Asking For Trouble (18 page)

Ilya grinned. ‘Did it make you feel degraded and humiliated and sluttish?’

‘Afraid not.’ I smiled. ‘Not even with all your dirty talk. I’m getting used to it.’

‘Thought you might be,’ he replied. He reached for my hand and gently sucked on the tips of my fingers.

‘You must be losing your touch,’ I said.

Ilya released my fingers and laughed loudly before placing a kiss on my nose.

‘Oh, sometimes you’re just too damn sweet,’ he said, rolling on to his back. ‘Makes me feel like a complete and utter bastard. You’ve no idea what I’ve just set in motion, Beth. No idea.’

He was right. I didn’t have a clue what he was on about.

ILYA OBVIOUSLY HAD
some wicked plan in mind; something nasty and debasing, I reckoned, to challenge my limits and stretch the tension of our game.

I found that pretty daunting because I wasn’t sure what my limits were and I didn’t think Ilya knew either.

We were playing a kind of sexual brinkmanship and the stakes were high.

Words like ‘no’ or ‘ouch, too painful’ or more likely ‘ugh, too demeaning’ counted for nothing in our deal. There was only one word to signal ‘stop that’ and it came with a heavy penalty because in the same breath it also meant ‘stop’ as in the end, finito, game over, goodbye.

If Ilya pushed too far, then he’d lose everything. So every push was a risk; a careful balancing of nudging the limits against the threat of collapse.

But I was smitten. I was ripe for exploitation. I could see how this game of ours might get seriously unbalanced.

I tried to think up a challenge Ilya would enjoy in order to put things on a more even keel. But I couldn’t. When a man likes the idea of something, he just goes for it. Women have a much tougher time, even modern,
clued-up women like me. I like cheap and sleazy. I like humiliation and abuse. I like fantasies of forced sex and being made powerless. But I don’t like admitting to it.

I could think of plenty of challenges Ilya would hate. I could play the bitch: make him squirm and beg for mercy; drip candle wax on him; flog him with a belt. Or I could take his anal virginity with my vibrator.

But I’d hate it as well. I wanted Ilya to be my real man through and through. I wanted him to keep on dominating me, making me sluttish and getting me to do things I’d never done before.

Besides, I didn’t want to take the risk of him calling cuttlefish. My fear was that, if the going got tough, he’d be prepared to say it. I wasn’t.

Ilya didn’t realise it, but he had the power to make me do anything. Cuttlefish was buried deep in my body. I wasn’t going to say the word that would finish us.

I was so glad he didn’t realise it, because that’s where my power lay – in Ilya’s constant awareness that, if he went over the top, I just might crack and cry out the dreaded C-word.

The implications of what we were doing preyed on my mind, as did Ilya’s secretiveness.

I’d quizzed him about his powdery fingers and his refusal to allow me into his flat. He’d just said he’d been doing a spot of DIY when I called – real DIY, not wanking – and that his flat had been a tip and he’d just had an accident with some Polyfilla. I didn’t believe him.

But I didn’t feel in a position to demand a better explanation. While his strangeness still disturbed me, I was gradually accepting the fact that Ilya preferred to keep himself to himself and that I simply had to go along with that.

But then my life hit warp-factor eight, as it’s prone to do, and my Ilya worries had to take a back seat.

It was mid-afternoon and I was at the desk in my poky, cluttered office, half listening to my answerphone messages.

There weren’t many – or not many that mattered. I jotted down a couple of numbers I needed to get back to and shuffled at some paperwork.

There wasn’t much to do. When Body Language is in full swing then I usually pop into the office daily to check my messages and I need to spend a fair few afternoons there per week, organising gigs, publicity, doing the accounts and stuff. But in summer, there’s no need.

I didn’t want to hang around and probably wouldn’t have done except that the barmaid had said Shaun – big boss manager of the pub – wanted to see me.

My body ached from too much fucking. Ilya had called on me earlier that day, announcing that he had to go away for a while. He’d said he wanted to get in credit, dirty-sex-wise, to keep him going until he returned.

He was always so bloody flippant. And he was always doing disappearing acts.

Sometimes he’d let me know beforehand. Other times he’d just vanish, and it would only dawn on me that he’d gone because his flat was still and dark.

I really missed him when he was away. I couldn’t imagine him giving me a second thought.

And wherever he went and whatever he got up to was clearly none of my business.

