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Gemma sighed. His ruthless streak remained difficult for her to comprehend. She easily imagined the emotional impact of redundancy letters and uncertainty for people, whereas he saw the bottom line and returns on invested capital.
She re-directed him to a different subject, unhappy with the direction of the conversation. A brighter subject for her and one she had pondered on when sunbathing. “The stable block at Blythewood. One end is used as storage. Could it be converted into something else?”
His fork hovered, a quizzical expression forming on his face. “Yes. What did you have in mind?”
“My hobby room in the main house, not enough space and the light isn’t right for painting. I thought the end of the stables could be converted into a workshop for me, an airy, spacious atelier. Perhaps knock out a wall and put in big windows like in the pool house. What do you think?”
She hadn’t thought he would have a problem with the idea, and she had been right. He spoke positively about her plans. He promised to have an architect visit once they were back home and come up with blueprints and costs. Costs were never an issue, how could they be? If she told him she wanted the moon, she sometimes thought he would acquire it for her. Gemma loved her husband so much as she sat in her comfortable seat in the restaurant. She had beamed her best smile, and he had squeezed her thigh under the table.
The dinner had been lovely. She thought he had made good choices, and her change in attitude to culinary matters pleased him. She tingled inside at his complimentary words. After all the sexual activity today, she pondered, would he be ready to use her again tonight? Make love to her? Gemma wanted to be treated like a princess, not a slave. She hoped and prayed his gastronomic-induced mood stayed good for the night.
They left the restaurant, returning to the limo. The excitement grew inside her, knowing they were heading to the nightclub. She wore elastic stretch pants to aid her mobility. Bright red ones, accompanied by a cropped black top with red and purple flames embroidered onto it with sequins and shimmering fabrics. The heat of the day lingered into the evening, and she hadn’t bothered with a jacket. Very soon, she would be glimmering with perspiration under the dance lights.
The night began brilliantly for Gemma, with Jason setting up a tab at the bar, and she kept to his golden rule about alcohol, alternating the strong stuff with refreshing cold drinks of water or juice. He took up residence relatively close to the dance floor, with his back against the wall and one leg crossed over the other. He didn’t dance, and she didn’t expect him to. When it came to nightclubs and dance floors, Jason watched, occasionally his fingers drummed on his thigh or a foot tapped in time to the music. She ensured she stayed in his view and
on his side of the dance floor.
A Sunday night and, fortunately for Gemma, not the busiest. The locals would have work the next day, and the tourist season hadn’t fully kicked into action. Even with the crowded floor, she made space around her and let her hair down in the metaphorical sense. The recently discovered agoraphobia she occasionally suffered from didn’t appear to affect her in heaving nightclubs or bars. Happy, carefree people nudging or knocking past her, didn’t affect her sensitive personal space issues. She could cope. Well-versed in the ambience, she had been going to nightclubs since she could pass herself off as eighteen.
At fifteen.
Naturally, she had lied to her parents. Her usual chaperone, her brother John, had been away for the weekend on an excursion with his local football club. Gemma had told her parents she was going to Charlotta’s house. Instead, they had easily snuck into the chosen club without problem. Both of them had physically matured into adult bodies long before their brains had caught up. They had giggled and fluttered their eyelashes at the younger men. The big risk had been falling prey to the happy hour cheap booze. Gemma and her friend had known the worst thing they could do was get drunk. They could fool their parents as long as they stayed sober and didn’t smoke—not that Gemma had ever smoked. She had tried a few times and detested the foul taste in her mouth.
The men, or boys, as they were not the only underage kids there, had been all over the two friends. Gemma, in particular, had been targeted because she could dance uninhibited and with a seductive style. Later in the evening, she had come very close to losing her virginity. The boy in question had kissed her as if he was resuscitating her. His calloused hands travelled all over her breasts, and the boozy breathe shot down her throat, making her retch.
