Rich Housewife Of Mumbai
- 2 years ago
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If it hadn’t been for Hanson, I would have fallen onto the train tracks that Thursday morning. The crowd at platform three of the station had become impatient; services were delayed due to debris on the tracks after a storm the previous night. People shoved and jostled and glared at their phones and when someone pushed, the whole buzzing crowd pushed, moving as one angry wasps nest.
I can’t give a sensible explanation for why I liked to stand on the very edge of the platform, looking down at my shoes as I waited for the incoming rumble of the train. Force of habit, perhaps. Commuters have their idiosyncrasies. The way they order coffee. The way they drink coffee. The way they read newspapers, check timetables, yell into phones, mumble through rehearsals of work presentations.
There’s no hierarchy when waiting for a train. No special treatment for being small or having bags or being a woman. The pretence of politeness of course, but when push comes to shove, everybody shoves. I got more bruises from commuting for a week than I did the time I fell down a flight of stairs.
But that Thursday would have eclipsed all the elbowed ribs and coffee spillages, if fate hadn’t intervened. I stood there, looking down at my neatly painted nails in new Stuart Weitzman sandals. I found myself wishing I’d worn something less showy. But Gigi Hadid looked nice in them so why shouldn’t I? They’d cost too much to languish at the back of my wardrobe and besides, summer had begun to whisper warm, breezy promises. Sandals were in. Even ridiculously expensive sandals with fur trims and dangerously high stiletto heels.
I stood there, frowning down at my midnight blue nail polish and telling myself not to frown so as to avoid frown lines but unable to stop frowning at the thought of frown lines when the wasp nest surged and someone’s elbow hit the small of my back and all of a sudden I began to fall. The tracks blurred in front of me and that feeling of helplessness began to sweep as one stupid sandal tipped. Even then I found myself not praying to be saved, but for the heel of my sandal not to break. But Hanson caught me. I felt his hand around my upper arm, fingers digging in hard and hauling me back so I stumbled to safety.
Nobody else had even noticed. I stood dazed for a minute, made sure nothing (my footwear) was broken and let out a breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding.
“Thank you,” I said, too embarrassed to look at my saviour properly. “I – I shouldn’t have been standing so close to the edge. I’m such an idiot.”
“Hey, it’s fine.” Unflustered, the man gulped from his Costa cup. “Just – take care. Okay?”
I looked up at him then and blinked, unexpectedly recognising him. The details came to me fast, as though they’d been waiting to be unlocked. Hanson Blackburn. He looked the same, even ten years on from high school. The same stayed-up-too-late face. Tired eyes. Dark hair that had been pushed back enough times to understand its place.
Hanson from Art class. The guy who used up all the black paint and still managed to make his work look like it emitted light. Hanson who would have been expelled if his daddy hadn’t funded the extension to the science block. The same Hanson who threw the parties that still got raved about at reunions he never attended.
Memories that weren’t quite memories because I couldn’t always tell if what I thought had happened had actually happened. Even the softest edge of drunkenness blurs reality the next morning. The images and flashbacks – or fantasies of flashbacks – were grainy, sepia, sometimes black and white.
Hanson lived on Airedale Road, out of the city in the sprawling suburbs where the houses were detached and palatial with white porch columns. His parents went away a lot. And the parties came out whenever they were gone. Crazy parties. Strangers dancing with strangers. Girls making out in their underwear. Bottles and glasses clinking, contents swirling and splashing, sparkling somewhere between heat and ice.
Broken glass under broken high heels. Potato chips scrunched into the plush carpet. Cigarette ash. Smoke. So much smoke. Every kind of smoke. You could get high just from being in the room. Everyone seemed to have some form of cigarette between their lips or fingers, dangling in that almost professional way as rings of smoke blew up and hovered warily around the chandeliers.
“Hey!” I said, back on the overcrowded platform at the train station. “It’s been so long since we saw each other.”
I flushed even as I said it because the last time I’d seen him had been rather graphic, involving nudity, two girls and fleetingly embarrassed eye contact. But it didn’t matter because Hanson didn’t say anything. He blinked a couple of times and I felt even more embarrassed. He didn’t recognise me.
“Alessia,” I said. “From William Barden Academy? Class of – what – ’07? We were in Mr Jones’ art class?”
He blinked again and frowned at me.
