by Jules Wake
‘The skirt would suit you,’ suggested Richard, pointing to the rack behind her.
She wrinkled her nose and weighed it up again. She had checked it out a couple of times with longing but had decided to err on the side of common sense.
‘It is lovely, but it’s not something I could rock up to work in.’
‘I don’t know. I’m not much of a skirt-wearer myself.’
With a giggle, she punched his arm. He took her hand and tucked it in his and they ambled out of the shop.
As they twisted through the streets near the old town and harbour, Carrie spotted a dress in the window of a very upmarket boutique. Like her daisy dress, it was one of those dresses that calls to you. She stopped to admire it.
‘That’s gorgeous,’ she breathed in admiration, studying the supple fuchsia silk fabric and the exquisite stylish cut of the dress with its unusual neckline. Utterly feminine and no doubt horribly expensive, but she couldn’t take her eyes off it.
‘Beautiful,’ he commented.
‘Yes,’ she said, pushing out the voice of temptation, whispering sweet nothings in her head.
When she went to move on, he tugged her back. ‘You should try it on.’
She shook her head.
‘I dare you.’ Richard nudged her.
‘What? To try a dress on.’
‘Yes. You know you want to. What’s stopping you?’
Carrie laughed. ‘That it’s so blinking gorgeous. I’ll try it on, fall in love with it and buy it.’
‘I could buy it for you.’
She turned around and gave him a serious death stare, scowling down her nose with as much haughty disdain as she could muster.
‘I can buy my own dresses, thank you.’
‘You going to try it on?’ There was a knowing smirk on his face. Either way she couldn’t win.
She tossed her plait over her shoulder and marched into the shop.
‘Bonjour Madam, Can I help you?’
How did French people do that? They always knew that you were English before you’d even opened your mouth.
‘Bonjour. The dress in the window, do you have it in a …’ Damn she had no idea how a ten or a twelve translated into continental sizes.
‘A 38,’ Richard piped up behind her.
The woman took one look at him and stiffened, her face giving away that she recognised him. ‘Oui, monsieur.’ She bustled over to a clothes rail and, with great panache, pulled the dress out, shaking and fussing over it as she brought it back to Carrie.
‘The changing rooms are here,’ and before Carrie could draw breath, the woman had guided her with the single mindedness of a sheep dog determined that not one of his flock should escape. ‘And monsieur, you can sit here.’
She pulled back one of the curtains and hung up the clothes, shepherding Carrie in straight after it and yanking the curtain back into place.
‘I want to see it,’ called Richard playfully. She peeped out from behind the curtain and wagged a finger at him.
‘Shame they don’t sell lingerie. This is nice too.’ He held up a turquoise sundress.
‘Behave,’ she said repressively, the man had exquisite taste.
His response was an unrepentant grin as he lounged on the mink suede sofa, making himself comfortable. Madame had even bought him a glass of iced water.
Carrie lifted the pink dress from its hanger, her fingers smoothing over the light-as-air silk. It whispered across her skin as she shimmied it up over her hips and then slid her arms through the sleeves. For a second she wrestled with the zip down the back, wriggling to get it done up to the very top before she dared look in the mirror. On a whim, with quick, nimble fingers, she undid her plait, the curls springing into life as she shook her hair free down the length of her back. Then she turned to face the mirror.
Damn. The dress took her breath away. Quite the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen. Smart, sophisticated and sensual. Wearing it made her feel wicked, all woman and capable of taking on the world.
She twirled, sending her hair flying as she came out of the fitting room, dancing in sheer delight.
Richard looked up and froze, the smile sliding from his face.
‘What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?’ Carrie asked. The sleeping tiger was back. Serious, intent and totally focused. Nerves shimmered in the pit of her stomach.
He rose slowly from the sofa and without taking his eyes from her face said, ‘You look like my wife.’
For a second neither of them moved or said a word.
He followed the simple statement with a smile of such sweetness, it punched into her, stealing her breath.
Every slow step he took towards her signalled his intent, honing in, unerring and sure.
Time slowed and she watched, until his final step brought them toe to toe, her eyes fixed on his face. The intensity of the blue eyes made her shiver as they roved over her face with such searing impact. She wanted to reach up and smooth her fingers along the strong jawline, slide them across his skin and stroke along the defined cheekbones. It was a face known to millions, but her hands knew every contour of his face, the tiny scar in his eyebrow, the sexy bump under his lower lip and that, at this time of day, his face would be fine sandpaper, rough with tiny breakthrough stubble.
His eyes held hers as he slid his hands up either side of her head, sliding into her hair and then, as she watched, he leaned forward, and kissed her.
The world fell away, leaving nothing but the kiss. Soft lips moulded hers, teasing and testing with a slow, thorough exploration, leaving every nerve ending fizzing. Passive, she let his mouth rove over hers, enjoying the sheer pleasure of the touch of skin on skin. Absolute heaven and … the memories stirred. So familiar. The way the tip of his nose grazed hers as he deepened the kiss. Like dancers they moved together, making tiny automatic adjustments to fit with each other. She sighed into the kiss, wrapping her arms around him, her body going limp with grateful recognition, like a ship slipping back into berth after a long voyage away.
She kissed him back, savouring the gentle touch of his fingers feathering along her cheekbone. She’d missed this. Missed him. This intoxicating, beguiling sense of being cherished floored her as it had done from the start.
With a regretful sigh, Richard’s lips slid away from her lips and traced along her cheeks, before pulling back and resting his chin against her forehead. She could see the pulse pumping in his neck and felt the slight shakiness in his arms as he lifted a hand to smooth her hair away from her face.
A discreet cough made them both turn. However, with rather stylish insouciance the woman had glided away, having made her point.
Carrie wasn’t sure who burst out laughing first, her or Richard.
