With a little wriggling and giggling the two of us soon ended up in the shower with soothing warm water streaming down over our skin. Although my body wasn’t in the most amazing shape, I somehow felt empowered because I was older than him, and took confidence in pretending to be a worldly-wise woman. Of course, he was totally ripped. His abs looked like they’d been carved by some master sculptor, and he even had that sexy defined muscle just above his crotch that you only see in extra-buff men. I wasn’t sure what it was called, but even below the tan-line of his shorts, his skin was sallow and smooth and, to my surprise, completely hairless!
Although it seemed like for ever since I had been in a serious relationship, shaving there was something I did like to ask a man to do. A hairless man was so much more fun to play with, without the worry of stray curls catching in the back of your throat. I wasn’t sure if Blair had done it to make his penis look bigger, but it looked pretty damn good to me. So, trying to regain some control, I pushed him back from kissing my nipples and posed the question, ‘Whatever happened to my champagne kiss?’
As the tip of my nipple fell out of his mouth with a pop, he stood back against the wall of the shower, and declared, ‘I’m a champagne virgin. Will you go easy on me?’ He flashed his pearly whites in a cheeky grin.
Taking direction, he grabbed the bottle from outside the shower and quickly swung back, pushing me firmly up against the shower wall to steady me. Holding my face softly but securely with his left hand, he began to pour the champagne over my chest with his right hand. Then, keeping his mouth at my belly button, he drank up the bubbles after they had filtered down over my breasts. As his alcohol-drenched tongue crashed against mine, I felt a wave of pleasure ripple through my body, my imperfect, cellulite-covered physique. But did I care? Heck no, I was about to have unconventional sex with a boy who looked like a catwalk model. So what if he shuddered with the fear the following morning as he recalled my childbearing, age-ravaged mass? I wasn’t planning on hanging around to witness his meltdown.
All I required was validation. A quick fix of lovin’ that would satisfy my womanly urges. Tomorrow’s reality could wait. I just wanted him to boomerang his tongue around my erogenous zones and … ‘Oh-my-God … that is so fucking good.’ His tongue had moved to my neck. It was always one of my weak spots. ‘Oh yes, thank you. Thank youuuu.’ Before I knew what I was saying, I had somehow begun to praise him like he was a child. ‘That’s it … right there … ohhh, stay there.’ Or, worse still, maybe like a pet.
He wasn’t fazed. If anything, he was inspired to concentrate his efforts on further arousing me with his tongue-teasing while also busying himself on stimulating my clitoris with the firm tips of his wet fingers.
Things were moving at dizzying speed and the alcohol in my system was now fully working its magic. This was just the kind of passion and illicit excitement that I had missed.
Blair chuckled with delight as my body started to contort with the pleasure, then announced, ‘Prepare for entry, I’m comin’ in …’ One of my last memories was the feeling of his rock-hard dick pressed against my leg as he released a mouthful of champagne into my mouth. What rude and lewd acts happened next was anyone’s guess.
The next thing I knew, there was a mobile phone ringing. It was mine calling me from across the room … What the fuck? I rubbed at my eyes to open them and tilted my head up slightly from where I lay. At first I couldn’t make out my bearings, but after a few seconds I started to focus. The first person I saw was Parker, looking like roadkill splattered across a white couch, all lanky legs and lifeless long arms. Amid a pile of jackets and coats I could make out two handbags. One was mine and the other was … Lisa’s. OK, it was all starting to come back to me. But there was no sign of Lisa. Looking down my body, I could see that I had my clothes on, but something didn’t feel right. My hair was damp. Oh-my-God! Flashbacks of my shower antics raced through my head. But where was my Aussie? Dropping my head back on the bed with pain I noticed the digital clock on the locker beside me. Through the black-and-white spots that danced in front of my eyes I read: 8.08 a.m. I didn’t even know what day it was yet. OK, I really needed my brain to start working. I wasn’t with Daisy, so it had to be … Saturday. Fuck, it was Saturday. My brain kick-started with panic. My meeting was in London today. What time was my flight?
