Chapter Seven: "Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do..." ~ Shakespeare, As You Like It
Two hours later, I am still stalking around the flat, although now wrapped in my dressing gown, my hair in a towel. I've tidied up, showered, and given myself three orgasms, and I am still so restless I am ready to jump out of my skin.
I go to the kitchen for some ice-cream, but after a few spoonfuls from the carton, I throw the spoon in the sink. That's not it. I wish Pablo was here, I could cuddle him. It's too late to phone Sara on a work night, and I don't feel like talking to anybody else. The soft jazz that I've put on the stereo sounds soothing, but I'm not soothed.
I want a smoke. Damn it all to hell, I forgot to ask him if I could smoke in the flat! I stand with my cigarettes and lighter in hand, wondering what to do-this isn't the sort of neighborhood where you can stand in your dressing gown on the front steps for a smoke-o!
Fuck it. Fuck HIM. I throw myself down on the sofa, plant my feet on the coffee table, and light up. Ah, now we're getting somewhere! I pull the towel off, tossing it on the floor, and flip my damp hair over the back of the sofa so it won't get my shoulders wet. I lean my head back and blow smoke at the ceiling like a 40's film star.
I know why I forgot to ask about smoking in the flat. Holmes got me so rattled with his little speech about betrayal...unbelievable, except that I believe it, every word. What he said, and how he looked when he said it, was scary-but I'm not scared of him. I probably should be; I mean, he threatened me! And I have no doubt that he would kill me if he thought it was necessary, complications be damned.
So why the hell am I still here? Why am I not packed and running back to Sara's? I have the option of breaking my contract at any time, with no penalties. But I don't want to leave. I don't know what I want, but leaving isn't it.
I take a deep drag on the cigarette, and realizing that I have no ashtray handy, cup my hand under the glowing lump of ash on the end of it as I run to the kitchen for a saucer. I don't quite make it, and yelp with pain as a big chunk of ashy grey with a gash of red in it falls into my palm. I hold my hand under the cold tap for a few minutes, until it stops hurting, flicking the ashes into the sink as I finish the cigarette.
I remember my auntie holding my hand under the tap like this all the time; I used to burn myself a lot when we first went to live with her. City kids, Sara and I had never seen an open hearth in our lives until we were sent to Auntie's after Mum died, and I was completely fascinated by the coal fire that heated her cottage sitting-room. I was obsessed with playing with it, even though at seven years old I should have known better. Sara did her best to thwart me, but Auntie's theory of child-rearing was, "Experience is the best teacher," along with, "What doesn't kill you makes you wiser." It's probably for the best that she didn't have any children of her own.
I kept getting burned, and kept going back for more. I never told anyone, but sometimes I would let the coals burn me a little on purpose, probably a displacement activity. Fire-bug, Auntie called me, and threatened me with a hiding if I ever played with fire outside of the hearth. I never did. I was a good girl, back then. I did as I was told.
Turning the cold tap off, I take down a saucer and go back to the sofa to light up another cigarette. This one doesn't taste as good as the first, so I stub it out halfway, and lean back to listen to the mellow saxophone and piano bantering on the stereo.
What's going on with me? I poke around at my feelings, untangling them without judgment, as if they were just a mess of tangled wool I wanted to knit with….
I feel lonely. I feel sad. I feel...hurt. What hurts?
A very young part of me answers, He doesn't care. He just makes things happen and then goes away. He doesn't offer any comfort. He doesn't care. He's just like-
Ah. There it is. I won't make myself even think it, because it's too creepy, but there it is. Right. Well, Angelica, don't get Holmes confused with other people. He's an employer, it's not his job to care. That's why he pays money, so he doesn't have to care. It's a fair deal, and if I don't like it, I can leave.
I don't want to leave.
So, I guess that puts me smack back where I was, craving comfort where there is none. I heave a sigh. Sometimes there is no solace, and that is the hard truth of it. Sometimes the only thing you can do is have a good cry. Afterwards, I put myself to bed.