“Alessia. I knew. Alessia Willow. I remember,” He switched his cardboard cup to his left hand and pulled me in for a hug. He smelled like smoke and coffee. “How the hell are you anyway? Aside from almost killing yourself, I mean.”
“Ah. Not bad.” I pulled away with some effort. “You?”
“Terrible,” he said but he smiled all the same. “Hey,” He frowned again. “Didn’t your hair used to be blonde?”
“Oh. Yeah. Long time ago.”
He smiled and my train eased into the station. A swarm of people began to make their way off.
“I have to go,” I said.
He caught my wrist.
“Hey, actually, I’m having a little – get-together tomorrow night. Why don’t you come by?”
It was my turn to blink.
“You’re still throwing mad parties?”
He shrugged.
“Not so mad anymore. But yeah. Hey,” He delved into his pocket and emerged with a marker pen. “Give me your number and -” He flicked the pen lid off and held out his forearm in invitation. “I’ll text you the details.”
I would have protested but people had started boarding the train and there was no time. I hastily wrote my number on his arm and handed the pen back to him.
“Sorry – I really have to go.” I started moving through the flurry of commuters.
“You’d better show up!” Hanson yelled after me. “You always were the life and soul of my parties!”
I waved at him, conscious that I’d begun to frown again.
*
Life and soul? Sarcasm, surely? I thought about him for the entire train ride. During the day and the next day too, thoughts of him kept flickering into my mind like a fire that refused to go out. We’d never been particularly close but I felt like we’d had a mutual kind of respect for one another.
He’d invite me to his parties. Not by text message. Instead, during Art class, the only subject we had together, he’d shadow me to the dried up oil paints and make small talk as he watched me try to extract yellow ochre from ancient tubes.
“You’ll come by tonight, won’t you? Everything fun is closed to us anyway. And there’ll be so many skater types. You know what I mean? But they bring decent booze.”
I’d long decided that he only invited me to make up the numbers. After all, the best parties have to have a requisite number of wallflowers and I most definitely fit the bill. When I inevitably turned up, he wouldn’t seem delighted to see me but would point out the good drinks and say something like;
“Enjoy yourself, anyway. Let your hair down, huh?”
He always managed to catch me off-guard that way. An offhand comment. As though my behaviour didn’t fit in with the rest of the house. And honestly, it didn’t. I didn’t make out with anyone. I didn’t smoke anything. I didn’t take off my clothes or get blindly drunk or fight. I felt like an observer. I didn’t really have a place there; I went because he asked me and because my friends went and although I could’ve stayed home and read a book, I’d have been able to hear my mom screwing her latest boyfriend and the sound was enough to put me off even the most enthralling psychological thriller.
So I’d go by the cinema, by the pubs I was too young to drink in and inexorably wind up at his sprawling mansion. I’d hear the party streets away; drawling, thumping music and loud, warm laughter; the kind that felt like an invitation.
It always started out on a high. Whooping and catcalling and hugging strangers and sloshing drinks and skateboarding down the stairs and people lighting cigarettes for each other but as the hours wore on, things would get too high, hit that note that made everything crack and start to come down, falling into arguments and messy fights and mascara tears and screeching tyres as people exited.
*
On Friday evening, I took a cab to the address Hanson had texted to me. 5A Patent Street happened to be a basement flat which didn’t make any sense until Hanson himself explained that the landlord had developed the basement into accommodation after the four floors above. He took my coat, pointed out the good drinks and disappeared.
The living space overflowed with people I’d never seen before. They seemed around my age but far more – hippy? Bohemian? I settled for avant-garde, sipped rum and coke and tried to put the ‘excellent communication skills’ on my CV to use.
Musicians, dancers, models, actors, writers, singers, photographers, artists. Girls with blue hair. Lots of people with tattoos. They didn’t work regular hours. They smoked a lot, raved about amateur theatre productions, new art gallery showings, castings, stage make-up and ‘artistry’. I would have found them pretentious if they hadn’t been so passionate.
The evening flew by in a smoky haze of telephone numbers, animated conversations and sensible drinking. It seemed like Hanson’s parties had matured a lot over ten years. Soon enough he’d be upgrading to champagne and hors d’oeuvres. I didn’t quite fit in but I didn’t feel it. Every time I considered leaving, it seemed rude to abruptly end a conversation and besides, I didn’t know where my coat had gone.
People began drifting out, organising cabs to nightclubs even though it seemed late enough to call it a night. Hanson had begun telling me about the obvious superiority of Costa over all other coffee chains (and over most independent cafes too) and I acted interested, hoping for a lull in his monologue to ask for my coat. There was no lull. He talked and talked. I’d never realised how talkative he was.
