Diamond Page 13

  ‘Please. I’ve said no. All I ask from you is that you respect that decision. If it means you feel you can’t see me again, then I’ll understand.’

  ‘No, Jenna, please. Not that. Can’t we be friends?’

  ‘Of course we can.’ Though it was against her better judgement. ‘Friends. Yes?’

  She opened the car door.

  ‘At least let me walk you to the house,’ pleaded Lawrence, also getting out.

  Jenna shook her head, looking anxiously at the upper windows for signs of Jason. She couldn’t see him, but then, it was dark now and there were no lights on.

  Perhaps he’s gone to bed.

  ‘Honestly, I’m fine.’

  ‘It’s so dark now and there aren’t streetlights. You ought to get a security light for your front porch, you know.’

  ‘Hmm, maybe.’

  Lawrence was determined not to leave her until the last possible moment. He opened the gate and ushered her through. The lower storey of the house was also unlit and the overgrown front garden was a place of strange shapes and dark masses.

  ‘They say the place is haunted,’ said Lawrence, halfway up the path.

  ‘What? Why would you tell me that? Is that what you were about to say when you let me in the first time?’

  ‘Yes. But I thought it wasn’t a very friendly thing to tell a new resident. You’re in now and settled, so I thought I’d tell you. You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?’

  He paused on the bottom step. Even in the dark, Jenna could see a kind of malevolent enjoyment in his eyes.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said briskly. ‘Who’s it supposed to be?’

  ‘A young woman, lived here at the tail end of the nineteenth century, married to my great-great-grandfather. Or is there another great in there? I never can remember.’

  ‘But wouldn’t that make her your great-great-grandmother?’

  ‘No. She was his first wife, but she died before they had any children.’

  ‘Poor thing.’

  ‘Suicide, or so they say.’

  ‘God.’

  ‘Well, on that note, I’d better leave you. Unless you want a bit of company?’

  He lingered on the top step, clearly hopeful of being invited in.

  ‘I bet you’ve made up all this ghost stuff to freak me out so I’ll ask you in,’ Jenna accused. Her tone was jokey, but she wasn’t joking, not really.

  ‘Would I?’ Lawrence held his hands up and laughed a sheepish laugh.

  ‘Yes, you would, you git. Now go on. I’m fine. Goodnight.’

  She hurried through the door and shut it firmly behind her without looking back at him.

  Go, she thought, listening for his footfall down the steps.

  The hall was not quite in total darkness, a shaft of moonlight coming out from behind a cloud to cast a pale bar across the grubby black and white tiles. The door of the drawing room in which she had been living until now was closed.

  She made her way towards it, but her progress was impeded by a sudden jolt beneath her ribcage, so sudden that it was some moments before she realised it was an arm, pulling her backwards until she was held against something tall and solid and warm and human.

  She screamed, her confused mind not yet having made the right connections, thinking for a mad moment that it was Lawrence. Then her sense of smell came to her rescue and she knew her captor beyond doubt.

  ‘Jason!’

  He put his hand over her mouth.

  ‘Hush,’ he said. ‘Fucking ’ell, who did you think it was? You sounded like something out of a horror movie then.’

  Her breath was gushing out of her at such a rate she couldn’t have spoken even with a free mouth.

  He held her in a bear hug, waiting for her to calm, then removed his hand.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d know. I thought you’d like it.’

  ‘I would. I did. I mean, I wasn’t thinking. I’m not good with surprises.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ He kissed her hair in its chignon and the exposed nape of her neck. ‘You smell gorgeous. I still want to jump you.’

  The last breaths of panic wafted from her body. Now a different kind of red alert was coming into being, and it emanated from between her legs.

  She rubbed her head into his shoulder, nuzzling like a cat.

  ‘Bad boy,’ she said. ‘Very bad.’

  ‘D’you want me to be good?’

  She shook her head and he laughed into her ear.

  ‘I said I wanted to mess you up and I’m going to do it,’ he vowed. His lips fastened to her neck and the white curve of her shoulder while the hand that wasn’t engaged in holding her fast against him slid down to raise her skirt and massage the tender flesh of her inner thigh.

