Undone Read Free Page A

Water coursed down the wedge of his back, pinging off his body as if a halo of diamonds were shattering around him.
    Outside, a distant roar erupted amid a bang and rattle of wood. The Jenga tower had collapsed.
    I watched him disappear from view. I was in control then, I’m sure of it. Lecherous? Interested? Oh, without a doubt. But I don’t fall that easily. I’m like the Jenga tower. I need to be studied and carefully dismantled by a man with skill and patience; by a man smart enough to recognise my own smartness and complexity. This sexy guy with the broken lip, he was sporty and he looked like fun. He’d never be up to the task.
    You’d think, wouldn’t you, that people can’t help but reveal themselves in bed? That they’re made vulnerable by their nakedness and admission of desire. That when you tacitly agree to trust each other by sharing the space of sex, there’s a truth in what you do. The barriers are down.
    But it’s not always the case. Sol gave away so little that night. He was an artful performer keeping his distance. Only later, after Misha died, when he fucked me on the forest floor, did I see Sol for who he was. Or, at least, I’d thought so at the time. Because, ironically, I’m starting to suspect I saw his true colours when he was lying. Fucking and lying. Fucking with such abandon I thought we might disintegrate; thought we might crumble into ancient earth and tremulous ferns, pulling each other down into the disappearance of old bones and deep-diving tree roots.
    I’m afraid Sol is too much like me. He longs for the edge but a fear this would destroy him curtails his compulsion to know that dark delirium. I don’t know how close to ruin he allows himself to get but I know he is not merely fun. He’s more than the sunny, sociable, game-playing Sol he makes himself out to be; so much more. And I’m glad, and I’m scared. He has a hiddenness I want to find, but I’m terrified I might regret it. I expect the feeling’s mutual.
    So he watches me. I watch him. And I do not know who will win.
    Wednesday 2nd July
    Time’s ticking on. It’s been three days now, and I still haven’t recorded the events of day one at Dravendene Hall. I’m being too cautious with my words, too reflective in my thoughts. I’ve been swimming too much as well, upping my daily quota of lengths by two then four. Last night, after closing the bar, I fell into an exhausted sleep, assisted by a large brandy and soda. I wish I didn’t dream.
    It’s nearly 2 a.m. now. I’m sitting in bed with my journal propped on my knees, ink-blue handwriting making veins on the page as if I’m bringing something to life. Monsters and magic. Dr Frankenstein, I presume. I’ve tilted the slats of the bedroom blinds so stripes of silver-white light from the lantern in the courtyard pattern the room. The noirish illumination is negligible but at this brandy-steeped hour, writing by the glow of my reading lamp, the reminder of the ordinary outside world brings a comforting stability.
    I take comfort too from being analogue. I feel more truthful when writing longhand, forming shapes on the page unique to me, the words flowing from my fingers rather than appearing on a screen in the tap-tap uniformity of Calibri or Times. And a brandy and soda, for shame! I ought to be wearing a Vanity Fair bed jacket in peach chiffon and lace while sipping champagne from lead crystal. But I’m distilling my story, and the drink matches my mood: a sparkle of alertness with an undernote of hot, sweet darkness.
    To get to the point: Sol called in at The Blue Bar this afternoon, and I am all undone.
    After Misha’s death, I wasn’t sure I’d ever see Sol again. Wasn’t sure I wanted to, either. But when he sauntered into the bar today, scruffy, dirty and hot, I wanted him so badly it hurt. He won’t be good for me, I’m sure of it, yet I’m tormented by thoughts of him and of the things he might do to me. Obsession starts this way. I fear we are