‘Been away?’ I’d ask, trying to be casual.

‘Visiting friends,’ he’d reply.

‘Anywhere nice?’ I’d say.

And then he’d say ‘London’ or ‘not really’ or ‘yeah, it was OK’.

End of conversation.

He was, however, starting to reveal other snippets about himself: that he was British born and bred, father Bulgarian, mother Italian. So that helped explain his raw, dark beauty. The family had anglicised the name. Fair
enough. He also said he was a builder by trade, that he’d come to Brighton looking for work but to no avail.

I didn’t believe that one. Like a lot of things he told me, it just didn’t ring true.

And on top of all the practical information I was lacking, there was also something about him as a person I couldn’t reach. There seemed to be a kind of wall around him, as if he would never allow anyone to get too close.

At first, I’d thought, Well maybe that’s a good thing: it fits with the game-plan of us being purely physical, free from heartfelt attachments. But on my part it was starting to feel strained, like a one-night stand on a tape loop. It was unnatural.

Ilya could still be tender and affectionate, but it was only surface tenderness, little more than a moment of his thinking I was cute or something. He was good at being emotionally remote. I wasn’t, although I was doing my best to make it seem as if I were.

I wasn’t going to reveal that this strange thing we’d got going meant far more to me than it did to him.

I was hooked. I was hooked on him and hooked on the game. Ilya occupied my every thought. It was obsessive, but not in the way falling in love is obsessive. It wasn’t heady and floaty and euphoric. Oh, it was exciting, thrilling and all-consuming, but it wasn’t celebratory like new love.

Our game was undercut with a bleak, intuitive knowledge: we weren’t heading for blissful happiness and fireworks popping in the sky, but more towards a dark, dangerous implosion.

I told myself I preferred it that way.

I emailed some people to confirm gigs I’d got lined up for October, added a few more addresses to my mailing-list database, then abused the privilege of having a phone that the pub pays for – bills, rental, the lot. They do it because I’m good for business and they like to keep me
sweet. I don’t exploit it too much, but an occasional free natter doesn’t hurt.

So I phoned Paul in Sydney for a quick hello. He said it was a cold winter’s night and he wished he were still in Brighton. Then I phoned Jen, who had some advice to dole out about Martin, which made me feel irritated and horribly guilty. We chatted away until the expected rat-tat-tat sounded on my office door.

‘Well, thanks for your help,’ I said in my efficient phone voice just as Shaun poked his head round the door. ‘I’ll get back to you nearer the time. Goodbye.’

‘Cheapskate,’ came Jenny’s voice as I hung up.

‘Not interrupting, am I?’ asked Shaun, entering.

‘No, no problem,’ I replied, swivelling to face him. ‘I’m all yours.’

Shaun, dressed in his usual shirtsleeves and waistcoat, went to perch his arse on the small window sill. He’s only a bit of a kid – barely out of pimples – but he manages the pub and likes to think he’s a man of the world.

‘I’ve got a proposition for you,’ he said after we’d got through some small talk. He crossed his ankles and thrust his fists deep in his trouser pockets. ‘How do you fancy doing a few more club nights? Maybe something a little different from the usual? You see, I’ve been doing a bit of thinking and –’

‘Ooo, dangerous,’ I teased.

He smiled uncertainly. ‘I’m keen to push it,’ he went on. ‘Broaden the market, pull in more punters. And I know you can do it, Beth. You’re just the person. You’ve got the contacts, the enthusiasm. You’re a smart girl. And we’re already halfway there with Body Language. It’s getting a good reputation. But, like I say, that’s only halfway there.’

I frowned at him. ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ I said. ‘What’ve you got in mind?’

‘To be basic,’ he said, standing up and loosening his collar. ‘More body.’

‘Can you be
more
basic?’ I said. ‘Are you saying you want me to increase the amount of performance-art stuff? Because I won’t. I’m cutting down on that side of things. Doesn’t work. I’ve struggled enough trying to find decent artists. My idea was to make next year more language, more spoken word. People –’

‘Yeah, but that’s all smart-arse student stuff, isn’t it?’ said Shaun, propping an elbow high on the filing cabinet. ‘Just . . . literary wank.’

