Champagne Kisses

by Amanda Brunker

  ‘Ohmigod, ohmigod!’ I yelped, as the wine started to scald its way through my bra.

  Mortified, Jacub quickly placed his wine on a sideboard and grabbed some cloth napkins from the dining room. Without thinking, he immediately started dabbing me down. I stopped wriggling and started smiling at him.

  ‘My apologies,’ said Jacub, as he took a large step back, even more embarrassed. ‘You have beautiful breasts – I mean … I hope I didn’t burn you. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.’

  ‘You are forgiven,’ I said, giving him a naughty drunken pout.

  ‘I’m so sorry again. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘You can escort me to my room, please so I can change my dress. I’m nervous of these cold corridors now, knowing of all the old souls that still haunt them.’

  Without hesitation Jacub offered me his arm and we spun around and started in the direction of the bedrooms.

  ‘You have no reason to be worried, Miss …’

  ‘Valentine, but call me Eva.’ Maybe it was the vinegar wine but all of a sudden his eyes seemed more sparkly, his ears looked decidedly edible and his chest, which was directly in my eyeline, looked more impressive. His jacket, I had now decided, was more Friday night Jonathan Ross than Playboy attire.

  ‘Of course, Eva,’ he smiled. We walked the rest of the way in silence, our arms still linked, the sexual tension building. By the time we reached my room we had shared nothing but a few lustful looks.

  As I rooted for my key, Jacub stood awkwardly, probably trying to decide what to do or say.

  ‘Would you like to come in and help me drink my welcome gifts?’ Drunkenly, I stared him straight in the eye.

  ‘Emm, er, I don’t think that would be appropriate. I must get back to my service.’

  Out of nowhere I sprang back into old diva mode. It was totally out of left field and I didn’t see it coming. Nor did Jacub, bless him.

  ‘Fine,’ I hissed, as I hastily opened my door and slammed it shut behind me, ‘thanks for nothing.’

  Once inside I cursed my stupid temper. I had just been childishly rude to an utter gentleman. Why did I never learn?

  I was about to fling myself on the bed in a huff when there was a knock at the door.

  I hoped it would be Jacub on the other side, and it was.

  ‘Miss Valentine—’

  ‘Listen, I’m really sorry,’ I butted in, ‘I’m just a little drunk. I get really stupid sometimes.’

  ‘But I just wanted to say—’

  ‘Jacub, ignore me. Honestly. I saw a come-on where there wasn’t one. I had too much to drink. Go do your thing and forget about me.’

  My self-pity stank, but Jacub seemed forgiving. ‘You are very beautiful,’ he whispered. His polite words caught me totally off guard.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You are very beautiful,’ he repeated, ‘I wanted you to know that.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you …’

  ‘I’m afraid I must go now,’ explained Jacub, almost sounding regretful.

  ‘OK.’

  And before I shut the door he had walked back off down the corridor.

  Why couldn’t I have fancied one of the journalists? I wouldn’t have to ask one of them twice to share a free bottle of wine. It would have been a wham, bam, thank you ma’am, one-night-stand that I’d regret in the morning, but at least I wouldn’t feel guilty about wanting casual sex. Journos don’t do guilt. It’s a forbidden gene in our shallow business.

  Philosophically thinking that being shunned wasn’t the end of the world, I changed out of my soiled dress back into the casuals I had arrived in and texted Maddie, who I knew would be still awake with Woody. I then retouched my make-up and headed back down to the group before they started wondering if I was the surprise murder victim.

  As I made my way down the grand staircase adorned with moth-eaten tapestries and portraits of tyrannical-looking men and women, I was greeted by an unfolding drama.

  At first glance I could see several people pacing around frantically on their mobiles, while a couple of ambulance men wearing fluorescent jackets ran through the reception towards the dining room carrying large black cases.

  It was a much bigger production than I had expected; it was very authentic.

  I walked back into the dining room. All I could see were shell-shocked faces everywhere. Still drunk, I started to laugh at how seriously everyone was taking the murder mystery but all I seemed to evoke were evil glares.

