Not entirely true.
“Let’s have fun. No names, no places. Let’s make this flight an easy one,” he said. “Okay?”
She nodded.
He refilled their glasses. “Cheers,” he said.
She lifted the crystal flute then took a sip. “I have to tell you, if we are going to get all frisky, you need to take that sesame seed from your front tooth.”
“Oh fuck!” He laughed, and tried to remove it.
“Wrong tooth. Let me help you.” Patty shifted closer to him and used her nail. Another intimate gesture between two strangers working like an aphrodisiac. “Gone.” she said. He leaned in closer and brushed her mouth with his, then licked his lips. “Mmmm, you taste of soya.”
She cozied up to him. He was far savvier than she was. She had met her match. This man had played this game before. It wasn’t his first time and it wouldn’t be his last.
She placed her manicured hand on his thigh, applying pressure, then slid her hand slowly up to just below his crotch. She could feel his heat, and see his desire pressing against his jeans. She smiled. “So, Captain Stranger, tell me how you would handle an emergency.”
He leaned his head back, seeming to enjoy the pressure of her hand. Imagining, it appeared to Patty, what sex would be like with her. “I would make sure you were up against something, anything so you could feel all of me. And I could feel all of you. Every-single-inch-of-you.”
She shifted restlessly next to him, close to breaking point.
“Women are taught they should wear matching underwear, should they be victims of a crash.” Patty’s eyes lifted. “My hunch is you aren’t wearing any,” he said.
Her laugh was throaty.
“Am I right? Except that bra.” His fingers traced her bra strap. “This holds your desires in check. And I have the power to unleash them with a snap of my fingers.”
She closed her eyes and her breath quickened. He leaned in to her again. “Here,” and he ran his hand down the side of her body and stopped at her would-be panty line, “here you are unrestricted. Your desire burns and I can feel it. If I close my eyes, I can taste it.”
He stroked her hair then gripped it in his hand, pulling ever so gently. Her eyes still closed, she sensed his face close to hers, the tang of soya on his breath. As he ran his finger across her bottom lip she tried to draw it in, to taste anything that belonged to him. But he withdrew it – only to return with a smear of wasabi that he brushed across her lips. It stung and burnt; her nostrils flared and her eyes watered. His mouth was on hers and, as he kissed her, he transferred Champagne from his mouth to hers, easing the burn.
She moved to kiss him, but again he stopped her.
“No,” he said. “We’re not some roadshow for all to see. We will whisper words to each other, we will touch each other; imagining what it feels like to be with one another until, until our need becomes so strong...”
He was the one calling the shots and she had succumbed to his play.
He moved away from her and placed another roll in his mouth, this time using a chopstick.
Then he got up. “I’ll see you on the plane,” he said. “Another fifteen minutes and we should be boarding.”
Nine
Jen was busy at work in Woodstock, a trendy creative hub a stone’s throw away from central Cape Town. Here she rubbed shoulders with other designers, artists, actors and musos. She loved her office block, an Art Deco building, fitted with an ancient wooden panelled and brass-buttoned lift that heaved her up to the third floor. Myron always insisted on using the stairs. “You’re gonna get stuck in that decrepit thing one day,” he’d joke. He was claustrophobic and wasn’t particularly nostalgic when it came to old things, preferring the modern, clean, technically savvy inventions of the twenty-first century. Which meant their shacking up together had become an issue. She loved her Victorian Oranjezicht home, and he loved his modern, stark Llandudno industrial masterpiece.
“Hi darling,” said Jen, answering her phone. It was Claudia.
“The private investigator came back to me.”
“Oh yes?” Jen was now behind her desk, checking her appointments for the day. Her assistant would be in any moment, her arrival heralding a most welcome cappuccino.
“Yes. The number wasn’t difficult to trace. It belongs to Mr John Pearce.”
Jen couldn’t hide her anger. “What the… What an asshole!”
Claudia didn’t say a word.
“I’m going to phone that son-of-a-bitch!”
Claudia kicked into therapist mode. “Do you think that’s the right thing to do?” Jen should make up her own mind but to think carefully before she did.
She sighed. “I guess we should just leave it.” Jen rose from behind her desk.
“The man’s a sociopath,” Claudia said. “It’s exactly as we thought.”
Jen’s mind raced. She wasn’t really listening to what Claudia was saying.
She walked around the desk to the samples of fabric lying on her worktable. She went through them as she spoke. “I will try not to let it get to me. I mean that’s what John is trying to do, isn’t it?”
She could hear Claudia tapping her pencil. “I think that would be best. It’s really his issue and not yours.”
Jen found the fabric she was searching for and jotted the code down on a pad in front of her. “Jane wanted to know why the WhatsApp message had rattled me so.”
“Jane?” Claudia didn’t know to whom she was referring. “Oh, Jane your shrink.” She could hear Claudia sigh. “Don’t even go there, Jen. I am telling you as a friend. Lee is dead. It’s completely irrelevant exploring why you were rattled by the message; whatever the reason.”
Jen took a long pause. “I was hoping he was alive.”
“Ah!” Claudia interjected. “So you hoped he was alive. Anybody would.”
“Yes, that’s what I said, but you know where Jane was going with it, don’t you?”
“I do. Stupid of her actually.”
Jen laughed. “Wow, Claudia, that’s unlike you, speaking against a colleague!”
“Friends come first in this instance. And you’re my friend. It’s a bloody useless, pointless exercise delving into why you ‘really’ want Lee to be alive.” Claudia sounded serious.
“Mmmm.” Jen leaned against her worktable.
“Psychologists need to give you a reason to come back so they can pay their bills.”
“Well, this WhatsApp has unsettled me. John’s a master at fucking with my brain.” Jen’s mind raced.
“Quite frankly, Jen, if you want my advice, I think you are done with therapy for a while. Put the money towards a holiday away with your gorgeous man who is alive. If you carry on with Plain-Jane you could be delving into necrophilia and questioning why you’re fantasising over a dead man.” Jen smiled. “Are we on for a drinkie Friday evening early? You, me and Sharon?” Claudia asked, brushing the WhatsApp message aside.
“Of course. I’m looking forward to it.” Then, “It’s the auction tomorrow night. Did you find something to wear?”
“I did. And I have an appointment for hair and nails. All organised.”
Jen grinned. She knew Claudia would look spectacular. She always did.
“Umm,