Party Girl at Heart

by Karen Elaine Campbell

  When Giles finally turned up at two a.m., smelling strongly of alcohol and ladies perfume and brandishing a bottle of Dom Perignon, Imogen was still waiting. She intercepted him in the hallway, glass in one hand and gin bottle in the other, swaying slightly in time with the pendulum on the grandfather clock. Her head felt muzzy from the alcohol and her mouth was dry, she pulled her fingers through her hair distractedly, she couldn’t remember what she was supposed to do now, this was all wrong. She hiccoughed noisily and realised that her nerve had completely deserted her, she couldn’t go through with it, he’d ruined dinner and spoiled her surprise he’d ruined it all.

  “Pumpkin, you’re looking beautiful tonight.” Giles, warbled as he caught sight of his wife standing pale and ethereal in a long, white flowing robe, dithering beside the huge potted plant whose large heart shaped white flowers were adorned by long bright yellow stamens, the outline of which loomed out of the darkness to cast phallic shadows on the wall in the moonlight.

  “You’re late,” Imogen accused, her tone was uncertain and her voice wavered with indecision.

  Giles cursed under his breath. What was she doing here, in the hallway, hanging around here waiting for him? He thought she’d have watched her favourite doctor programme on the TV and then gone on to bed hours ago. He glanced at his watch and the hands shifted focus first left and then right, refusing to settle in just one place, he had no idea what the time was. He put a hand on the banister to stop the whole world from tilting and his eyes crossed. Good job he’d left the car at the office and accepted a lift with one of the more sober clients, he was feeling a bit squiffy now he was home.

  “Yes,” he said mildly, he’d learned not to argue with his wife when she was in one of her ‘moods’.

  So that was it then? Just ‘yes’, no explanation, no apology, nothing? His attitude immediately sparked an intense and impulsive fury in Imogen, she promptly forgot her cherished plans for a baby, the romantic seduction and even the exciting role play proposition as a powerful gin-infused anger swept over her brain like a swarm of locusts, intent on destruction. “Well, that’s just fine isn’t it?” she screeched, prowling out from behind the voluminous pot plant with her silk robe flowing unreservedly behind her, seductive lingerie exposed freely as she stepped into the harsh glare of light radiating through from the kitchen.

  Giles stared in confusion. What in the hell had she got on? In his befuddled champagne and beer sodden haze, he couldn’t quite grasp the concept of his wife’s puritanical attempt at provocative underwear. He hadn’t known that she possessed such garments, let alone wore them around the house when he wasn’t there. Imogen was a pyjamas and chastity belt kind of wife, pantyhose and respectable white knickers inhabited her lingerie drawer, not satin and lace and heaps of bejewelled ribbons, his mouth hung open, aghast.

  Imogen was beyond coherent thought: “You turn up here, five hours late, stinking of beer and perfume, not even a phone call Giles, not a word, not a peep, and then all you have to say is ‘yes’, what kind of a word is ‘yes?’” she howled. “How dare you treat me like that, how dare you. I’m not your mother, I’m your wife, and you’d better start acting like a husband around here, too. Did you consider switching on your mobile telephone, perhaps? No, you did not. One call, that’s all I needed Giles, one call, but no, you’re too busy at the pub, out with the boss were you? Well, it’s not good enough, not good enough, do you hear?”

  As she launched herself across the hallway towards him, he couldn’t take his eyes from the quivering mounds of her tiny breasts, pushed up into one of those lacy white corset things, with the very edges of the pink aureole just peeking out into view as her chest heaved and her body moved.

  He couldn’t help himself, he knew she was mad at him and he severely doubted that she would appreciate it, but his hand moved of its own volition and he made a hasty and ill-timed lunge for her left breast.

