Chapter 135: Morning Glow
Sunlight, sharp and guilty, cut through a gap in the curtains and fell directly across Rupert’s closed eyelids. He woke not to the gentle glow of embers, but to the clinical reveal of morning. The room felt different. Smaller. The ornate mirror above the fireplace no longer reflected shadowy figures, just a rumpled bed and a man who looked like he hadn’t slept.
Margot was already awake, propped on an elbow, watching him. Her curls were a glorious explosion on the pillow. The duvet was pulled up just beneath her breasts. The teasing glint from last night was still there, but it was softer now, tempered by a practical, almost maternal energy.
“There he is,” she said, her voice morning-rough. “How’s my bull?”
The word sent a jolt through him. It didn’t fit. A bull was the masked figure in the calendar. A bull was the one who made the bell ring. He was just Rupert.
“I’m…” he began, then stopped. He had no words for what he was.
Margot reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “Disoriented. That’s normal. It’s a lot to process. Tea?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, throwing back the covers and padding, gloriously naked, towards the door. The silver anklet flashed. The tiny bell was silent. He watched her go, the swing of her hips, the faint red marks from the linen on her skin. The ordinary miracle of her. It collided violently in his mind with the memory of the hood, the cold zipper on his back, the sound of that bell ringing for someone else.
By the time he shuffled into the kitchen, two mugs of steaming tea sat on the scrubbed pine table. Margot was buttering toast, humming. The calendar was open beside her, to April.
“Sit,” she instructed, not looking up. “Eat. We need to talk about April.”
Rupert sat. The tea was perfect, just the right amount of milk. The domesticity was a lifeline. He clutched at it.
“April,” he echoed, his voice finding itself. “The… timid one.”
“Mmm,” Margot said, sliding a plate of toast towards him. She tapped the photo. “Eighteen. Sweet boy. Terrified of girls. Brilliant with computers, apparently.” She took a deliberate bite of her toast, chewing thoughtfully. “He doesn’t have a date for his leaver’s prom. Can you imagine? The final dance of your childhood, and you’re standing alone by the punch bowl.”
A knot began to form in Rupert’s stomach. He saw where this was going. It was like watching a beautifully crafted trap being assembled in slow motion.
“His Grandmother at the WI and I had a chat,” Margot continued, her eyes sparkling. “She’s worried he’ll retreat into his screens completely. Thinks he needs a… confident introduction. To womanhood.”
“And you volunteered,” Rupert said flatly.
“I offered,” she corrected, leaning forward. “It’s a kindness, Rupert. A rite of passage. I’ll sneak into the school hall just before the prom ends at eleven. Find him. I’ll be his surprise date for the last dance.” She smiled, a genuine, warm smile. “Then, I’ll take him to the Cherry Tree Inn—I’ve already booked the suite—and give him the full, patient, girlfriend experience. No rush. No pressure. Just… guidance. I’ll make him a man.” She sat back, sipping her tea. “You should be proud. It’s a mitzvah.”
The absurdity was so profound it left him breathless. She described it like organising a charity bake sale. A mitzvah.
“And where will I be,” Rupert asked, the words tight, “during this… act of charity?”
Margot’s expression shifted to one of solicitous concern. “That’s the thing, darling. I’ll be occupied. All night. It wouldn’t be fair to leave you here alone, brooding.” She reached across the table and took his hand. “You deserve something, too. A distraction.”
The knot tightened. “Ingrid.”
“Ingrid!” Margot beamed as if he’d guessed the winning lottery numbers. “She’s been practicing. She’s taken a course. Nuru massage. It’s a Japanese art form, all about fluidity and connection. She wants to perfect her technique, and she needs a… compliant subject. I told her you’d be perfect.”
Rupert’s mind flashed to Ingrid, Margot’s sleek, yoga-toned friend with the assessing eyes. He thought of the cold, slimy gel he associated with medical ultrasounds. “Nuru? Isn’t that…”
“Slippery,” Margot finished, her grin turning wicked. “Very slippery. Full-body. It’s about erasing boundaries, Rupert. She’ll be focusing on her craft. You’ll just be… the canvas. Think of it as a spa treatment. With benefits.”
He was caught between two impossible images: his wife in a hotel suite with a virgin boy, and himself, prone under the skilled, impersonal hands of her friend. The jealousy he expected was there, a sharp, green shard. But it was muddied by a stranger, more complicated humilation. He was being managed. Parlayed. His night was a consolation prize, a logistical afterthought.
“It’s one night, Rupert. A trade. A virgin gets a memory to last a lifetime. Ingrid gets to hone her skills. And we…” she let go and gestured between them, “…we get the music. The little bell. The anticipation. July.”
He looked down at the calendar. The month of April stared back, the bull’s youthful, timid posture screaming its innocence. Then July, with its solid block of black stars. A week. A week.
“It’s just balance,” Margot said softly, finally. “You had Amanda. You had all of them. This is my side of the ledger. And it’s fun, darling. It’s play. Don’t forget to play.”
He picked up his tea. It was lukewarm. He drank it anyway, the mundane act an anchor. He was an accountant. He understood ledgers. He understood balance sheets. This was Margot’s calculus, and he was both an asset and a liability.
“Okay,” he said, the word tasting of toast and resignation.
“Okay,” she echoed, victory warm in her voice. She rose, came around the table, and kissed the top of his head. “It’s all arranged. April eighteenth. I’ll wear something devastating. You’ll go to Ingrid’s at eight.”
She walked away, leaving him with the sunlit kitchen, the half-eaten toast, and the terrifying, exhilarating sense that the ground beneath his ordinary life was not just shifting, but falling away entirely. The bell was quiet now, but he could feel its echo in his bones, a phantom vibration counting down the days to April, to July, to a future he could no longer recognize.