  On closer inspection I saw Alfie, one of the older broadsheet journos, lying on the ground looking very pale and bloated. Was he in on the gig, or had something happened to him for real?

  I looked for the girls, to hear what had happened since everyone around me seemed so panicked, but they were nowhere to be seen. Jacub was also conveniently missing. Poor bloke probably ran out of the castle crying sick to the management.

  In the midst of the commotion I did manage to grab our singing waiter Aongus, but I had to walk and keep up pace with him as he wasn’t prepared to slow down for a chat.

  ‘Some sort of nut allergy,’ he blurted before rushing on to the kitchen.

  Nut allergy? Surely that wasn’t part of the mystery weekend?

  Not knowing quite what the etiquette was in such situations, I poured myself another glass of burgundy-coloured petrol and sat down in a corner. There were already too many people interfering and taking up space, the best thing I could do for Alfie was stay out of his way so the professionals could attend to him.

  Poor guy, I’m sure the only drama he thought he’d be witness to was death by chocolate mud pie and a bad actress slumped over a writing table leaving a crucial clue.

  Just as I emptied my glass, the situation began to calm down.

  With Alfie en route to Nenagh hospital, our stressed-out hosts huddled in a corner for a pow-wow and then returned, suggesting we rejoined the evening where they’d left off.

  ‘It would be a shame to spoil the fun for everyone,’ explained Aongus, trying to sound upbeat.

  The response, ‘Yesss, Alfie’s an awful selfish fucker tryin’ to upstage the show. Less carry on,’ echoed around the room, from an even drunker journo than me.

  As a displeased rhubarb murmuring grew, Aongus asked for hush and encouraged us to move into the drawing room again for after-dinner drinks beside the fire. Clearly no one had told Aongus that the more alcohol you serve journalists, the uglier an evening gets. I reckon he was probably hoping we’d all get so drunk we wouldn’t be able to remember how disastrous the venture was, and would write up our stories based on their glowing press release.

  Although we were never going to restore the gaiety of the start of the evening, a level of joviality conquered. But no matter how hard I tried to get back into the groove, I had peaked too soon.

  Quietly removing myself from a Cluedo moment of trying to solve whether it was the Butler or Colonel Mustard who bumped off Mrs Richardson the castle’s cleaning lady, I slipped back upstairs to climb into bed. Unable to stomach any more drink, the idea of a night’s sleep without the boom of a newborn’s cry in the next room was most appealing.

  I hoped Kirsty and Melanie would not come back till late, when I’d be in such a deep sleep that they wouldn’t disturb me.

  I was just slipping into an old Rolling Stones T for bed when the antique phone beside my bed rang.

  I wasn’t going to answer it as it couldn’t possibly be for me, but out of sheer curiosity I had to.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, it’s Jacub.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jacub. I walked you to your room earlier.’

  ‘… Oh, Jesus, Jacub sorry, I wasn’t expecting … I mean, hi. Sorry.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘No, not at all, I’ve only realized there was a phone in the room. Is everything OK?’

  ‘I was wondering if you were OK. You left without saying goodnight.’

  ‘Yeah, I just got tired. It
’s been an eventful night.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘I was hoping I could spend a little time to talk with you.’

  ‘If you like, but should you not be dipping someone else’s boobs in mulled wine?’

  ‘Hemm, sorry again, no, I’m free now.’

  ‘All right, where are you now?’

  ‘I’m lying on my bed.’

  ‘Where are your quarters?’

  ‘The next floor up …’

  ‘So basically you’re on top of me now?’

  ‘Ha, very good, yes I am.’

  ‘Soooo, how does it feel?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘How does it feel to be on top of me?’ ‘Oh yes, very nice … Em, so what are you doing now?’

  ‘I’m just lying on my bed, all alone.’

  ‘Em yes, and what are you wearing?’

  ‘Aren’t you the naughty boy, what do you think I might be wearing?’

