by PJ Adams
But that touch, on the small of my back. The look in his eye when he met my surprised look. That leaning in to whisper in my ear thing.
God but that all worked for me!
It was the same old chemistry. It was why there had been a Brandon and me in the first place. It was–
They were talking, Brandon and the author whose name I suddenly didn’t care that I’d forgotten. Looking at me for a response. That was the second time this evening that I’d lost track of a conversation. So unlike me.
Brandon had taken his hand away and, more than anything else, I wanted his touch again. I needed it. There was no denying a feeling so strong, no amount of logic that would argue successfully against that kind of need.
He met my eye again, and it was clear that he knew it too.
He steered me away to one side of the room. “Maybe we should–”
“What?” I interrupted. “Slip away from here? Find somewhere private? Was it a knee-trembler or a quick blow-job you were after, Bran? You always were the big romantic.”
“You can be so cruel sometimes,” he said, a mock hurt look on his face. “I do love that about you.”
“You can be an incorrigible bastard,” I replied. “And I tell you, I’m not so in love with that about you.”
“That old chemistry, eh?”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
Funny how I could switch from feeling so hot for him that I really would have slipped away from the party to this: the kind of exchange that was stuck uncomfortably somewhere between joking and bickering. In our time together, that balance had steadily tipped until every exchange had at least an undertone of fight to it and now I was reminded of all that had been wrong about us.
The moment was gone.
It was stupid, and I knew it was stupid. Even to lapse for a minute and enjoy his attention. Stupid.
§
“Please tell me I didn’t just see what I think I just saw...”
“Jimmy, darling. If you tell me what you think you just saw, I’ll be able to say whether you really saw what you think you just saw or if what you just saw was something else entirely.” I smiled sweetly, and snagged another glass of cheap Chardonnay from a passing waitress.
“I’ll tell you what I want–”
“What I really really want?”
“Shall we start this again?”
“Let’s. Jimmy darling, such a lovely do again. Thank you so much.”
Jimmy took a deep breath. He had that schoolboy look on his face, like he was trying to contain some private joke and struggling not to break out into an almighty big grin. His dark eyes met mine, then jumped away again in that way of his. I’d always suspected this nervousness in his manner was something of an affectation; you don’t get to be one of the most powerful literary agents in the country if you’re a tongue-tied Bambi.
“Maggie,” he said, in that gentle Dublin lilt. “How lovely. Now, tell me. That wasn’t what it looked like, was it? Please?”
“Did it look like two of your favorite clients chatting over a drink? Because if so, then it was just what it looked like.”
“Good. Because if it wasn’t just two clients having an innocent chat over drinks then it looked like two people who split up pretty damned acrimoniously a couple of years ago breathing a little life back into the embers, and we all know where that leads to, don’t we, Maggie?”
“Aren’t we getting just a little melodramatic, darling? ‘Acrimonious’...?”
“Okay, I concede. You’re the wordsmith, I’m just the guy who sells your shit to Hollywood. If you say ‘acrimonious’ isn’t the right word for a break-up where everyone gets dragged into the fighting and mud-slinging and then you divvy up your friends and everything else between you, then I’ll bow to your specialism.”
Had Brandon and I really been that obvious this evening? And just when I’d almost convinced myself it had been little more than an innocent moment of fun.
“We didn’t divvy up you, Jimmy.”
“Like I say, I sell your shit to Hollywood. I’m like the kid with shared custody. Okay, Mam?”
I punched him on the arm, probably a little too hard.
“So, talking of selling my shit...”
§
He called.
Of course the bastard called.
There was no denying now that it hadn’t been an idle moment of fun, a lapse into flirting simply because we were more comfortable with each other now at these kinds of events.
“Hello there, gorgeous.”
“I’ve got a mudpack on and my hair in rollers,” I said.
“Oh I do love it when you talk dirty, babe. You going to tell me you’ve got those big granny knickers on, too, you big ol’ tease?”
I was in my office, feet up, laptop resting on my thighs. It was mid-afternoon and I’d added three paragraphs to the book, and then deleted two of them. I was in one of those kind of moods. I didn’t want distracting. Or maybe I did. I didn’t know. I never claimed to be easy, now, did I?
“I’ve got a character who just isn’t coming to life,” I said. We used to do this: talk through our writing problems. Talk about my work at this stage to anyone else and the spark would be killed, but somehow with Brandon it worked. “She’s stuck in a marriage that’s been dead for years, and her husband’s having an affair, and hell but I like him more than I like her...”
“Of course you do: he’s the one with the passion. He’s the one who’s driving events, making things happen. She’s the anchor, literally the ball and chain in your story.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Is she fighting for him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t feel worthy. She doesn’t feel she can compete.”
“But it’s her story, right? Of course she’s worthy or you wouldn’t be writing about her. Does she hang onto the schmuck or is she really just looking for an excuse to push him away?”
“She needs to break free of him.”
“Then pull them together again, one last time. Some angry, bitter sex. Get the passions flowing, babe.”
“Sex isn’t always the answer.”
“You looked beautiful at the soirée, Maggie. I really meant that whole ‘wow’ thing, you know.”
