Talk to Me

by Jules Wake

  ‘Want a hand?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows.

  I was going to have to admit defeat otherwise my towel would be joining my belongings on the floor.

  ‘Thank you,’ I muttered, avoiding his eye.

  ‘How is your arm?’ He nodded at the white dressing on the arm I had clenched to my side, holding the towel in place.

  ‘OK,’ I said stiffly. ‘Just a bit awkward, now and then.’

  ‘I can see that?’ He nodded gravely, his lips twitching. ‘Let’s see, what are you after?’

  I blushed scarlet. He was enjoying this.

  ‘Knickers and bra,’ I said red-faced, trying to keep my cool. This was Daniel. We were old friends, I could handle this.

  He slid off the bed, right beside me. We were thigh to thigh. He bent down, righting the bag and opening it up properly. If I’d done that in the first place I wouldn’t be in this predicament. From the bag he withdrew my bra and went back for a second rummage to produce a matching satin thong.

  ‘Nice,’ he said, handing them to me. The gesture immediately reminded me of those leopard print pants. ‘Reminds me of the old days … I’d forgotten this side of you, Olivia.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said firmly, feeling my cheeks fire up as I snatched them from him and dived back in the bathroom. From the other side of the door, I heard a suppressed snort.

  ‘I’m glad you think it’s funny,’ I yelled, peering round the door glaring at him. ‘Why don’t you bugger off so that I can get ready in peace?’

  ‘Sorry, Olivia,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘I was just teasing you. We’re mates, remember. You go ahead. Pretend I’m not here. I’ll just read my paper until you’re ready. And then … I …’ His face went serious as if he were about to say something.

  He could forget it. Mates eh? Huh! I slammed the door. Pretend he’s not there – in a room that size when he’s just been fondling my underwear. I’d almost dissolved into a puddle of lust as those warm fingers had brushed my bare shoulders when he leant down to get to my bag. He hadn’t as much as twitched. Obviously totally unmoved.

  Couldn’t he see my pulse about to jump out of my neck? I could have died when he smoothed out my satin bra, stroking the tiny blue bow, before he handed it to me. Please don’t let him have seen the double AA label. If Emily’s size was anything to go by, he was definitely a boob man.

  I pulled a face at my reflection as I unscrewed the top of my foundation and winced as my elbow bashed the towel rail. Dropping the lid, I then bashed my head on the sink while bending down to pick it up. This bathroom really was too small. Bugger. I’d left my dress in the room. It just wasn’t my day.

  Something flipped. Bloody Daniel. Hogging the room and reading his paper. Completely oblivious to me. Good old Olivia, she doesn’t mind. Why didn’t he just go away instead of sitting there in comfort while I had to get ready in a room the size of a bloody broom cupboard?

  Catching sight of myself in the mirror – flawless make-up, hair cascading in artfully dishevelled curls and in my best underwear, an inner imp urged me on. Mates eh? Not anymore? Forget it. I was sick of him and Emily meeting up with mutual friends and not inviting me. Mates didn’t behave like that. He couldn’t have it both ways.

  Sucking in my tummy, I strolled out of the bathroom as if I didn’t have a care in the world. I smiled sweetly at Daniel as I crossed to the wardrobe wearing nothing but scraps of pale blue satin and lace. Turning sideways onto him, I picked up my dress, held it up for a second and out of the corner of my eye took a quick look.

  Gotcha! Daniel’s face was a picture. He did a discreet but unmistakable double take.

  Nonchalantly, I slid the pale blue dress off its hanger and stepped into it. In the mirror I could see Daniel watching as I shimmied into the fitted sheath. I think something in my body had short-circuited, my hormones were simmering.

  ‘Daniel, as you’re still hanging around, would you mind doing my zip? It’s a bit tricky with my arm at the moment.’ I turned my back to him, inviting him to do me up.

  He gave a strangled, ‘Yes’ and came over. His fingers brushed my back as he drew the sides of the dress together to draw up the fastener before slipping under my hair to push it out of the way. As his palm grazed my neck, my insides shimmered with tiny electrical charges, a thousand volts fizzing down my spine. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  But that little imp had taken hold. No sooner had he let go of my hair, I stepped away to slip my feet into very high-heeled shoes and turned, cocking my head up at him. ‘How do I look?’ I asked, giving him a knowing smile.

