by Ali Harris
Concentrate, Evie, I scold myself as I remember where I am and what I’m doing. You have a semi-naked man standing in front of you. Do something sexy to him, for God’s sake.
Joel smiles at me expectantly and I take a tentative step closer so our bodies are touching again. I slide my arms around his neck and kiss him deeply, my tongue searching for his urgently, as I try to think about what to do next. I thread my fingers through his hair and tug it a little. Is that sexy? I open my eyes and try to look for clues from Joel. But his eyes are still shut. I can feel his erection pressing against my body and figure it must be time to take his trousers off. I tug at his belt clumsily and my hand accidentally brushes against his groin, which apparently comes across as lusty eagerness.
‘Oh, Carly, Carly,’ he groans into my ear, which sends shivers racing down my body. ‘I want you so bad.’
I don’t reply; I can’t. I’m trying to push away the unwelcome mental image of Carly and work out what the hell she would do now. She must be much more practised at all this than I am. Would she talk dirty? I can’t do that, I just can’t. I’ll feel like an idiot. I kiss him again to buy myself more time, then in a flash of instinct I undo his belt, pull his trousers down and drop to my knees, trying not to gasp at the sight of his muscular thighs and bulging groin clad in tight, white pants. I pull them down gently and take a deep breath. Surely this is one thing a girl never forgets?
Apparently not, is the answer, as Joel groans and gasps and cries out with pleasure. Just as I think he can’t take any more, he pulls me up to me feet, lifts me clean off the floor and lays me gently on the bed. Then he lies beside me, tilting his body so he is propped up on one arm. His bicep bulges magnificently in my peripheral vision. I can’t see his other arm – or hand – and I gasp as I suddenly realize why. It has snaked its way between my legs. He kisses me all over as his fingers work their magic and I cry out with pleasure. He pauses, looks down at me for a moment and smiles as he slides the straps of my underwear over my shoulders, deftly unhooks it as I arch my back, then peels the satin down my body, over my thighs, my calves, my painted toes and throws it across the room. I stretch my arms above my head, which simultaneously lifts my breasts and holds in my stomach. Then I watch in awe as he lowers his body on to mine and we become one.
This is it. At last.
And Oh. My. God. I’ve forgotten how good it feels.
Wednesday 7 December
18 Shopping Days Until Christmas
The pale peach morning sunlight streams through the windows as the blinds are slowly opened and I blink blearily, rub my eyes and stretch, luxuriating in the feeling of the wonderfully thick, warm duvet weighing down on my body.
‘Hey there, sleepyhead,’ Joel murmurs as he walks over to the bed, casting a shadow over me and momentarily blocking the light so that he is back-lit by the morning sun, creating what looks like a yellow aura around his entire body. He looks angelic, Godlike, even. He lowers his face and kisses me softly on my lips. He is already dressed, I notice. Then he walks to the end of the bed where he picks up a tray that has on it a pot of coffee, fresh juice, fruit, pastries, toast and a silver platter. He lifts the platter up to reveal a delicately arranged English breakfast.
‘I didn’t know what you wanted to eat, so I ordered you everything,’ he smiles.
I sit up in bed as he places it on my lap.
‘To be honest,’ I say huskily, my voice still thick with sleep and lust, ‘I’d have ordered the same as last night.’ I restrain myself from putting my hand over my mouth with shock at what just came out of it. Who took my personality and replaced it with a rampant sex goddess’s? Is this the sort of thing Carly says to her lovers? Am I literally channelling her now? I can’t help but be impressed with myself.
Joel laughs as he sits on the edge of the bed. He goes to kiss me but I hurriedly thrust a croissant into his mouth, aware that he has cleaned his teeth and I haven’t. He takes a bite and then sighs as he munches on it.
‘There is nothing I’d like more than to stay in bed with you all morning, but I’ve got an important meeting I just can’t get out of. You look beautiful when you sleep,’ he adds gallantly.
‘Psssh,’ I splutter in embarrassment, my mouth full of croissant. He kisses me and I focus on keeping my mouth firmly shut.
He shakes his head woefully and strokes my face. ‘I have to go now, but you stay as long as you like and enjoy this wonderful room.’ He stands up and I suddenly remember that I have a job, too.
