VII. Serena #3
They upended the ski and downed the shots – a pale, muddy liquid that looked like it was either schnapps or pastis.
Neither of them registered her presence, which annoyed her.
She had taken great care with her appearance: red lipstick, tousled hair, a strapless black mini-dress with a slouchy YSL jacket slung around her shoulders.
In the distance, sitting on the sofa beyond the kitchen island, she was surprised to see Martin reading a book, the colour in his cheeks slightly raised.
‘Hello,’ Serena said finally.
Ben and Jarvis both looked startled, even though they were expecting her. Only Martin showed no surprise.
‘Sweetie,’ Ben said, putting his end of the ski down and rushing over to her. He smelled of alcohol and cigars. ‘Oh my God, you look amazing. Come, come, meet Jarvis …’
‘I’m sure my reputation has preceded me,’ Jarvis said.
‘Not really,’ Serena replied.
On the sofa, Martin smirked.
‘Told you, mate,’ Ben said, drawing her close to him. ‘She’s an ice queen.’ He wound his arm around her waist.
‘Then we shall have to warm her up,’ Jarvis said, challenge in his eyes. ‘What’re you drinking, Serena?’
‘A G some indefinable tension snaps.
She turns over. He comes behind her, pushing her buttocks apart with his hands.
The groaning has stopped, replaced by a silence so tangible it feels oppressive.
On the bed, Serena’s face is squashed against the duvet, his hand on her head so she can’t move.
He is strong and she worries she might crack beneath his weight.
Then, without warning, his cock is inside her.
It happens so suddenly that she gasps. He thrusts relentlessly, with one hand holding her down.
‘You love that, don’t you? Yeah? You want more of me? I can tell you do.’
He keeps up a stream of talk.
‘Wait,’ she tries to say, but it comes out as a strangled whisper.
She gives in to it. In her mind, she tells herself: well this is what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted someone to remind you that you were fuckable. What more could you ask for than being fucked like this, by a man so uncontrolled in his lust that he has become unreachable?
When Jarvis finishes, he rolls over onto his back. Serena lies still – very, very still. Her mind is white with nothing. She pushes herself upright and gingerly puts her knickers back on.
‘I’ve been waiting for that,’ Jarvis says. His voice is back to normal. He reaches for her hand. He kisses her fingers tenderly – so tenderly – as if the rest of it didn’t happen the way it did.
She doesn’t know what to say, so she goes into the bathroom, taking her bag with her.
‘I need to shower,’ she says, ‘if we’re going to make the gala in time.’
She closes the door and retrieves the floral lace Oscar de la Renta dress she’s brought for this evening.
The dress is creased, but she doesn’t want to go back into the bedroom to get the iron, so she hangs the dress on the door and hopes the steam will do its best. Under the shower, with hot water running over her, Serena feels a bit better.
She dries herself with one of the hotel towels and her sense of self slowly returns.
She examines herself in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed and there’s a small bruise just beneath her collarbone.
She dabs at it with concealer. Then she puts the concealer under her eyes, around the edges of her nose, the middle of her chin and blends it all with a brush from her make-up kit.
A bit of blusher across her cheekbones. Eyelash curler.
Shimmery shadow on each lid. Kohl. Mascara.
Nude lip gloss. By the time she’s finished, all traces of the person on the bed have been erased.
She checks her phone and is alarmed to see several texts from Ben. He isn’t normally this communicative.
3.35 p.m. ‘Hi, can you chat? x’
3.50 p.m. ‘Are you there, darling?’
4.05 p.m. ‘Would love to chat before tonight. Quite urgent.’
4.45 p.m. ‘Serena??’
It’s now 5.30 p.m. and they have to be at the gala for 6.15 p.m.
She texts Ben back.
‘Hi, sorry. What’s up?’
Her finger hovers over the x. In the recent past, she would have put one after the question mark without thinking. Now it seems redundant. But then again, would it look suspicious not to? She presses the x. Then sends the text.
Ben’s notification stays on ‘delivered’ and doesn’t switch to ‘read’. He’s probably getting ready to give his speech. The gala is to raise funds for wounded servicemen and Ben has been roped in to drum up donations.
‘Injured military personnel play very well with the electorate,’ he told her when she asked why they had to go. ‘And you, my darling, play very well with injured military personnel.’
She puts on the dress. One stubborn crease hasn’t shifted, but it’s passable.
She slips into her strappy shoes and walks back into the bedroom.
Jarvis is sitting on a chair in the window alcove, legs splayed out.
He’s already dressed in his black tie. He hasn’t showered, she thinks; my smell will still be on him.
‘Wow,’ he says. ‘You look so hot.’
In spite of everything, she is grateful – that’s the worst part. He comes over to her, wanting another kiss but she turns her face away.
‘Make-up!’
‘Ah yes, sorry. You girls and your make-up. Can you do me a favour?’
He passes her his bow tie.
‘Will you do this for me?’
She turns his collar up, winds the bow tie round his neck, slides one end up higher than the other. Her hands are shaking.
‘This is nice,’ he says, staring at her.
‘Mm.’
She finishes the bow tie with perfect, fluid execution.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Right. Just need a slash and then let’s go.’
‘I’ll wait for you downstairs.’
‘Are you—’
She doesn’t hear the rest of the question.
She’s already in the hotel corridor, and then instead of waiting for the lift, she takes the stairs.
In the lobby, she sits on the maroon velvet sofa and tries to regulate her breathing.
What just happened? An unbearable tidal wave of heat rises within her, the sweat instantly on every part of her skin.