‘Ha! All brand new?’
‘Obviously,’ I grin. ‘Plus, a little help in the bra department.’
‘Chicken fillets?’
‘Even better. A little something I saw reviewed in one of the Sunday papers.’ A waiter appears at our side with our pasta dishes, so I never get the chance to tell her.
‘Another large glass of wine, please,’ she instructs him. ‘Oh come on, have one with me. I hate drinking alone.’
‘That’s never stopped you,’ I point out. ‘And no, thanks. Honestly, I’ve got too much on.’
‘Fine,’ she pouts. ‘But I’m having another.’ As the waiter disappears, she raises her glass, and the drop that’s left in it, to ping it against my water.
‘Here’s to winning him back, sister,’ she grins. ‘You can do it. And if you can’t . . . then he’s not worth having.’
When I get home, I set to work on my appearance. I spend twenty-five minutes blow-drying my hair in a style that has the appearance of having taken twenty-five seconds. I apply a mountain of make-up designed to look as if I’m wearing none. And I smear on a volumizing lip gloss bought this afternoon on the basis that, although I’ve never really thought my lips needed volumizing, it can’t do any harm.
But what I’m most excited about is the ‘little something’ I never got to tell Ellie about properly: my Miracle Cleavage Air Pump Bra.
This state-of-the-art boob-enhancing contraption makes my Wonderbra look terribly last century. It works on the same principle as an inflatable camp bed, but on a smaller scale and without any need for a foot pump.
To look at, it’s simply an attractive, lacy, black bra; but it has an important twist. I put it on and follow the instructions.
‘With your thumb and forefinger, simply inflate your Miracle Cleavage Air Pump Bra to the desired level of volume.’
I give it a squeeze and examine the results in the mirror. Not bad . . . but could do better. I try the other one and decide that’s almost it . . . but not quite.
I take a deep breath and, with my hands in both cups, give a series of sharp, convincing bursts. Then a few more. And a few more for good measure.
I stand back and look at the results, which are . . . bloody magnificent, if I say so myself.
I’ve always fancied having bigger boobs. It’s not that I’m devastatingly flat-chested, but something vaguely in proportion to my bum would be nice. And much as I warm to men who say they prefer women who are ‘natural’ – with no implants, no pads or indeed anything except the real deal – I can’t help thinking that what they really mean is they prefer women who are natural Kelly Brook lookalikes.
Sadly, nature did not furnish me with Kelly Brook curves; it saved those for Kelly Brook.
Next, I remove my new Figleaves underwear from its box and unfold it. I marvel at its lacy underwiring, and the fine balance it strikes between good taste and outright sluttiness. But I don’t put it on. Oh no. Tonight, these particular undies have a different function.
I take my two bouquets of flowers – bought this afternoon – and merge them into an impressive arrangement on the living-room table.
I plump up cushions, spray perfume around the room, and set the iPod to the playlist I compiled last night, the contents of which are from a website dedicated to songs ‘to get jiggy to’. Not that I want to get jiggy tonight. I simply know it won’t do any harm to get Jamie thinking about it – because my aim tonight is for jigginess to be uppermost in his mind as he leaves.
Jamie is almost always late. It’s a side effect of his resolutely laid-back personality. Yet, tonight, at 6.20 p.m., the doorbell rings. I leap up from the sofa with a racing heart and – channelling Sigourney Weaver in that Ghostbusters scene when she’s transformed into a sex-mad demon – I open the door slowly, deliberately, seductively.
My hand is on my hip. My shirt is open enough to display my cavernous new cleavage. My lips are so goddamn volumized they’re almost visible from space.
‘Windows, love! ’Fraid you owe us for two weeks . . .’
Jimmy, my fifty-five-year-old window cleaner, trails off as he takes in my lap-dancer décolletage and porn-star pout.
He looks as though he’s experienced a mild cardiac arrest. And this from a man who Sylvia, my neighbour, once told me popped up to squeegee her bathroom window at the exact moment she was wiping her bum.
‘Ooh, er, sorry,’ I say, scuttling into the house to find my purse. I’ve paid Jimmy and am about to head back in, when I hear footsteps coming up the path.