‘Er, what time is it?’ I ask.
‘Seven thirty,’ he replies. ‘Plenty of time for you to get to work by nine.’
I try not to let the panic show on my face as I nod and reply in a strangulated voice. Joel has no idea that in my real job as stockroom slave I’m meant to be at work by seven. Which means, in the words of the White Rabbit, I’m late I’m late I’m really really late. And not only that, I’ve just remembered I never did get round to ringing Delilah last night. Let’s just say I got . . . distracted. I feel a wave of shame as I reach for my phone and see there are three missed calls from her. Shit. I’m in big trouble.
Once Joel has gone – and I never thought I’d be pleased to see him leave – I scramble out of the gigantic bed and dart around the room, picking up garments that are scattered all over the place and hastily get dressed, cursing as I realize I’ll have to do the walk of shame in the same clothes into work. I can only hope that Sharon hasn’t been into the stockroom yet and so won’t notice just how terribly late I am. It’s the first time I’ve ever been late, so if she has noticed I pray she’ll accept my apology and be lenient with me. I’ll tell her the truth: that I slept in. Which I did; I just won’t add that it was with a super-hot man.
I brush my hair furiously, then pin it up to disguise that it hasn’t been washed, before grabbing Lily’s handbag from where I dropped it last night and open the door. I turn back and look at the suite, overwhelmed with regret that I can’t enjoy this incredible hotel room longer. Although one might argue, I enjoyed it more than I thought was physically possible last night.
I hop into the lift, nodding at the attendant as I smooth down my slightly crumpled dress and try to look like I should be there as other hotel guests get in. Again I feel grateful to Lily for her loan of the Chanel handbag. It has given me much-needed Claridge’s class. The lift doors open at the ground floor and I try to step gracefully out, channelling my inner Audrey, but I freeze in front of the lift when I realize that there are several members of staff gathered in the lobby, including the doorman I saw last night and from when Joel and I came to tea. He’s going to think I’ve become a permanent fixture.
Someone tuts and stumbles into me, and I turn round and see I’ve caused a domino-style traffic jam of posh people trying to exit the lift. The doorman looks over at the commotion and I hop behind the enormous John Galliano-designed art deco ‘Under the Sea’-inspired Christmas tree and peer out from around its sparkling leaves and pink coral. It seems an interminably long way across the grand foyer to the bronze and gilt revolving doors, and I don’t want anyone to know I’m doing the walk of shame so I wait for my moment, then make a dash for it, walking quickly with my head lowered and my designer bag clutched protectively in front of me. All I can see is the blur of gleaming black and white chequered tiles as I make my speedy dash towards the doors, too afraid to look up in case the doorman spots me. I sigh with relief as I step inside the revolving doors but to my confusion I forget to look up, somehow miss the exit and end up spat back out in the foyer with the doors swishing smugly behind me.
‘It’s Mr Parker’s . . . friend, isn’t it? Miss Taylor, I believe?’ says the doorman, who is now standing in front of me and looking very serious.
I nod, trying to hide the embarrassed flush that I know is climbing up my neck towards my cheeks. I feel like I’ve been stripped naked and exposed. Oh God, he’s going to say something.
‘Please, allow me,’ he says briskly, then steps inside the door
and holds his arm out.
Worse, he’s actually going to throw me out onto the street. He probably thinks I’m a lady of the night or something. I look at him desperately but to my surprise he winks at me and proffers his arm. I thread my arm uncertainly through his and he says loudly, ‘It’s been a pleasure to have such an esteemed guest here, Miss Taylor. Do come again soon.’ Some of the guests in the lobby look over and start whispering to each other, clearly trying to work out who I am. I widen my eyes at him and the doorman squeezes my arm.
I clear my throat. ‘Well, you know Claridge’s is always my favourite hotel when staying in London,’ I reply, trying not to laugh and feeling like a princess as we begin to walk through the revolving doors. I get a little bit carried away and find myself waving regally at the crowd of guests now gathered in reception and I feel the doorman’s body shake as he chuckles.
Once out on the street, he gracefully untwines his arm and tips his gold-brocade-trimmed hat at me.