He kept talking, pausing only momentarily to exchange goodbyes with people who thanked him for the evening. I lost track when he started going into the details of Fairtrade coffee beans and instead found myself watching him talk in lieu of listening. Teeth. Mouth. He pushed his hair back even though it didn’t fall forward. A button-down shirt, open at the collar. A silver chain around his neck. It disappeared under his shirt so I couldn’t see if a pendant hung from it.
By the time he stopped to refill his drink, the flat had emptied.
“I should really get going,” I said, conscious of the sudden silence.
“Oh. No. Stick around,” He slugged lemonade into a glass and handed it to me before dropping onto the sofa. “It’s been way too long, Alessia. Sit down, huh?”
He had a funny way of saying my name, an almost grandiose exaggeration to the ‘s’ sound but he didn’t seem to do it on purpose. And if he did, it only made it sound prettier. I sat on the edge of the sofa.
“So, what do you do?” I asked.
He tried not to smile.
“I’m an artist.”
It made sense. He’d been an only child, after all. No siblings to follow, precious enough to his parents to make his dreams dwarf their expectations. Or maybe they just hadn’t particularly cared.
I smiled.
“Oh really?”
His mouth lifted reluctantly.
“Yes. Hey, you wanna see a picture I did of you?”
I blinked and swallowed a mouthful of lemonade hurriedly.
“What?”
He set his glass down, reached for a stack of canvases stored under the coffee table and flipped one over to show me. There was a triangle painted on it. Black paint.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
I looked at him and he looked expectantly back at me.
I tried not to frown; tilted my head and tried to see the canvas objectively. The triangle looked perfectly triangular. But it was just a triangle.
“Well?” Hanson asked.
I cleared my throat.
“Uh – so is that like abstract?”
He turned away from me.
“You don’t like it,” His voice snagged. “Do you know how long that took me? I was up all night. And you don’t even like it?”
I looked at his profile in disbelief. He glared at the floor. Then pressed the thumb and forefinger of one hand to his eyes. I gazed at him incredulously. He didn’t speak. He made a small defeated sound in his throat.
“Of course I like it,” I reassured, touching his arm placatingly. “I – I just – I don’t quite get it. I’ve never been particularly into art. I think it’s great. Bold. Uh – like it’s simple at face value but then – uh-” I couldn’t think of anything more to say.
“Then?” He looked at me accusingly.
“I –uh,” The back of my neck felt hot. “I – and the more you look at it the more – the more you see?”
He started laughing. Tossed the canvas across the room. Grabbed my hand and squeezed it.
“You’re too nice for your own good,” He couldn’t stop laughing. “God! I’m so bad!”
I couldn’t look at him. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.
“I was only trying to be nice,” I sulked, snatching my hand away.
“I know,” He took a bent cigarette from his shirt pocket, brought it to his mouth but then started laughing again. “That’s what’s so funny.”
He lit the cigarette, looked at me and laughed harder, coughing out smoke. I bit hard on my lip so I wouldn’t smile.
“You’re just mean,” I sniffed. “Condescending.”
“Aw, c’mon!” He tried to stop laughing but failed. I watched as he swept a hand down his face and pressed it to his mouth. He couldn’t stop. His whole body shook. His leg was pressing against the coffee table and the glasses on top shook too, clinking into one another. He elbowed me, trying to make me join in. It was all I could do to contain myself. I breathed in through my nose, set down my glass and stood up.
“You’re the worst.” I said.
“Aw, don’t go!”
He caught my wrist and pulled me down but too far towards him so I ended up falling sideways onto his lap. He stopped laughing long enough to kiss me. He blew smoke into my mouth, and bit hard on my lip.
“I was only playing,” he said. He sucked on his cigarette again and blew the smoke into my face, his eyes never leaving mine.
I didn’t speak.
“Do you wanna fuck?” he asked. The question felt surprisingly soft and appropriate but I still didn’t say anything. I thought of him at the train station, his hand gripping my arm. What if? What if the train hadn’t been delayed? What if I hadn’t got pushed? What if I hadn’t lost my footing? Life hangs so precariously, so sensitive and with so many possible directions.
Hanson sucked on his cigarette and leaned forward to tap the burnt end into the ashtray. He put his hand on the small of my back so I wouldn’t fall off him and shifted so my legs were either side of his.