“Like I say, sex isn’t always the answer.”
“You can’t say that when you’re sitting there in those big knickers, babe. That’s too hot an image. You want maybe we could meet up? A drink? A meal? Catch up a little. It’s been a long time, babe.”
“I want maybe you just fuck off and leave me be. I’ve got to write some angry sex, okay?”
“I hope you’ll be thinking of me.”
§
He meant it. He was serious.
This was like the old Brandon Tyne. The chaser. The guy who wouldn’t give up, way back when I was just a publicist and he was the big TV presenter-writer guy with a series and a book to promote.
The flowers were over the top, but you couldn’t get a much clearer statement of intent than 25 plush red roses on your doorstep with a note that simply said, ‘Old times, B’.
Old times. He meant the good ones, not the times when we had fought like cats, all claws and hissy fits. Not those exchanges where every joke was undercut by a current of confrontation, when there was a combative subtext in everything that was said. The times when you started to question whether that particular joke he’d cracked at your expense had finished with a punchline or a sucker punch. When fights had ended in brooding silences rather than passionate make-up sex.
We’d never actually lived together, and maybe that said it all. Two alley cats, only meeting where our territories overlapped.
And now... now he was on the chase again, and my goodness I liked it!
§
“You’re serious?”
We were in a little coffee-shop where we sometimes met, me and Ellie Jordan. I was ten years her senior, but way behind on savvy and street wiles. Ellie was skinn
y and blonde with big blue eyes and legs that went up to her armpits and just about the only time I ever felt inadequate about my own looks was when I was with Ellie Jordan.
I shrugged, and tried to look as if it didn’t really matter.
“Brandon Tyne? You don’t remember what it was like?”
“So how’s your boyfriend?” Her married boyfriend, as she’d confessed only a few days before.
“He’s arrogant, he’s a bit of a knob, and he’s hung like a donkey,” she said. “But... Brandon Tyne...?”
“It’s not as if we’re actually back together.”
She gave me one of those looks, the ones that made me feel like a small child who’d been caught searching for Christmas presents before the big day.
“He’s pursuing you. He clearly wants to be back together.”
“But I–”
“You’ve got that silly fluttery eye look on your face again, Maggie. There’s no ‘But I’ about it. You’re flattered, you’re scared that time’s passing and you’re going to run out of chances, and you’re loving the attention.”
Only Ellie Jordan could make a woman feel old at 31. And only Ellie Jordan could say things like that in such a sweet way that you would forgive her anything because she really wasn’t the bitch she sounded.
“You really think it’s worth going through all that again?”
“Maybe it wasn’t so bad. We had lots of good times.”
“I don’t mean you, Mags. I mean the rest of us! All your friends stood by while the two of you tore chunks out of each other. All of us had to help the two of you pick up the pieces afterwards, and God but that cost us a lot in wine. You’re really going to put us through all that again? It’s not all about you, you know. It’s a team thing, Mags. We’re in this together.”
She was joking. At least I think she was joking.
“It’s only a bit of flirting,” I said.
“And we all know where that can lead, now, don’t we?”
“So...” I said, brightly. “‘Hung like a donkey’, you said?”
§
That quiet life thing? The one where I can just shut myself away in my study and write angry make-up sex scenes to pull me into the novel I’m struggling like Hell to write?
That was never going to happen, was it?
A week after the Abel and Riley soiree, it was the launch party for my second novel, Words of Love.
In that week I did three newspaper interviews, a couple of radio slots, I was on a panel for a TV arts show, there was another party and then there was all the email and social media stuff to keep on top of. My novel? I managed a couple of pages, and not very good ones at that.
I think I was right when I told Brandon that sex wasn’t the answer to everything. Certainly not in this book. That whole scene was proving to be just another cul-de-sac.
And now, the book launch.
My publishers had hired one of the oldest public houses in the city. In its long life it had been a meeting place for highwaymen and smugglers, a whorehouse, and even an early police station – the last two concurrently, which I’m sure was handy for all concerned. Right now it was all bull’s-eye glass in the windows, gnarled wooden ceiling beams and wonky floor; a proper English pub.
In theory the event was being organized by my publishers, but in practice Jimmy Abel was coordinating it all. He’d always been like that, even when I was a nobody blagging my way onto his client list with a book that I hadn’t even written.
“Well will you look at them all?” he said, with an arm around my shoulder. “They’ve all turned out for you tonight, Maggie.” I do love that Irish accent. The voice needs to be a good baritone for the accent to work, though, and Jimmy’s voice boomed exactly deep enough.
I needed that. Being forced to pause, to take a breath, to appreciate what was happening.
“My little book,” I said.
“Yes, Maggie. Your little 700-page doorstep of a book, and they’re all here to celebrate your success and hope that maybe a little tiny bit of it will rub off on them.”
I had my arm around his waist, and now I gave him an awkward little sideways hug. “Thanks, Jimmy. For all this. For everything.”
“I should damned well think so,” he said. “Now come and talk to some people and let them fawn over your literary goddess-ness.”
I meant it. Jimmy had always been there for me, had always gone way above and beyond for me.
§
Talk about awkward.