# # #
I don't mean to have a long lie-in the next morning, but it happens anyway. There is no morning sun coming in the tall bedroom windows, no hungry tabby to pounce on my head. I stumble downstairs, checking my phone for messages, but there aren't any. I feel very insulated as I have my morning tea and toast, like the rest of the world is very far away. Most people are at their day-time jobs right now.
I text Sara, but figure she won't reply, so I phone her just to hear her voice mail message. It's reassuring. I catch up on my forums and social networking obligations as well, although I'm not feeling very social at the moment.
The day looms ahead of me, and I'm feeling at odds in a way that feels frighteningly familiar. Ah, depression, my old friend... But I know what to do. I immediately sit down and make myself a schedule, my first line of defense.
First, tidy the flat and get in a few hours of study; it doesn't matter which of my projects I work on, so long as I work on one-translating more Rumi might be a good choice. Rumi is good for the soul. Or, maybe that book about men in mid-life crisis that I started reading a while back...
Second, exercise; I have to make myself go to the gym for a few hours. My body is my major asset right now, and I can't neglect it-besides, working out lifts your mood, that's a fact.
Third, outside time; even if it's just strolling the pavements, I need to be outside doing something physical. Walking at least part of the way when I go to get groceries will do, and maybe a walk in the park as well.
# ##
I end up having a pretty good day. It doesn't hurt that it's warm and sunny for a change, a gorgeous July evening. By the time I am walking down Ennismore Mews with two carry-bags in each hand, bopping along to the tunes I have playing on my earbuds, I'm completely content. I'm looking forward to making myself a really nice mushroom-spinach-swiss cheese omelette for tea, and then exploring the lush public gardens across the way for afters.
I let myself into the flat, humming, and almost drop my groceries when I see a man lounging in my sitting room, reading a newspaper. It takes me a moment to realize that it's Holmes, looking up at me with sardonic amusement. I pull out my earbuds, and he gives me a polite nod, then goes back to his paper. "There is a person at the Diogenes that I am avoiding this evening," he offers indifferently.
"Oh, I see." He did make it known last night that he would like me to talk less, so I leave it at that.
Okay. He's paying for the place, of course he gets to come and go as he pleases, too. Still, it's very weird having him unexpectedly sitting there. He'd better not be thinking I'll drop everything to go upstairs for him right away. Two hours notice, that's what we agreed. I'm really hungry, and I want to at least eat a little bite first.
I park my handbag and other burdens on the dining counter, put the groceries away, and start getting the equipment out to make my tea. I wish there was a proper pan in this kitchen for omelettes, but it seems to only be furnished with the basics; I guess I should be grateful that I at least didn't have to bring my own cookware.
Holmes can see into the kitchen from his chair, and looks at me over the top of his paper. "Angel, I have two items to inform you of. First, you have an appointment tomorrow at 2 o'clock at the salon in Harrod's to have your hair cut, as we agreed. They will phone you with a reminder. Getting there on foot from here should take you less than 9 minutes. I assume that you won't require a car for that?" I shake my head. Oooh, I get to go to Urban Retreat salon. Very swish.
"Secondly, in future I prefer that you not smoke in this flat. If you please," his eyes narrow slightly, and his thin lips are pressed together disapprovingly.
"Okay," I nod. That long nose of his must be as sensitive as a bloodhound's, because I aired the place out earlier. Oh, well, it's not really a big deal-and now I know a way to just slightly annoy him, if I want to.
He returns to his paper, and I to my cooking. I am washing my mushrooms before slicing them up to saute with the spinach, when Holmes peers over and looks horrified "You should never wash fresh mushrooms! You wipe them clean with a tea towel. Washing them spoils the flavor."
I shake my colander full of clean mushrooms, draining them. "They grow in compost. I don't like the flavor of compost, so I wash them."
He shakes his head, returning to his paper. "You obviously have no idea how to cook."
Grrrr. "Then I guess I shouldn't offer you anything, since you wouldn't care for it anyway."
He doesn't look up "No, I wouldn't."
I roll my eyes and get on with chopping the mushrooms.; a minute later he's watching me again, and making that face. I'm obviously doing it all wrong "I believe they have cookery programmes on television," he says, sounding as if he is genuinely trying to be helpful. "Would you like to have a television here? I hadn't considered that."
