PLEASE NOTE: Ten Reasons To Say I Don’t follows The Revenge Date.
Both are full length titles as available on Kindle separately.
The Revenge Date © Geraldine Fonteroy 2011
The Revenge Date © Geraldine Fonteroy 2011
Published worldwide by Furrow Imprint.
Contact: [email protected]
All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book can be forwarded, copied or reproduced electronically or in physical form without express written permission of the copyright owner.
The moral right of Geraldine Fonteroy as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Designs, Patents and Copyrights Act 1988.
Cover image © Barunpatro at sxc.hu
All characters and events featured in this book are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any person, place, organization, event or thing, living or dead, is entirely unintentional and purely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
THE SWINGING DOOR TO THE HUGE, country-style kitchen banged open and Rosie Matchall’s mother Harriet stalked in. Her slim build, carefully prepared blonde chignon and fine aristocratic stance hid the fact that she was nearing sixty. Rosie, wearing practically nothing: a see-through La Perla shift and a lacy thong, looked up from The Times.
‘Morning Mother.’ She was almost, almost, the spitting image of her mother when younger, but a closer look revealed Rosie to be a finer-tuned version of Harriet – slightly taller, a cup size larger, thick, luscious, naturally golden hair that fell to the small of her back – Rosie Matchall was absolutely stunning, down to her immaculately formed toenails.
And she knew it.
‘Could you explain what that man is doing in your ensuite?’
Rosie yawned. Here we go again. ‘Urinating, I imagine.’
‘Don’t be disgraceful, Rosie. I suppose you slept with him?’
‘I’m twenty-six, for God’s sakes. I should be dating.’
‘You and I both know what you are doing is not dating.’
Crap. Mother was going to start in on all that sex addiction stuff again. Give it a rest! Just because Rosie enjoyed a good time didn’t mean she was a friggin’ freak.
‘It was a date. A first date.’
‘And will there be a second one?’
Before Rosie could answer, another voice piped up: ‘Actually, I was wondering that myself.’
The two women turned to see a geeky thirty-five year old with glasses and hair that refused to sit in the style it was cut to; stout frame squeezed into a slightly rumpled Zegna suit.
‘Oh, Hugo.’ Rosie felt dutifully embarrassed, because she knew she had to tell him that the chances of a second date were about as likely as her mother shagging the gardener in full view of her Kensington neighbors. (Instead of shagging him in secret, in the cinema room in the cellar, the only room Dad couldn’t get to because of his bad knee.)
God, Harriet Matchall was a complete and utter hypocrite. Just because Rosie was up front and honest about her love of sex, instead of hiding it like dear Mummy, she was a slut. At least she wasn’t a cheater – Harriet had been having it off with that decrepit Victor for years now, and poor Daddy was none the wiser.
‘So, tonight then? You mentioned you might like to see Mamma Mia.’ His craggy features, very Daniel Craig last night in the Chelsea bar, were now more like a character from My Name is Earl in the cold light of day. Worse, they displayed that horrible flicker of hope that Rosie hated. Might they have a future? Could he have got this lucky? That’s what he’d be asking himself.
When would she find a guy who just wanted a good time, like her? All her friends complained that was all guys wanted, but Rosie seemed to have a ‘needy’ radar, or needar, or something. The minute she fucked a guy, he wanted more and more and more. One loser, a doctor who did something gross with lungs, actually asked to marry her the moment after he came! They’d known each other all of five hours. It was a bloody shame, she recalled, because he had the most brilliant, delicious body. Everything, and she meant everything, was perfectly formed. Abs to die for. She began daydreaming until a high-pitched voice brought her back to the present.
‘Answer the man, Rosie,’ her mother snapped. Rosie noticed Mother didn’t bother introducing herself. Harriet knew from bitter experience it wasn’t worth it. This situation had been played out far too many times, in so many different ways: Rosie says bye-bye, man cries, begs, bemoans women and sometimes even harasses Harriet for reasons why. Family of Rosie ends up placating, cajoling, encouraging and in some cases, calling the damn cops to get rid of nutter man.
Rosie prayed Hugo wouldn’t end up being one of those who clung to the white columns that bordered the porch, stating he wouldn’t leave until Rosie explained why, why, why it was over.
Hugo stared at her, his banker’s demeanor of the night before all but gone. Right now, she couldn’t imagine why she’d agreed to shag him. Not one for drinking loads or smoking illicit substances, Rosie’s only vice was men – but the poor state of lighting in clubs and bars had a lot to answer for, in the cold light of the many downlights in her parents’ basement kitchen.
Yuck. What had she been thinking?
‘Answer the man, Rosie.’ Harriet’s arms were crossed, a slippered foot was tapping.
God, she longed to put Mother in her place, tell Dad about Victor and his probable two stroke. But Rosie knew that if she did, Harriet would be even more unbearable to live with.
However, the judgmental tone of her voice made Rosie do what she never did.
She agreed to a second date with the loser banker.
But only to shut her mother up.
There was no way she was actually going.
Rosie reasoned there was no chance she could, because Hugh told her he was leaving for a month long assignment in New York the very next day. All she had to do was say she was busy tonight and she was off the hook.
