Page 7 of The Spiral
“Married?”
“Don’t know. And It’s none of my business whether he’s married or not. He could be a grandad for all I know.”
“Mr. Caldwell. Sounds like a headmaster. Could be kinky.”
“Stop, will you? It’s business. I just hope he’s got things he wants me to remove for him.”
“Like your clothes.”
“STOP!”
“What? You’re still hot as fuck, you know that, right? It’s that dark tumbling thing you’ve got going on. You could get all down and dirty in ‘The Estate’.” She’s doing inverted commas with her fingers, and shoving her crotch around again, this time all over my table with her open legs forging in my direction. “Wear the hair down, flick it around a bit. You’re not doing a boring suit, are you?”
“Yes, Callie. Business meeting. You do understand the concept?” Clearly not with the grinding still happening and the banana she’s pretending to give a blowjob to.
“Fuck business. You don’t need the money. You’ve got loads of it. You need fucking,” she snaps out, driving her teeth through the banana and widening her eyes at me.
“Oh My God. I cannot listen to this anymore. I’m going to change.”
“TITS OUT!” she shouts far too loudly at me as I get up and head for the stairs.
Tits will not be out. My C cups will be demurely held precisely behind my bespoke Richmond shirts, and well covered beneath whichever designer suit I choose to put on. Tits out? It’s no wonder the woman’s never held a job down for longer than three months.
I stare at myself in the mirror for a while, trying to find rational thought again amidst the rowdiness that is Callie. She might be amazing in her own right as she crashes through life not giving two hoots for basically anything, but I need professional again.
Thankfully, most of my bruising has gone now. There’s only a small green-yellow dusting under and around my eye, which is mostly coverable. And the damage to my leg is now only a small scrape, which again can be covered over in minutes with the specialist creams I have. It’s not really makeup as such; it’s high end scar concealer, something I found on the internet after the first real beating happened.
We had a party that weekend at our house, not that Lewis had thought about that when he threw a bottle of Jack Daniels at me, knocking me to the floor in the process. The purple had grown gradually to the point where no amount of concealer could do anything to help. So I searched for something better, and this little brown bottle I’m currently shaking was it.
I top up the small area of colour left, smearing it gently into the corners of my eye, and then carry on with mascara and eyeliner again. There’s nothing I can do about the bloodshot bit that still hasn’t left, but at least it no longer looks like I’ve been in a fight. I’ll have to pretend I’ve got an eye infection, or make something up if asked and hope there are no more questions on the matter. It’s not like it’s any of Mr.Caldwell’s business anyway.
I’ve dealt with his secretary rather than him. She’s sent all the relevant files to me without me once having to go to his office. It’s been a bonus given the bruising, and I managed to put off the meeting at the house citing a family emergency. They didn’t seem too bothered by it, thankfully.
Half an hour later and I walk downstairs to find Callie stretched out on the sofa, her boots up on the end of it with half the contents of my fridge and cupboards scattered around the place.
“What the bloody hell?” Is all I’ve got to say about the state of my, once beautifully calm, room.
“What?”
“What do you mean, what? Look at the place.” She surveys her damage, flicking crumbs off her t-shirt and then brushing a crisp packet off, too.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Go do businessy stuff while I chill and find you someone to fuck.”
I have nothing to answer that with as I stare in shock, although why I don’t know, and what’s the point anyway? I’ll just clean when she’s gone home.
“Right,” I spit out as she turns away from me, staring back at the television and popping another one of my peanut M&M’s in her mouth. Mine.
“Right. Bye then. Hot ass by the way.”
There’s another exasperated huff from me, which only rewards me with her flicking up one finger and then proceeding to shove more of my M&M’s in, so I don’t bother anymore. I’ll just go, do what I’ve got to do, and then come back here and drink. Hopefully that’ll give me the ability to ignore the festering cesspit my lovely new sparkly home will turn into. Presumably this will also make my face hurt through smiling too much. Something that has, she’s right, been sadly lacking in my life.
I end up snorting out a giggle and making my way for the car, grabbing my bag on the way and throwing a pair of her socks at her, which have somehow ended up discarded in the hall. Not unlike half a dozen other things that shouldn’t be there.
The drive gives me a bit of time to think, something I also haven’t done a lot of on my own since Callie arrived. I called her the week after I arrived in the new place and she turned up that night stating, “This better be good, ‘cause I left a rock hard dick for you.” Nice. But she smiled as she said it, and then we hugged. We hugged so hard for so long that we ended up on the floor at the bottom of the stairs with me crying into her shoulder. But then that was it. She’s not given me five minutes to think, talk, react, cry or release any other emotion I might have needed to get rid of. Even after she saw all the texts and calls I’ve been ignoring from Lewis, some of which are truly nasty.
At first he tried for sweet, begging and pleading. That soon developed into the underlying rage I know so well. Then the voicemails started becoming verbally abusive, threatening me with ruination and that he’d find me and show me what real violence was. He never said it directly, but I understood the implication nevertheless. I spent all that week jumping at every shadow, dodging phone calls and hiding inside. Still, though, when she arrived Callie didn’t let me cling onto the fear I was beginning to feel. She’s kept me busy or laughing, and hasn’t allowed one part of me to wallow. Perhaps that’s why I’m not quite there yet. Maybe she’s right and I do need to talk it out. I don’t know. I am lost, though. I feel alone, and very much like this won’t be over until I make it that way somehow.
I snort lightly. Dead is the only way he’ll ever stop. Not that I’ve got the gumption to pull that one off any time soon. I’m no murderer.