I put down the knife so I can glare at him directly "No, thank you. I don't need to watch 'cookery programmes.' And I've got my own broadband connection; I can watch all the shows I care to on my laptop."
"What a relief. Here I was wondering what you were going to do with yourself all day long." Sarcasm doesn't usually bother me; I kind of got used to it growing up. You just can't take it personally.
I start chopping again, extra-vigorously. "Today I spent most of the day reading, actually."
He makes a show of peering around the room, with a look of feigned confusion "Reading…? What, exactly? I seem to have brought with me the only printed matter to be found in this flat," he folds his newspaper and flops it down on the coffee table.
Oh, my god, that's it. I put down my knife, pull my e-reader in its padded case out of my handbag, and flip it at him like a Frisbee. Holmes catches it neatly, but frowns at me.
"That's my library, about 900 books at the moment." I toss the veggies into the hot olive oil in the pan, stirring them around. Holmes flips open the cover of my e-reader and toggles it to the index, rapidly paging through the titles. I was hoping he would do that; I want him to see that I'm no lightweight.
"I see that it's not quite all popular novels. Quite a lot of psychology, not surprising, given the degree you were pursuing..." Right, I think, make sure that I know that you know everything about me, Mr. Holmes.
He keeps on paging "There are even a few volumes in foreign languages. Persian, Spanish, German, Russian…" He looks up at me, "How many foreign languages do you speak?" he asks, looking mildly interested.
"Well, only German, really. But I can read quite well in four others and-" I'm quite proud of this, but he cuts me off dismissively.
"With a dictionary, no doubt," and flops my reader on the coffee table alongside the newspaper.
"Yes." Deflated, I whisk my eggs, but then that cheekiness bubbles up again "So, how many languages do you have? Without a dictionary, I mean."
He gives me a very deadpan look "Fluently? Well, not taking into account dialects and regional—" his phone rings, and he immediately takes it out, checks the number with a frown and answers it. "Yes, what is it?" He moves toward the front entry for more privacy.
I keep the heat low so the eggs don't make too much noise when they hit the pan; I want to hear what he's saying. However, I needn't have bothered, because I can hear him just fine when he starts to shout at whoever it is that called.
"What? Again? Oh, for god's sake, can't you people keep better track of him than that? It's not as if he can move very quickly at the moment." Pause. "That serious? What was the latest blood test?" Pause. "I see. Yes, by all means keep him sedated, once you get him back. No, no need to involve the police yet. I'll see what I can do."
He hangs up and makes another call, sounding very put-upon "I need you to locate him again. Yes. High priority. No, just locate him and contact me for further instructions."
Holmes places his phone on the coffee table and heaves down on the sofa with a sigh, elbows on his knees and rubbing the sides of his head with his hands "Oh, Sherlock," he groans. He looks at the decanter on the sideboard, his arms dangling down. He suddenly looks worn and weary.
And I'm a sucker for male angst, so I go and pour a small brandy for him, bringing the tumbler over and setting it down in front of him. I have an impulse to give him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, but I don't think he'd appreciate it.
Holmes looks at the drink, then at me, and reaches over to take it in hand. He takes a swallow, savoring, then a larger quick one. I finish getting my tea ready, and take a seat on a stool at the counter that divides the sitting room and the kitchen to eat it.
I'm dying to know what's going on, so I toss out a conversational gambit around my eggs. "I hope he's worth all the trouble."
Holmes sighs, looking at the rapidly-emptying glass in his hand "I suppose, yes…mostly… I do my best to look after him, like I promised. He doesn't make it easy. He never has." Another sip slides down. "He relies on me, but resents it. And me."
I smile at a thought "You sound like you're his keeper, then."
" Yes, I suppose so," he gives a mirthless little laugh "It fits, doesn't it? I don't think he realizes how much he needs keeping. He's so careless, so haphazard. Impulsive."
"Maybe that's what you love about him," I hazard, sipping my tea.
" Love?!" Holmes looks positively alarmed and horrified, and a little repulsed.