‘Sure, how about tomorrow night, tonight’s not good, I just remembered a prior engagement.’
Harriet’s face was a picture. ‘What?’
Poor old Hugo looked predictably despondent. ‘Well, I, um, have to go to New York tomorrow.’
Rosie grinned. ‘That’s a shame.’ What was a real shame was that he couldn’t keep it up long enough to satisfy her.
‘Unless you come with me?’
That was never going to happen, Rosie mused, not if he couldn’t hold on for more than five minutes.
Hang on, he wasn’t talking about sex, he was talking about . . . oh shit.
Not going to New York?
With him?
Harriet Matchall was looking less satisfied now.
‘Well, Hugo, that might be a little soon for Rosie. She has a, erm, doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning that she can’t miss.’
Rosie waited to see if she would add the bit about Rosie being unable to commit to a breakfast cereal, let alone a man.
Nope, apparently Mummy was using the ‘less is more tactic’ that day. ‘Remember, Rosie?’
The appointment was to see a damn sex therapist, Doctor Rosswell – her parent’s insisted she go if she wanted to continue living under their roof. Stupid woman – fifty if she was a day, grey hair and a round stomach that did nothing for the tight Marks & Spencer dresses she insisted on squeezing into.
What would she know about sex?
Probably a virgin, by the looks of her. And she wanted everyone else to abstain too.
‘Oh, couldn’t I miss that? After all, it’s not every day I get an invitation to New Yor
k, is it?’
Her mother glared at her. Rosie’s suitors inundated her with holiday offers, anywhere from Barbados to Sydney, anything to keep her interested. Usually, nothing worked.
‘Do you, um, have the visa stuff sorted?’ Hugo’s tongue was almost hanging out in anticipation of getting Rosie all to himself in a New York hotel.
Ugh. That was not an attractive thought.
Power through, Rosie!
‘We were in New York just after Christmas, I should be okay.’ Rosie offered.
‘You don’t want to get sent back at JFK, Rosie.’ Her mother scowled.
‘Thanks Mum.’ Rosie thought about it. New York? Why not? If she couldn’t stand Hugo she could find accommodation elsewhere. A juicy slice of the Big Apple might be just the treat she needed after weeks and weeks of boredom in London.
She wasn’t a user but she had enough credit on her MasterCard to carry her for a couple of weeks. After all, she wouldn’t be paying for dinners and nights out, would she? She usually scored a free coffee a day, if the barista was a guy.
There might be a requirement to shag Hugo again though, and that thought turned her stomach. Once she was off a guy, she was totally and completely off him. Still, maybe he could do a Something About Mary and give himself a fighting chance at a good performance. She could suggest it.
Or else she could suggest the handcuffs. They always ensured she had a great time.
Mental note, pack the handcuffs.
‘That’s marvelous, let me get straight on to my assistant and organize another ticket.’ Hugo mumbled something about meeting him in the BIA business class lounge at Heathrow in the morning and Rosie waved him away, telling him to send the details to her BlackBerry.
God, he really was a bore. Handcuffs alone might not work.
‘Well, then, I am very excited,’ Hugo said as their solitary maid Antonia led him away. ‘See you later.’ There was a rather distinctive bulge in his pants.
Hmm.
‘What was that all about?’ Harriet Matchall was still frowning.
‘Look, Mother, the so-called sex therapist said I needed to try forming commitments to men in order to cure myself. That’s what I am trying to do, and you’re putting a downer on it.’ Rosie could have sworn Hugo was hard beneath the soft New Wool fabric of those Zegna trousers. He might be a sap but the thought he would get aroused in front of her mother was quite, well, invigorating. Maybe Hugo wasn’t such a dud, after all. He might be up for a little outdoor sex. Central Park, here she came. Literally. This New York idea was picking up speed.
‘I insist you reschedule your appointment with Doctor Rosswell for this afternoon, see her before you go.’
‘Mother, that isn’t necessary. She isn’t helping me. She’s not even a proper doctor, just some woman with a certificate in being annoying.’
‘Nonsense. She is highly respected in her field.’
‘She’s a virgin, for God’s sake, I’m sure of it. How can you advise people on something you don’t know anything about?’
‘Really, Rosie, don’t be docile. A doctor doesn’t need to have had pneumonia to treat it, does he?’
‘Sex isn’t a disease, mother, it’s natural. Birds and the bees and all of that.’
Her mother made that face that indicated she resented all the money she’d spend funding expensive schools and colleges. ‘So is wine, it’s made of grapes. But if you consume it in large quantities it becomes an addiction.’
God, arguing with her mother was like being in a witness box at the Old Bailey. You end up agreeing with her just to escape.
‘Fine, fine, I’ll see Ms Rosswell.’
Satisfaction graced Harriet Matchall’s thin lips. ‘I’ll call her now.’
CHAPTER TWO
DOCTOR ROSSWELL’S RECEPTION WAS FILLED WITH strangers who looked like total and utter perverts. One guy was actually sitting there with his hands down his pants, staring at her and licking his lips. The receptionist, a perky girl with a brown glossy bob and a sixties’ style red mini clapped her hands and called out: ‘No, Roger, not appropriate.’