  Seeing him swallow nervously was worth every bit of frustration sizzling through my veins. That would teach him. Unfortunately I’d learnt a lesson too. You got burnt playing with fire.

  We both jumped when the phone rang. Thank God for divine intervention because I didn’t have a clue what to say next.

  For over a week the gilt-edged card had sat on the mantelpiece in the flat. Card. Singular, with the words, ‘Admits One’, typed in the right hand corner. Gilt-edged card where ‘Admits One’ means exactly that.

  The man mountain at the entrance to the red carpet was immovable; I would have done well to learn from his impassive resistance.

  If not once, but three million times, I’d asked Emily to double check with the organisers that we didn’t need an additional ticket.

  ‘No, no,’ she’d blithely assured me as if I was some neurotic windbag. Anxious not to turn into Fiona, I’d foolishly believed her. Now standing here, with only a fifty-fifty chance of going to the ball, corralled in the waiting area with a couple of lesser known actresses from Hollyoaks, I wished with all my heart that I could summon up some of that single-minded self-preservation which Kate and Fiona wore like a second skin.

  Did I pull rank when both of us were denied entry? I should have done but as Emily’s face crumpled, the fantasy of being in Hello! going up in a puff of smoke, I uttered the fateful words, ‘You go, Emily.’

  She didn’t even say ‘Are you sure?’ Admittedly, she did gasp a tearful, ‘Thanks so much, Olivia. I won’t forget this.’

  As if I had a choice. I had to let her go. Everyone knew she was the magazine addict and a walking-talking mine of celebrity gossip. Not only would she have been devastated, but what kind of jumped-up cow would I have looked if I’d insisted on going?

  It looked like I was going to be joining all the star-spotters and well-wishers filling Leicester Square, hoping for a glimpse of 007. Which reminded me, somewhere beyond the crash barriers forming a wide corridor leading up to the front of the cinema, Kate was looking out for me.

  I glanced around. At regular intervals, black-clad security personnel manned the metal railings, like trees lining the avenue of a stately home. Each wore sunglasses like a badge of office along with CIA earpieces.

  When there’s a premiere on the news, it all looks so calm and serene, smiling, white-toothed stars sauntering along, waving and nodding. The reality was chaos, which the cameras don’t show, with entourages of bodyguards and minders edgily keeping their charges moving, their dark eyes constantly roving. They reminded me of sharks circling, beadily watching their prey.

  ‘You’re going to have to move. No ticket, no entry,’ said one of the organisers, earnestly clutching a clipboard, the walkie-talkie at her hip issuing staccato gunfire voices, muffled and unintelligible.

  ‘Just making sure my client got off OK,’ I said, bristling at her officiousness.

  ‘Sorry, thought you were a …’ She thought better of finishing the sentence.

  I glanced back up towards the cinema. Sebastian and Miranda were still in view, their red carpet moment captured by a thousand flash bulbs. They made a stunning couple, his bow tie matching the big red kiss on her bottom perfectly. Miranda was happily signing autographs to the lucky few, smil
ing adoringly at Sebastian and he was playing his part to perfection, rakish and handsome, smiling in return at her.

  You could almost believe they were a pair. I should have been relieved – mission accomplished. The press had got their pictures; we’d primed them about the dress. Job done. The rest of the evening was celebrity-sitting. I winced. I prayed to God Emily wouldn’t muck it up.

  Wistfully, I took one last look down the red carpet. I could see the film another day. It was my own fault, all that cynicism about celebrities coming home to roost – hey, so what if I didn’t meet Daniel Craig? He was probably dead boring in the flesh.

