rachel said, slowly shaking her head.

There was a final burst of laughter and applause and Pitsy came offstage.

“Bloody hell, she’s coming this way,” Rachel said. “Right, I’m off. Thanks for the drink, Len. I’ll see you at the Bathmat tomorrow.” She turned to go, but was a fraction of a second too late.

“Hi, Rache. Hi, Lenny,” Pitsy beamed, still speeding and breathless on adrenaline. As she lifted her hand to adjust one of her pigtails, Rachel couldn’t help noticing her glistening armpit hair, which was flecked with deodorant dandruff.

“Listen, Rache, I’m so sorry about the way your set went tonight. I mean your material wasn’t too bad, it was just your timing. Maybe we could get together sometime. I’d be happy to offer you a few pointers. . . .”

Rachel had heard enough.

She shot Pitsy a filthy look and turned toward Lenny. “Thanks again for the beer, Len. See ya.” She gave him another peck on the cheek and stomped off.

As Rachel got into the car, she decided that before heading home, she would phone Adam on her mobile. She couldn’t wait to tell him about her plan for them to get married on Valentine’s Day. But when she got through to Durban he seemed distant and preoccupied.

“Am I keeping you from something?” she asked, hurt. “You sound like you’re trying to get me off the line.”

“No . . . no. I’m . . . I’m expecting room service with my dinner, that’s all.”

“Oh right,” she said quietly, only half convinced.

“I’m sorry if I sound a bit spaced out,” he went on, “I’m just knackered.” He paused again. “Right . . . that’s the door—I really have to go. My dinner’s arrived.”

“What’re you having?”

“I . . . er. I dunno. I can’t remember.”

“You can’t remember? But you only just ordered it.”

“So I did,” he said nervously. “Yeah . . . I’m having . . . I’m having . . . springbok. That’s it, carpaccio of springbok.”

“Nice,” she said sarcastically.

“Look, I have to get the door. Hang on.” She heard him put down the phone. A few seconds later she caught the sound of the room service waitress giggling about something.

He came back to the phone.

“She sounds happy,” Rachel said.

“Sorry?”

“The waitress,” she said.

“Oh. Yeah, apparently they don’t get too many foreigners ordering springbok and she thinks it’s dead funny. Now then, Rache, I must go, my dinner’s getting cold and I’m starving.”

“Ad?”

“Yeah?”

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Not telling you? Like what?”

“It’s just that every time I phone, there’s a woman in your room.”

He laughed. A little too loudly, Rachel thought.

“Rache,” he said. His tone was gentle and soothing. “I’m putting in sixteen-hour days at Uncle Stan’s office. Do you mind telling me where I would find the time or the energy for other women? You know I think all this worrying about your mother, plus the pressure of the comedy contest, is getting to you. It’s making you irrational.”

“Yeah, you could be right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s OK. Look, I really do have to go.”

“All right,” she said sadly. “See you then. Love y—”

But he was gone. He hadn’t even given her a chance to mention the wedding.

As she drove home down a side road, lined on both sides with parked cars, making it impossible for oncoming vehicles to pass each other, she was forced to reverse and pull into a space to let another car through. While she sat waiting for the car to go by she saw Matt’s Transit parked on the other side of the road under a streetlamp.

“Gawd,” she said out loud. “It’s only bloody Van Morrison.”

All she needed now, she thought, was for Matt to appear. How would she explain not having returned his calls?

Naturally, he appeared at that moment, walking down the path of a nearby house. He reached the gate and turned back to wave at a couple standing at the door. In a flash her foot hit the accelerator and she was pulling away. She’d gone no more than a couple of yards down the road when a cat darted out in front of her, forcing her to slam on the brakes and stall. She turned the ignition key, but the car refused to start. She turned it again; still nothing. Twice more she tried to start it and twice more it refused. She couldn’t bring herself to look in Matt’s direction, but she was pretty sure that even if he hadn’t seen it was her in the car, he would come over to offer his help.

A moment later he was tapping on her window. She turned toward him and wound the window down.

“Rachel,” he said, suddenly realizing who it was, “what are you doing here?”

“Hi,” she said sheepishly, turning the engine again, but with no success. “I’m on my way home from the Gas Station.”

“Oh right. Listen, you’ll flood the engine if you carry on like that. Give it a rest for a few moments.”

She took her hand off the ignition key and brought it to rest on her lap. “So how are you?” she asked.

“Fine. Just had dinner with some friends.”