He sat back, took another drag on his cigarette and blew smoke out of the side of his mouth.
“Alessia Willow,” he said. “Alessia. That’s just about the prettiest name I’ve ever heard. Suits you just right.”
His free hand went out and caught my chin, tilting my head slightly towards the light on the ceiling.
“Yup,” he said. “They don’t give faces like that to everyone.”
I pulled away.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I want to say it,” He dropped his cigarette butt into the ashtray. I shifted and his hand went out to rest on my leg.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said.
“No.”
He blinked.
“You don’t wanna fuck me?” He frowned. “Huh. Never heard that one before.”
His fingers tapped out a beat against my leg. We looked at each other. He smiled.
“I didn’t mean to kiss you just then.”
I swallowed. My mouth tasted like smoke and lemons.
“I didn’t mind.”
“But you still don’t wanna fuck me?”
“I don’t even know you.”
He cut his smile with a frown.
“Sure you do. The important stuff anyway. What more do you wanna know?”
I moved, intending to sit beside him but he caught my legs holding me in place. It seemed almost indecent to be there like that on top of him.
“Hanson.”
He leaned forward and kissed me again.
“What do need to know?” he asked. His mouth was warm and dry, his tongue trying to find its way past my lips. I didn’t let it in but he seemed content to kiss me anyhow.
“What’s your real job?” I asked.
He laughed against my mouth.
“Rude. But graphic designer. Wedding stationary etcetera. You?”
I flushed.
“I work for a – uh – kinda advertising thing.”
He frowned.
“Job title?”
I flushed harder.
“Uh – it’s silly. Kinda pretentious. You’ll laugh at me again.”
“Tell me. I promise not to laugh.”
I looked at his shoulder.
“Social media marketing coordinator.”
He didn’t laugh.
“So,” he breathed. “Are you still fucking that chess player?”
“Oliver went to Silicon Valley. Like ten years ago, Hanson.”
“Smart guy.”
“He was,” My eyes flicked up to his. “Are you still having threesomes?”
He didn’t flush. His eyes didn’t even leave mine.
“No. Not for a long time.”
“How long?”
He blew out a breath.
“Well – about – a month?”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking. His fingers walked from my knee up my leg, going under the skirt of my dress. He waited for me to push them away. I didn’t. He reached the very top of my leg and progressed inwards, fingertips brushing my underwear.
“So you don’t want to fuck me?”
He said it like it was a joke. It kind of was, especially with his fingers right there. He curled them inside my underwear and stroked. Everything felt tight. Hot. I wanted to close my legs but the way he looked at me somehow kept me in place. Lazily, he ran his fingertip over my clit. Everything clenched. My hands were curled into fists.
“You look so fucking pretty,” he said and he pushed his finger inside me. I tried not to make a sound. He pushed in another. I curled my fingers around his belt.
“Whatcha waiting for?” he asked. “Take it out.”
I didn’t know if he meant the belt or his cock and he didn’t elaborate. I caught the end of the belt, slid the stiff leather free and tugged it out of the loops. I undid the button on his jeans. He watched me the whole time.
I didn’t look at him once. I caught the small silver zip between my thumb and forefinger and tugged. The zipper stuck. It was one of those clunky, male ones; not delicate like they are on a dress. It kept sticking. I had to pinch the denim of his jeans lower down and hold it straight so the zip would slide easily.
His erection felt hard against my brushing fingers. He didn’t make a sound. All the while, his fingers were still inside me, stationary and comfortable like they had a place there. Even sex hadn’t ever felt so intimate and we were both still fully clothed.
“This doesn’t mean we’re going to fuck,” I said. I hated the way the word sounded from my mouth; I always kicked the ‘k’ and it came out woefully correct, like the way an online dictionary voice would say it.
Hanson raised an eyebrow but he still didn’t speak. He shifted beneath me, easing up a little to push his jeans down a fraction. He didn’t help much more. He waited until I got the nerve to reach into his boxers and touch him. He let out a slow breath when my fingertips first made contact. I had to use both hands to pull his cock free of his shorts.
“All this and you’re not gonna give it to me?” His voice was a groan.
I looked down at his erection in my hand.
“No.” I said.
“Yeah, you are,” The words hissed out of him as I stroked his hard length. “You’re gonna give me everything I want.”