‘Thanks for that . . . James,’ I say, looking at his name badge and then smiling broadly at him. ‘You saved me from certain humiliation.’ I pause. ‘Well, for today, at least.’
He laughs and lifts his hand to his head in a mock salute. ‘Please call me Jim, ma’am. I hope to see you here again soon.’
‘Thanks, Jim!’ I say. I shake his hand enthusiastically, then I hitch my beautiful, classic vintage handbag over my shoulder from where it has slid down my arm, and walk proudly and gracefully down the street.
Once I’m out of sight, I forget all about my inner Audrey, throw any grace, calm or refinement to the wind, and, staggering clumsily in my heels, wave frantically at any taxi that passes, whether the For Hire lights are on or off. Finally, a cab pulls over and I hop in and slam the door.
‘Hardy’s, please – as fast as you can,’ I say breathlessly, feeling a little thrill as I do so. I’ve always wanted to say that.
I sit back in my seat and gaze out of the window. The city is already bustling with cars and people, and our progress is slower than ideal. I pull out my phone, scroll to my sister’s name and press the Call button. Delilah answers just as we pull up in front of Hardy’s. I scramble around in my handbag for money and thrust it at the driver, including a generous tip. He deserves it for getting me here relatively quickly, despite the morning traffic. He beams at me as I slam the cab door behind me and wave at him.
‘Evie?’ Delilah barks. ‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Er, at work,’ I pant as I head towards the staff entrance.
‘I know THAT,’ she says pointedly. ‘I mean, where the hell were you last night? I was worried sick. You didn’t come home, you didn’t call and, most importantly, you weren’t here this morning to get the kids ready for nursery.’ Her voice becomes muffled and I hear her shout, despite her hand being over her phone, ‘STOP THAT, LOLA!’
I hover by the staff entrance, waiting for my clearly irate sister to come back on the line and shout at me some more. I feel terrible and I know I thoroughly deserve it, but I can’t help wishing she’d stop shouting long enough for me to tell her the amazing thing that happened to me last night. Twice.
‘Well?’ she says eventually, her voice fizzing with fury.
‘Oh, Delilah, I’m so sorry. I meant to call you but I was out with Joel and we had such an amazing time, and then, well, then he invited me back to his hotel.’ I lower my voice to whisper. ‘He has a suite at Claridge’s,’ I say wondrously, knowing she’ll appreciate that detail. I remember how she used to give me minute-by-minute accounts of her dates with Will. I’d listen rapturously as she divulged the glamorous places they went to, the wonderful things he said, and the incredible nights they had. I know she’ll want the same from me so I am expecting an excited reaction but there is only silence.
My voice falters a little. ‘Anyway, you know, one thing led to another and I just totally forgot to ring you. Please don’t be angry at me. I’ve had such an amazing time and I truly meant to ring you. I did.’
‘Well, it’s not good enough, Evie,’ she says prissily, though her annoyance is definitely dissipating. She has a short fuse, but she never stays angry for long. I’m just not used to her wrath being directed at me. ‘Besides,’ she adds mellifluously, ‘I was really worried about you, Evie.’
I feel a surge of guilt and so I apologize profusely again and beg her forgiveness until she relents.
An hour later I feel back to my jubilant self, especially as my lateness has apparently gone completely unnoticed by Sharon, or anyone else, for that matter. It seems that sometimes it pays to be invisible. Then the stockroom door creaks open and Jane from the lingerie department pops her head round. I pause from my job of sorting through a tangled pile of vintage diamanté clasp earrings, brooches and necklaces, and look up.
‘Hi, Sarah,’ she says mournfully. ‘Have you got time for a cup of tea?’ She asks the question apologetically as if she’s requesting something enormous of me. I have a lot of time for Jane. She has such a wonderful personality, she’s warm and witty and has this incredibly infectious laugh. She’s larger than life, in more ways than one, with tumbling dark curls that coil down her back and this gorgeous, soft body that oozes womanhood. At least, she used to be. Recently she looks faded; less confident, more introverted.
‘Come in, Jane! I’ve always got time for tea with you,’ I say brightly as I put down the tangled necklaces and get up. ‘I’m still recovering from the fact that somehow Sharon didn’t notice I was over an hour late this morning. How lucky am I!’