She nodded. “Look, Matt,” she began anxiously, “I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls. . . .”

“Well,” he smiled, “it did occur to me that maybe you were giving me the elbow, but I was pretty sure you enjoyed the other night as much as I did, so I assumed you were just busy.”

She looked at him, standing there shivering in the cold.

He had a right to know the reason they couldn’t keep on seeing each other. She had to tell him about Adam. She owed him that.

“Yeah, I was,” she said, “but there’s something else I think I should explain. I know it’s late, but have you got time to pop round now? I’ll make us some coffee.”

“Great,” he said chirpily. “Right, try the engine again.”

She turned the ignition. Miraculously, it started.

CHAPTER 13

“Mmm, that feels good,” Rachel cried. “Up, just a bit. Now down a fraction. Stop. There. Oh, oh, yeah. That’s the spot. Oooh.”

“You sure that’s how you want me to do it?” Matt said.

“Ummm. Press just a fraction harder, maybe.”

“Like that?”

“Oh yeah. That’s it.”

“Do you want me to see if I can find another packet of frozen peas?” Matt asked. “These have nearly melted.”

“OK, but you might have to make do with sprouts.”

Matt stood up and headed toward the kitchen. Rachel lay on the sofa, attempting to turn her ankle and wincing.

While she and Matt were walking down the street toward her flat, Rachel had tripped on an uneven paving stone and twisted her ankle. The pain had been agonizing. Matt was all for rushing her off to the hospital, but since she’d been able to wiggle her toes and could just about take her weight on that foot, she’d eventually convinced him it was nothing more than a sprain. She’d even wanted to walk upstairs to the flat, but before she could try, Matt had scooped her into his arms and carried her.

Despite the pain, as she put her arms round his neck and breathed in his warm, slightly boozy smell, she’d felt lust shoot through her. The Oxford Street Christmas lights couldn’t have been more turned on than she was at that moment. Try as she might to fight her feelings, all she’d wanted was for him to lay her on the bed, tear off her clothes and make love to her. Instead he’d put her down on the sofa, taken off her sneaker and sock and set to work on reducing the swelling to her ankle and foot with a packet of Birds Eye Petits Pois.

“No more veg, I’m afraid,” he announced as he came back into the room. “So I’ve soaked a tea towel in cold water. It should work almost as well as an ice pack.”

He sat down on the edge of the sofa. “Roll up your trouser leg a bit more,” he said. She rolled.

As she watched his strong hands wind the cold wet tea towel round her ankle, it was all she could do to stop herself grabbing him and pulling him on top of her. Instead she said, “Be careful. Don’t do it too tight or you’ll cut off my circulation.”

He looked up at her and smiled. “Trust me,” he said gently. “I’m a spin doctor.”

“Funnee,” she said, feeling her heart thumping and realizing the extent to which he was turning her on.

“So you said there was something you wanted to tell me.”

“Yes,” she said softly, “there is.” She closed her eyes and began rubbing the lids slowly with her fingers.

“What? What is it?” he asked anxiously.

She opened her eyes, reached out and took his hand. “It’s just that . . . well . . . I . . . er. I had my audition for the comedy contest yesterday and they told me I’m in.”

“Rachel, that’s great news. But I don’t understand. Why on earth were you so nervous about telling me?”

She cast her eyes down. “Well, you see,” she said uncomfortably, “that’s not all. There’s something else too.”

Just then the phone rang.

“Sorry,” she said, reaching for the cordless, which was tucked down between her and the back of the sofa. It was Faye.

“Oh. Hi, Mum,” she said—a tad too briskly perhaps, but after the Selfridges incident, she was in no mood for casual chitchat with her mother.

“How are you? . . . What do you mean I don’t sound very pleased to hear from you? . . . Course I’m pleased to hear from you. . . . No, I’m not getting my period. Look, if I sound a bit down, it’s because I just sprained my ankle. . . . Mum, Mum, calm down . . . no really . . . please, it’s OK. . . . No, I don’t need to see your cousin Michael the orthopedic surgeon. It’s just a sprain. . . . Yes, I’m resting it. Yes, I’ve got it strapped up. . . . Mum, it’s nearly midnight. Why are you ringing so late? . . . Aunty who died? Jessie, God, yeah I remember her—wasn’t she the one who could do that amazing trick with soup? I remember. She used to weep borscht and try to convince us it was some kind of stigmata. . . . Look, Mum, if the funeral’s tomorrow, I won’t be able to get there on this ankle. Will you apologize to everybody? OK . . . bye . . . Yes, I’m OK. No, I’m not trying to get you off the phone. No, Mum, please don’t pop in with deli on the way to the cemetery tomorrow. I’ve got plenty of food in. I can manage. Sure I’m sure. Bye. Yeah. Love you too.” She raised her eyes heavenward and clicked off the phone.

