Sugarcoated (5 page)

‘Smart place, babes. A bit lonely, though.’

Less than five minutes after phoning to give me a five-minute warning – ‘I need to see you, Claudia’ – and in way less than I needed to spruce up, Stefan stood in the centre of our living room.

He’s back to see me. This is unbelievable.

It wasn’t a cruel mirage either. Even after I pinched myself, Stefan was still there. The pointy cowboy boots he was wearing sank into the fancy rug Mum didn’t allow footwear on, leaving their outline on the pile. The Man in Black he was today –
Hello, I’m Johnny Cash
– his full-length, rain-spotted leather coat scenting the room deliciously when it swung behind the rest of him to examine Mum’s display-cabinet crammed with antique perfume bottles, then the horrible cow-specked Highland landscapes Dad reckoned would fund his retirement.

‘Hope Mr and Mrs Claudia are well insured. There’s
fair brass ‘ere, lass.’ Stefan didn’t quite pull off the Ee-By-Gum accent he was attempting. It jarred with his own. Never mind. I forgave him because when he flung himself down on our sofa he grabbed the belt of my dressing gown. Pulled me next to him.

‘Show me again,’ he said. His hand went from my knee to the business card I’d scooped from the front door when I opened it to let Stefan in.

Starsky-Stark’s name and mobile number were on one side. The back read:

Ms Quinn,
Called 4.30pm.
Will try again after 7.30pm unless you
arrange alternative time.
Need to talk to you.

‘Think that means this is a mudder enquiry?’ I said ‘mudder enquiry’ like they always do on
Taggart
while Stefan read the card.

‘I better phone. See what the cops want –’ I went on. But Stefan interrupted.

‘You mean phone
now
? When I’m here to see you? Take you out for tea? Don’t think so –’ Stefan was grinning at me when he plucked the DCI’s calling card from my hand. He held it at arm’s length by the tiniest corner like it was something contaminated. When he dropped it to the carpet his smile dropped too. He shook his head slowly. Scowled.

‘Never tell cops
anything
, babes,’ Stefan said in a low voice. ‘They’re bad news, every last one of them. Bad guys with badges my father calls them –’

Stefan had hunched forward on the sofa. While he spoke he ground the DCI’s card under the sole of his pointy boot. Because his hair had flopped all thick and blondly over his face it felt like he’d curtained himself away from me.

Must have some private grief with the cops, I decided, also trying to figure if Stefan’s hair was naturally streaked with so many shades of blonde, or subtly highlighted.

Expensively subtly highlighted if it was.

But I didn’t feel it was my place to ask for details about either. Too personal. Nah. Didn’t know Stefan
well enough yet, did I? Nor did I feel this was quite the time to reveal that my totally favourite uncle, Dad’s younger bro and fishing partner, Mike, was also a cop – a big-shot one too – Chief Super somewhere up …

Where the heck was it again? Smelly port … North East … where all the canneries and prawns … Near Peterhead maybe? Could never remember.

More heroin than herring coming in these days. And Eastern European labour
… Those were the only facts that came back to me right now about Uncle Super Mike’s patch. Especially when my head was still as mushy as wet wool and The Most Gorgeous Guy I’d Ever Met had his thigh pressed the length of mine. Only when I gave up nipping my brain for the name of Uncle Mike’s station did I realise Stefan was tapping the back of my hand with his fingertips.

‘… Anyway you need a change of scene right now. You’re looking a bit fragile. No wonder. Still paying for dancing on those tables and ordering those cocktails after your champagne, aren’t you? I did warn you –’

‘I was dancing?’
I never dance
.

‘Singing too. All the way home in the taxi. Up your
path. Shaking your keys. Can’t believe you didn’t wake your dad up.’

‘I was singing?’
And I wasn’t carried out the restaurant? You saw me home? How come I don’t remember?

‘Babes, you are a wild one. Mind you,’ Stefan smacked my thigh till I stopped wading through my hangover for the source of it, ‘you look like you could do with some fresh air. Won’t get any of that talking to the law. So go get dressed for me. Let’t get out of here before the day’s gone.

‘
Babes.
’

Stefan was calling me that more and more.
And here’s me like death’s ugly sister warmed up
.

That’s what I was thinking while I pulled out every item of clothing I possessed. All my tops were black. Baggy. Sloganed with back-off snarls:

Have a Nice Day, Asshole.

BIG GIRLS DON’T CARE.