  Thoughts broke up inside her head and rushed out of it. He hadn’t seen or heard Lawrence, or he would be asking questions. Lawrence … She ought to do something about him, some kind of subtle discouragement, or would it take a more forceful approach? A forceful approach, like Jason’s, now … Oh, it felt good …

  Lawrence was banished, blanketed over with the urgent need for more of Jason’s touch. Her lover’s hands were all over her now, disregarding the boundaries of her cocktail dress as if they didn’t exist. He touched her breasts, her bottom, and now he let his hands glide over its curve and into the valley below. His teeth nibbled at her neck and ears and the sensitive skin between them at will. All she could do was push herself further into him, silently begging for more.

  He closed a fist in her hair, wrenching it out of its perfect style so that it tumbled all over her. The half-thought that it still needed cutting was swallowed up by his tongue in her mouth.

  ‘I can’t wait for you,’ he growled, coming up for air. ‘Get over there.’

  He manhandled her to the wall and lifted her so she perched on a tall, long-legged antique table, one of many pieces left abandoned in the house.

  The clink of belt buckle, the rasp of falling jeans, drew her eyes downwards and she was rather impressed to notice that he was already wearing a condom. Be prepared. What a boy scout.

  ‘You were confident,’ she whispered, reaching out to touch his rubbered erection.

  He pushed her hand away and rummaged in her skirts, pushing them up and her knickers aside – he didn’t even have time to pull them down first.

  It was swift, it was sudden, it was almost painful, but so piercingly satisfying that she cried out on his sheathing within her.

  She wrapped her knees around his hips and her arms around his neck, holding on for dear life while he took what he wanted. She laid her head back, feeling its rhythmic bump against the peeling old wallpaper, feeling much more the enormity of his energy and passion. And it was all directed at her. This force of nature had no other end in mind but the having and possessing of her.

  It had never felt this urgent or primal, even in the early days with Deano. She had never felt so caught up in the centre of a huge forcefield.

  It was over quickly, but not before he had wrenched an orgasm from her with impatient fingers, then slammed all the harder until she felt the moment of give, of buckling at the knees, the sudden expression of beautiful pain that meant it was done.

  ‘Don’t pretend you aren’t mine,’ he panted, letting her slither down around the sides of him until her shaky feet hit solid floor. ‘Don’t you fucking dare pretend that.’

  ‘You’re something else,’ she told him.

  ‘I know.’ He helped her to the drawing room, smug as all hell. ‘You could maybe get me a gig as a porn star. I’d be good at that.’

  ‘I’m sure you would, but no.’

  She sat down heavily on the mattress, grimacing at the bump to her bottom.

  ‘Bed shopping soon, I think,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he agreed, sprawling himself out at her side. ‘Most important piece of furniture in the house, the bed. Well, for me and you, anyway. Never mind your “state of the art” kitchen. The bed comes f
irst, since it’s what you were made for.’

  At the ‘you’, he had propped himself up and pushed a fingertip beneath her chin.

  It was extraordinary, how he made her feel like the sexiest, dirtiest, wildest woman alive. She had never had that sense of herself before, as a woman meant to be stripped down and spread open and pinned to the bed. It was almost alarming, but she couldn’t stop worrying at the thought as if it were a loose tooth, pushing and pushing at it, getting the maximum mind-mileage from it.

  Dirty, sexy Jenna Diamond. No, not Diamond. Just Jenna. Jenna 4 Jason 4 Ever. God, stop it. You aren’t fourteen again.

  It had all the hallmarks of that age, though, like a second rush of hormones raging through her. But without the spots, thank God.

  ‘I can’t sell your astonishing bedroom skills,’ she said, snuggling closer into him. ‘But you’re welcome to give them away to me for free.’

  He laughed then sobered, lying back down and staring at the ceiling.