  ‘Well, I think you would look very nice in your underwear.’

  ‘Really? And what colour underwear would you like to see me in?’

  ‘I think maybe red, or white – no, definitely red.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you the lucky boy, Jacub. It just so happens that I am lying on my bed with nothing else on except my red lace bra, and my small red thong.’

  ‘Thong?’

  ‘Panties.’

  ‘Ohhh …’ I could hear him starting to breathe quite heavily on the other end of the line. Without warning, my evening had once again turned around.

  Was this phone sex? I’d learned from previous occasions that I wasn’t very good at talking dirty. I just hoped my Polish pal was able to take the lead. As I waited for him to speak again, I could just hear some sort of disturbance, then ‘Hello Eva?’

  ‘Yes, what ya doin’?’

  ‘Sorry, I was just making myself more comfortable.’

  ‘Are you comfortable now?’

  ‘Yes, very. Can I ask you to describe yourself?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I just thought you might be able to tell me what you are doing, or feeling.’

  Feeling randy, I decided to go for broke with my dirty talk. I’d never see this bloke again, so if I was crap I wouldn’t have to face the mortification.

  ‘You know, it’s very hot in here, Jacub. I think I might have to take my bra off.’

  ‘How would you do that?’ he asked lustfully.

  ‘Well, I’d have to sit up on my bed, arching my back and carefully undo the delicate catch at the back. Then I’d slowly slip my two hands up over the straps and slide them down over my shoulders … Then with a light shaking movement I’d ease my red semi-see-through bra over my breasts and down across my nipples.’

  ‘What do your nipples feel like?’

  ‘They’re haaaard,’ I panted. ‘And they’re pert. And a beautiful dark brown colour – do you like dark pert nipples, Jacub?’

  ‘Oh, very much.’

  ‘And what about you? What are you wearing right now?’

  ‘I’m not wearing anything.’

  ‘And are you touching yourself?’ My confidence had grown with my desire.

  ‘I am stroking my penis. But I imagine it is with your hand.’

  ‘And how am I doing that?’

  ‘With long strokes, and then …’

  ‘And then what? Would you like me to lick it?’

  ‘Oh, yea’us …’

  I was about to offer up some more words of motivation when—

  ‘Tak, tak, tak … O moj boze … Ja pierdole … Ja pierdole.’ He’d clearly started orgasming in Polish.

  Disappointed that there was very little satisfaction in it for me, I made the swift apology that someone was coming into the room and hung up the phone. He rang back immediately, but I ignored it. Instead I lay back in my lush four-poster bed and invented a romance between myself and the Irish rugby captain Brian O’Driscoll.

  Over dinner one of the girls had mentioned that she met him in a club one night and found his bulging biceps under a tight black T a real turn-on. I had never fancied him myself, but I could appreciate her anecdote of a beefy rugby player. So since I was already turned on, I thought I might as well have a happy ending like Jacub.

  Although I started off picturing the BOD grabbing my breasts from behind with his meaty hands, fingering my nipples and kissing the back of my neck, by the time he had worked his way around to face me, he had miraculously morphed into Piers Morgan.

  Stripped of his dark trademark suit, Piers was wearing nothing but an expensive crisp white shirt with its high collar open, exposing just a little of his tanned bare chest. And he looked very happy to see me.

  But although I had always secretly fancied him, his cheeky smile wasn’t working for me this time, so I pictured Gordon Ramsay, Jonny Wilkinson and even Vinny Jones before I settled on Michael; my bad-assed, cocaine-sniffing slut of a man, Michael. Well, my once upon a time Michael.

  I hated the bastard for all the hurt he had caused me, but it seemed the more I cursed him in my head, the more turned on I became.

  Within seconds of imagining my New Yorker being rough with me, grinding against me, and slapping my ass the way he did, I trembled with the most intense orgasm. I had built up such immense emotion that my body twisted and crumpled until I could no longer continue touching myself.

  For a few moments I lay there prolonging this glorious sensation I was feeling. Why was it that someone I now harboured such venom for could manage to serve me so much pleasure?