‘Bloody nothing decent,’ I realised, plunging through the pile of washed-out black cotton on my bed.

‘See you in five. Taking you somewhere nice,’
Stefan had told me downstairs. I’d left him there on the sofa watching Andy Murray giving John McEnroe the grumpy monotone treatment on
Sky Sport
. Somewhere nice?

With a wardrobe full of gear that never went anywhere nice, I panicked. Dashed through to Mum and Dad’s room in my undies: big grey-white bra, bigger greyer-white pants. Built for support and containment, they were about as removed from the scanties barely covering those models who’ve made M&S underwear sexy again as I am from Elizabeth Jagger. So God knows what Stefan thought when he spun round from Mum’s dressing table.

(Note to self: Keep a decent set of frillies for Emergency Use Only. Wash separately.)

I was so mortified at Stefan copping an eyeful of all my blubby bits it only
just
crossed my mind that he was somewhere he Definitely Shouldn’t Be.

Naughty boy.

Trespassing in my mumsie’s bedroom.

I just yelped. Grabbed the first white shirt hanging in Dad’s wardrobe.

Fled to my own room.

‘Hey, Claudia.’ Stefan’s fingertips were brushing my door. ‘Sorry. Sorry. That wasn’t what it looked like. I was looking for your little boy’s room. I’m just a vain bugger. Saw that big long mirror and nipped in to check myself out –’

Stefan was half-laughing his apology. Still brushing at the door. ‘Clau-dia!’ When I didn’t answer, his voice sing-songed like he was tempting a puppy with a Good Boy choccy drop.

‘Are you still speaking to me, babes? Or have I given you a heart attack?’ Now his voice deepened.

‘Want me to break down your door and do a bit of mouth to mouth. Claudiaaaaa! Talk to me, babes. If your pop comes home and finds me outside your bedroom he’ll castrate me –’

Stefan’s patter was irresistible. Plus his chuckle. Not to mention him
babes
-ing me. Suggesting mouth to mouth …

On the off-chance his mouth-to-mouth offer was serious, I unfroze from the horror-stricken pose I’d assumed since locking myself in my room. That’s where
I’d clocked, in the mirror behind my door, the unabridged horror of what Stefan had already clocked.
Mamma Mia!
It wasn’t a pretty sight. So before his reason recovered from the shock and he ran screaming from our house, I threw on Dad’s shirt over my jeans.

‘Now that’s a look. We’ll be Macho-girl and Babyface.’ Stefan stepped right into my room as soon as I opened up. The tips of his fingers caught mine and before I could breathe he pulled me against him. Then he kissed me, his mouth soft, but it’s pressure hard enough to graze my lips with my teeth.

Holy Moley! I didn’t know people’s leg muscles stopped working when they were snogged.

Must be why you always see couples clutching on to each other for dear life in the movies or doing fumbly business lying down. It’s not to make the experience more sexy at all. It’s just snoggers being plain sensible.
(Note to self: Ask Georgina in my next email why the hell she didn’t warn me about any of this.)

For my first smooch, only Stefan’s fingertips kept all ten and three-quarter stone of me upright, so when my legs gave way, I ended up toppling forward. Biting
down on Stefan’s tongue before headbutting him in the crotch on my slip to the floor. I was mortified, but Stefan just dabbed his mouth and laughed.

‘Babes, how did you know bringing people to their knees turns me on?’ He was still laughing while he grabbed my wrists. Tugged me upright. ‘Better not do that again without warning. I might just fight back. Come on.’

Keeping hold of me with one hand, Stefan tried to lead me downstairs.

‘Shoes. Socks,’ I said, pulling against him.

‘Don’t need them. I’ve wheels outside.’

‘Need shoes though –’

Stefan answered by pulling me harder.

‘I’ll carry you to my car, babes –’

‘D’you want a hernia? What’s the rush?’

I was giggling. Breathless. Stefan was running downstairs now, me in tow.

‘Quick, ‘fore the cops come back. Wreck our date.’

He’d the front door open before I managed to twist myself out of his grip. ‘Cool the beans. Need my key. Need to leave my dad a note. Oh and hang on –’ I
started quick-checking the kitchen worktops, the hall table where all the mail piled up, buzzing from the family room to the coat-stand by the front door, patting all Dad’s pockets. ‘My dad’s missing his VISA. Need to have a shifty –’

My search can’t have taken up more than a minute but Stefan seemed mightily impatient about having to hang about. He stayed by the front door, tapping his boot on the floor, checking his mobile. The donk one tonight. When I scooted past him to go upstairs he grabbed my arm.

