Under Your Spell

Chapter Six

The sound of running water wakes me up the next morning and I sit bolt upright thinking my flat is being flooded. But this isn’t my bed, these aren’t my sheets twisted around me, and this definitely isn’t my flat. Instead, I’m in a very nice hotel room, and the running water I hear is the sound of the man I had mind-blowing sex with last night, having a shower.

I pull the one-thousand-thread-count white sheet to my chest and flop back against the goose-down pillow, a wild, unmanageable grin spreading across my face as I let it all flood back in – the kissing, the touching, the heat. So many images fluttering through my mind like sexy confetti.

Like when I ripped his shirt open and got my hands on his beautiful chest, my fingers running over the flat, hard muscle there, and then when I pushed the shirt off his shoulders and it revealed that both his arms were covered in tattoos from shoulder to wrist. I don’t know why it was so insanely hot, to pull away that crisp, white shirt and find all that surprising, swirling ink underneath, but it was. I had stopped then, straddling his lap, spent time trailing my fingers over biceps and forearms, finding scrolling acanthus leaves weaving through geometric patterns, punctuated with hothouse flowers open and blooming, until Edward had groaned and I realized he was watching me with hungry, horny eyes.

There was more kissing. Greedy, desperate kissing. Sinking back into this bed with his weight pressed into me, the full, hard length of him just where I wanted it.

There was the moment when he had wrenched himself away, carefully, so carefully, and asked, ‘Are you sure you want to do this? We can stop. We can stop any time.’

I blinked up at him, my lust-dazzled brain struggling for words.

‘Yes, please,’ I said. ‘More now. Yes. Please.’

He laughed and returned to kissing me until I was light-headed.

There was the image of his beautiful hands, his long, clever fingers touching me, cupping me, teasing me, the rough, sandpaper feel of his jaw against my chest, my stomach, my thighs.

There was the first orgasm – the one that tore through me, left me seeing stars, panting and giggling like a maniac. My confession that I could only ever finish once and I personally thought all this talk of multiple orgasms was a fairy tale.

I hadn’t meant it to sound like a challenge, but he’d taken it that way, taking his time using his mouth, his fingers, whispering sweet, dirty words until I came apart again, even more violently.

Exhausted, the last thing I remember is curling against him, resting my head on his chest while he smoothed the hair away from my face. The steady thump of his heartbeat under my ear.

And now he is in the shower.

I have never had a one-night stand before and I have no idea about the etiquette.

I turn my head towards the bathroom but the shower is still running. Levering myself out of bed, I realize my muscles ache like I’ve been to the gym and I know I’m still grinning because my cheeks are starting to hurt too. I scoop up my underwear and my clothes from where they are scattered around the room and quickly get dressed.

Then I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room. Should I stay? Staying seems to imply expectations. Breakfast and cuddling and all those other things which are part of being a couple, all the things that I usually do after sleeping with someone. But not now, that’s the old Clemmie talking. So do I sneak out? Is that rude?

I bite my lip in indecision and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is sticking out all over the place, my cheeks are pink, my mouth swollen, my eyes look huge and my expression is one of dazed bewilderment – basically the night of carnal activity is written all over me. Reaching inside my handbag I find a hair bobble and scoop my long, tangled hair up into a sloppy bun. I rub underneath my eyes to remove the panda smudges of mascara, and dig out a slightly dusty extra-strong mint which I pop in my mouth. There, I think, practically human.

My phone is also in my bag, and I realize the battery is about to run out. There are messages from my sisters and from my mum, from after I texted them to say I was going home early and that I’d talk to them later. My WEIRD SISTERS group text has gone wild:

Serena:Ugggggg how could you leave us here?? The olds are getting wasted.

Lil:Henry says he saw you earlier and you were leaving with a man????

Lil:And you two looked v cosy???

Serena:WTF Clemmie??? When you said you needed an early night I had no idea…

Lil:The hot sex spell is ALREADY WORKING!!!!!!

Serena:You’re welcome.

Lil:Omg. Henry invented a new cocktail and called it ‘the Lil’

Serena:Meet you by the booze shortly.

Lil:Wooooo! The Lil is STRONG. Vodka, gin and white wine. About to havE my third!

Serena:The Lil is disgusting. I do not think Henry is a real bartender.

Lil:ShuT up, tastes reall good. Henry is a carpernter like JESUS. Henrys face is a poet.

Serena:Lil is practically mounting Henry on the bar. I cannot believe you left me to deal with this. This better be in aid of some sex. At least there is tequila to numb the pain.