It’s Jamie. Looking almost as nervous as I feel.
Chapter 15
The thing about being a seductress is that all you have to do is get into the mood. And I’m determined to do so. Not in the mood for sex – as Ellie said, that’s out of bounds tonight. I’m in the mood for seducing. Despite the setback with Jimmy.
Admittedly, I’m not wearing the traditional get-up for such an exercise. I’m not perched on a chaise longue in a negligee and marabou heels. But I’m also confident that this is the sort of gear Jamie finds irresistible, unlikely as it seems. Not that his tastes are one hundred per cent left field – hence my efforts with the underwear.
I have high hopes for the combined effect. If I let myself, my state of agitation would be all-consuming – but I’m not going to let myself. I’m going to pretend my palms aren’t sweating and my heart isn’t thrashing, and in sharp contrast to reality, appear as serene and magnetic as possible.
It becomes apparent the second Jamie walks in that my plan is off to a flying start. He can’t take his eyes off me – or, more specifically, my boobs.
In fact, he moves towards the living room barely able to focus on anything else, and as the opening bars of Kings of Leon’s ‘Sex on Fire’ kick off he stumbles across the threshold. I pretend not to notice; instead I smile sweetly, flicking back my hair flightily and giving my eyelashes a flutter.
‘How are you, Jamie?’ I ask breathily.
He coughs and drags his eyes from my chest, running his hand through his hair. ‘Hmm . . . me? Oh fine. Yep . . . fine. And you?’
‘Fine too,’ I say smoothly as I perch on a sofa arm. ‘I was in shock the other day. I totally understand where you’re coming from now. And I’m fine about it. Really. Hey, take a seat.’
He hesitates before sitting on the sofa opposite. I don’t know why but I suddenly feel the need to bend forward and start rearranging one of my shoes, showing off my cleavage to its full effect. After a couple of seconds I look up and smile cheekily. He glances away.
‘Um, so . . . you’re fine,’ he says. ‘About us splitting up?’
‘Oh completely,’ I reply in a manner designed to give the impression I’m reassuring him. ‘This is how I see it: we had six fantastic years together. And you know I never wanted this. But it’s happened and I’m dealing with it. It’s not as if I’m never going to have any man interested in me again, is it?’ I laugh lightly. ‘It’s not as if I’m never going to feel a man’s arms around me. Or be kissed by anyone . . . or . . . well, you know.’ I raise an eyebrow.
He looks like he’s stopped breathing.
‘The point is,’ I continue softly, ‘that life goes on. So, honestly, you don’t need to worry about me.’
‘Don’t I?’ he frowns.
‘Course not. But we’ve done enough talking about us. It’s time to move on from all that heavy stuff, don’t you think?’
I suddenly notice Jamie is glaring at the radiator behind me.
‘Oh!’ I laugh, leaping up. ‘How embarrassing. Can’t believe I left those out to dry when I’ve got company.’
I head to the radiator and pick up the black lacy Figleaves bra – the one that has neither been washed nor is drying, but has been strategically placed to give the appearance of both.
I pick it up slowly and start folding it as I walk towards him. Actually, that’s not strictly true: I am not so much folding as caressing the damn thing, before placing it on the table. Then I demons
tratively pick up a teeny pair of knickers so sheer they almost qualify as invisible. I sit them on top and turn back to Jamie. He gulps. Twice.
‘Drink?’ I smile.
He snaps out of his daze. ‘Um . . . I shouldn’t. I know you’ve got to go out soon.’
‘One won’t do any harm,’ I reply, gliding into the kitchen.
I turn the corner into the kitchen and have a surreptitious peek at my boobs. Somehow, they don’t look as spectacular as when I last looked.
Checking the coast is clear, I shove my fingers in either side of the bra and give it five or six vigorous pumps. This has an instant and thoroughly impressive effect. Then I pour two large glasses of wine, take a character-building slurp and serenely head through for round two.
Jamie looks troubled.
‘So, about the bills we need to sort out,’ he says. ‘Which ones are they? Obviously, I’m not going to leave you high and dry. I feel really bad about the house thing . . . Have you thought about whether you’ll stay here or go?’