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Jumping out of the bed, I struggled for several minutes as I gathered my belongings and stuck my feet back into my FMBs, thinking that they really had done their job. I was hitting Parker to wake him up when it hit me: 10.40 a.m. That was when my flight left. Time was running out. Tripping over a misplaced jacket, I ended up on the floor and caught my reflection in a glass side-table as I climbed back into an upright position. I looked a wreck. My previously well-blow-dried bob was matted and wavy, like I’d taken to the sea with my surfer dude instead of the shower.
Although I wasn’t sure I wanted this job across the water, there was something in me that also didn’t want to miss the appointment under any circumstances. ‘Parker, wake up,’ I yelled, needing some guidance. ‘Help me! I’m gonna miss my flight. Wake up and say something!’
‘Ms Cou-gar … Valentine,’ mumbled Parker, barely moving a muscle and looking scarily like a victim at a CSI crime scene.
As an opener it stopped me in my tracks. Mortified at what I could and couldn’t remember I covered my face with my hands and began to laugh. He was right. I had been a cradle-snatcher the night before. Not having the stomach to look into the adjoining suite and see what state of undress Lisa was in, I signed a short note to my vanished surfer, saying, ‘Thank you for a fun night, I hope you enjoyed popping your cherry! Eva xx.’ Then I ran off to the lift, chuckling at what a slapper I was. I might have been a cougar the previous night, but I still wasn’t sure if I had the makings of a hard-nosed undercover journalist who could hunt out a good story.
As the lights on the walls of the padded lift circled, I decided that all I needed to concentrate on was stalking down a taxi that could get me home to pick up my passport and deliver me to the airport on time. If I could manage that, well, anything was possible.
3
‘Well, good afternoon, Eva, come in and sit down – hell, you look like you need to …’
As first impressions went, it was clear I wasn’t making a good one. It was 2 p.m., I had just stepped into the conference room of Brady Reel Time Films in London, and my plans to wow the producers were not going well. Although I had been waiting for the true hangover to kick in all morning, it had held off until I arrived at the company offices, so just as I began to see a potential new life for myself in the UK, I also started to sense a black cloud hanging over me, rendering me weak and lacking in charisma. Feeling like one of the feebler contestants on The Apprentice, I had looked around the smart penthouse office space as I had waited in reception and had seen good-looking staff. I hadn’t been sure if I would fit in, but I’d known that, despite myself, I was definitely excited at the prospect.
My telephone buddy Bradley might have wooed me single-handedly as far as London, but he was joined today by a stern-looking woman who introduced herself as Billie. While she was hard from the tip of her nose to the straight cut of her knee-length black pencil skirt, Bradley was softer in appearance. He was expensively dressed but slightly unkempt – as if lacking in the love of a good woman and her fashion eye. And his hair was a badger grey, and curled a little too much off the back of his neck and around his ears. Also, a large scar across his cheek suggested he was a man with a past. Could it be an old battle wound? Secretly I hoped it was, until my brain snapped back to thinking sensibly and I realized it wouldn’t be a good plan to do business with a street-fighting crook.
‘Well, Eva,’ Billie said hesitantly, ‘can you tell us a little bit about yourself?’
‘Oh, absolutely. Well, as you know, my name is Eva Valentine, and I’m from Dublin in Ireland.’ Billie nodded sarcastically as Br
adley just sat back in his chair looking worried. ‘And, well, I’ve been a freelance journalist for as long as I can remember. Mostly writing for magazines – features, reviews, celeb interviews, that sort of thing. And, umm, I’m a single mother to one daughter, Daisy, and, umm, my favourite colour is green!’ I pulled a face and let out a nervous laugh, but neither of them seemed too impressed.
‘Fond of a drink, Eva?’
Stunned at Billie’s question, I could only respond with, ‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, are you much of a drinker, Eva?’ asked Billie again gruffly. ‘How many days a week would you partake in a few tasty beverages, exactly? Five days a week? Seven?’
Trying to make another pathetic joke, I mumbled, ‘Listen, I know I’m Irish and I’ve shared a few pints with Colin Farrell, but we’re not all dipsos.’ But they didn’t seem to get the humour.
‘Well, Eva, personally speaking, I think you look a mess, and frankly we’re looking for a professional, not some flake who needs a mouthful of vodka to get them out of bed. Do you understand where I’m coming from here? You smell like a brewery. And, well, I’m insulted that you didn’t take this meeting more seriously.’