  The movement was enough to stop Imogen in her tracks, she froze to the spot, mind suddenly very clear and watched him standing there with a silly grin plastered all over his face, stinking of alcohol and swaying rhythmically. When he made another attempt to draw her closer and wrap his arms around her unyielding and irate form, he under-estimated the distance between the stairway and the hall table and first snapped the ear off the elephant umbrella stand as he used it as a prop to hold himself upright and then proceeded to land heavily on the delicate plaster elf perched high up on its tiny plaster plinth. The elf had been a much treasured gift from her mother last Christmas and needless to say, it didn’t survive his clumsy behaviour well, the force of his entire weight was enough to send the elf flying through the air at considerable speed to land on the hard tiled floor with significant inertia; shattering the delicate pottery into smithereens.

  As he smothered a giggle and rapidly stooped to pick up the fractured elf, he finally noticed the dining room table, set out for a romantic dinner for two, and belatedly registered Imogen’s less than sober stare and slightly red rimmed and bloodshot eyes. “Did you have someone over for dinner this-evening?” He asked, quite reasonably, he thought, under the circumstances. It wasn’t every night that you came home late to find your wife prancing around in her underwear and evidence that she’d been entertaining strange people in your house while you were out.

  Imogen’s response had been brutal and painful; the remains of the elf shattered over his head as she pushed him over and stormed past to stomp off up the stairs to their room. He didn’t need to hear the sound of the bolt to know that the bedroom door was locked from the inside out, even in his delicate condition he knew his wife well.

  As he picked himself up from the floor, nursing his head, his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. The message he received made him smile, guiltily. There was someone who wanted him tonight after all, it was pity he wasn’t in any fit state to oblige. He managed to type in three kisses and hit the send button, before passing out where he stood, sliding down the wall, to land in an unceremonious heap on the hard tiles of the hallway floor.

  Jazz awoke next morning alone. He rolled over and encountered the cool feel of the smooth cotton against his bare skin. So she’d gone already then. He hadn’t bothered asking what her plans were for today. It hadn’t been that kind of a night.

  He rolled back again, into the warm patch and briefly considered staying in bed for at least another half an hour. It was already light and he should be doing other things really. Crystal was doing another one of her ‘flying’ things today, so he wouldn’t be missed, if he did decide to spend some time with Verity. He still hadn’t decided if he was going to tell Crystal, or not. He’d come home from the office the other day, intending to spill the beans, and then one thing had led to another and he’d not got around to it. Now he wasn’t sure if he needed to tell her or not; he’d have to get hold of Bertie later to see if he had things under control yet. Until then, why upset the status quo?

  It was a time bomb, ticking away silently, but the longer that he left it, the less inclined he was to go back and re-open old wounds. Crystal would hit the roof when she found out. He’d kept the secret way too long, but it had just never seemed like the right time to tell her. Now it was all worse, so much worse. Who would pay the highest price though, that was the question? He was still no nearer making a decision when he stepped into the shower an hour later, alone. He’d leave it for now, he thought, just a while longer.

  Imogen lay in bed and listened to the milkman collecting the empties and dropping off fresh milk and produce on his way through the village. It had been light for some time, so he was running a bit late today, even for a Saturday. She was both unwilling and unable to find the necessary enthusiasm to struggle out of bed today.

  Eventually the urge to use the bathroom overcame her reluctance to face the world and she finally sprinted along the corridor to the grand family bathroom where she was immediately confronted by the two unused matching towelling robes, strategically placed for romance, from the night befo
re. The sight provoked yet another bout of uncontrollable weeping, before she pulled herself together sufficiently enough to consider the outcome of her first attempt at seduction. She feared that ‘howling-harridan-in-Janet-Raeger’ had really not been the look that she was going for when she’d planned the event, but unfortunately it had been the over-all effect nonetheless.

  To distract herself from such gloomy thoughts she began entertaining herself by rifling through Giles’ trouser pockets. He’d changed clothes quickly and deposited them on the floor, when she’d finally relented and let him into the bedroom this morning, but now one sniff of the offending garments set her antennae on red-alert.