My eyes flicked up to meet his and were trapped by his predatory gaze. I couldn’t look away. Rabbit. Headlights. The wrong phrase of course but the only one that fit. He didn’t blink. He sucked in a long breath. The heat coming off him felt dangerous. You’re gonna get burnt, little girl.
Did it matter anymore? Did anything matter after listless, painful relationships and a world falling apart? Did it matter at all when we were touching each other like it meant nothing? How could it matter when it felt so perfect?
“I save your life and you don’t even thank me?” he teased.
I blinked. “Thank you.”
“Isn’t your life worth more than two words?”
“Isn’t it worth more than a fuck?”
He didn’t answer. He looked down at my hand as my fingers swept over his cock. I touched him almost delicately, like I didn’t want to hurt him.
“Don’t squeeze it,” he warned. His fingers pushed deeper inside my snatch. “Don’t, Alessia.”
I couldn’t help myself. I squeezed.
“Fuck!” His cock moved, and his hips jerked. He snatched my hand away, fingers curled iron like around my wrist. He didn’t come though. He sucked in a long breath, eyes closed tight,
“You are – too much, Alessia.”
He moved unexpectedly, grasping my waist and pushing me down onto the sofa so he could move on top of me.
“Are you still saying no?”
I tried to think coherent thoughts
“Yes.” I said.
“What does that even mean?”
I didn’t answer because I didn’t know. He pushed my dress up, tugged down my underwear and was stopped in his tracks by my sandals. He tugged them off roughly like they weren’t worth two months savings and dropped them to the floor with my panties.
“This doesn’t count as fucking anyway,” he said, and he grasped my legs and swept his tongue hard over my snatch. He did everything deliberately; the way he held me in position, my legs raised and wide so his tongue could go as low as it wanted; the way he used his teeth; and even the way he spoke every so often, saying things I couldn’t even hear before his tongue swirled against me again.
Everything felt heated, wet and crucial. His tongue didn’t stop. It pushed and stroked and hovered until I felt like the wait would never be over.
“You still don’t wanna fuck?” he breathed. His breath was urgent against me. His lips moved upward over my stomach, his hands pushing up my dress until it wouldn’t go any further. He moved to kiss my mouth, his hands finding my tits and groping them roughly through the dress. He bit my lip until I gasped and then his tongue swept into my mouth even as his hand worked my snatch.
I pulled my mouth away from his so I could speak.
“I think I might change my mind,” I said. “If that’s okay.”
He didn’t reply. He kissed me even harder, his hands going down to grasp my legs, pulling them up and bending them at the knee. His body moved against mine, struggling to find the right position before I finally felt the head of his cock press against me.
“Say please,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Excuse me?”
He pushed against me a little.
“I can wait,” he said.
I blew out a breath. He pressed his forehead against mine. His chain hung down, the warm silver brushing against me.
“Please,” I said.
He smiled.
“You give me a dozen rejections and then one tiny please? You can do better than that, Alessia.”
He said my name like he always had done, dragging the ‘s’ into something fuller and more sexual. It made me feel so wanted, so different, so special.
“Please,” I said again. “Pretty please. Please please please.”
He pushed inside me unexpectedly, before more pleas had time to form in my mind. I gasped. He groaned, held himself there and sort of rocked against me, his face pressed into the arm of the sofa.
“You are so fucking – incredible,” he breathed.
I pushed up against him and he went deeper. The feeling of tight warmth radiated through me. He started moving before I could enjoy it. Each thrust felt like the first, stretching and possessive. His mouth found mine again and kissed it until all I could taste was smoke. My hands clawed at his back, tugging at his shirt. Each time he pushed inside me, I tilted my hips up as though in invitation. He went harder, like he was more sure of himself.
His name spilled out of my mouth and he made an appreciative sound which almost made me regret it. But I couldn’t help myself. Every time he bottomed out inside me, I couldn’t help saying his name and it only made him move with more determination. Harder. Harder. It went on until my legs ached from being held so tight and my body shuddered on the edge of orgasm. His hand dropped one of my legs and I curled it around him instinctively, even as his palm ground against my clit.
It was worth the wait. Pleasure spiked through me, raw and languorous. I curled closer to him, clenching hard around his throbbing cock until he finally groaned and jerked against me. Sweat, pleasure, breathlessness. For half a minute, nothing mattered but getting closer to him, feeling every aching stretch of bliss. He didn’t move for a while afterwards.
“I’m having a party tomorrow night,” he said, finally. “You wanna come?”
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