I looked at Bradley hoping he’d save me, but he remained tight-lipped and gave me a disappointed look that meant: she’s speaking the truth.
Mortified, I felt my eyes well up with tears. It took me three attempts before I could swallow the lump in my throat and find the composure to talk. ‘Bradley, Billie, please let me apologize for my performance today. I’m seriously embarrassed. And I know I look like shit, but this is not the norm.’ I paused, waiting for a reply, but they left me hanging. Forced to continue, I morphed into a sniffling idiot pleading for forgiveness. ‘Listen, I’m truly sorry, it’s just one drink led to another last night, and, well, it’s a real novelty that I had an all-night babysitter so … well, I just took advantage of the situation. I’m so sorry.’
‘Yeah, that’s all very well, but this is my pet project, too,’ Billie said. ‘And just because my friend Bradley here made a half-brained decision to invite some random piss-head over from Dub-a-lin, doesn’t mean I have to play along with it.’
Bradley gave Billie a meaningful look, then very calmly turned back to me and said, ‘I apologize for my colleague’s passion and forthrightness, but I think what Billie is trying to get across here is that she’s a little disappointed by your lack of enthusiasm for this meeting. And, well, if I’m honest, I suppose I am, too.’
Desperately trying not to let Billie’s harshness upset me, I swallowed my pride and chose to ignore her piss-head comment, while thinking to myself that what she really needed was a good shag – and forged ahead with some more begging. ‘I may not have sold myself well so far, but since I have come a long way for this chat today, I must ask you not to make any rash decisions. And since all manners seem to be out the window, and I probably will be shortly after, let me tell you—’
‘Please do, Eva,’ interrupted Billie in a snide tone.
Feeling like I had nothing else to lose, I blurted out, ‘OK, I got laid last night. I’m single. It doesn’t happen often. You don’t have any rings on your fingers, Billie, so I don’t know about your status, but I wasn’t prepared to miss out on that …’
Both looked a little shell-shocked by my statement, but once again Billie found the words to ask, ‘At the expense of missing out on this job?’
Much as I wanted the chance to explain myself properly, I knew that I had no real excuse and that I’d blown the gig. So I decided my best plan of action was just to flee the room. I made a few more pathetic apologies and gathered up my coat and bag. Racing to the door, I thanked both of them, wished them luck in the future and bolted for the lift to transport me out to safety. As the lift rang down through floors 5 to G, the image of the two of them mockingly waving goodbye burned in my mind.
They must have thought I was totally cracked after my mini-confession of sexual frustration. What did I think I could achieve by telling two strangers – possible employers – that I badly needed to get shagged? As I stepped out on to the cold streets of London once more, a wave of self-pity hit me and I gave into my frustrated feelings and cried into my hands until I realized that my mascara clearly wasn’t waterproof.
* * *
I must have walked aimlessly for thirty minutes, trying to find a cab. Eventually I managed to hail one just as a juicy blister erupted on the heel of my left foot. Though my return flight wasn’t until 6.30 p.m. I hadn’t a clue what to do with myself, so I instructed the taxi-driver to take me straight back to Heathrow and be done with it.
Rooting in my handbag to text Parker my drama, I had just found my phone when it lit up with a familiar-looking UK phone number. Dropping it with the fright, I fumbled to pick it up off the taxi floor when I noticed I’d answered it by mistake. I thought about hanging up, but said a cautious hello instead.
‘Hello, Eva,’ came the reply. ‘It’s Bradley here. Are you OK?’
‘About as awful as you might expect,’ I admitted.
‘Yeah, Billie is pretty much a tyrant, I’m afraid. Sorry about that. But we’ve had a chat about things, and, well … we’ve come to an arrangement that she buggers off and looks after the editing side of the documentary, and I stick to the human resources side of things.’
I tried to work out what he was saying, but none of his words made sense to me.
‘What I’m trying to say, Eva, is that I still want you on the gig. I admired your honesty, and it is the weekend after all, so everyone can be forgiven for a few after-work drinks, can’t they?’