  Cinderella is my favourite fairy tale, the ultimate romance. Of course, she has to scrub a few hearths on the way but it turns out all right in the end. Watching Emily sashay down the red carpet while I went back to the car drop off point, hoping Frank the Mercedes driver might still be there, was a real hearth moment. The problem was, I didn’t believe in fairy godmothers. I pulled a face, watching her disappear without a backward glance. Luckily Frank was still jammed into the traffic and at my frantic waving, opened the door for me, ignoring an officious chap who was jumping up and down, waving a clipboard at us, screaming, ‘This is a no waiting area, we’re backing up, you need to move now.’

  ‘Come on, Cinders. I’ll take you back to your hotel.’ Frank ushered me into the car, shutting the door crisply, before stepping back deliberately squashing Mr Clipboard’s toes.

  The journey back was quieter than the one there; the rustle of Miranda’s dress was missing, along with the electric current of palpable excitement that had run around the car. I sniffed forlornly, gazing round at the leather seats. A cloud of perfume still lingered, the heady overpowering notes of Miranda’s Samsara and underneath the gentler lemon fragrance of Daniel’s aftershave. He’d snagged a lift with us, in search of some sports bar just off Leicester Square. The car was a luxury really, as it was only a five-minute walk. Nobody had minded the squeeze, as legs and feet were tangled like computer cables on the floor. Miranda had even said, ‘Isn’t this cosy?’ as she surreptitiously rubbed her leg up and down Daniel’s.

  ‘Yes,’ gushed Emily, oblivious to what she was up to.

  ‘Would you like a bit more room?’ asked Daniel, shuffling closer to me, away from Miranda. The heat of his thigh against the thin silk of my dress made me even more conscious of him.

  Nobody had noticed that we were doing our utmost not to look at each other. My bravado had done a runner after my little floor show. The timely phone call had been Emily saying that Miranda was all set to go.

  Now in the empty car, the waves of giddy anticipation long gone, I felt bereft. What was I going to do now? I had a whole evening to myself. My feet tapped irritably as we trailed along, through the clogged roads. It would have been quicker on foot, and inside the car I felt as if I was trapped in slow motion.

  When Frank deposited me back at the front of The Grayville, I slunk out, keeping my head down. Less than half an hour ago we’d departed in a triumphant procession of colour and verve. As I got out, Frank slipped me a bottle of Cristal – perhaps I would down the whole lot.

  ‘Fancy dinner? There’ll be a meal in the kitchens for the drivers. Always good grub here. You can join us.’ It was kind of him but both of us knew that I would be lousy company.

  I was suffering a post-euphoric hangover. The evening’s miasma of emotion, the excitement of seeing everything come together, the pleasure of getting ready for the party, not to mention the stimulation of something else – had eddied into a black cloud of depression. Stealing through the foyer to the lifts, I prayed that no one who’d seen the three-ringed circus depart would still be around.

  As I balefully eyed the key slot for the magic penthouse floor, a delightful thought came to me, as my fingers closed over the key card in my bag. I smiled wickedly to myself. The imp was back. This morning Miranda had asked for a car back to Surrey tonight. I’d been livid. I’d hired the most expensive bloody changing room in London – The Grayville was not the sort of place that let you have suites by the hour.

  Who could object? The suite had been paid for and I knew just the person who would get a kick out of it.

  She answered my call immediately.

  ‘Hi Olivia, where are you? I’ve seen Emily … and you’ll never believe this, I’ve just had the strangest conversation with someone.’

  ‘Long story. I’m back at the hotel—’

  ‘When Emily came past, this guy next to me, nudged me and said, “That’s my girlfriend.” I wouldn’t mind but he was quite good-looking, so it wasn’t as if he needed to make that sort of stuff up.’

  ‘Probably just some idiot thought she was a celebrity. There are all sorts of weirdos out there. Now …’ I explained the situation to her.

  ‘Be there in ten,’ was Kate’s delighted response.

  Feeling like a naughty schoolgirl I danced down the corridor in anticipation. I was going to enjoy every square inch of that sumptuous suite. I left a note for Emily in her room telling her that I’d see her for breakfast.

  Oblivious to the noise of the crowded bar, Daniel picked at the label of the beer bottle. He’d blown the perfect opportunity to speak to Olivia. In fact he had no idea what had just gone on in that hotel room. He’d blown more than speaking to her.