  He’d been spending far too much time ‘down the pub’ after work, she decided, there was a very noticeable aroma of spilled beer and cigarette smoke about the bedroom, and those jeans were the most likely source. As she prepared to put the clothes in the wash, a wayward thought occurred to her, people didn’t smoke in pubs these days, so how was it that had his jeans ended up smelling quite so foul? He was always saying that they worked hard at his office, and he liked to take the staff out for a few drinks every now and then, so the actual idea wasn’t so surprising, it was his complete lack of forethought and the inconsiderate way he’d just disappeared off without a word, she thought. On the whole, it wasn’t a problem, not really. Giles always maintained that an hour or so in the pub smoothed over the office politics and kept everyone sweet, but he’d been doing it on a more regular basis since they’d moved down to the country.

  He hadn’t wanted to move out of the city, Imogen knew that. He was at his happiest on the days that he caught the early train back to London, he walked out of the door with a smile on his face and a spring in his step on those days. She knew that he missed the bright lights of the city and the buzz of the capital. For the first time, she wondered if she’d been wrong to bully him into buying the house down here in Wiltshire, he spent more and more time at their flat in town on his own and less time here with her these days, citing the long commute as a reason for his absence.

  Her fingers fastened around a pile of receipts, loose change and some sweet wrappers, typical Giles. She pulled the whole lot out and tipped it onto his nightstand, he could sort that lot out for himself, she thought. The remains of a foil wrapper, printed with a distinctive trademark, was rapidly abandoned along with the rest of the junk, casually discarded there right on the top of the pile with the incriminating logo uppermost. Imogen didn’t even glance at her haul, she just whipped the jeans into the laundry basket and reached for his socks too, they joined the rest of the dirty washing in the hamper, one more job for Maisie to attend to later.

  Jazz made the journey from Wiltshire to Knightsbridge in record time. He glanced at his watch as he stepped into the brightly lit foyer. “Jasper Reginald, you have a reservation for me?” he asked the clerk behind the reception desk.

  The clerk took the on-line booking slip and studied it thoughtfully. Had she heard that name somewhere before, the face was familiar she thought, or was it? She eyed him up, surreptitiously. Tall, six foot plus, lean, sexy eyes, nice teeth, was he a movie star? She’d only been in the job for a few weeks, but her colleagues had told her to be on the look-out for the well-heeled clients. The Knightsbridge address ensured that wealthy clientele were ten-a-penny, but there was something about this guy that rang bells. The head porter had mentioned that a smart receptionist could double their days salary, on occasion, just for passing on the odd name here or there, everyone was doing it, he said. That was how the paparazzi got their ‘leads’, he reckoned. The money might come in handy, if she could just work out who this guy was.

  She processed the paperwork smoothly and efficiently. This was a joint booking and the young lady had already booked into the top floor suite. Verity Brown. The name didn’t mean anything. They could both be travelling incognito, she supposed.

  “The Caesar Suite is on floor ten, Sir,” she advised him with a smile, as she handed over the room key. “Will you be in for dinner tonight, Sir?”

  “That depends on the lady,” he replied. “Has she checked in yet?”

  She pretended to look down through the list of other guests. “Miss Verity Brown has already checked into that suite, Sir. About thirty minutes ago.”

  “Thank you, we’ll call down if we wish to make a reservation,” he informed her with a brief smile.

  He seemed a little distracted, she thought. He didn’t look like a guy who was about to commit adultery. You could always tell the married ones, they looked over their shoulder all the time and constantly checked their reflection in the plate glass mirror behind the reception desk, they reeked of anticipation.

  “Thank you, Sir. Is there anything else?” she asked.

  He looked around as if he was trying to get his bearings.

  “The lifts are over there, to your right, Sir,” she prompted.

  He looked right at her then, beautiful clear blue-grey eyes looked directly into her own. “Many thanks,” he said, and then he was off, holdall in hand.

  Wow, what a dish.

  Her colleague nudged her in the ribs. “Close your mouth Bernie, you’re drooling,” she teased. Bernadette complied. What did he say his name was?