‘Hey, where you off to now?’

‘Dad’s room.’

Stefan grinned at me. Didn’t let go my arm though.

‘Didn’t spot any free credit while I was in there –’

‘Look. I’ll be up and down.’ I tried to release myself. Couldn’t.

‘Babes, it’s safer cancelling the card. Then it doesn’t matter if it’s missing.’

‘How?’

Stefan’s phone donked:
Another One Bites The
…

‘Use an old statement,’ he said as he was putting the
mobile to his ear. He let my arm go so he could flap me away with his hand.

‘Later. Soon. Not yet,’ Stefan said into the phone without waiting to hear who was calling. He followed me through the hall, stopping at Dad’s filing cabinet under the stairs. ‘Bet you’ll find your old man’s card details in here with all his bills, babes,’ he said like he could see through metal. While I flipped obediently through a drawer, Stefan leaned his elbows on the top of the cabinet.

‘Just thinking –’ he said while I was thinking how much I loved the way he stroked his fingertips over the top of my hand before he took the VISA statement I pulled out ‘– I better talk to VISA instead of you. Kid on I’m the cardholder. If
you
say it’s your dad’s account … Y’know. Gorgeous girl’s voice … Man’s name on the card …’ He shrugged.

I rolled my eyes.

‘Course. They’d want to speak to Dad. Not me. Just as well you’re here. Think we need to cancel? I mean the card’s probably –’

I circled my arm about the kitchen till Stefan
waggled his finger at me. ‘Better safe than sorry. Some crook could be going wild with your dad’s plastic and we’re standing here talking about it –’

He’d our kitchen phone. Dad’s statement in his hand. Already reading the Lost or Stolen card number on it. Dialling.

‘Don’t happen to know your dad’s PIN number or password? Your mum’s maiden name?’ he covered the mouthpiece and whispered. ‘Case they take me through security. Won’t tell a soul.’

Stefan was crossing his heart with his finger when his call was answered. When I wrote down CLODDY and the year I was born on a piece of paper for him, he took my pen to draw a massive love-heart round them.

‘Surprised I’d to give stuff from your dad’s passwords,’ Stefan said when Dad’s VISA was sorted. ‘Lucky you knew them. It’s usually star signs they ask for.’

‘M’dad uses the same code for everything,’ I shrugged.

‘Does he now? Keeps all his eggs in one basket. Very handy.’ Stefan chuckled. Then blew me a kiss across the palm of his hand.

‘Catch, babes. Quick,’ he said.

I chuckled back.

Finally, officially, we’re on our second date. Whoopee! I’d even managed to get myself into socks and shoes while Stefan was busy talking with VISA downstairs. And I’d combed my hair. Brushed the Artex off the roof of my mouth and had a gargle with Listerine.

Now we were in Stefan’s car. A dinky two-seater I could barely fold my great big self inside. Not much
roomier than the toy models Dad used to buy Neil, it was low-slung and going like stink. Even when Stefan passed a REDUCE SPEED sign, and vroomed through a 20s PLENTY zone avenued with luxury flats, it was going like stink.

So fast I wished Stefan’s left hand stayed on the wheel and not my knee, much as I enjoyed the thrill of his touch.

So fast my heart filled my mouth so I said zilch on the journey.

Didn’t even ask how come a young guy like Stefan was running round in a motor like this. No.

Or how come, when Stefan parked the car alongside a hulking black jeepy thing inside a private basement garage in the newest block of the luxury flats we’d just boy-racered past, he pressed ‘Penthouse’ when we were in the lift.

Too fast. That was too fast for me. This is too fast for me,
was all I could think while a glass lift slicked me from underground to cloud level. Silly me forgot to take my stomach on board as hand luggage.

‘Oh Jeez Louise.’

With nothing to hold on to I made a grab for the lapels of Stefan’s leather coat, but his hands blocked mine and he seized my wrist. Pulled me against him.

‘Don’t you like getting high, Claudia?’ his lips brushed my earlobe as he whispered and I thought my legs might go again.

Kiss me again and say my name. Please,
I prayed, closing my eyes, tilting my chin up hopefully and swaying a little against the soft cool of Stefan’s coat. But there was no more snogging, alas and alack. Instead, the lift gave a trendy-sounding ping and Stefan, holding me at arm’s length, walked me backwards.

‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ he intoned.