Serena:CLEMMIE

Serena:WHERE IS THE TEQUILA???

Serena:CLEMMIE

Serena:CLEMMIE

Serena:CLEMENTINE GRACE MONROE

Serena:I take it all back. May you have incredibly mediocre sex.

Lil:HenrY kiss Lil kiss!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Serena:Lil puked in your old wellies. I hope you’re happy now.

There’s also a notification reminding me of my appointment today. Oh, shit. In a turn of events that is entirely in keeping with my life at the moment, I am going to be late for therapy, unless I run out on my one-night stand right now. That feels like a sign from the universe, right?

I grab the notepad and pencil from the desk and chew my lip for a moment.

Dear Edward,

I write,

Thank you very much for a lovely evening. I really appreciated your time and effort.

What am I doing? Why do I sound like an elderly woman thanking him for cleaning out my attic? (I can already hear the joke Serena would make here – ‘More like your basement, Clem.’)

I crumple up the sheet of paper and try again.

Edward,

I had a great time, thank you.

Clemmie x

That will have to do. Before I can think better of it, I gather my belongings and creep from the room, pulling the door quietly shut behind me. I hurry down the hallway, scrabbling in my bag for my car keys. Thank God I had the sense to have Edward drive us here in my car last night so that I could make a speedy getaway.

I take the lift down to reception and keep my eyes on the ground as I push through the revolving door.

FLASH!

A light pops in front of my eyes, followed by another and another. My body instantly revolts, heart hammering, throat tightening.

Cameras. Cameras everywhere.

‘Oh, sorry, love,’ a man shouts as the camera flashes suddenly cut off. ‘Thought you were someone else.’

I grasp wordlessly at the collar of my wool coat, pulling it tight around me. Blinking against the bright dots still swimming in front of my eyes, his words register and I realize they’re not there for me. Air starts to filter back into my lungs. It’s been a long time since I was exposed to the paparazzi, and that moment of blind panic leaves me dizzy.

I wobble along on unsteady legs in the direction of the underground car park, concentrating on pulling in slow, deep breaths. I remember Edward saying something about a lot of the people at the wake booking rooms in this hotel, so it makes sense for the photographers to descend on a spot where multiple celebrities are likely to be appearing a little worse for wear the morning after.

For all I know my dad is staying here and they’re going to get eight hundred photos of ‘brave Ripp’ grieving his dear friend. The thought makes me queasy for more than one reason. It’s definitely time to jet out of here because I think being caught sneaking away from a man’s hotel room by my famous father in front of a wall of cameras might be my own personal worst nightmare.

I reach the safety of my car and press play on my audiobook, feeling the exhilaration of earlier creeping back in. I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe that I, Clementine Monroe, had a one-night stand with the most gorgeous man on the planet, and it was so good. So good that it’s possibly ruined sex for me forever, but that’s a whole other issue. Serena and Lil are going to be unbearable.

It starts to rain and my windscreen wipers squeal across the window. I tap the steering wheel, full of an unfamiliar sense of energy and genuine elan. Who knew that casual sex could be such a mood booster. (Again, I hear Serena’s voice: ‘Everyone, Clemmie, literally everyone knows this.’)

Just under an hour after leaving the hotel, I pull into the outskirts of Oxford, up to the practice where my therapist, Ingrid, has her office.

She buzzes me in and even though I’m only a couple of minutes late I feel flustered into a rambling apology, which Ingrid observes in silence.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I huff, flopping into the spotless white silk armchair, and dropping my bag on the floor. ‘I overslept after the wake last night and I had to rush back here.’ I proceed to ramble about the traffic, about the hotel, about the fact that I spent the night with a man I had just met and how I had to extricate myself from my first one-night stand. All of this comes out in one breathless wall of speech.

Ingrid doesn’t even blink. ‘Would you like me to take your coat?’ she asks.

‘Yes, please,’ I say, standing up and unbuttoning it. I hand it to her and she calmly hangs it up on a coat stand next to her own navy Barbour jacket, before taking the seat across from me.

There is a table between us with a jug of water and two glasses on it and Ingrid pours me a glass, which I accept gratefully.

I’ve been seeing Ingrid every couple of weeks for almost two years now, and I don’t really want to focus on the fact I may not be able to afford her much longer. She’s in her late forties, with short silver-white hair and wide green eyes behind thick-framed glasses. Her sense of chilly detachment gives her incredible cool-head-girl energy. I want her to like me with a rabid passion that is presumably part of the reason I am in therapy to begin with.