I gave a small incredulous laugh. ‘Shaun, you haven’t got a clue,’ I said. ‘Have you actually noticed what goes on at my gigs? It’s not full of precious, po-faced twats going, “Hail the great author and wasn’t that deep.” Jesus, get up to speed. People come along. They listen to some interesting stuff. They have a laugh. They drink beer.’

‘Exactly!’ said Shaun, slicing his hand at the air. ‘But not in summer! You see, the way I look at it, you’ve got your audience – a young crowd, open-minded – but when term finishes they’re thin on the ground. So you expand your catchment area. You spice things up. You bring ’em in and you grab ’em by the balls.’

I sighed heavily, hardly listening as Shaun burbled on about new ventures, chasing the market, competitive edge and loads of other bollocks.

I didn’t really know what he was getting at, except that it sounded like he wanted me to work harder. He’d never stuck his nose into my club before. He just ran the pub and left me to it.

‘So what’ve you got in mind for these extra nights?’ I asked. ‘If you give me something a bit more concrete then maybe I can think about it.’

‘Sex,’ said Shaun, walking over to the window. ‘To be basic, sex.’

I had to bite my tongue to stop myself asking if he’d ever had it.

‘Sex sells,’ he continued, perching his arse on the sill again. ‘If you do some sexy gigs, and I mean really sexy, then we can maybe keep the bar takings steady. Probably increase them. And it’ll be great publicity for –’

‘What?’ I scoffed. ‘You want me to put on lap-dancing shows or something? Like that place in Hove? Do you seriously think –’

‘No, no, not that kind of sexy,’ said Shaun. ‘Something more, you know, younger, trendier. Something . . .’ He trailed off.

‘What?’ I said impatiently. ‘Something what?’

‘I don’t know exactly.’ He frowned. ‘But nothing too sleazy. Something women’ll go for as well as blokes. But you know, still hot.’

I laughed to myself, wondering if I should mention that I’m a woman and I go for sleazy and, yeah, it’s still hot. ‘How hot?’ I asked. ‘Don’t you need a special licence for hot?’

Shaun shrugged. ‘Depends on what you have in mind.’

‘Me? I’ve got nothing in mind. This is your idea, Shaun.’

He nodded thoughtfully, then drew a deep breath to make his chest big and important.

‘OK then,’ he said. ‘To be practical, I’d say live sex acts are off the menu. But other than that, it’s up to you. Within reason, of course.’

I was too stunned to answer. He was obviously pretty serious about this. I couldn’t see the point.

Brighton’s got more than its fair share of sexy goings-on. Apart from the massive gay scene with its bars, discos, strippers and cabaret, there’s a whole host of other stuff. Club nights spring up all over the place – for fetish-fiends or cross-dressers or lipstick-dykes, or just for people who want to party in a spiced-up atmosphere.

Which is fine, but it’s not what I do. I run a quirky little arts club.

Shaun carried on.

‘Look at it this way,’ he said. ‘It’ll consolidate the image of your club. You don’t exactly do mainstream things, do you? So we build on that. We establish Body Language as something more underground. Risky. People around here’ll get off on that. They like to think they’re part of a scene which pushes things.’

‘I already push things,’ I argued. ‘Christ, I don’t get writers in who tell nice stories about . . . about breakfast in Tuscany, do I?’

‘See?’ said Shaun triumphantly. ‘There you go again. Writers. It’s just people reading on stage. You need to broaden your base. The club’s got to get bigger. Bigger and better.’

I shook my head despairingly. In my book, bigger doesn’t always mean better, and I wasn’t in the mood for investing lots of time and energy in some new angle – especially when it centred on sex and risks. There was enough of that going on in my private life. Besides, I was happy with my own ideas for the club’s future, and going at my own pace. My ambition isn’t of the driving variety. It comes and it goes.

‘Only otherwise,’ said Shaun, ‘we might need to rethink the arrangement we’ve got. You know, you having this office and everything.’

I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘Are we heading into blackmail territory now?’

‘Course not.’ Shaun smiled, standing up. He began making his way to the door. ‘Have a think, Beth. See what you can come up with and let me know. OK? I’d like to get it up and running pretty soon.’

‘Yeah, I’ll try,’ I said despondently, spinning my chair round to the desk.

‘Oh, and, Beth,’ said Shaun, poking his head back in the room, ‘phone bill was a bit steep last time. Keep an eye on your calls, will you?’

For a short while, I flirted with the idea of trying to find another venue for Body Language.