God love him, he might be gorgeous but he was
definitely
one of those guys who shouldn’t do funny accents. I think he thought he sounded Transylvanian. Just sounded Welsh.

Although, cheek of me to slag Stefan’s voice. I couldn’t even make mine work. Not when I took in the crib Stefan had himself.

I’m not exaggerating. I’d never even seen anything as posh in a
mag
, let alone for real.

My jaw practically hit Stefan’s pale wooden floor while I gawped from his white leather sofas with their snow-fluff cushions to the unsmudged stainless steel of his galley kitchen. Blinked at the walls made entirely of window. Beyond them twinkled the panorama of Glasgow by night where car lights glittered like ruby or diamond strings snaking through blue-black darkness.

‘It’s beautiful. But where d’you get the wonga for this? And how d’you keep it so tidy?’ I gasped. And OK, it was better than:
Are you sure you’re not actually gay?
but still out of line. So I backtracked. Frantically. ‘S’just that. Y’know. You’re young and … well aren’t you a student or something …’

My babble petered into silence. I looked at Stefan, but he was pushing buttons on a keypad that I thought was an abstract painting. That moany droney
My Funny Valentine
song I bloody
detest
filled the space between us.

‘S’just … What’s your …? Are you …? You’ve not said …’

‘You’ve not asked, babes.’

Stefan had moved to his kitchen area. He was taking things from a fridge that was bigger than our
back garden: out came salads covered in cling film stamped with the name of the swankiest deli in Glasgow. Likewise a cheese platter. Dips. Dishes of olives and hummus. The sight was enough to trigger a howl from my belly loud enough to drown Stefan’s horrible choice of music. My hangover had cost me a day’s worth in time and food.

‘OK then, I’m asking now. Are you a student?’ I had to boost my voice to mask the volcanic activity in my gut.

‘Sort of.’ Stefan was uncorking a bottle of white wine.

‘Cool. What’ya studying?’

Stefan shrugged. Turned his back to me, fiddling in a cupboard full of glasses. He handed me a crystal flute of wine before chink, chink, chinking ice into a second glass then filling it with water from one of those fancy fridge dispensers we don’t have in our kitchen.

(Note to self: Maybe I should try for uni instead of the police. Student loans must buy you more than I thought.)

‘What am I studying? Chemistry, I suppose.’ Stefan joined me on his white leather. ‘I’m interested in compounds. And business.’

‘How d’you mean you “suppose” you’re doing chemistry? What year are you? What uni? And aren’t you having wine?’

‘Questions, questions. I’ll answer the most important one: good boys like me don’t drink and drive.’

Stefan clinked his glass to mine. Leaned in to rub my nose with his. ‘FYI,’ he went on, ‘I’m a part-time student right now. Kinda getting sidelined into the family business more and more. Helping out –’

‘So you work?’ I cut in, ‘Aha. S’that how you afford this place? I mean –’

‘Whoa, babes. My turn for a question.’

Stefan put his arm round my shoulders, pulling me nearer him.

‘Why the inquisition? Are you a reporter? Or a police officer?’

‘That’s three questions. And how can I be a cop if I’m still at St Bloody Mary’s school taking resits I’m going to fail. Supposed to be studying right this minute actually –’

I sipped at my wine, wishing, to be honest, that I could be drinking Stefan’s iced-water instead. Or better
still, a nice big cuppa. Four sugars. I decided I must still be hungover, because the wine left a nasty, sour taste in my mouth. Every time I swallowed, my throat burned. Made me burp. Feel really queasy.

‘Sorry,’ I covered my mouth. ‘Don’t usually drink much.’ I was moving to put my glass on Stefan’s coffee table, but he stayed my hand.

‘Try a few more sips, babes. You’re drinking a Sancerre. Very dry. Bit of an acquired taste if you’re more used to alcopops.’

Cheek,
I was ready to say.
Last night you accused me of being a Burger King girl. Now this. I’m a cider girl, me,
but Stefan was tipping the rim of my goblet up. Holding it to my mouth.

‘Mmmm.’

Three or four forced glugs later I zipped my lips. Pushed the glass away.

‘Look, can I just have water? I don’t like your fancy wine.’
Or the way you’re pouring it down my throat, pal.

I must have sounded sharp when I hauled myself off the sofa next to Stefan and thumped into the one opposite. To be honest I was actually going for the
breadsticks he’d laid out but he must have thought he’d upset me. Over he came. Dropped to his knees.

‘Babes, I’m being a jerk. See. Me and girls. I’m not used to entertaining or … Look. Can we start again?’