  ‘It’s not for free, though, is it? It’s for board and lodging. I’m your gigolo.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I’d let you stay here regardless. You know what I think of your art. And – I don’t know why, and I must be mad, but my instincts are usually good – I trust you.’

  ‘You’re the only fucker that does round here, then,’ he said.

  She lay down beside him and kissed his cheek.

  ‘Perhaps I’m the only fucker round here with good instincts, then,’ she said.

  He brightened a little, stroking her face.

  ‘Makes sense,’ he said. ‘Since you’re the one that got away.’

  ‘I’ll get you out of here,’ she whispered. ‘I promise.’

  He whispered back, ‘Maybe I don’t want to leave. Maybe I want to stay here, with you, in Never Never Land, forever.’

  Chapter Five

  Two days later, Jenna drove along Camden Road, feeling a kind of prickly sense of oppression she had never before experienced when entering London.

  She remembered the very first time, on the train from Nottingham. As fields became streets and they slowed down, she and Deano had been glued to the window. The houses weren’t like Bledburn houses, the roads weren’t like Bledburn roads, the very air that surrounded them didn’t seem like Bledburn air. There was something of glamour even in the terraces and high rises. Any cramped flat might house a famous future DJ or movie star, any one of those people in the street could have been on TV, never mind if it was only in an episode of The Bill.

  ‘You can do anything here,’ she’d said, but Deano had laughed.

  ‘If you can afford it.’

  That excitement, that hope that she might be able to pull herself and Deano up into the heights, was no longer with her. The streets outside her car window looked dirty and overcrowded, the funky bars and clubs of Camden where she and Deano had spent their best – if poorest – years just buildings. She had never seen the poverty, desperation, crime and drug addiction that was woven so seamlessly into the groovy fabric of London. She had chosen to block it out, but now it seemed to thrust itself in her face. Literally, when a gaunt-looking man, whose age she couldn’t have begun to guess, made an ill-advised attempt to cross the road in front of her, forcing her to slam on the brakes and make the taxi behind her honk in fury.

  He didn’t even register her but staggered on across the road, anxious to meet up with some guys outside a fried chicken shop on the corner.

  She got back into gear and drove on, but her hands shook and she felt as if all this was a horrible mistake. She should have stayed in Bledburn, in bed, with Jason.

  Her eyes flicked to the bag on the passenger seat – a portfolio in a clear plastic sheet. This was a good idea. It was the right thing to do.

  Doubts continued to assail her nonetheless, all the way out of Camden, through the city streets and into the expensively hushed environs of Mayfair, where her friend Tabitha kept a gallery.

  Tabitha’s assistant, Petra, met her at the plate glass door and showed her inside. Jenna found that she needed showing – it had been some years since she had visited Tabitha’s gallery and it had had one of its periodic makeovers. The blond wood floors and discreet spot lighting she remembered had been replaced by shiny, rubbery jet black tiling and lightbulbs in what looked like inverted saucepans, fitted along long extendable rods from the walls and ceiling. Bright white walls held an array of works both representational and abstract, but all of it very, very good.

  Jenna stood taking it in while Petra disappeared to the upstairs office to find Tabitha.

  She was heralded by her clear, patrician tones from the back of the gallery, diverting Jenna’s attention from the fascinating portrait made up of red and green dots she had been examining.

  ‘Jen, darling, I can’t believe it’s you!’

  ‘How are you? The gallery’s looking stunning.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Air kissing wafted an expensive scent, more Paris than London, into Jenna’s nostrils.

  ‘And how are you? Looking very well, I must say. I heard you were taking it easy.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’ve just fitted a kitchen. That’s real work. I was taking it easy before.’

  Tabitha laughed, but there was a little indulgence in it, as if she understood that Jenna was going through the grinder and needed humouring.

  ‘Do come up and have a drink. Coffee? Or is it too early for something a little stronger?’

  ‘Oh, best not. I’m driving,’ said Jenna, following Tabitha to the back of the gallery and the staircase.

  ‘You? Are driving yourself? I’m not sure I’d remember how, but of course, I’m spoiled, living and working in London. No need for all that car rubbish.’