At the time, she had been furious when his advances came to an abrupt end. Later, in adulthood, with the benefit of hindsight, Gemma had nothing but gratitude to her father’s friend who had spotted her and despatched a stare of concern. She had scarpered out of the club as fast as her legs would go, with Charlotta tottering behind in her impossibly high heels. Her friend had been mad, and Gemma told Charlotta to go back in if she wanted to risk everything. Gemma hadn’t wanted to get in trouble because of her friend’s carefree nature.
Thankfully, her dad’s friend kept his mouth shut, probably because they had left quickly. It had been another year before she tried the nightclub scene again. The night she had met Guy and eventually became acquainted with his bunk bed.
In Dubrovnik, she was watched by her over-protective husband and, on the other side of the club, by the exits, Remy and Lubinsky. The two men took on the mantle of respectable, smartly dressed clubbers, fitting in quite well to their surroundings. Their casual appearance was a ruse though—every inch of their robotic stance was about being a bodyguard. Hawk-like eyes searched, probing everyone present as if they had barcode scanners. In the end, three sets of eyes tracked her around the club relentlessly, and all she wanted was the one pair, nobody else.
Inevitably, other eyes did ogle her, too. Potential one-night standers visually assessed her as she ran her hands up through her hair, tossing her head back. After years of clubbing, Gemma had various techniques to avoid them. Moving away from unwanted followers or pretending she was with a group of girls, which often got her funny looks from the strange women she latched onto. She usually made it seem natural and friendly. In a foreign country, such familiarity wasn’t going to happen or, at least, that was what she assumed.
Gemma returned to Jason’s side every few songs to refresh her body with a drink. The perspiration collected between her breasts and under the armpits. Antiperspirants couldn’t compete with the heat of dancing and the proximity of many warm bodies. On one visit, he pulled her onto his lap and gave her a kiss. His body felt surprisingly cool, untainted by the rising temperature of the dance floor.
“Very sexy, babe. Too sexy,” he said with lips pressed hard against her ear, enabling her to hear him clearly over the raucous music.
“Good. I want to look sexy for you,” she said back into his ear. She slid off his lap, blew a kiss, and twirled back into the fray of dancers.
The problem with her bra became intolerable. The sweat had soaked into the fabric and irritated the skin. A new bra and not her usual style. The straps dug into her sides. Then the underwire chafed. She cursed the fitter who swore it would wear well. A masochist for Jason, Gemma wasn’t one for herself, not when the solution was straightforward.
Asking for permission felt childish. “I’m going to the bathroom.” She raised an eyebrow expectantly. He nodded.
Remy tracked her to the corridor where the toilets were situated. The man waited outside while she did the deed. The bra whipped off and stuffed into her clutch purse. She struggled to shut the clasp. With teeth gritted, she squeezed hard until she heard the clasp close. About her, other dancers jostled, peering at the mirrors, checking their mascara or lipstick. The restroom stank of cigarette smoke. She dug out her own lipstick and re-applied the sheen to her puckered lips. With her breasts free of constricting attire, she re-entered the dance arena in a happier state.
Gemma dropped her purse back on the table by Jason and strode onto the dance floor. Her short top, loose and baggy, allowed her breasts to bounce about freely. The air was deliciously cool now she had dealt with the unwanted bra. She realised the henna was showing slightly, a few curls of the tattoo peeped out as her bosom moved unhindered. A new track started to play. Glancing over to where her husband held court, she saw his distinctive frown. The dreaded finger wave happened. She strolled over and slouched into the chair. She stared at her long fingernails glittering under the flashing lights and not his blazing blue eyes.
She felt his lips touch her earlobe. “Where is your bra, Gemma?”
She pointed to the bulging clutch purse on the table.
“Why?” he asked.
Gemma stuck her head close to his. “Hurting. A new bra and a bad fit. All sweaty and horrible.”
“How unfortunate. You didn’t have my permission to take it off, and now you can go and put it back on.”
The finger flicked her thigh. A shot across the bow kind of flick. She couldn’t help the pout; it formed spontaneously. She held off moving while assimilating his request. She did not want to wear the bra.