I have to laugh at his reaction. "It's not a dirty word, you know. It's terrifically over-used, of course, but it's still acceptable for use in polite company."
He snorts derisively as he takes another sip of his brandy. It ought not to be. 'Love,' " he drawls the word out to nearly five syllables, "-is nothing but self-indulgent sentiment, a ready excuse for the exercise of any and all stupidity and vice….a sugar-coating on the realities of human nature. " He knocks back the rest of his drink.
Wow, Holmes must be really fun to be in a relationship with. I start to feel a little sorry for his boyfriend-no wonder Sherlock has some resentments!
I finish my omelette, all the while trying to formulate another question that will tease out some more information without sounding too obvious; but then his phone rings again. This time he doesn't bother to withdraw when he answers it, and I see that after a quick glance at the number of the caller, his face registers relief.
"Yes. Where ARE you? And why...oh, never mind." There is a long pause, and he rolls his eyes, waiting for the other person-Sherlock?-to stop talking. "Well, you're on the right track to taking care of your problem, aren't you? Yes, I think so. You're doing quite well." I can hear the sarcasm dripping as Holmes's voice turns silky "Quite well indeed. In fact, if you keep on like this, you'll never have to worry about being bored again, I should think." Pause. "Oh, well, because you'll be dead! Of septic shock, Sherlock! Get back to the hospital and back on the intravenous antibiotics, you idiot!" There is another long pause, and Holmes sighs. "Yes...later. In a few hours. Of course. Yes, of course. Just tell me one more thing, please. Is John with you?" The answer makes Holmes close his eyes with relief as he ends the call.
Then he looks at his empty glass, and then at me. I go ahead and fetch him another one; it's a nurturing thing, I can't help it.
Whilst I'm pouring, he makes another call, saying simply, "Stand down. He's been located," then takes the proffered tumbler from my hand and settles himself back on the sofa with a sigh. I'm perched once more on the stool, finishing my mug of tea, and Holmes takes out his pocket watch with a flourish and checks the time, then raises an eyebrow at me, flicking his eyes upstairs.
Well, why not? "Twenty minutes."
He shakes his head "Fifteen, because you will let me take care of the intimate shaving." I think he notices my eyes widen just a little, because he almost grins.
# # #/
Holmes comes upstairs exactly fifteen minutes later, of course, to the strains of something tinkly on a piano-maybe Chopin?-and he has already shed his suit jacket. Well, so much for my OCD theory, if he can vary his disrobing ritual spontaneously, unless his focal point is another ritual I don't know about... It occurs to me that I am much less preoccupied these days with figuring out what's wrong with him; maybe I'm less uncomfortable with him now? Sort of...
I've put on the blue silk wrap dress, since the rain water didn't spot it after all, and Holmes's eyes crinkle up in a smile when he sees me wearing it, standing by the big bed. He doesn't sit down, but immediately walks slowly around me, trailing a hand on my hip and tum, taking in the feel of the silk and my skin beneath it. Then he pulls the strings, unwrapping me, and the dress flutters down into a puddle of blue.
Locking his eyes with mine, he reaches around to unhook my lacy white bra, and slowly pulls it off of me, letting it drop to the floor. Then he does the most unexpected thing I can imagine: He slides his arms around me in a tight embrace, bending his dark head to bury his face in the curve of my neck.
He's hugging me, like a child holds a teddy bear, and squeezing so tightly that I nearly can't breathe. My arms are pinioned at my sides, and one of my elbows is digging into my ribs a bit, but it nevertheless feels very nice. This is what I wanted last night, this is what I needed. Just, to be held. I wish I dared hug him back
So, I stand there like a life-size teddy, and let him squeeze me for all he's worth; I wouldn't be surprised to find button-prints from his waistcoat on my skin afterward.
Then he fastens the harness on me with his usual meticulous care, and fetters my wrists to it at the shoulders, but he leaves my ankles free this time. Once I'm in the position he wants-on my back, knees tucked under my bent elbows-he wags a "stay put!" finger at me, and trots off to remove the rest of his suit and his shirt, and fetch his things from the bathroom. I still have great trepidation at the approach of the shaving kit, but it's less of an ordeal this time around, and Holmes is humming along with with music, clearly enjoying himself. I guess he does like making things tidy.