Roger reluctantly withdrew his hands. Rosie glared at him. Roger should be institutionalized, not sitting here amongst normal people.
‘Miss Matchall, the doctor will see you now.’
Yeah, yeah. Rosie dragged herself from the plush chair, upholstered, she noticed, in a fabric that was not easy to clean. Leather would be a better bet, with clients such as that Roger in attendance.
‘Morning Rosie, how are you today? Your mother tells me we might be making some progress?’
Isn’t there some rule that you’re not supposed to discuss a patient with other people? Maybe sex therapists were immune to such niceties. Or maybe Doctor Rosswell didn’t understand sex should be personal. Given her status as a virgin, and all.
The Grey Virgin. Dun, dun, dunnnnn.
‘If she calls it that, then I suppose so. As you know, I don’t think I have a problem.’
‘You do have a problem, Rosie, we’ve discussed this.’
‘So I like sex, that’s normal.’
‘But you refuse to form attachments, that’s not normal.’
Rosie thought for a moment. She hadn’t even been invited to sit down in the huge bucket chair, again upholstered in totally-inappropriate expensive Anna French-like fabric. Doctor Rosswell was in her usual position, half-sitting, half-standing at her desk. If Rosie didn’t know better, she might think the doctor chose that position because it felt good. Doctor Rosswell probably didn’t believe the clitoris existed – she could see her now – thirty years earlier – a Seventies’ high school girl dressed like a nun, hands over her ears as her mates raved about free love and did it in parks and up against walls in clubs.
‘Look, I cannot make myself fall in love, can I? I’m only twenty-six, what’s wrong with having fun. Guys do it. In fact, this is sexist therapy, not sex therapy. If I were a guy moaning about wanting sex and not being interested in love, you’d tell me not to worry, pat me on the head and send me home.’
‘If a man was sleeping with up to seven – was it? – different women a week just for sex, I would say ‘you have a sex addiction’.’
‘I don’t always sleep with seven different guys in a week.’ Rosie was tempted to add: ‘Not due to lack of trying’. ‘That was over New Year’s and Christmas. I had a casual job at Dad’s bank. What did everyone expect?’
‘You yourself told me there were three men in one night, Rosie. And people expect you behave with decorum. You are the chairman’s daughter. The fact that you couldn’t seem to stop yourself having sex with a stranger at your father’s Christmas party indicates you have issues regarding sex.’
God, did they have to go over it again. And again, and again. She was young, guys flocked to her; why not enjoy it while she could?
While the Grey Virgin nattered on about Rosie’s evilness, she closed her eyes. She still recalled that night at Dad’s office near Liverpool Street Station with pleasure (usually when she was alone in bed!). A truckload of Moet and her killer Jimmy Choos made her the most desirable thing at the party, the atmosphere fuelled by a bumper bonus year.
She’d been waiting for the toilet, cursing the fact that she’d just been beaten to the loo (by a desperate secretary and someone who looked like the mailboy), when Pierre - a sexy French banker she’d been eyeing since she’d walked into the party a half hour earlier – happened by.
She was sitting on the large Louis XV-style sofa in front of the entrance to the ladies, when he appeared in front of her, so that her eyes were level with his bulging crotch. He smelt incredible, a mix of pricey YSL aftershave and heady testosterone.
‘Ello. May I sit?’
‘Absolutely,’ Rosie had said, not moving over so he had to squeeze in next to her on the tiny couch.
Slowly looking her up and down, he took his time and finally murmured: ‘I am Pierre.’
Of course he was. If that was his real name, Rosie was an escape
e from the convent. ‘Rosie.’
‘I know.’
‘You do?’
‘Everyone is talking about the chairman’s incredible looking daughter.’
Hmm. If he knew that, he probably wouldn’t dare lie about his name. Probably thought she might be marriage material, having a chairman father and all. Rosie had looked directly into his dark eyes, which were barely visible beneath the brush of dusty blond hair that swung sexily over his face. She noticed his skin was perfect; she loved great skin – loved the feel of a smooth shave against her thighs.
‘And what are they saying about her?’
‘That she is out of everyone’s league. That she cannot be bought with money, flowers, yachts; all the usual things we bankers use to entice the opposite sex.’
His mouth (full lips, straight white teeth), was almost on hers. He was so arrogant he deserved to be humiliated and rejected – doing that was one of Rosie’s other favorite past-times – except for one rather large thing. Something huge was poking into the side of her butt – to reach that far from where he sat indicated his attributes had to be pretty impressive. Why reject the possibility of great sex with an arrogant, incredible looking Parisian?
‘Well, there is one thing that I want,’ Rosie had said, coyly, sidling her hand over to test his apparatus. Yum, just as she expected. Huge. And rock hard and ready. In response he ran his own hand up inside her short designer mini-dress, past her stockings and garters, and around the edge of her black silk thong. With devastating dexterity, his slid a practiced finger along the elasticized edge. She had groaned with pleasure. Shit, she remembered thinking; she needed to move to France, and fast.
The Revenge Date/Ten Reasons to Say I Don't Bundle (Romantic Comedy) Page 1
