Chapter Twenty-Four #2
So. Here we are again. Or here I am, I should say.
It’s turned eight o’clock in the evening and everyone else has finally gone home.
The caterers and musicians and furniture people have cleared out for the evening, Lois and Barty called in for an hour to get a “ghoul update,” and Marina and Artie have left to make their own ball preparations, taking Lestat to drop off at Blithe Spirits for his own safety.
I’m starting to feel a tiny bit territorial about Maplemead. Like it’s mine. I ate dinner alone in the dining room, and now I’ve retired to the Princess Suite with my after-dinner brandy. Yes, I know I sound like one of the cast of Downton. It’s this bloody castle.
The sun has settled low and rose gold on the horizon; the afternoon murk has cleared and left a gorgeous summer evening behind it.
I find myself hoping it holds until Saturday for the ball, and then I really do feel over-possessive about the place, because I experience a frisson of concern in case anyone damages the gorgeous flower frescos on the ballroom walls.
And really, would it be too much to ask for the ladies to remove their high heels so as not to mark the parquet?
I give myself a shake. It’s fortunate that this is my last night here, because I really am getting ideas above my station thinking stuff like that.
Being here…it’s just messed with my head, that’s all.
I’ve been the lady of the house, and Leo is right, I’ve been playing some sort of bizarre game of house with Fletch, which is out there by anyone’s standards.
He and I are absolutely not relationship material.
We live our lives on different pages. If we were newspapers, Fletch would be a broadsheet and I’m the National Enquirer. Either way, we’re yesterday’s news.
It’s just after eleven and I’m propped up in bed with all of my case notes scattered over the blankets.
I’ve got lists of facts we’re sure of, lists of probables, lists of possibles, and lists of highly unlikelies.
I look from one to the other, trying to figure out the whole story and see the crucial thing I’m missing.
The linchpin to this case is in front of me hidden somewhere in these notes.
It’s got something to do with that extra engraved B on the garden wall, I just know it does.
I bite the end of my pencil and sigh, because tomorrow is Friday, the day the Americans arrive in Maplemead village.
An entire movie cast and crew, and it’s my job to make this castle welcoming and ghost-free before they start work next week.
Strictly speaking, it’s Leo’s job too, although he’s rendered himself as useful as a condom with a hole in it by falling in love with Britannia Lovell.
The tiny unworn romper. Britannia. Bohemia. Dino. I close my eyes and let them all run through my mind, sifting and sorting themselves in different ways until a startling thought slaps me around the brain.
My phone buzzes, making me jump and lose my train of thought. I reach for it from the bedside table and the screen informs me that I have a new message—from Fletch.
I know what you’re wondering. Why do I even have his number in my phone?
Believe me, it’s not because he put it there so I wouldn’t forget him or because I put it there so I could stay in touch.
For accuracy’s sake, I did put it there, but only so I could text him a pic of Lestat peeing on his photograph in the newspaper.
It’s a long story, but the fact is we have each other’s numbers and he’s just sent me a text.
I consider laying the phone back down again on its screen and ignoring it, but my thumb doesn’t get the memo and clicks the message open anyway.
You asleep, Ghostbuster?
Hmm. Well, if I ignore it, he’ll probably just assume that I am. While I’m deliberating, a second message buzzes in.
Or are you ignoring me so I think you are?
God, it’s as if he’s peeping through my window. I glance out at the still, dark night and then text him back.
You’re not about to hammer the door down again, are you? Because I’m working.
There. That’s chilly enough.
At ease. I’m at home, feet up, porn on.
I huff. He’s such a twat.
Which roughly translates as you’re drinking coffee and watching Match of the Day.
Beer and football. Close enough.
In my head I see Fletch stretched out and relaxed in a battered leather armchair, feet crossed on the coffee table, a chilled bottle of beer in his hand.
I watch him bring it to his lips and take a slug, see him swallow and relax.
I enjoy the thought, and then I don’t like myself for even imagining it. The screen flashes again.
Are you in bed?
Oh. So that’s difficult to measure. It’s a straightforward question with a sexy subtext.
Am working.
And then, as an afterthought, I add:
In bed.
He doesn’t answer and, after a while, I type again.
How’s your mum doing today?
Walked out of the hospital and took a cab to the liquor store.