“You had an aunt who could weep borscht?” Matt said, more than slightly taken aback.

“That’s nothing for our family. My mother breast-fed me matzo balls.”

He chuckled. “So anyway,” he said. “Back to whatever this thing is you need to tell me.”

She sat looking into his warm brown eyes. He had taken her hand and was smiling at her. She couldn’t do it. Not yet. She didn’t have the courage to hurt him. She’d get him to open a bottle of wine. Maybe it wouldn’t be so painful if she was drunk. She was just about to ask him if he’d mind fetching the Fitou from the kitchen when he leaned forward and began running the back of his hand over her cheek.

“You really are beautiful.”

She turned scarlet.

“I want to make love to you,” he said, starting to kiss her.

She immediately pulled away. She couldn’t let this happen. Not for a second time. She had to tell him. Right now.

“Matt, I can’t.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

She closed her eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s just that . . . just that . . .”

“What? Please, tell me what’s the matter. What have I done? Why don’t you want me to make love to you?”

“Because . . . because I . . .” She looked into his eyes again. “Because . . . I’ve been out all day. I haven’t had a bath and I’m filthy.”

“Christ, is that all? You really had me going there for a minute. Rachel, this is not a problem.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, giving her a sexy grin, “I’m going to give you a bath.”

“No, no, Matt,” she shot back urgently, “you can’t.”

“Why can’t I?” he said easily, taking the beer bottle from her and putting it down on the coffee table.

She knew she should tell him about Adam, that they couldn’t go on seeing each other. She knew she should let him walk away. But try as she might, she couldn’t. She wanted him far too much.

The next moment he had picked her up and was carrying her to the bathroom.

* * * * *

The bathroom was the best feature of the flat and was one of the main reasons Rachel had bought it. For a start it was very large—having been converted from a double bedroom—and although the previous owners had pretty much ignored the rest of the place, they’d spent a fortune doing up the bathroom. Rachel supposed it was a bit eighties, with its giant Victorian four-legged bath with brass fittings, white tiles and deep blue tiled dado rail. Rachel’s style, bathroom-wise, veered more toward sluice room chic with stainless steel everything—but there was no getting away from the fact that when the lights were off and she’d lit a few scented candles, it was incredibly romantic.

Matt sat her down on the ancient rose pink brocade armchair that had stuffing pouring out of it and that Rachel still hadn’t got round to recovering. Then he picked up a box of matches from a shelf next to the window, went over to the low table at the foot of the bath and began lighting the thick chunky candles. There were a dozen or so, half melted most of them, with deeply cratered dusty centers.

He turned off the lights and Rachel sat watching as the tiny flames flickered and cast shadows on the tiled walls.

“That’s better,” he said.

He turned on the taps and picked up a couple of bottles of aromatherapy oil. “Which one?” he said.

“Dunno,” she smiled, “why not try a few drops of each?”

Soon the room was filling up with lavender-and-jasmine-scented steam with a hint of vanilla coming from the candles.

“OK. Arms up,” he ordered gently.

She lifted them and he pulled off her Lycra T-shirt. Immediately he knelt down and began kissing her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. She threw back her head in delight as he ran his tongue along her neck. Finally he began kissing her on the mouth. As his tongue came deep inside her, all she could think about was how desperately she wanted him to make love to her. Their kissing became more and more urgent.

“Wow,” he said when they finally came up for air, “I meant to ask you last time—where on earth did you learn to kiss like that?”

“Oh, I used to be a tester at the bubble gum factory.”

“Lucky bubble gum,” he said.

He knelt down in front of her and began undoing her jeans zip. “Help me get these off,” he said.

She lifted up her bottom and he began tugging at the denim. A moment later she was sitting there in nothing but her bra and pants. He knelt down and unhooked her bra and began sucking her nipples. Then he ran his tongue down her belly toward her pants. His fingers went just underneath the waistband. She thanked God she had on a pretty G-string and not her granny pants. He pulled back the elastic and trailed a finger through her pubic hair. She raised her bottom again and let him pull off the tiny lace triangle. Before she knew what was happening he had spread her legs and was about to go down on her.

“Matt. Stop,” she cried, snapping them back together again. “You can’t. I’m filthy.”