When things get down to business, he gradually becomes very bitey again, and as usual he is not at all gentle, but neither is he brutal. I flinch at times, but don't feel the need to tell him to back off; it occurs to me that he is probably perfectly aware of what my tolerances are.
He moves me around quite a lot, which is probably why he left my ankles undone, and I make a game of anticipating just where he's going to want to explore and nip next, and offering that up even before he has a chance to know it himself. It's more interesting than just lying there, although I wonder if I should be encouraging him. He finally ends up curled behind me with his teeth tightly clamped onto the top of my shoulder, his long arms wrapped close around me. The room is warm from the late-setting July sun beating on the blinds, and I can feel his undershirt is damp with sweat where it presses against my back.
Once inside me, he is not so much pounding as rocking, holding me very close, and when he is finished, he doesn't jump up and run as soon as he has caught his breath. He lingers, just a little, and I use my inner muscles to give him a sly, close hug before he slips out of me; the Agency's training included all sorts of fun tricks a girl can do. For that, I was a very apt pupil.
Very shortly after Holmes departs and I have tidied things up, Sara finally calls me back, and we bubble at each other happily. I describe the flat to her, and she very much wants to come see it, but I have to tell her no.
" No visitors allowed at all, sorry. It's a clause he added to the contract, and I don't think breaking it would be a good idea. He would know if I had someone over, I really think he would."
" You think the place is under surveillance?"
I remember the CCTV cameras following me and the Canadian "Yes, I definitely do. So, let's wait until the three months are up, like the day before they are, then I'll have you over for tea or something."
" Think you'll make it to the end, the whole time? You weren't too certain about him before. Is it okay?"
"I'm fine." I think about how prickly and sarcastic he was tonight-downstairs, at least "He always seems to be trying to pick a fight with me, though! Or maybe he just can't resist poking. I'm all right, he's not abusive-and if he gets that way, I can always vote with my feet, like Daddy used to say. "
"Good." Our talk veers onto discussion of her relationship with her boyfriend, Richard, and how Pablo is doing without me, and other mundane topics. We make plans for getting together Sunday evening, and we're getting ready to say good-night, when Sara suddenly blurts,i "Oh, I almost forgot, that Aussie friend of yours, Steen, stopped by today. He left a package for you."
"What is it?" I ask.
"How should I know? It's square, wrapped in brown paper, and smaller than a bread box, if that's any help. He seemed really disappointed that you weren't here. I encouraged him to phone you, but he just shook his head. I think you need to call him, at least to say thank you."
"Okay, I probably will."
"Probably! You have to. He's given you a present, you have to thank him. You know, sometimes you have the worst manners."
No, not the worst, I think. I know somebody who's worse than me, at least some of the time.
I look at the phone in my hand for a minute after I end the call with Sara. She's right, I should phone Steen. He's obviously tried to bring me a peace offering, and it would be churlish to not accept it. But I'm still mad at him.
For what? For letting me down by being human, and fallible? I snort at myself. Right, and I'm so perfect. Steen letting some envy and jealousy show is pretty minor compared to some of the ways I've shat on friends over the years.
I punch in his number. It's a Tuesday night, he usually takes Tuesdays off, why not just get it over with? He answers right away.
"Angelica?" he sounds cautious.
"Hey. Yeah, it's me. Sara said you stopped by today."
"Yeah, I, ahh, I really need to talk to you."
"Fire away! I'm right here."
"I shouldn't right now. Not right now. Listen, can we get together, soon? Very soon? Tomorrow?"
He sounds nervous. I'm not THAT mad at him, why is he nervous? "Sure, yeah. I've got a hair appointment at Urban Retreat tomorrow at 2 o'clock, do you want to find me there and we'll go have a coffee afterward?"
"Yes, that would work, yes. I'll be there. Have you opened the package I left for you?"
"No, I haven't... Hey, are you okay, mate? You don't sound so-"
"Just hang onto it, okay? It might be important. I'll explain tomorrow."