  Punching the hard wooden surface in front of him felt like a strong option. What an idiot. It was as if he’d had an out of body experience. He’d vowed to stay out of her way since the night at the hospital and now all he could think about was her smooth skin and the slender body in the flimsiest of silk and satin. The curve of hip bone. The delicate indentation of belly button. Long lean legs. Her slim boyish shape was the antithesis of Emily’s voluptuous curves, but all of sudden ten times sexier.

  What the hell had just happened back there? He’d missed playful Olivia, the banter that had once been the hallmark of their friendship. How long had it been since he’d seen that wicked, shy smile? It had all come back with one socking great blow bringing pure lust, which had wiped his mind of his plans to talk to her.

  He’d been inches from jumping her bones. Forgetting why he was there. He frowned at the damage he’d done to the beer label. This was crazy. Why was sitting down to talk to her proving so damn impossible? That had been the sole reason he’d been hanging around in the hotel room earlier … and look how well that ended.

  The screen above the bar was showing the news, a clip of the premiere. Suddenly aware of the image, he sat up and watched the pictures, abandoning the final shreds of the label. There was Emily waltzing down the red carpet, he’d already seen Seb and Miranda. Where was Olivia? Scanning the picture he looked for a glimpse of her blue dress. Maybe she was out of shot.

  He lifted the bottle to his mouth to take an angry swig. He couldn’t get her out of his head or the words that he should have said to her back in the hotel room. He knew exactly how he should have played it. Tell her he was worried because he knew what men were like. Given her a male perspective. Made her realise that men took the line of least resistance. Most of them were lazy bastards when it came to relationships, having their cake and eating …

  It was one of those Homer Simpson, slap your own forehead ‘doh’ moments. His hand froze midway to his mouth as the realisation dawned on him.

  Shit, was that really what he’d been doing with Emily? He took a long pull of the beer. This last couple of months. The mouthful of beer soured as he swallowed. It wasn’t as if he’d made any promises or talked commitment. But then they’d never really talked much at all about anything that mattered.

  He swung his legs off the bar stool and stood up. They’d socialised a lot, meals out, pub visits, shared a bed … had some, he winced at his own admission, half-hearted sex … he wasn’t that consumed with lust to make a deal of it. It had been too bloody easy – Emily had been easily pleased. Demanding i
n that she wanted money spent on her, meals, days out … so easy to do but without much substance behind it.

  He finished his warm beer in one last swallow and gave the TV another glance. There was Miranda in the famous dress – he vividly recalled the throwaway words Olivia had made in the car that day when she’d suggested the whole idea to Emily. His brother and Miranda made a handsome couple, chatting and laughing up at each other as if they’d known each other for longer than half an hour.

  It looked real. Instant attraction, the right chemistry or a well-honed performance by two professionals?

  He had to admit the whole thing had been pulled off brilliantly. Em had bitched like crazy for the last few days about what a slave driver Olivia was, but it had paid off. For all her faults, Olivia was good at what she did.

  His phone beeped with a text message. Sebastian. A wry smile crossed his face as he read the text. Stirring it up again. So, there’d been a cock up and Olivia was on her way back to the hotel. Interesting.

  Throwing a tenner down, he left the bar. Outside he considered taking a cab and then decided it was excessive. If she’d gone back to the hotel, she’d still be there and besides he wanted to think about what he was going to say to her. With Olivia it was probably best just to get straight to the point.

  But what was his point?

  ‘I’m jealous as hell.’ His stomach pitched.

  Is that what he should say to Olivia? He suddenly realised even if it was the truth, he couldn’t say it to her. But it was the truth. He was jealous of this unknown man. Because he and Olivia were friends?

  And where did that leave Emily? How could he be jealous of one of her friends, if he was going out with her friend? And that led to the inevitable question, what was he going to do about Emily? She was innocent in all this. Olivia was taking her unhappiness out on her, which wasn’t fair or deserved. Poor kid couldn’t do a thing right at the moment. He felt a twinge of guilt.

  Someone had to tell Olivia she was making a fool of herself. Someone who knew her. Someone who had her best interests at heart.