Brandon was there, of course. That wasn’t the awkward thing. Not yet, at least.
No, awkward was when you’re talking to your German publisher while your ex- and hoping-to-be-current lover is doing his best to throw you off your stride with little looks and comments, and with those casual touches of his: a hand on the arm that just happens to allow his knuckles to press against the swell of a breast, the brief touch on the small of your back that brushes down over the swell of your ass as it moves away.
I leaned across and whispered in his ear: “You’re a bastard, you know that, right?”
He just smiled and did that hand on the arm thing again, and then, as I turned and glanced across the room – even more awkward! – there was Rebecca Swaine, an old friend from my PR agency days, looking sad and forlorn as a puppy on death row. And when I followed the line of her look, I saw the reason why: Rebecca’s husband Porter was standing there, and clinging to said husband’s arm in that perky, gorgeous blonde way of hers was Ellie Jordan. Her boyfriend, her married boyfriend who was also hung like a donkey, as I’d only recently found out, was none other than Porter Swaine.
Grabbing two glasses of fizz on the way, I swept over to poor Rebecca.
“Rebecca, Rebecca,” I said. “So glad you could come.” And then, I leaned in closer to her and put an arm across her shoulders in a brief hug. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize, darling. Apologies for the faux pas, I should never have invited–” I nodded across the room, indicating Porter and Ellie. And my, how they looked the perfect couple: him with a charcoal suit hanging from those square shoulders, his tie loosened, evening stubble darkening his jaw; and her in that tiny black dress, looking like she’d stepped straight out of a magazine.
“I didn’t know...” I said.
Rebecca shook her head. “Sorry, I should have said that Porter and I were... I’m sorry. I just...”
The poor thing was shaking! I was furious: with Porter for being such a bastard, and with Ellie for putting me in this position. How ironic that only a couple of days ago she’d been pointing out the impact a messy break-up could have on those around the couple doing the breaking up.
I laughed, unprompted, and far too loud. “Imagine I’m giving you a great big supportive hug, darling. Okay?” I told her. “But I’m not going to do that because he’d see and you don’t want to show him any sign of weakness, now, do you? Okay, darling? Hug over. Was the bastard looking?”
“Yes, yes,” she said with a feeble laugh. “He looked over. Didn’t seem too bothered, though.”
“Oh he will be, darling,” I said. “He just won’t want to show it.” With that, I put an arm around Rebecca and steered her away. “Come along, let me introduce you to some people.”
I looked around, my brain racing, trying to think of who would be a good antidote to the shit poor Rebecca must be feeling right now.
And of course, Brandon was there, standing at the bar with Ben Warwick. What the hell.
“Ben, meet Rebecca. We used to work together in advertising. Ben writes scripts for soap operas, and he’s from Edinburgh, and he’s single. Rebecca’s single too, you know.” Sometimes being over-obvious is the best way to achieve the obvious: Rebecca needed distraction, and what better than a tall, dark TV writer with Sean Connery’s voice to do the distracting?
Brandon was waiting his turn.
“And this is Brandon. You might have seen him on Freeview. We share an agent.” The bastard was smirking. “He’s single, too,” I added.
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Why did I say that? A flippant joke, perhaps, a private dig. But what did it say about us?
He was watching me, maybe thinking exactly the same thing. Trying to work me out. Well good luck with that, Bran – I’ve had thirty-one years and I still haven’t managed to work me out.
“Darling, darling,” I said, taking Rebecca’s arm again. “Come along, Rebecca. There’s someone I want you to meet...”
§
There’s always a speech at these things, and Jimmy was always a one to rise to the occasion.
“I know,” he said, bringing the gathering to an attentive silence. “This is the bit you’ve all been waiting for. There’s always a speech at these things, now, isn’t there?”
Somehow Brandon had come to stand at my side, at the front of the crowd gathered around Jimmy. He did that thing where he leaned in close to whisper in my ear, so close I could feel the air moving and the brush of his lips.
“Sweet nothings,” he said. “Just that: sweet nothings.”
Jimmy had paused, fixing the two of us with a hard stare. It felt as if I’d been caught by teacher.
“When Maggie Nolan came into my life, I was a highly successful literary agent. I’d been there, seen it; I’d done it all. Don’t get me wrong: I wasn’t bored. I love this business. I love what I’ve helped my authors achieve. But I’d gone way past that stage where I ever thought I’d be surprised again. But Maggie, now... Maggie was a breath of fresh air. She told me all about Leaving Lulu, the book she said she was writing but I knew she hadn’t even started, and I willed that book into existence. It was always going to be an astonishingly good book.” He paused, and spread his hands. “It was, of course, so much better than I could have anticipated.”
Brandon’s hand had come to rest on the small of my back, and now I could feel the inevitable tug of gravity as it crept downwards, sliding smoothly down to cup one buttock.
I kept a smile fixed on my face. Jimmy was saying such sweet things, but all my attention was suddenly focused on that hand, that slight squeeze, the fingertips pressing against the top of my thigh.
“Now, with the publication of Words of Love Maggie has taken things to an altogether new level. My favorite review quote so far is, ‘Fiction for the brain, the heart, and – most certainly – the bedroom’.”
