The Stepson: A psychological thriller with a twist you won't see coming(5)
‘I’m a lucky, lucky man!’ Nick whispered in the silence of the darkened auditorium, walking his hand up under the hem of Lulu’s dress, his fingertips on her bare skin sending desire shooting through her.
‘Not that lucky,’ Lulu hissed back, pushing the hand away, and the two of them giggled like a couple of teenagers.
The woman in the seat in front of Nick turned to glare at them. With her thick, short grey hair and penetrating gaze, she reminded Lulu of her Auntie May, who was never happier than when issuing reprimands to the neighbourhood kids.
‘Sorry – I know, we’re a nightmare,’ Nick murmured with his trademark self-deprecating grimace. ‘You might want to call security to throw us out.’
The woman’s face relaxed in a reluctant smile as she turned back to the stage.
When the lights came up at the interval, Nick leaned forward between the seats and said, ‘I feel I should offer to do penance. Let me buy you a drink. What’s your tipple? No, let me guess – red? Merlot, if they have it?’
The woman laughed. ‘That’s really not necessary. Very kind, but not necessary.’
In the end, of course, she let Nick buy her a glass of Merlot, and a beer for her partner, and he came back with the drinks and a handful of bags of peanuts and crisps. ‘Rustle away in retaliation,’ he suggested.
The woman twinkled at him. ‘Don’t think we won’t!’ And she raised her plastic cup in an impish toast.
It was a lovely, soft May night, and they decided to walk the five miles along the Thames from the South Bank to Chelsea Harbour. Outside the theatre, Lulu slipped on her Skechers and tucked her arm through Nick’s. She never got tired of walking the streets of London. For a girl from Leonora, the buzz was incredible, the feeling of being right at the centre of things. Across the River Thames, through the line of old street lights along the Embankment, were Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster, all lit up and unreal-looking.
She let go Nick’s arm and danced ahead, breathing in the sweet, rotten smell of the river flowing, as it had always flowed, through this dirty, noisy, self-important, wonderful city. Then she turned and danced backwards a few steps, watching him striding after her. She knew she wouldn’t feel this way about London if she didn’t have him to share it with. God, he was so gorgeous! Her Cath Kidston bag, bright yellow and covered in bees, looked ludicrous slung over the shoulder of his made-to-measure suit jacket, but he was such a gentleman that he would never dream of letting her carry her own bag while he carried nothing. He might joke about his vanity, but he never let it get in the way of being a decent guy.
‘You’re such a charmer,’ she gurgled, taking his arm. ‘That lady in the theatre practically asked for your phone number.’
He grinned, flicking back his Hugh Grant hair. ‘She was only human.’
‘I reckon her name is Irma. She’s a retired doctor but she’s always wanted to be an actress. She lives in St John’s Wood with her boring husband Jeremy, but the man she was with tonight was her lover – her lover Eduardo.’
‘One of them,’ said Nick. ‘Her regular Friday night date. Eduardo challenges Irma’s sense of propriety. He’ll wait until the auditorium has emptied and then before she knows it they’ll be having sex on the stage.’
She shouted with laughter. Nick was the best at this. Ever since she’d been a lonely little girl on Braemar Station, stuck out there in the bush with two bratty little brothers, ten miles from Leonora and all her friends, she had made up stories about the people she encountered: the farm workers on the station, the vet, the guy who came selling feed, the people in the cars that trundled past the pickup on the school run in annoyingly obscuring orange dust clouds.
It had been a solitary pleasure – until Nick.
As it had been a solitary pleasure for him. He said he used to do the same thing as a teenager as a way, she supposed, of trying to control a world that had spiralled into chaos. And she used to think she was lonely! She couldn’t bear to think of him, the boy he had been, left all alone. She wanted to reach back through time and grab him into her arms.
‘What would I do without you?’ She sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder as they walked, slipping her hand up inside the lean, solid muscularity of his upper arm.
He squeezed her hand against his side. ‘Bad day at work?’
He always knew.
‘Not bad, exactly, but . . . difficult, I suppose.’
‘Are they ever anything else?’
Lulu sighed again. ‘Nothing worth doing is easy. Isn’t that an inspirational quote I’ve read somewhere? But today definitely ended on a high. Paul’s making really, really good progress.’ She shouldn’t be telling him that, though.
Silence for a few steps. Then: ‘Lu, I’m not sure I like the idea of your being alone with someone with “anger management” problems, as you’d probably describe them. What did he do to his wife? He referred to putting her through hell – is that a euphemism for “I’m a psycho who beats up women”?’
She longed to tell him no, Paul had never been physically violent to Samantha, but she couldn’t betray client confidentiality to reassure Nick on this point. ‘I can’t talk about my clients. But you don’t need to worry about Paul.’
‘The guy’s a creep. The way he looked at you . . . And he hugged you, for God’s sake. You’re always so concerned about playing by the rules, but surely that’s not allowed? Pawing the therapist, like some kind of sex offender?’ He stopped walking and turned her to face him. ‘Is he a sex offender?’