Ten Days. Gillian Slovo
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movement in the bathroom, he realised that he must have dozed off. He felt the air wonderfully cool. How long had he been asleep?
‘How long have I been sleeping?’ he called.
The bathroom door opened, light framing the glorious vision of Patricia, whose skin, still wet from her shower, glistened a golden brown in the light. ‘Not long.’ She stretched up her arms and yawned.
She was so lovely. Desire rose up in him. Again. He patted the bed. ‘Come here.’
‘I’m wet.’
‘For me, I hope.’ Another pat. ‘Come on. Come here.’
She took her time, walking slowly towards the bed, smiling as he followed her every step. He was practically drooling when she slid in beside him.
If only, he thought. He laid a hand on her stomach and with the other pulled the sheet over her. ‘Come closer.’ He felt the brush of her breasts against his chest. He wanted her. So much. If only he could stop the clock and stay, here, in this room.
But . . . he lifted himself up, reaching for his watch.
‘Oh no you don’t.’ She wrenched the watch out of his grasp and threw it across the room.
He winced as it hit the wall. ‘Do you mind? That’s a Hublot.’
‘Should be strong enough to survive, then, shouldn’t it?’
He made to go and fetch it back, but before he could she straddled him, pinning him down by his hands, kneeling on all fours and grinning.
She’s so pretty, he thought, and so damn irreverent. At least in bed.
She lowered her head close enough for him to feel her hair brush against his neck. She whispered one word, ‘Stay,’ in his ear.
How he would have liked to stay. But one couldn’t run away from time, especially when it was blinking in neon green from the bedside table. ‘I can’t.’
When he thought he felt her stiffen, he prayed that she wasn’t going to make a fuss. But being with Frances, the mistress of the sudden freeze, had made him oversensitive. Instead of sinking into the sullen silence that was Frances’s intimate, Patricia laughed out loud. ‘Big talker.’ She kissed him, passionately, on the lips. ‘Until the next time.’ She shifted off him so he could get out of bed.
A shower to get rid, not of her but of the smell of her (so light and flowery, he thought, which he loved).
When he was with her and naked, his only thoughts were of her. Now, as the water flowed, what dominated was the memory of the lie he’d told his wife. Not something he was proud of. But her question had come so out of the blue he’d panicked, and once his denial had been released, it created its own momentum. To undo it now would be tricky.
Because her father had betrayed her mother in such an appallingly public manner, Frances was particularly touchy. She’d never understand that what he had with Patricia in no way affected his feelings for her. She was his wife, his counsel and the mother of his child: he wasn’t going to leave her. So why would he cause her pain for something that fulfilled a need but which was otherwise unimportant?
What was it that had even made her ask, he wondered. Had someone talked? It couldn’t be. If she had been sure of her facts, she would have pressed him harder.
‘Why are you taking so long?’
Patricia. He must go to her. He rubbed himself briskly with a towel. Despite his exertions, his sleep and a fairly hot shower, he was still feeling cool. A place that got the temperature right was a rarity; pity the need to protect himself from prying eyes meant that the next time they’d have to use a different hotel.
He came out of the bathroom to find her still in bed. She was lying on her back, sheet discarded, arms behind her head, stark naked and looking straight at him.
‘What a wanton child you are.’
‘Child?’ She wrinkled her nose.
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