Chapter 125: Public Tease
The warmth of the pub was a stark, almost violent contrast to the cool, leather-scented chill of Julia’s basement. Rupert felt it seep into his bones, a mundane comfort that no longer fit. He sat in a worn oak nook, a half-finished pint of ale before him, watching the firelight dance on the brass taps. He could still feel the phantom buzz of the Sybian in his teeth.
Margot was a flame at the bar. She’d chosen a stool that put her full, dramatic profile on display for both him and the young bartender, a rugged guy named Leo with forearms corded from pulling pints and, presumably, other things. Her laughter, a rich, rolling sound, cut through the murmur of the Thursday night crowd.
“Another gin, Leo, darling. And another of whatever my poor, bored husband is having.” She didn’t turn, just lifted a hand, the hotwife anklet catching the low light.
Rupert watched Leo smile. It was a good-natured, professional smile. But it lingered. His eyes, a clear hazel, tracked the line of Margot’s neck as she tossed her curls.
When Leo brought the drinks over, he placed Rupert’s fresh pint with a nod. For Margot, he set the glass down, then leaned in slightly. “Local botanical,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “From the farm over at Hargreave’s. Thought you might appreciate it.”
“How thoughtful,” Margot purred, her fingers brushing his as she took the glass. A deliberate, electric contact.
Rupert’s grip tightened on his pint handle.
Margot slid from her stool and sashayed back to their nook, the scent of juniper and jasmine trailing her. She squeezed in beside Rupert, her hip pressing firmly against his. She took a slow sip, her eyes closed in apparent bliss. “Mmm. He’s right. It’s delicious. earthy.”
“He seems to know his stuff,” Rupert said, keeping his voice neutral.
“Oh, he knows a lot of stuff,” Margot whispered, turning her face into his neck. Her breath was warm and gin-scented. “Strong hands. Did you see his hands, Rupert?”
Rupert had. Competent. Capable.
“I wonder,” she continued, her voice dropping to a thread only he could hear, “what those hands feel like. Not on a beer pump.” She placed her own hand high on his thigh, under the table, and squeezed. “Imagine them on my hips. Pinning me. Holding me down while…” She let the sentence hang, taking another sip.
A cold trickle, unrelated to the fire’s heat, traced Rupert’s spine. He looked over at the bar. Leo was polishing a glass, glancing idly around the pub. His eyes passed over theirs, gave a friendly, blank smile, and moved on.
He could be anyone.
“You’re quiet,” Margot nudged.
“Just thinking about work,” Rupert lied.
“Liar.” She giggled, a playful, wicked sound. “You’re thinking about him. Wondering. It’s written all over your face.” She shifted, turning to face him fully. Her expression was alight with mischief. “Wouldn’t you love to know? If it was him in July? Or the chap from April? Leo could be anybody’s bull, really. Could be mine.”
She took his hand from the table. His palm was slightly damp. Slowly, deliberately, she guided it under the tablecloth and placed it on her bare thigh, just beneath the hem of her dress. Her skin was impossibly warm, smooth.
“These are the secrets, Rupert,” she whispered, her lips brushing his earlobe. “These thighs. Who they’ve been open for. You’ll never know. You’ll look at every man in this village, at every committee meeting, every bloody farmers’ market, and you’ll think… was it you?”
She pressed his hand deeper into her flesh, a firm, claiming pressure. He could feel the faint muscle beneath the softness. A muscle that might have tightened around a stranger.
“Maybe it was Leo. Maybe he’s the one who made me come so hard I saw stars.” She released his hand, leaving it there, a burning, guilty weight on her skin. “Or maybe it was the postman. Or the dreary solicitor who did our wills. Or the husband of the new WI secretary.” She leaned back, her eyes gleaming. “The mystery is the gift that keeps on giving, darling.”
Rupert swallowed, his throat dry. He snatched his hand back and took a long draught of ale. It tasted like nothing.
Margot watched him, a satisfied cat. She stood, smoothed her dress, and tossed her hair. “I’m just popping to the loo. Order me some chips, will you? I’m ravenous.”
She walked away, the swing of her hips a language unto itself.
Rupert was left staring at the bar. Leo was chatting to an older couple now, laughing easily. A normal, handsome, village bartender. He reached for a high shelf to grab a bottle of whisky, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of toned stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband.
Strong hands.
Rupert’s mind, traitorously, supplied the image: those hands on Margot’s hips, that body moving over hers in the anonymous dark of a hotel room, or in Julia’s ante-chamber. The low, shared laugh. The silence afterward.
When Margot returned, the chips arrived. Leo brought them himself, a small ceramic bowl gleaming with grease and salt. “Here you go, Margot. Extra vinegar, just as you like.”
“You remembered!” she beamed, touching his wrist again.
“Hard to forget.” Leo’s smile was genial. He glanced at Rupert. “Everything alright for you, sir?”
Sir. The word was polite, distanced. It placed Rupert in a category: the husband. The ancillary figure. The one who paid for the gin and chips while other, more visceral transactions occurred in the shadows.
“Fine,” Rupert managed. “Thanks.”
Leo nodded and returned to his domain.
Margot speared a chip, ate it slowly. “He’s lovely, isn’t he? Very attentive.” She crunched, thoughtful. “You know, I think I’ll suggest the pub caters the WI summer garden party. Leo would be perfect to handle the bar. Imagine him, sleeves rolled up in the sunshine, pouring Pimm’s.” She licked salt from her lower lip. “A real highlight.”
Rupert said nothing. He watched the fire consume a log, collapsing it into embers. The pub chatter swirled around him, a tapestry of ordinary life he felt severed from. Every laugh from a man, every deep voice, was a potential dagger. The dread was quiet, cold, and all-consuming. It wasn’t about the act itself anymore. It was about the infinity of possibilities, the endless haunting. Julia’s words echoed, merging with Margot’s.
Enjoy the rest of your summer. Build your strength.
The mystery is the gift.
He looked at his wife, rosy and vibrant in the firelight, and felt a yawning chasm open between them, bridged only by a terrifying, thrilling electricity. She winked at him, then turned to watch Leo work, a small, secret smile playing on her lips as she traced the rim of her gin glass with a fingertip.
The man at the bar pulled a pint, his capable hands moving with sure, practised ease. He never looked back.