‘How many licks before I touch your soul?’ he whispers.

I am too far gone to reply.

Afterward we both lie on our backs panting, staring at the white ceiling. I turn my face towards him. ‘Lana invited us out for dinner.’

‘Do you want to go?’

‘Why not?’

‘OK. Arrange it with her.’

‘I have. Wednesday, next.’

‘Blake found me an agent. He saw a couple of my canvasses, thought they were good, and has set up a sixteen piece exhibition for me at the Serpentine.’

My eyes light up. ‘The Serpentine? Isn’t that a really posh place that only showcases the works of the very best artists?’

‘Yes, but it’s not a reflection of the quality of my work. More a testament to Blake’s reach.’

I lie on my stomach and prop myself on my lower arms. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of refusing. So what if Blake’s influence can give you a small leg-up. Everybody needs a break at some time in their lives. If your work is not good enough you’ll fail anyway?’

‘No, I’m not going to refuse.’

He smiles lazily and I dig my chin into his chest. ‘Vann?’

‘Mnnnn?’

‘Why do you keep your hair long?’

‘It’s what hair does naturally: it grows. Shouldn’t you be asking the other men why they cut theirs instead?’

I pull a face.

He chuckles. ‘Hair is not what culture leads us to believe, a cosmetic preference. During the Vietnam War special forces in the war department combed the American Indian Reservations to look for young men with outstanding tracking abilities—experts in stealth and survival.

‘But once enlisted an amazing thing happened to these men. The talents and skills they had possessed on the Reservations seemed to mysteriously disappear. Recruit after recruit failed to perform as expected. Extensive interviews and testing proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that when the men received their military haircuts, they could no longer ‘sense’ the enemy or ‘read’ subtle signs. When the men were allowed to grow their hair back their ability to ‘sense’ came back. Hair is an extension of the nervous system, a type of antennae.’

‘Is that really true?’

He grins. ‘Maybe?’

I punch his arm. ‘What do you need tracking skills for anyway?’

‘To track sulky-mouthed girls with green eyes.’

‘My eyes are not green.’

‘You keep saying.’

‘Vann?’

‘Mnnnn…’

‘How come Blake’s brothers didn’t come to the wedding?’

I feel him still beside. Always this reaction when we are discussing Blake or his family.

‘I don’t know.’

I know instantly that he is lying. ‘Do keep in touch with them.’

‘A little with Marcus.’

‘What’s he like then.’

‘He changed a lot after his son died.’

There was no mention of that in the websites I had trawled. ‘Oh, how old was he when that happened?’

‘Eleven months.’

‘What happened?’

‘Cot death.’ He sits up suddenly. I reach out a hand and gently tug him back down. He allows me to pull him back down.

‘I’m sorry. It must have been awful.’

‘Yes,’ he sighs. He turns his face to me.

‘Vann?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you believe in God?’

‘I don’t know if I do or not. He gives us so many flaws and then he goes so silent.’

‘Do you think Blake believes in God?’

‘Why do you ask?’ His voice is casual enough, but again his body is suddenly tense.

‘Just wondered.’

‘Has Lana said something to you?’

‘No.’

He props his head on the palms of his hands. ‘Have you been snooping again, Julie Sugar?’

I become red-faced. ‘I kind of read Lana’s notes.’ I don’t tell him it was her diary.

His face becomes grave. ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’

‘I’m not a cat. Anyway,’ I say, standing up, flinging his clothes on him, and getting into mine, ‘I’ve got to go and practice.’

You see, I am learning pole dancing. Every day I lock the bedroom door and I practice. I am surprisingly good at it since I have been hanging off door ledges doing my Callanetics for years, and I have very strong arms and the suppleness of a gymnast.

Twenty-six

It is a Sunday morning and we have just had breakfast when I turn towards Vann and ask, ‘What about BDSM? Are you going to teach me something about that?’

He looks at me over the rim of his glass. ‘Why? Are you interested in being a submissive?’

‘I don’t know. I could be. What is it?’

‘It’s a game.’

‘I like games. Start me off and I’ll tell you if I like it.’

He stops smiling, his eyes change, darken. Very deliberately he pushes his glass of orange juice to the middle of the table, reaches for the carton of milk and, holding it right in front of him, slowly tips it sideways until the milk in it pours onto the table. I watch the puddle grow on the table. At some point well before the carton is empty he stops pouring. I lift my eyes from the spill and look at him. His eyes are expressionless, watchful. The silence stretches. I break it. ‘Well?’

‘Clean it up,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘I don’t need to repeat myself, do I? It is a punishable offense.’

For a moment I feel confused. Was this the thing that has everybody hot under the collar? Do I want to be his little slave? The answer is obvious and immediate. I don’t. Definitely not. But I’ll let it play a bit more and see where this game goes. I turn towards the paper towels.

‘Not with paper towel.’ His voice cracks like a whip.

I turn towards him slowly. Our eyes clash, a look of impatience about his. What does he want me to do? Clean the table with my tongue? The thought is unsexy, off-putting. ‘With what, then?’

He leans back and folds his arms across his chest. ‘With your sex.’

And suddenly I am wet. The idea is shocking but incredibly, unbelievably erotic. I hook my thumbs into the scrap of white lace around my hips, push it all the way down and step out of it.

‘Give them to me.’

I bend down to retrieve them and walk towards him. I look into his eyes as I drop my bunched up knickers into his outstretched hand. He puts them into his trouser pocket.

I hop onto the table with my legs apart so he can see what I am doing, I bend forward and, flattening my thighs, slowly drag my sex across the liquid. Something flashes in his eyes. The milk is cold on my warm skin. When I have swept myself across the spill I stop and look to him.

He nods slowly. ‘You,’ he says, and there is a touch of admiration in his voice, ‘are an excellent pupil. You never do more than what you are instructed to do.’

I say nothing. Just hold myself in that position.

‘Now spread your legs,’ he orders.

Silently, I open my thighs, sliding them not one by one but at the same time, knees straight and holding them aloft from the table the way a dancer would. My pussy opens out like an oyster, glossy and gooey and unashamedly lewd. Milk drips from the hairs onto the surface of the table.

‘Wider.’

I spread out farther. I am so supple I can open wider than most girls. Totally exposed, I wait. The intensity of his gaze makes my flesh tingle. Makes me feel wanton and brings on such an intense craving to be filled and taken urgently that I feel myself creaming right before his eyes, and he hasn’t even touched me.

‘Spread the labia and show me the pink insides.’

Blood pumps into my clit. I take the plump lips in my fingers and pull them apart, exposing the glistening hole that seems to have a one-track mind. It is desperate to be stretched open, to swallow some rigid meat whole.

He taps his fingers on the table. ‘Are you turned on?’

He knows I am, big time. ‘Yes.’

‘BDSM 101. The game where you are punished for no good reason, and then blissfully rewarded for following instructions and for waiting like a good girl for it. Do you know what your reward is?’