Rubbing my face and even more mascara on to my hands with frustration, all I could manage was, ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, please forget that meeting ever happened, will you? Can we start again?’
‘Eh, does Billie know that you’re speaking to me?’
‘Yes, she does.’
‘And she’s happy for a piss-head like me to be working in the company?’
‘Don’t mind Billie, she has a few issues with alcohol herself, so you’ll learn to ignore her little rants. So, whaddya say, are you on board?’
Totally disorientated, I mumbled some gibberish about not needing the hassle, but Bradley wasn’t having any of it.
‘Eva, I’m being serious here. I want you to be part of the team. Yes, Billie gave you a hard time, but you stuck it to her. We need someone with your kind of feistiness, and even if you do need a mouthful of vodka to get out of bed in the morning, that’s OK as long as you turn up.’
Quickly I barked back, ‘I’m not an alcoholic,’ which distracted the taxi-man from his erratic driving and made him giggle. Mind you, I was beginning to question the claim myself, as all I now wanted were another few drinks to settle my nerves.
Bradley played pacifist and cooed, ‘Hush there, now, where are you? I need to take you for a Bloody Mary to celebrate.’
After several short minutes of browbeating, Bradley convinced me to turn the cab around and meet him at a neutral location otherwise known as the Red Lion. With the intention of being a good sport, I supped on two Marys for the craic, discussed a bit of business – though how much of it made any sense was another matter – and made it for the 6.30 p.m. flight slightly tipsy from the top-up, smiling all the way home.
The following Thursday, Lisa and I headed up to Parker’s Docklands apartment, just like old times, to have a cheeky bottle of bubbles. In case I felt the urge to disclose my new job, I had brought my contract with me as proof. Well, I wouldn’t believe me if I was them, and it was the only piece of paper with my name on it that wasn’t a bill, so naturally I wanted to show it off – to everyone! While neither Lisa nor Parker knew about my decision over the job offer yet, I was a little worried about breaking it to them, in case they thought I was mad. The three of us had shared many a boozy evening at Parker’s down through the years, though it still felt a tad empty without the presence of our other old model friend – now foe, husband-stealer Maddie
.
Keeping the numbers up on this occasion was Parker’s very handsome husband Jeff, who, after six weeks in Dubai, had returned looking mahogany and, in Parker’s eyes, ‘Extremely straight.’ Although they had been married several years, sometimes happily, like most hetero relationships they endured many stormy times, too. And since Jeff was not your stereotypical gay man, and normally preferred to be one of the boys rather than one of the girls, he usually kept himself busy with his building business – which was struggling but still solvent – along with his vast amount of charity work, and left Parker and us to our frivolous girlie chats.
Maddie, on the other hand, had been most definitely one of the girls. She, probably more than anyone, had been my best mate. But unfortunately our common interest in clothes and fun times had spilled over into our love for the same man, and, committing the worst best-friend sin, she’d stolen my husband in a poisoned affair that had so far, amazingly, lasted longer than my marriage.
Maddie had been my world since we had been teenagers, but even though she had ripped my heart out by breaking up my family and starting her own with Michael – they now had a son together – I still dearly missed her friendship, and every time I called up to Parker’s place, where Maddie and I had once squatted rent-free during our poverty phase, I was reminded of what a hole she had left in my life.
Not that I would ever allow her back into my world: I might have loved her, but her ultimate betrayal had robbed me of a future, Daisy of a father and both of us of a home. I’d been disgusted when Michael had finally booted us out on to the street after selling our house for the first stupidly low offer that had been made for it, just so he could afford to buy another new home for them. It was bad enough that he had abandoned his daughter emotionally, but I felt it was unforgivable to leave her homeless.
Despite old memories sending a chill down my spine as I stepped into the lift on the ground floor, I was determined to enjoy my evening. So with that in mind I eased my bum on to Parker’s stone-coloured suede couch and blanked out all the bad feelings that I harboured. After all, I had a glass of pink champagne in my hands, a tray of pastel-frosted doughnuts that I had picked up at the local Shell garage, and no babysitting duties till ten o’clock. So, like any other single parent, I relished the freedom of a hands-free evening and settled back to enjoy the view and entertainment provided by my childless friends.
Champagne Secrets Page 4