  ‘I’m slowly getting used to it. LA was ridiculous, though. Chauffeurs, chefs, assistants, personal trainers. I could never go anywhere without an entourage. It’s actually rather a relief to be just me again.’

  ‘Well, then, that’s good, isn’t it?’ said Tabitha, as if she needed convincing. ‘Come into the pit. Sorry about the mess. I’ve got an opening in a couple of days and nowhere else to stash the sketches.’

  Tabitha’s office was pristine as ever, the only difference being a few large portfolio containers propped against one wall.

  Petra came in with a coffee tray then left them to relax on the curved sofa set in one corner.

  ‘Have you taken up painting, Jenna?’ Tabitha had noticed the plastic wallet on her friend’s lap.

  ‘Oh, no, not me. I still can’t draw a stick man to save my life. A friend. Rather a discovery, I think.’

  ‘Really?’

  Jenna reminded herself that Tabitha’s look of professional scepticism was understandable. Of course she wasn’t just going to take anyone’s word that a brilliant new artist was about to burst on to the scene. She must hear this pitch a dozen times a week.

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to walk straight in and start thrusting these pictures on you,’ she said, laughing and taking a sip of coffee. ‘But I would like you to look at them sometime, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind.’

  ‘I’m not expecting anything more than a quick “it has potential” or “it sucks”. Just as a guide, that’s all. I love art but you know as well as I do that it isn’t my area of expertise.’

  ‘Well, every time a really stunning piece comes to my gallery, it always seems to end up on your walls, darling, so I think I’d vouch for your taste. Let me drink my coffee and I’ll have a look.’

  They chatted about Tabitha’s family and what was happening on the London art scene until the coffee cups were dry.

  Jenna could barely stand to look as Tabitha slid painting after painting from its transparent sheathing and frowned at each of them. She considered them all, looking from different angles, sometimes bringing an earlier one back to contrast and compare with the current focus, before putting them all back, carefully as if they were made of gold leaf, into the wallet.


  ‘So?’ said Jenna, and it came out as a whisper. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Darling, I think if you were scared to tell me you’d painted these, you needn’t be. They’re wonderful.’

  ‘No.’ Jenna’s laugh was near hysterical and she was surprised to find that she had tears in her eyes – of relief? ‘Honestly, I didn’t do any of them. But they are wonderful, aren’t they? It isn’t just me having a moment of madness?’

  ‘Not in the least. They’re remarkable. Who’s the artist?’ Tabitha’s eyes were bright and Jenna realised, to her disappointment, that she was hoping it was one of Jenna’s famous clients. Brilliant art plus a famous name would indeed be something close to the Holy Grail. But she was going to have to let her friend down gently.

  ‘I’m afraid at this stage I can’t tell you the name,’ said Jenna, which only served to brighten Tabitha’s eyes even more. ‘Not that it would be one you’d have heard before.’ The brightness dimmed.

  ‘Oh? Then why ever not?’

  ‘The artist wishes to remain anonymous. But they would like some, well, some recognition of their work. And to that end, they’d like your advice.’

  ‘It is you, isn’t it? Or is it Deano?’

  ‘No, really, I faithfully promise you that you don’t know, or know of, the artist. It’s a private individual from my home town.’

  ‘How intriguing.’ Tabitha was clearly making an effort not to appear disgruntled. ‘Well, it’s certainly of displayable standard. If the artist were willing to step out of the shadows, I would be very happy to exhibit this. I think it would interest the arts media and might attract a buyer or two. And I’m not saying that as a favour to you. I think your mystery man or woman has exceptional talent. But exceptional talent is everywhere in this city, and often never finds its market.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, if your man isn’t willing to pound the pavement and do all the tedious publicity stuff, he won’t get anywhere. I need a person to connect with.’

  Jenna leant forwards, keen to sell her idea to Tabitha despite her misgivings.

  ‘Yes, but can’t we make anonymity work for us? You know – a touch of mystery, of enigma. I mean, look at Banksy.’