Did that mean Sean was jealous of Joe's closeness to me? Or of my closeness to Joe?
'I don't want to hurt him,’ I felt compelled to say.
He pushed forward again, steady, unhurried. My traitorous body quivered with pleasure. I wanted to be here, with him. I wanted his tender, forceful presence in my bowels. My buttocks arched higher, seemingly by themselves. Sean slipped deeper. At the sound of his ravenous groan, my sex rained honey on his fingers. His soft laugh of triumph burnt the shell of my ear. Trust me, Kate,’ he said. 'It's already too late not to hurt him.'
Joe was polishing off the remains of our lunch when we emerged from the basement twenty minutes later, hastily robed and sporting a glow no amount of towelling off could dim.
He looked up from his plate, but not long enough to meet our eyes.
The amount of sour cream he'd heaped on the potato latkes made me wince.
Sean headed straight for the fridge, removed a bottle of Evian water and chugged half of it down. If he'd spoken, he couldn't have said more eloquently that fucking was thirsty work.
He offered me the bottle, but I refused with a tiny shake of my head. Instead, I walked to Joe, kissed his cheek and laid my hand on his back. The knots of tension in his shoulders were impossible to miss. 'Welcome home,’ I said.
He answered me with a grunt and forked another bite of potato pancake into his mouth.
Well, hell. I steeled myself to face a long sulk. I might feel guilty but, in strict point of fact, I hadn't done anything wrong. He wasn't going to con me into feeling responsible for his bad mood - the way my ex used to do. I let my hand fall from his back.
Joe caught it before I could step away. 'Sorry,’ he said, and now he did meet my eyes. 'You took me by surprise. I was all excited to tell you what happened and then -' He made a sheepish face.
'So what happened?' Sean asked. He leant back against the sink, working on the second half of the Evian litre.
'I've got an agent.'
"That's great,’ Sean said. 'We should celebrate.'
'Are you sure he's on the level?' I asked, wishing I'd told him the whole truth about Marianne and Desmond Gerrard, rather than merely warning him to be careful. 'Did you sign a contract? Did you get referrals from his other clients?'
Joe looked at me as if I were two years old and had just said a dirty word.
'No, I haven't signed a contract yet. I brought one home to read and I'm going to have my brother the lawyer go over it. I have a list of clients to call this week, and for your information, this isn't the only agent I met while I was there. This is just the one I liked best. And yes -' he forestalled my next question by poking his fork in my direction '-he is a friend of Desmond Gerrard, whom I gather you don't trust, though I don't know why. That's okay, though, because - from what I can tell - no one in show business is a hundred per cent trustworthy.'
'Oh.' I curled and uncurled my bare toes, feeling two inches tall. 'Well, as long as you're being careful.'
'I am being careful,' Joe said. 'I'm not some wide-eyed kid, you know.'
'I know,’ I lied, because that was exactly how I saw him.
'So when are you gonna move?' Sean asked. His tone was casual, but he was picking the label off the water bottle.
'I haven't decided.' Joe squeezed my cold hand. He smiled at me as though he knew a secret, and I wondered what in the world it could be.
Joe picked me up after work the next day.
I wasn't expecting him, or the bouquet of baby pink roses he carried.
'Want to come for a walk?' he asked. "The weather is crazy today. It's almost spring-like.'
'Sounds great.' I forced a smile. He was biting the skin beside his thumbnail, a sure sign that he was nervous. I supposed he intended to break the news about moving to New York tonight, and was trying to soften the blow with a romantic gesture. I sniffed the tiny budded flowers. My stomach tightened like an overwound clock. 'I'll just throw these in water and grab my coat.'
Neither of us was inclined to small talk.
We ambled in silence towards Independence Square
, our hands in our pockets, our shoes scuffing the herringbone brick of the old-fashioned pavement. The narrow streets, some of them cobbled, were an historian's dream.
If not for the cars, it might have been George Washington's time. Fresh paint gleamed on the wooden shutters of the two-hundred-year-old terraced townhouses. The marble steps were swept, ivy climbed the rich red brick, and small landscaped courtyards seduced both eye and imagination. I couldn't help wondering how many generations had set their wrought-iron tables beneath those gnarled oaks, breakfasting on scones or porridge or Pop Tarts.