  Jazz let himself into the suite. The shower was already running and Verity’s clothes were strewn all over the floor in the master bedroom.

  He put his small overnight bag in the spare room, off to one side and went through to the main living area to pour himself a drink. There was a full size bar in this room, and he took advantage of it, pouring a hefty measure of scotch, neat, into a large cut glass tumbler, while he waited for Verity to come out of the shower.

  “Jazz, is that you?” she called.

  “Yup. I’m in the living room. What do you want to drink?”

  “I’ll get one in a minute, I’m nearly done here,” she replied.

  It was another thirty minutes before Verity finally sauntered through to the salon. Her hair was still damp and she’d left it to dry naturally, it sprung up in a riot of auburn curls to jaw length, where it brushed against her pale cheeks.

  She looked tired, he thought.

  She was wearing old faded ‘track pants’ and a tiny tee-shirt which was stretched to bursting point over her burgeoning breasts.

  “Sorry about the clothes,” she commented unnecessarily, when she caught his eyes on her. “Nothing else fits,” she laughed self-consciously.

  “Harrumph,” he replied. He eyed her figure.

  She walked over to the bar and began to pour a drink.

  He looked to see what she was serving herself.

  “Water. Just plain old fizzy water,” she replied in response to his un-asked question.

  He flushed.

  “So, where do you want to start?” she asked,

  Chapter

  7

  TEMPTING FLIGHT

  At the airfield, Jonno was sitting in the office watching Crystal through the hangar doors. If there was one person in the whole wide world who was less suited to parachute jumping then he’d yet to meet them. As an object of desire, she fit the bill perfectly, great tits, a wonderful sexy girl backside and beautiful eyes, but she was about as graceful as a carthorse when attempting to manoeuvre in mid-air. He could imagine her in a lot of other situations, mostly bedroom related, but parachute jumping was most certainly not her forte. If he managed to keep her alive and get her to land in one piece it would be a remarkable achievement. She continually forgot the last instruction he’d given her, she jumbled up the timing and she couldn’t even jump in a straight line, she was giving him grey hairs, just looking at her.

  He rubbed the back of his neck as she fell out of the flight swing yet again, unfortunately she wasn’t a quitter either. When he’d tactfully suggested that maybe she might like to ask the charity to put someone else onto the team in her place, storm clouds had crossed her expression and she’d set her jaw belligerently, she could do this, she knew that she could, they
’d just run through the whole thing one more time and it would all be fine, she’d insisted, daring him to contradict her. He’d given in gracefully, the charity organisers were paying handsomely for this event, he wasn’t really in a position to make waves.

  He glanced at his watch, their time today was nearly up. He swigged the last of his tea from the battered tin cup which they kept behind the bar especially for him, and ambled on through to the practise area, arriving just in time to see her land flat on her backside, yet again.

  Crystal watched him approaching, and lost count, where was she?

  With a curse, he stepped aside as he drew level with her and caught her as she let go again. “Crystal, hold the bloody bar, there, will you? Stop worrying about your nails girl,” he growled, as he took the full force of her weight. His hands grasped a comforting handful of those glorious breasts as he attempted to right her, and he almost dropped her there and then. He quickly let go as a flush ran up under his skin.

  Crystal smirked. She’d not done it on purpose, but she did like it when he caught her. He had a very seductive strong core strength, he didn’t buckle when she landed on him, he just seemed to absorb the impact, this really was very good fun. He found her attractive, she knew that he did, and it made her even more clumsy than usual, heaven help them when they really did get up in the air, she thought.

  There was only one more lesson now, it was nearly Easter, they were all jumping for ‘real’ with the camera crew following in a couple of weeks on the only scheduled ‘practise’ jump. She glanced through the window and up at the sky where the plane they would be flying in was doing some aerial manoeuvres, it looked even smaller than ever once it had taken off, would they really survive the flight? She knew that she was being cowardly, but she wasn’t made for this, she truly wanted to keep her feet on terra firma, she still didn’t want to jump at all.