Breaking and Entering Read Free Page B

hair, which made people turn their heads. In the early days, he had been embarrassed by the attention it aroused – the way total strangers would stare at him as well, as if examining his credentials as chaperone to such a mop. It would never lie flat, he knew that, and it was impossible to imagine it ever going grey. His wife would reach her hundredth birthday with brittle bones and dicky heart, but hair still that outrageous red.
    â€˜In fact, they’re almost too good to wear. I’d be scared to death of losing them. They must have cost a bomb.’
    They had. More than he had ever spent in any jeweller’s shop before; more than he could reasonably afford.
    â€˜Are they real stones?’
    â€˜Yes. Pearls and amethysts. They’re late Victorian.’
    She unhooked them from their velvet throne, handling them with reverence, almost awe. ‘Wherever did you find them?’
    He laughed, a forced and false laugh. ‘My secret. Aren’t you going to try them on?’
    She fumbled at her ear-lobe to locate the tiny hole. He turned away, couldn’t bear to watch. It seemed barbaric, piercing ears, like those tribesmen in the bush with bones bored through their noses, sticking out two inches either side.
    She leapt from bed to dressing-table, all but toppling the tray; stood close up to the mirror, her full attention first on one ear, then the other.
    â€˜Well?’ he asked, voice hoarse.
    â€˜They’re fabulous! The best present you’ve ever bought me in my life.’ She started strutting around the room, tossing her head to make the earrings swing, touching them, admiring them. The transparent nightdress revealed her pubic hair – a tamer red than her head-hair, but still flaming through the washy flesh-pink nylon. He grabbed her almost roughly, steered her back towards the bed, pushing aside the breakfast tray, the torn and crumpled gift-wrap. Guilt twinged again as he noticed the red blotch on her arm, five-fingered from his grip. Her skin bruised terribly easily. The merest touch could mark it. He unbuttoned his shirt, began tugging at his belt.
    â€˜Daniel, no, you mustn’t! You can’t possibly feel well enough to …’
    He kissed her silent, peeled offher nightie, then pressed his bare chest against her warm and naked flesh. ‘You can help out with some first aid,’ he whispered. ‘Loving ministrations and the laying on of hands.’
    She let him overrule her; used her hands obediently: slipping off his shirt and jeans and drawing him towards her on the bed. Her sleep-lapped body smelt of sweat and talc, a smell of rancid honeysuckle he found peculiarly exciting. His mouth moved slowly down towards her thighs. He kissed their flabby plumpness, though pain was lasering through his throat in vicious spiky jabs. He was angry with his throat, angry with a lot of things, not least his own damned guilt. How could he desire her yet deceive her? It was perverse to crave two women at once, even love them both – though love was such a baffling word, he could only use it now with a sense of dislocation. Penny was right: he shouldn’t be making love at all, not with his sore throat and tangled life. Yet, despite the pain and guilt and sheer confusion (or maybe even because of them), he seemed to have spurred himself into a state of wild excitement. And Penny was responding, already whimpering underneath him; her head thrown back, her face screwed up in a provocative grimace. Watching that transformation never failed to fascinate him – the way his bouncy, scatty wife could turn into a vamp: her eyes closing languorously while her mouth drooled slowly open; tongue thrust out, begging to be kissed.
    He kissed it, grazed her lips, tasting the sweet sharpness of the grapefruit juice. He was too impatient to continue the caress; burned to be inside her, working off his anger in an act of passionate love. He was aware at some deep level of