  What a typical woman I was. Treat the bitch mean, keep her forever keen …

  The morning of Woody’s christening had started off a disaster.

  Everyone was in a grump to start with as Woody had spent the whole night waking up on the hour, every hour. Parker and I reckoned it was something to do with the full moon, but Maddie was convinced her child was teething.

  ‘Babies can be born with exposed teeth,’ she informed us, ‘I know my baby. And he’s getting teeth. The fact that he’s only a month old means nothing.’

  To make matters worse, the poor little fella also had a bad cough and Maddie was frantic with worry.

  I’d pleaded with the local pharmacist to give me some sort of medication like a cough bottle, but was told bluntly, ‘There are no cough bottles for children under twelve months.’

  If that wasn’t enough to be going on with, yet more annoying problems surfaced. There were the curious yellow stains that somehow magicked themselves on to Woody’s christening robe, the unknown whereabouts of Parker’s video camera, not to mention the issue with the melted baptismal candles.

  Bright spark yours truly had foolishly left them in a bag beside a radiator, which resulted in an unholy mess and many more grey hairs for Maddie.

  After much screaming and stressing, we gathered our bits and walked out of the apartment at 1.15 to make the church at two o’clock.

  By then Woody’s robe was pure once again, thanks to the power of Vanish.

  Jeff managed to locate the video camera on top of their wardrobe, and as he looked incredibly suspicious we just said nothing and thanked him. And after an emergency call to Maddie’s highly religious grandmother, the candle situation was sorted; she’d bought several back-ups just in case.

  It’ll be all right on the night, we told ourselves. What could possibly go wrong now?

  But our cheery optimism didn’t last long, as Jeff’s Porsche Cayenne Jeep decided to have a flat battery. A far from amused Maddie then drove us to the church in her tiny 3 Series.

  God only knows how four adults and one Maxi Cosy car seat actually fitted into such a small motor. It was a tight squeeze, but on the plus side we got to know each other more intimately on the journey.

  When we arrived not only was Maddie’s family there to meet us, but so was the rain, which in fact was a good thing because it ushered us all into the church quickly and cut out the idle chit-chat.

 
With just minutes to spare, Parker, Maddie, myself and Woody took our places at the top of the church along with five other families who were also having their children christened. Tragically Jeff had to sit alongside some of Maddie’s family, and got off to a bad start with them when his mobile phone started to ring from inside his jacket pocket.

  The theme from Fantasy Island clearly wasn’t popular with this clan, but he made his apologies and looked very cute in doing so.

  With Parker as the Fairy Godfather and me as the Wicked Godmother – that’s ‘Wicked’ in the alcoholic beverage sense – I started to fear for Woody’s moral upbringing. I don’t think I was alone with such concerns. While I tried my best to ignore the whispers of the extended Lord family, as I didn’t think I’d benefit from their gossiping, I couldn’t escape hearing from two pews down, ‘He’s the queer who won’t let her move home’, and, ‘She’s the adulteress. The one who slept with her married boss and then leaked it to the papers.’

  I was maddened by the inaccuracies.

  How dare they pontificate over Parker and me! They have no right. They don’t have a clue what they’re talking about.

  Yes, he’s the queer, but there’s nicer ways to put it. But he’s not stopping Maddie from moving home. She just couldn’t stand to be near such bigots. And who could blame her? As for being called an adulteress, I suppose that’s fair enough, but I wanted to march straight over to them and put them straight that it wasn’t actually my boss that I snogged – and only snogged – and that I never leaked it to the papers. As if!

  Sure, the running joke in my business is never let the facts get in the way of a good story, but it sure ain’t funny when you’re on the receiving end of mistaken hearsay.

  I was building up to an evil glare when the priest turned to face us from his cup-polishing and table-laying and introduced himself. The words, ‘Welcome everyone, my name is Father Neven,’ had barely left the man’s mouth when Parker blurted out, ‘Oh good God.’