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Anyway, he had a card to read.
Let’s play a new game.The Psyche Mirrorby Berthe Morisot is hanging over the fireplace in my bedroom.
Have you ever fucked in front of a mirror, Brat?
Nine o’clock.
R
Arthur went into the house and closed the door behind him, resting his back against the cool of the wood. Fucked in front of a mirror? Sounded like a nightmare. As long as he could see her, why would he want to watch himself? His naked body grinding and the pained awkward horrible facial contortions? Why would she want to do something that awkward? Because she was a sadist, obviously.
So what did that make him, other than hard again? Nine o’clock was hours away. Hours away, and he was already counting the minutes.
* * *
Arthur triedto distract himself with a grueling workout at the gym. Walking home through Hyde Park he felt his phone ring in his jacket pocket. He wanted it to be Regan calling, though he knew it wouldn’t be her.
No, not Regan. It was his father. Arthur considered ignoring the call, worried he’d let something slip, but knew he couldn’t put off the inevitable.
He answered and after the usual greetings, Arthur asked about Mum.
“Missing her babies,” his father said.
“Does she mean us or her houseplants?”
“I didn’t ask. I’d assume both,” his father said. “How’s your brother?”
This question was asked in a tone that implied the answer would not be a satisfactory one.
“Fine, I think. Haven’t seen him in a few days. Busy with friends.”
His father scoffed. He felt the same way about Charlie’s friends as Arthur did. Horrifying to agree with his father on, well, anything.
“What are you busy with?” his father asked.
“Reading. Working out. Enjoying my free time before the army takes it from me.”
“Please tell me some of this free time is being spent with a girl?”
Arthur counted to three before answering with a polite, “Mind your own business.”
“If I must.”
“The following question has nothing to do with my love life,” Arthur said, which was true enough. He didn’t love Regan Ferry, and she certainly had no love of him.
“Go on,” his father said.
“Do you know a woman named Regan Ferry?”
“You don’t mean Lady Ferry, Sir Jack Ferry’s wife?”
“Widow,” Arthur said.
“Of course I know her. Not well. We spoke to her a few weeks before your sister’s wedding. Are you seeing her?”
Arthur ignored that last part and concentrated on the other. Lia had gotten married in The Pearl’s ballroom, held her reception at The Oyster, taken wedding photos in the old smoking lounge. No surprise his parents had chatted with the hotel owner’s wife.
“I know this is strange but…do you remember what you talked about?” Arthur asked.