She dresses like a member of the British royal family on their days off – as if she’s about to go hop on a horse at a moment’s notice, sort of vaguely tweedy, with knee-length boots and the occasional gilet. I know very little about her, except that her husband is English and she has a daughter in secondary school.

Ingrid’s accent has a Scandinavian edge, and her face is so still that I’m never sure if it’s been pumped full of Botox, or she’s simply incredibly good at her job. Possibly, it’s both.

Like Ingrid, her office radiates a sense of intense calm. There’s minimal furniture: a huge, modern-looking glass desk with a sleek computer, a notepad and a single pen all at perfect right angles; a bookcase full of alphabetized books; and the coffee table between two chairs. Everything is gleaming white, with soft grey accents, and it always smells like those candles no normal person could possibly justify spending money on.

Ingrid is, as I mentioned, unflappable, and for some reason this often makes me want to get a reaction out of her. Now, as always, she displays no signs of shock at all.

‘So,’ she says after a moment, ‘you spent the night with a man?’

‘Yes!’ my head is bouncing like a nodding-dog toy. ‘And you know, that’s so out of character for me, but it was great.’

‘I’m glad to hear that. How do you feel about it this morning?’

I frown down at my glass. I’ve been having therapy for years, and I do enjoy the chance to sift through my emotions – the way that I can speak to Ingrid without filtering things first. It’s a strange way of talking to someone, verbalizing thoughts and feelings that seem to shimmer vaguely at the edge of your mind. ‘I feel good,’ I say slowly. ‘Sort of elated. It was… nice, very, very nice, and I had to make a choice to do it, when I could have just played it safe and gone home alone, which is definitely what I would usually have done. It felt… weirdly brave?’

Ingrid nods.

‘And I thought this morning I would feel guilty or… I don’t know, a bit regretful. But I don’t, I really don’t. I’m starting to wonder if we actually did make Serena’s wish come true!’ I laugh.

Ingrid does not. ‘This would be in reference to the wiccan ritual you and your sisters performed?’

‘Ha!’ I exclaim, but Ingrid’s look is one of mild inquiry. ‘I mean… yes? I’m not sure the drunken breakup spell we cast could really be described as a wiccan ritual…’

‘But you refer to Serena’s wish for’ – Ingrid consults her notes here – ‘hot sex?’

There’s a pause. I clear my throat.

‘Right. Hot sex. Which it was. The only thing is…’ And I trail off here.

We sit in silence for a while. Ingrid wields silence like a weapon, a ninja assassin highly trained in the art of stillness. It would not surprise me if MI5 used her to break terrorists this way. I’m certain people would be falling all over themselves, giving her nuclear codes left and right while she sat quietly and sipped from a glass of water.

‘I feel a bit sad about not seeing him again.’ The realization hits me with full force even as the words are forming. ‘Even though I don’t really know him.’

We sit with that for a moment, and Ingrid writes something in her notebook.

‘When you write in your notebook, I feel like something important has happened,’ I say, happy to change the subject.

‘These are just my notes, Clemmie,’ Ingrid says neutrally.

‘I know,’ I agree, ‘but of course everyone wants to know what their therapist thinks about them, don’t they? And sometimes, when I say something and you write it in your notes, I feel like I’ve made a good point and you’re, you know, noticing that.’

‘You think my notes are me marking you?’ she asks carefully. ‘Like a teacher marks homework?’

I nod. ‘Yes, like you’re writing down when I’m doing well, being really good at therapy.’

‘Clemmie.’ If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was a touch of weariness in Ingrid’s voice now. ‘We have talked about this before. You aren’t being graded. You can’t be good or bad at therapy. It’s a process.’

‘Sure, sure,’ I wave my hand, ‘but obviously some people can reach breakthroughs quicker, can be more in touch with their feelings, more honest with themselves about things. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to want to be the best at therapy. You’re always saying it’s good to set goals.’

Ingrid makes another note in her book. Presumably about how insightful I’m being.

‘Do you want to talk about the funeral?’ she asks. ‘I know you were anxious about possibly seeing your father.’

‘Seeing him is always hard. He acts like everything is fine between us when we have no relationship at all. It makes me feel like I’m going mad – like I imagined everything, all the different ways he let me down.’

I slump down in my chair. ‘What is there to say? The man is a terrible person. Being related to him is a nightmare and I wish I never had to see him again.’ Now there’s a wish I should have been making.

Ingrid’s pen scratches against the page.

I suppose it’s possible I’m not the best at therapy after all.