I gaze into his eyes and hand him his wine, deliberately brushing against his fingers.
I consider sitting on the chair opposite him, but instead make a split-second decision and slink onto the sofa next to him.
We’re so close I can feel the heat from his body – and, let me tell you, there’s a lot coming from him; it’s like sitting too close to a four-bar fire. He looks deeply unsettled – in a good way. A very good way. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, nursing his wine. I lean casually into the cushions and rest my arm lazily on the back of the sofa.
He turns and glances at me, then at my boobs, then at his wine, which he knocks back fast. There’s a moment of silence as he fixes his fly, as if something untoward is happening in his gentleman’s region, causing an unexpected tightening of his undergarments.
The iPod moves on to its next song. ‘Ooh La La’ by Goldfrapp. The closest you’ll get to an orgasm in four and a half minutes. Jamie swallows again.
‘Look,’ he says, putting his glass on the coffee table. ‘I know you didn’t want to talk about our relationship, but perhaps we should.’
‘What’s there to say?’ I ask innocently.
‘Well,’ he blusters, ‘a lot, I would say.’
‘Oh Jamie, forget it.’
He’s torn between anger and lust.
‘Sam, you might be able to instantly forget six years of the biggest relationship I’ve ever experienced, but I sure as hell can’t.’
‘Can’t you?’ I pout, gazing into his eyes.
‘No, I can’t!’
I reach out and grab his hand. ‘Jamie . . . I hate to point this out, but you ended the relationship. And you seemed very sure that it was the right thing at the time.’
The reminder jolts him.
‘Well, I . . . I wasn’t sure. If I gave the impression I was sure, then I gave the wrong impression. I was confused . . . I am confused. I . . .’
‘What are you saying, Jamie?’
The reply for which I’m desperate is that he’s changed his mind. If we were in a film, that’s what he’d say. That’s what Richard Gere would’ve said if this was Pretty Woman 2. Or Billy Crystal if it was When Harry Dumped Sally.
‘Jamie . . .?’
I consider asking him outright if he wants me back, but suppress the urge. Tactically, Ellie’s right: I have to let him come to me.
‘Sam – things weren’t right near the end . . . you’ve got to have noticed that,’ he says. ‘And, for the record, I know I’m to blame for a lot of that. I know there were times when I let you down. I know there were times when I put my friends before you, myself before you. I did things that no girlfriend would appreciate. And I’m not proud of that.’
‘Jamie, we don’t need to talk about this,’ I squirm, astonishing as it is to hear Jamie concede some of the issues that used to wind me up no end. I’m determined to keep the tone of this conversation light and seductive, not like a Relate session. I move closer to him as our eyes lock and the blood running through my veins heats up several degrees.
Suddenly, whatever’s happening is as electrifying as the first time we kissed – if not more so. Jamie’s expression is overcome with desire . . . and that’s before we discuss the action in his trousers.
He moves forward slowly, tantalizingly, as if we know this shouldn’t be happening, but can’t stop it. I edge to him, exploding with longing. As his lips go to touch mine, I lean against the sofa and close my eyes, submitting to the moment. Only the moment holds more surprises than I’d thought.
‘SSSSSSSSSS!’
Jamie pulls away and my eyes flutter open hysterically.
‘What was that?’ he frowns.
I blink. ‘What was . . . what?’
‘SSSSSSSSSS!’
I freeze, taking in what sounds like a Pirelli tyre being harpooned with a kebab skewer.
‘Oh . . . erm . . .’ My mind whirrs with possibilities. ‘I was simply going to say, “Ssssssssooooo – how’ve you been?”’
Jamie looks at me as if my mental faculties must be in a lost-property department somewhere. ‘I thought we’d discussed that.’
‘SSSS!’
I straighten my back and look up to the window, hoping to give the impression that the noise is outside. How I think I’ll pull this off I don’t know; it’s not as though we get many passing boa constrictors around here.
‘SSSS!’
‘What’s that funny noise?’
I know the worst thing I can do is look at my cleavage, but something compels me to do so – and a split-second glance reveals that my right boob resembles a pillow that’s lost its stuffing.
