The House of Sleep Read Free Page B

now, and he slid a hand absently down the front of Sarah’s nightdress, resting it on her breast.
    ‘You haven’t spoken to him or anything?’
    He sighed. ‘Sarah, I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m going to live in London. Why would I waste my time getting to know people I’m never going to see again?’
    He removed his underpants, climbed on top of her, and then pulled down her nightdress so that her breasts were fully exposed. He took hold of her nipples and began to tweak them simultaneously. Sarah examined his expression as he did this, trying to remember where she had seen something like it before: his brow was furrowed with both impatience and concentration, much as it had been the other evening while she had watched him twiddling the contrast and vertical-hold knobs on the television downstairs, trying to get a good picture for News at Ten. That, she recalled, had taken him about two minutes, but less than half that time was up before hetook her tiny wrists in his hands, pinned her arms to the pillow behind her head, and entered her swiftly. She was dry and tight, and found the sensation uncomfortable.
    ‘Look, Gregory,’ she said, ‘I’m not really in the mood. In fact, I’m not in the mood at all.’
    ‘It’s all right, I won’t be long.’
    ‘No.’ She took a firm hold of his hips and stilled their rocking motion. ‘I don’t want to do this.’
    ‘But we’ve had the foreplay and everything.’ His eyes were wounded, incredulous.
    ‘Get out,’ said Sarah.
    ‘What – of you, the bed, or the room?’ His confusion seemed genuine.
    ‘Of me, initially.’
    He stared at her for a second or two, then tutted to himself and withdrew gracelessly, saying: ‘You can be so inconsiderate sometimes.’ But he remained on top of her, and she knew what was coming next. ‘Close your eyes a minute.’
    She stared back at him, defiant but powerless.
    ‘I spy? With my little eye?’
    ‘Gregory, no. Not now.’
    ‘Go on. I know you like it really.’
    ‘I do not like it really. I’ve never liked it. How many times do I have to tell you that I’ve never liked it?’
    ‘It’s just a game, Sarah. It’s about trust. You do trust me, don’t you?’
    ‘Let go,’ she said. Both her hands were enclosed in one of his, and were still pinned to the pillow. His other hand was now hovering above her face, the first and second fingers extended, getting closer to her eyes.
    ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Show that you trust me. Close your eyes.’
    The tips of his fingers were now so near that she had no option: she closed her eyes as a reflex action, and then screwed them tight. Soon she felt the pressure of his two fingers against her shielded eyeballs – gentle at first – and she stiffened, afamiliar terror stirring inside her. She had developed a method of dealing with this sensation, which involved emptying her mind of all ideas relating to the present moment. Time, for Sarah, was halted as Gregory crouched over her, and if her thoughts turned towards anything at all, it was towards what seemed (for now) the distant past: the very beginnings of their relationship, when she had so enjoyed his company, before they had become locked into this pattern of self-perpetuating quarrels and weird bedroom rituals.
    How had they managed to get from there to here?
    She had a vivid recollection, still, of the first time she had met him, during the interval of a concert, at the Arts Centre bar. She had not intended to go to this concert, but ticket sales had been extremely low, and the box office staff were reduced to the expedient of handing out free tickets to passers-by shortly before it started, in order to make up the numbers and spare the visiting performer from embarrassment. The programme consisted of J. S. Bach’s The Art of Fugue, a work of which she had no previous knowledge, performed on the harpsichord in its entirety. The only other person in Sarah’s row was a tall, gangly student, his dark hair cut into a severe