Stefan’s eyes were wide and worried. When he brushed his hair from his face and smiled, he looked so baby-faced and sweet and drop-dead gorgeous I couldn’t … Well, first of all, I couldn’t believe he wasn’t a player with
real
babes…just
didn’t
buy there being no other females fighting each other for a piece of him.

So why me?
I asked myself, not for the first time in the last two days.
Do you really, actually fancy me? Or are you messing? What’s your game, matey?

But when I looked into Stefan’s eyes, I couldn’t have cared less what his game was.

I just wanted to put my arms round him.

‘
Course we can start again. So how about another of those kisses now that I’m sitting down.
’

Unfortunately, since I’d breadsticks covered with hummus in both hands and two cheekfuls of olives, I had to console both myself and Stefan with soothing
grunts till my mouth was empty. By which time he was back in his kitchen. I watched him footer with his designer kettle like he’d never worked one before.

‘How long you been here?’ I yawned, settling myself more comfortably into the leather sofa. Don’t think I’d ever parked myself in anything so soft. And the room was on the warm side. I could have slept if I closed my eyes.

Still paying for going over the score last night, my eyes weighed heavier and heavier as I watched Stefan open and shut cupboards. Funny. Like my dad, he didn’t seem to know where anything was in his own kitchen.

‘How long?’ Stefan was putting a couple of mugs on a tray. ‘Well, we’ve only had this place a few weeks.’

‘We?’ I heard myself ask through another yawn.
Knew it. He lives with someone. Some size zero model
… I sighed in my head, yet weirdly I felt too relaxed and comfy to let the thought upset me. Anyway, before it could, Stefan said, ‘Me and my dad and my uncle own it.’

‘Your dad?’ I yawned again, my voice sounding faraway. Slurred too.

‘He livezere? Zee coming back?’

‘Not tonight, babes. Just relax.’

Stefan set down a tray of mugs and tea on his coffee table. Then he knelt in front of me again. Began to prop me up with all the cushions scattered over his sofa.

‘Just you and me,’ he whispered, running his hand over my hair. ‘All night long. Dad’s usually abroad. I run his businesses here –’

‘Biznizizzzz?’ I could barely move my mouth.
Can’t stay here all night,
I wanted to say, but I couldn’t seem to form the words.

‘Pharmaceuticals. Export and distribution. Kinda complicated to describe –’

‘Mmmm,’ I felt myself nodding in slow motion. ‘Zat why you do chemistry then?’ I dragged words from my head, the muscles round my mouth like lead when I tried to speak. ‘So whered’youztudy …?’

‘So what’s all muddy, babes? Hey, you’re so tired. Definitely too many cocktails last night. Shhhhh now …’

Stefan was busy tucking a furry white throw round me now. Round my shoulders, down my arms, my
hips, under my legs. The push of his fingertips through the fabric triggered a memory of Mum’s bedtime touch when I was small. How safe her nearness used to make me feel. Loved. Protected …

But tonight Mum doesn’t know where I am. She’s on the other side of the world and I’m in some guy’s flat. And I’m feeling really strange …

That was the moment I tried to gee myself. Move. Kick off the throw. Push Stefan’s hands from my thighs. They were hot and heavy and strong. Pressing down. Holding me still. Though I wasn’t entirely sure. His face was close to me and again I thought, though
again
I wasn’t entirely sure because everything inside my head was so foggy, that he was asking me something about seeing those hammer guys outside Dad’s shop again.

‘Did you babes? Would you know them? Tell
me
the truth –’ but I couldn’t focus on his words.

‘Get off, will you?’ I do remember grunting that. Willing my body to work. Screaming at myself inside my head:

Get up, Claudia! Stay awake! Don’t just slump there like a big sack of spuds.

But, for the second time in Stefan’s company – embarrassing coincidence or what? – I was completely paralysed. Like in those dreams I’ve had where I need to fight or run but my body lets me down.

I’m alone with some guy I hardly know,
I realised when cold needles of panic pricked my wooziness.
No address left for Dad on the kitchen table.
Just:

Guess what? Gone out 6-ish. Hot
date for Cloddy! C u 18r pa x

How much older and more stupid did I need to become before I found myself in a major pickle? I mean Stefan seemed perfectly safe. In fact he seemed perfect. But I’d known him little over a day and right now he was in a position to do
anything
to me: Kill me. Torture me.

Worse: he could rape me. I couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t even stay conscious.