Chapter 1 Julia #2
“What’re you having tonight, Mrs. Fay?” he asks, pen tapping the paper.
“It’s Miss. But I prefer Julia please,” I say, quickly scanning the chalkboard painted with the same four meals. Spaghetti Bolognese, Salmon en cro?te, chicken risotto, stew of the day. “What’s the stew?”
“Minestrone.”
“Isn’t that a sou—” I start, but the pen tapping interrupts. “I’ll have the risotto, please.”
“Wine?”
“Er, yes. I’ll have whatever white is open, thanks.” I learned quickly that wines here are ordered by colour, not by region. Wine is wine, I suppose. I’m not on a culinary retreat after all.
Jack scoops my glass up from the table and carries it with him to the kitchen. I hear him pass someone in the hall, saying, “I’ll be back in a minute to take your order, just have a seat.”
My heart clenches, anticipating Melissa, but when I side-glance the door, it’s just the older old man.
He clears his throat as he enters, then again as he sits, smiling that pressed-lip smile of strangers, taking a little of the edge off my nerves.
This is the routine I know. Awkward, communal meals.
Working through the bland but hearty risotto, I barely notice the second older man settling down at the far end of the table just before seven thirty. But when Jack arrives to take his order, it occurs to me that Mel might not know about the strict routines here.
“A new guest arrived today,” I say, as the notebook is flipped shut. “She might not know about dinner times…”
I trail off as Jack turns to look at me with his wide, ruddy face. “She already ate.”
“What?” Here I am anticipating Mel’s entrance and she’s not even coming. It’s like grad school all over again.
“Yeah, she bobbed in earlier and asked if she could have a bowl to make some noodles in her room.” Jack laughs, a guttural noise that startles me.
He’s never laughed in front of me before and the sound is almost too loud for the room.
“I did her a couple-a fried eggs for protein. Big girl like that needs more than just noodles for dinner.”
How has she charmed Jack already. On her first day. How does she get away with doing whatever she wants, whenever she wants, and everyone always adores her. On my first day, I asked Jack for some oat milk, and he told me they don’t do that sort of nonsense here.
“Right, well… good.” I stand, picking up my notebook.
Then I remember that I didn’t even feign writing any notes to myself.
Zero words added this afternoon. “Could I get another wine please?” I’ve never had the audacity to ask him for another one before, but Jack surprises me by collecting the glass from my hand.
“Are you going to the reading room?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, realising on the spot that sitting by the fireplace with a wine might be inspirational.
“I’ll bring it through for you.”
“Oh, thank you.”
I follow him out into the corridor, then cross the threadbare carpeted hallway to the reading room.
It’s the largest room in the house, with an overwhelmingly wide fireplace by the doorway, and a long Chesterfield sofa orientated towards the flames.
I’m imagining myself sprawled across the leather, scribbling reams of ideas to myself whilst I sip my—possibly Pinot Gris—wine.
But of course, that seat, the best seat, is already taken.
Melissa Turner is reclined on the sofa, looking completely at ease in jeans and a creased white shirt, paperback in hand, circling the dregs of ice around a tumbler.
She glances up at me, but I sweep past the seating area, dropping my notebook onto the bureau by the window.
Jack hefts the door open again, lifting a sweating tumbler of whisky from his tray, handing it to Mel.
“There y’are flower,” he says, collecting her empty glass, knocking it jovially against the fresh one.
“Thanks, Jack, you’re a good ’un.”
Jack crosses the room and plants the wine glass in front of me.
“Thank you,” I say to the back of his head as he returns to the fireplace.
No flower for me, not even a curt nod. Instead, he leans against the marble fire surround and asks Mel something technical about motorbikes.
Picking up an earlier conversation, I assume.
Mel replies in her low, smooth-edged voice, saying something that sets Jack off guffawing.
I stand reflexively, suddenly overwhelmingly irritated.
This is supposed to be a place of quiet concentration, not cackling about throttle.
I stride across the sitting room with my wine and notebook, then back down the dimly lit corridor to the staircase at reception.
But even back in my room I can hear them through the floorboards.
That woman just does not give a shit; she has no consideration for anyone except for herself.
And now I have lost all motivation to write. Again.
Propped up in bed, I try to focus on reading my book, a weighty classic romance that has yet failed to grab my attention.
But all I can focus on are the rumble of voices in the sitting room and the snatches of memories that drift back from grad school.
Melissa Turner in the flesh. Quiet in lectures, loud in the bar.
Smiling that lopsided grin, all perfect white teeth and glowing pink skin.
Hair shorter then, lighter, falling loose across her face when she laughed.
Even back then she seemed larger than life.
After what feels like hours, the voices quieten and there is the creak of floorboards outside my door.
A grumble, dropped keys, and a forceful shove of the stiff door being opened.
Then silence again. I try not to listen for Mel’s movements in her room, try not to visualise her getting ready for bed.
Try to shake the image of her in that satin pyjama set she modelled for Figarello last year.
I couldn’t escape that bloody sponsored post; it popped up every time I opened social media.
Which is my own fault for screenshotting it.
Who knew that my phone would clock me zooming in on a subtly exposed collarbone, or the curve of a hip beneath that slinky fabric…
Wait, is that a fucking bath tap. Is she running a bath at 11:33pm?
Who has a midnight bath? Indignation runs hot through my blood, flushing up to my face.
I sit up in bed, push the duvet back, and stand.
But for what? I’m not going to march across the corridor and knock on her door, am I?
Not when I’m dressed for bed and she’s probably naked. Fuck.
I drop back onto the crisp sheets and seethe until the taps squeak off.
But even then, the pipes continue to rattle beneath my floorboards and the bath creaks as Mel steps into the porcelain tub.
An image materialises of her sinking her long, lithe body into the steam, hands gripping the sides of the bath as she tips her head back against the rim. Fuck. It’s starting to get to me.
In frustration, I reach across to the bedside table and tug open the drawer. Inside is the clasped leather box that I packed on a whim, not expecting to have time for toys, but unfortunately having ample opportunity for use each night.
Which had been fine when it was just me down this end of the corridor.
But now I have a neighbour. Whose bathwater I can hear sloshing with every movement.
Which means that Mel can probably hear my every movement too.
So I absolutely cannot turn on the vibe.
I can just slowly slide the silicone head beneath my shorts and quietly take the edge off.
But as the tip slips across my swollen clit, I realise how wet I am.
How those fleeting images of Mel have got me so unexpectedly hot.
It’s not that I haven’t thought about her before, imagined running my nails across that satin top, slowly undoing the buttons, taking her exposed nipples into my mouth.
But this time, there’s an urgency to the arousal, a rising frustration.
Like it’s her fault that I cannot sleep.
Her fault that I am so wet. The vibrator presses down against my clit, and I lift my hips to it, imagining Mel’s long fingers working between my thighs.
A gasp escapes me and I quickly cover my mouth.
But the idea that Mel could have heard the sounds of my pleasure sets something in me alight, makes me slide the vibrator lower, curving it down towards my entrance, imagining her fingertips teasing me open.
I bite my lip to stifle the noises that rise in my throat as the toy slides inside.
Desperately hoping that the whole corridor cannot hear the obscene sounds the toy makes as it thrusts deeper into my wetness.