‘That is bloody lucky,’ Jane says with a tight smile. ‘That woman is like a meerkat: she sees everything. She’s already been poking her nose around my department this morning, telling me that my displays “just aren’t good enough” and “why haven’t I had any customers yet, Gwen and Guy are both rushed off their feet blah blah blah . . . ” I mean, it’s not even eleven o’clock yet! You know,’ she sighs, ‘I can’t help but think that if I don’t do something with my department soon, I could be in trouble. But I’m used to measuring people’s bust sizes, not doing big, fancy displays. Besides, there’s only so much you can do with beige bras and bloomers.’
I laugh at this. It’s true, the lingerie department in Hardy’s is aimed at the over sixties only and is embarrassingly unsexy.
‘So why were you late?’ Jane asks me as she sits down, her generous body sinking gratefully into the soft sofa.
I feel myself blushing. Should I tell Jane about Joel? It’s so refreshing to be asked something about me for a change. I’m trying to work out how to say, ‘I was still in bed after a night of hot sex with my lover,’ without completely oversharing, when Jane lets out a deep, long sigh as she peers into the kitchen where I am busy brewing our tea.
‘You haven’t got any cakes, have you?’ she asks hopefully. ‘I need something to cheer me up.’
I pull down a pack of Chelsea buns from a shelf.
Jane’s eyes brighten and then she shakes her head. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t. I’m trying to lose weight,’ she says, looking regretfully down at her body.
A generous size eighteen, Jane has been battling with her weight for as long as I’ve known her but she never used to be as unhappy with it as she is now. Admittedly, she has gone up a couple of dress sizes recently, but she has the sort of shape that carries it well. She’s tall, with a big bust, a small waist and long legs. Unfortunately, Jane doesn’t see any of that. She just sees the extra pounds on her scales. She also thinks it’s the reason why her husband has lost interest in her sexually. They’ve been married for five years, but she’s told me that in recent months their sex life has dwindled to practically nothing. I suspect this is what she’s upset about today, too.
‘I just don’t know what to do any more, Sarah,’ she sighs, clasping and unclasping her fingers. ‘Stuart just isn’t interested in me at all now.’ She looks up at me tearfully as I hand her a cup of tea and sit down next to her. ‘We used to be inseparable; holding hands, cuddling, kissing,
and our sex life has always been great. I mean really great.’
I try not to blush or look away as I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Why do people feel the urge to tell me this stuff? Have I got ‘Overshare with me’ written on my forehead or something? It’s baffling. Particularly as it’s not like I have a habit of going round telling everyone my deepest, darkest secrets. Probably because no one ever gives me the chance. But even so, I don’t think I’m the type.
She exhales and looks down mournfully at her body, which seems to deflate like a balloon. ‘But now it’s like he just doesn’t want me any more.’ She shakes her head as her eyes fill with tears and her fingers grasp at each other. ‘I think he’s going to leave me,’ she says, gasping with the shock of what she’s admitted to me. Her beautiful alabaster skin goes blotchy and she dabs at her eyes with a wet, crumpled tissue that she pulls out of her shirt breast pocket and that has obviously seen a lot of tears recently. I lean over to the coffee table and take a fresh tissue from a box that I always keep for situations just like this.
‘What’s given you that idea?’ I say gently. ‘Stuart always seems besotted by you.’ Jane’s husband comes into Hardy’s quite regularly as he works round the corner as a duty manager of a hotel. He’s a small, unassuming man with dark gingernut hair and freckles like cinnamon sprinkles all over his face. I have never thought him the type of man who would be bothered by his wife’s weight. He seems sensitive and sweet and thoughtful. Not to mention utterly devoted to Jane. You can just see it by the way he looks at her.
‘He used to be,’ she sighs, ‘but now when we go to bed he just cuddles me, turns over and goes straight to sleep. It’s like he can’t even bear to look at me. I even turn the lights off now before I climb in so he doesn’t have to see me without my clothes on. I know I’m disgusting,’ she says quietly, ‘so I can only imagine what he’s thinking. Perhaps I should tell him to find someone else. He’s so wonderful he deserves a beautiful wife who can fit into a pair of jeans . . .’