‘Oh . . . nothing!’ I say, grabbing the remote and turning up the volume on the iPod as I lean strategically into a cushion to divert attention from my anatomical imbalance. ‘Where were we?’
Jamie’s eyes blur seductively. Again, his mouth moves to mine as I close my eyes. I can feel his breath on my face, sense the throbbing in his trousers, almost taste his kiss, when suddenly . . .
POP!
He leaps back in shock and I look down at my now entirely lopsided cleavage. I grab a cushion and cling to it.
I am about to make my excuses to go and swap the bra for something more reliable, when he beats me to it.
‘I need to go,’ he says urgently, standing up. ‘The gas bill. Why don’t you email me?’
He heads for the door and opens it, while I sit nodding manically and gripping the cushion.
‘See you later,’ he waves, closing the door behind him.
I breathe in deeply and take stock. Okay, it wasn’t perfect. Wonky boobs hadn’t been part of the plan.
But that doesn’t change how I managed to make Jamie feel. And as I slip into something more comfortable and slot my Belly Dance Abs Blast DVD in the machine, it strikes me that tonight I got something back that was rightfully mine. My mojo. And I’m not intending to let it go.
Chapter 16
For a feminist, my mother can be a terrible bimbo sometimes.
‘What do you think of the pattern?’ she asks airily, perching on a step ladder in combats that look genuinely war-ravaged, a stretch of wallpaper pinched between her fingers.
‘Nice,’ I reply truthfully, even though it’s not to my taste.
‘I wouldn’t normally go for floral,’ she muses. ‘But I thought it’d be okay in the breakfast room. It was a choice of rose, lavender, jasmine or this – listeria.’
I frown. ‘You mean wisteria. Listeria’s in uncooked chicken. I’d be surprised if Linda Barker named her new range after something that gives you diarrhoea.’
‘I’m certain that’s what they said in the shop,’ she replies hoity-toitily, brushing down the paper and stepping back to examine it.
Even at fifty-seven, Mum never needs more than a smudge of make-up and, with her wispy dark-blonde curls and slim build, she’d still look and sound like the sugarplum fairy if she wasn’t so uncomfortable with the idea of wearin
g skirts. She never puts on any weight. Even in the pictures I’ve seen of her when she was seven months pregnant with me, she looks as though she’s just had a big roast dinner.
Today, her look has been accessorized with splatters of white paint – a by-product of her ceiling decoration. You could read Braille off her forehead right now.
‘Right,’ she says, turning her attention to me, ‘I think you and I need to talk, don’t we?’
The words send a shiver down my spine. Don’t let my mother’s floaty demeanour fool you; when she sets her mind on something, she can be difficult to argue with, as my father discovered a long time ago. ‘Frank, some tea would be nice.’ This is not a hint but an instruction.
My dad looks up, expressionless, from the financial section of the Sunday Telegraph. I never know whether he’s actually reading it or pretending to for a quiet life. ‘Of course, my little Terminator,’ he replies sweetly. ‘Your usual, I take it?’
As Dad heads dutifully into the kitchen I notice that he’s in his weekend attire: a buttoned-up short-sleeved shirt, boat shoes polished to a Queen’s Guard-standard shine and . . . jeans. Which means he must have woken in a particularly devil-may-care mood today, for denim is rarely worn by my father.
The first time he ever bought jeans was in the late 1990s, and then only on the condition they boasted a crease down the front that could’ve been administered by a Savile Row tailor. Obviously, no evidence of stone-washing would be tolerated; in his mind that is two steps from crystal-meth addiction.
‘Now,’ begins Mum, as she sits at the breakfast table. ‘About Jamie . . .’
Until the moment she delivers her verdict, I am struggling to predict it, simply because, from the first minute she met my ex-boyfriend, she was his biggest fan. They hit it off so comprehensively she was even one of those rare beings who thought his music sounded good.
‘Jamie,’ she says serenely, ‘is a bastard.’
‘Mother!’ I splutter.
‘Oh don’t get me wrong,’ she protests innocently. ‘They all are. Men, I mean. Didn’t I teach you anything, Samantha?’
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