She had never forgiven herself, she realized as she lay in the tub, the froth of suds hiding her flesh even from her own eyes. After all these years, all these missed opportunities, all this shame, she was still unforgiven by the one person from whom she most needed it. The pain of that hit her square in the chest, and she raised a hand to rub the ache away, disturbing the blanket of bubbles, and seeing the ghost of a ripe breast beneath the water. The tears slid down her cheeks, adding their salt to the sweet flavor of jasmine in the bath.
If she hadn't been so needy, if she hadn't been so sure she was unattractive, if she hadn't been so afraid to say no, maybe things would have been different. Maybe she wouldn't be where she was now, a lonely, fat, middle-aged whore, no longer wanted by anyone. Her lifestyle belied her dark secret. A pleasant, fairly successful writer of fantasy whodunits by day, she had become a call girl -- an "escort", if you felt like being kind -- by night (and remained that way for five years), right when her life had gone south after the wedding-that-wasn't.
Tonight, after the last client had left, and she had taken the limousine he had left for her back home, she had known she couldn't do it anymore. Fat was no longer in -- hell, it had only really been "in" because she catered to men with a taste for extra flesh. Her body was not even HER temple any more, let alone one any man worth his salt would find an interest in worshiping in. Her last client had been warm, sweet, even loving, as he had always been in the four years they had known each other. But she had sensed, when he had kissed her goodnight, that it had been the end. She would never see him again. He had had his fill.
And so had she.
Stupid, that's what she was. It took that moment of realization for her to recognize the feelings that she had never examined, where he was concerned, as love. Foolishly, she had fallen in love with her john -- her Matt. How or when exactly that catastrophe had happened she didn't know, but the hurt she nursed as she sat in her bath now, trying to wash away her sins, would never be calmed. No balm would ever salve the deep wound that loving a man, who in all likelihood despised her, had left behind.
She closed her eyes on the memories, but they marched past, like a silent movie, only in living color. Matt on the sofa in the suite they always used, his shirt unbuttoned, the silky chest hairs teasing her eyes, feathering her fingertips with the promise of sensual delight. Matt at the sliding glass doors, only his trousers on, the sunlight making him glow like a god, his chest muscled, his shoulders broad. Matt in the rumpled sheets, his long leg curled over her spine, his body warm and aroused, his mouth leaving a trail of fire wherever he touched her. None of her other clients had left her feeling the way he did, and stupidly, she had just assumed it was because he was the kindest.
He HAD been the kindest, the sexiest, the most attentive, the most romantic.
The phone rang, but she could not rouse herself enough to get out to answer it. She heard a male voice, but it was muffled, and she closed her mind and let it go. She'd hear it soon enough. She had the rest of her life to hide and heal her broken heart. Finally, when she began to shiver in the increasingly chilled water, she pulled the plug and rinsed herself with warm water from the nickel-plated shower-head. Reaching for the thick, over-sized bath towel, she wrapped its warm buttery folds around her and stepped onto the thick rug. Her toes sank deeply into the pile, and she reached down and dried between them, then walked into the adjoining bedroom, sitting before her dressing table and beginning her nightly ritual.
The phone rang again. She ignored it, wondering vaguely what could possibly be so important that anyone would want to call her at three in the morning. The answering machine came on again, and she listened idly, until the voice, its English accent marked, made her eyes widen. She paused, her fingers suddenly trembling on her cheek.
"Gael, I know you're there. Pick up the phone."
The last person she wanted to talk to was Matt. She sat still as a stone, as though she thought he would think she was not there if she remained quiet.
"If you force my hand, I'll do the one thing you fear the most."
She was a stone, unable to move, wondering what he could mean.
"Right then."
A click broke the spell that she seemed to have been trapped under, and she moved, rushing from the dresser, knocking over the dainty stool, and rushing to find something to put on before he came. Because she knew he would come. How he knew where she lived she did not know. Truth be told, she did not care in that moment, being more concerned to shore up her failing defenses in anticipation of an assault of the kind she had not ever faced before. Clothing was a barrier, and if she dressed in as unalluring a way as possible, perhaps she could stop whatever plan he had in mind.
Five outfits later, she returned to the one she had begun with. Black socks on her feet, black jeans, and a thick, bright blue sweater that reached to throat and wrists, no makeup, and only her coconut-flavored lip balm to keep her dry lips moist. She passed a comb through her hair, and stuck it in a scrunchie, and slid damp palms down her thighs when the doorbell chimed. She should be asleep, not entertaining gentlemen callers at this ungodly hour!
The heavy door admitted him, and she watched as he turned and closed it, snicking the locks back into place. He was also in jeans, but he wore a heavy bomber jacket over a plain black tee, and a scarf adorned his neck. His black boots were heavy but silent on her shining wooden floors as she led him into the den. She would have preferred the more formal space of the living room, to keep a distance between them, but the painters had left cloths over everything in preparation for the work later.
She gestured for him to sit, but she remained standing by the door, like a deer ready to bound away at the first sign of trouble.
"What couldn't wait till next time, Matt?"
His eyes told her he was not fooled by the question, and his words confirmed it.
"There won't be a next time, Gael, and you know it."
Plain words, no inflection, except for the conviction in his words, and the fire in his eyes. She swallowed, and garbed herself in bravado.
"Who died and made you the boss of me?" she asked, remaining by the door, and giving the lie to her question.
He stood up, and suddenly the space was too small.
"Would you like something to drink?" she asked, backing away from him and trying not to give away her panic by rushing into the kitchen ahead of him.
He reached her before she reached safe ground, stopping her in her tracks by the closet door. His insistent fingers, hard on her upper arm, pulled her around to face him.
"How much longer, Gael? When will you stop?"
His eyes -- wide, the color of fresh-brewed coffee -- bored into her own, pinning her in place as deftly as if she were an insect on display.