If he was in front of me now I’d probably lay my hand on his arm and quietly say I’m sorry, but he isn’t here, and when I type the words they don’t look sincere enough so I delete them. While I’m thinking what to say, he texts again.
I don’t think I said thank you for last night.
You don’t need to
Then as an afterthought
anytime
I might just have to hold you to that, Ghostbuster.
My fingers want to tell him that I like it when he holds me, and I engage in a silent battle with my hands to stop them from typing.
Are you wearing that white nightdress again?
Okay. So we’re heading back along those lines. I think he’s doing it to deliberately avoid talking about his mum, and that’s okay. Glancing down at my green Hulk T-shirt, I type my reply.
Yes.
I tell myself that I lied to help him keep his mind off the tough stuff going on in his life. I’m all heart. I should win the most magnanimous white liar award, which doesn’t exist but totally should.
He lapses into silence again, and this time I don’t waffle to fill the space.
I liked you in it. You looked like a sexy virgin who needed deflowering.
Oh God. What do I say to that?
Thank you.
I press send, then bang my forehead repeatedly against the phone because it’s such a lame-ass reply.
It’s your turn to say something sexy.
He doesn’t add a winky face to soften it, and then another message lights up the screen.
That’s how this sexting thing works.
We’re sexting? But I’m in a Hulk T-shirt! I go all hot and gather up my papers in a panic.
Have you gone to sleep on me, Ghostbuster? I was just kidding about the sexting thing.
A pause and I half smile. He can be pretty funny sometimes.
Unless you want to tell me something filthy.
Do I want to tell him something filthy? I’ve had three-fourths of a bottle of wine and a generous brandy to help me sleep, so God knows why I feel so awake and in the mood to shock the pants off Fletcher Gunn.
This is 100 percent the point where I should put my phone down.
Why is it still in my hand? Goddamn you, phone!
And God-double-damn my thumbs, stop typing!
I can barely look! Is it anatomically possible for your thumbs to act independently of your brain?
Umm, I might.
You might what? Want to tell me something filthy? Fucking hell. Never stop being random, Bittersweet. You’ve just given me a hard-on with three words, and one of them wasn’t even an actual word.
Pride blooms unhelpfully in my chest. This is dangerous, because the fact that we aren’t in the same place makes this feel unreal, less intimate.
Want me to call you?
Oh God! I think he’s asking me to have phone sex with him!
I need to say something fast to stop him from dialing me.
Don’t call me, I’ve lost my voice.
Dear God, I’m rubbish at lying. To cover up, I type:
Unfasten your jeans.
I wait, agonized. Did that count as something filthy? Is it his turn? Turns out it is.
Lie back on your pillows.
I don’t know what else to do, so I do as I’m told.
And relax, Melody. This doesn’t count as crossing all of those boundaries you get so hung up about.
I believe him, because I want to.
Have I told you how much kissing you turns me on?
I can practically feel him breathing the words down my ear. I know I should be typing, but I’m too caught up to string any words together.
Take your nightdress off.
I am suddenly really quite overwhelmingly hot, so I wriggle my arms out of the Hulk T-shirt and fling it onto the floor.
The sheets are cool against my skin, Fletch
I’m getting into this a bit as I settle back down on the pillows.
Tell me when you’re naked.
I lift the sheet and peer down at myself, then clamp it back down again and text him.
I’m naked.
I press send, then add:
Apart from my Wonder Woman knickers.
There’s a pause. I turn out the lamps and wonder if he’s put his phone down in despair, then my screen illuminates, much brighter now in the darkened room.
You’re so very ridiculously sexy, Wonder Woman. You have no idea how much I want to be there in bed with you right now.
I wish you were here too.
Hand on heart, I really do.
I want you, Fletch.
Let me call you. I want to hear your voice.
I don’t tell him no this time, and seconds later, the phone vibrates as his number flashes.
“Tell me again,” he says, ultralow and raw in my ear when I answer.
“Tell me you want me, Melody. I need to hear you say the words.” Fletch has a power over me, and it’s precisely because of the way he hands all the power to me at times like this.
He doesn’t mess around or play it for laughs or pretend he’s not that into me.
He’s not a kid. He’s a fully grown, broad-shouldered man with river-green eyes and a racehorse-firm chest, and I only wish I could feel his weight over me right now, pressing me into the mattress.
I think I might have just said that out loud.