But he simply looked up her and smiled. “What, after one day without a bath? Of course you’re not.”

For a second Adam shot into her mind. She tried to imagine him uttering those words. Christ, she thought he’d have a nosebleed just thinking about making love to her if she hadn’t douched first.

“Come on now,” he said, “just relax.” He put his hands on her knees and tried to part her legs, but again she resisted. “Rachel, it’s OK,” he told her tenderly. “I promise.”

Finally she let him slide her down in the chair slightly and spread open her legs.

For a few moments he did nothing but kneel there gazing at her. She let out a long loud moan as he began running his tongue over her clitoris. So sublime was the sensation that she knew she would come in seconds. Clearly sensing this, he stopped.

“More later,” he whispered. “I think the bath’s ready.” He took off his watch and put it on the bathroom shelf. Then he bent down over the bath and swished his hand through the water, testing the temperature. “Perfect,” he said, turning off the taps.

Rachel noticed the swelling in her ankle was down slightly, but that the skin around it was turning blue.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “That’s a good sign. Means the bruise is coming out.” He lifted her up and lowered her into the bath. She immediately felt the hottish water soothing her ankle.

First he sprayed her hair with warm water, and spent what felt like ages expertly massaging her head with shampoo.

“Umm, a brilliant masseur as well as a brilliant kisser,” she purred as she felt the tension drain away from her head and neck.

Having rinsed her hair, he told her to lie back. Then he squirted shower gel into his palm. He slid his hand back and forth over the length of her arm. She closed her eyes, savoring the sensation. Soon he moved to her breasts, and Rachel whimpered as she felt his hand slip and glide over her skin. Occasionally he would stop to trace circles over her nipples. Finally his hand disappeared under the water.

“Can you kneel up?” he whispered.

“I think so.” She took hold of the bath handles and, taking great care, maneuvered herself into a kneeling position.

“Bend over,” he said.

She did as he told her. He squirted the gel directly onto her buttocks. It was cold and she felt herself flinch. Ever so slowly he began massaging it into her skin. She closed her eyes again and gripped the handles for all she was worth. Suddenly, with an exquisite lightness of touch he was brushing his fingers between her buttocks. He slid his hand down and began washing her crotch. She was aware that a thick, gloopy foam had formed by now. Then, without warning, he plunged two fingers deep inside her. She threw her head back. It was as much as she could do to stop herself screaming with the sheer ecstasy. As he carried on exploring inside her, she begged him to make her come.

“Soon,” he murmured, pushing his fingers even higher and harder so that it almost hurt. “Soon.”

He carried on like this for a while, her moaning and moving up and down on the fingers. Finally he took them out and went back to massaging her buttocks. Then he reached down to her clitoris and began rubbing it in small rhythmic circles. By now she was constantly letting out small frantic gasps. Finally, she felt the quivering sensation building up deep inside her.

But almost as soon as she came, she wanted more. She was still desperate to feel him inside her. She virtually commanded him to get undressed and join her in the bath. “Come on,” she urged. “There’s loads of room for two.”

He pulled off his T-shirt and stood up to unbutton his fly. The moment it was open, she tugged on his combats and pants. His erection sprang out. She put her hands on his buttocks, drew him toward her and took the entire length of his penis in her mouth. As she moved her head slowly back and forth, at the same time caressing the tip with her tongue, he stood looking down at her, moaning softly.

Then, just as she sensed he was about to come, she stopped. She beckoned him into the bath. Careful to avoid touching her ankle, he climbed in at the tap end and sat in front of her, his legs bent up.

“Bring your legs down,” she said.

“There’s not enough room,” he protested.

“There is if we do it this way—come on.”

As he lowered his legs, she moved herself forward on her knees and straddled him.

“OK, now lie down.” He lay back, the big brass mixer tap just above his head.

She took his penis in her hand and guided it toward her vagina. For a few moments all she did was slide it repeatedly across the opening. Occasionally she let it slip a millimeter or two inside and then immediately removed it. He gasped, begged her to let him come inside her, but she wouldn’t let him. She saw no reason not to tease him the way he’d teased her. She carried on sliding and teasing until neither of them could bear it any longer. Finally, she lowered herself down onto his erection. Gripping one of the bath handles for support, she began to move herself slowly up and down on him. Feeling him finally penetrate her was exquisite. He did his best to reach for her clitoris, but the angle was wrong. Instead he lay there holding her arse and moaning as he watched her pleasure herself.