‘You like the dress, then?’ she teased.
‘It’s okay,’ he shrugged, and then added, his eyes darkening, ‘But you’re gorgeous.’
Unsure how to respond, she glanced away. It had been a long time since she’d received such a heartfelt compliment. She walked to a better-lit mirror on the other side of the shop, her legs shakier than she’d realised. She’d strayed into the middle of a minefield and had no idea how to get out intact.
‘It’s a very beautiful dress, Madame.’ The shop assistant smiled. ‘It suits you.’
‘Thank you.’ Carrie let out a long sigh. A dress like this had no place in her life.
Richard grinned his approval as he waited in the curtained entrance of the fitting room as she turned to go back in ‘Want a hand?’
She nodded and turned, watching him in the mirror as he gave the zip his full attention. She took a sharp intake of breath as his finger traced down the indent of her spine, as bit by bit, he edged the zip down.
‘Thank you. I’ll take this from here.’
‘Sure?’ Mischief glittered from the brilliant-blue eyes. Was it her imagination or did the colour deepen the more wicked he became?
‘Quite sure.’ With a last lingering look at the dress, she resigned hers
elf to taking it off. It was possibly the most beautiful dress she’d ever tried on. She’d wear it once … and then it would be a permanent reminder of Richard, hanging forever more in her wardrobe.
With a sigh she put it back on the hanger.
The woman came to the curtain.
Temptation hovered.
With a heavy heart she handed the dress back. ‘No thank you.’
Richard yanked the curtain back, uncaring that she was half-dressed. Like a ninja thief, he bent down and scooped her own clothes, backing out with a triumphant shout.
‘Give those back.’ She tried to sound stern but it was impossible when faced with a lunatic grinning with unholy glee.
‘Nope, not until you buy the dress.’
Hoping to snatch them back, she made the mistake of chasing him into the shop.
Teasing, he dangled her skirt in front of her, laughing as she grabbed at it with all the finesse of a bull chasing a matador.
Her aim might have been improved if she hadn’t been laughing so hard. Even the frigid Frenchwoman had dropped her professional façade, a small smile of amusement playing around her mouth as she lifted her shoulders in a typically Gallic indifferent shrug.
‘Richard!’ she said, her voice low in warning, ‘Give … me,’ It was no good, she couldn’t keep a straight face, ‘those … back,’ the giggles burst through, ‘now,’ robbing her words of any threat.
Like a naughty boy, beaming from ear to ear, with the success of his teasing, he shook his head, waving the skirt with even more delight as he backed away, closer and closer to the glass door of the shop.
Looking behind him at the door she said, ‘Don’t you dare!’ As soon as she uttered the words, she realised she’d made a fatal mistake. When had he ever backed down from a challenge? It had been a game they’d played over and over in the playground of London.
Richard whirled and shot out of the door, taking her clothes with him.
‘What the …’ she exclaimed. She was going to kill him, once she’d stopped laughing.
‘He’s mad,’ she said to the shop assistant.
The other woman’s face softened. ‘He’s in love.’
‘But do you know what? So am I. I will take that dress.’
‘A very good choice.’
Carrie stopped, her legs a little shaky, unsure as to whether the shop assistant was referring to the dress or Richard.’
When Richard reappeared, smug but a touch wary, she greeted him, a picture of calm and serenity. She sat in a deliberately relaxed pose, wearing the dress.
He nodded and approached the desk, pulling a slim wallet from his shirt pocket.
‘I’d like to pay for the dress.’
The woman smiled, exchanging a conspiratorial look with Carrie.
‘It’s all been taken care of.’
He glared at Carrie, although he couldn’t quite carry it off. Still too full of mischief.
‘I don’t need you to buy my clothes for me.’ If she lifted her chin any higher she’d have doubled as a giraffe. ‘I’ve managed perfectly well all this time.’
‘Ah, but think of all the Christmas and birthdays I’ve missed.’
‘Too late. What have you done with my clothes?’
He grinned, his eyes lighting up with unholy glee. ‘I dumped them in the harbour.’
She bit back the laugh bubbling up. Only he would think of that and get away with it. ‘Any particular reason why?’
‘So that you’d walk out of here with a new dress.’
‘Mission accomplished, then.’
‘But I still owe you for the ones in the harbour.’
‘Yes you do, but I’ll think of another way to make you pay. But I can’t go out in this one. I want to save it for the party.’
‘Can I buy you the turquoise sundress?’
‘Yes you bloody can. And don’t think that gets you off the hook. You’ll still owe me.’
‘Should I be worried?’
‘Yes.’ She rose in one fluid movement and crossed back to the fitting room to put on the strappy, turquoise sundress. ‘You can take me for a drink to show off my other new frock. Somewhere nice, mind.’
‘I know just the place.’
There were serious pros to being on a date (there, she’d said it) with a celebrity. Despite the queue outside the very popular bar, somehow the maître d’ procured them a table on the balcony overlooking the crystal water in the harbour and the street below. It was the perfect vantage point from which to drink Bellinis under the shade of a parasol and people-watch from behind sunglasses.
Richard’s aviators kept most of the curious stares at bay, although several people at nearby tables around sent sideways glances their way, but then everyone here was on the lookout for a celebrity. Heads craned with every new arrival, eyes strayed over companions’ shoulders and people tried to mutter through half-closed lips. The celebrity-spotters provided entertainment in their own right. Carrie was too polite to call them ‘poseurs’ but most of them were. Luckily they were also too busy showing off and far too cool. No one made any attempt to approach Richard, content to mutter and nudge each other. It was a curious sensation being watched but not watched.
‘What’s your next project?’ asked Carrie. ‘Apart from the play—’
‘— which I’m not going to do.’
‘You should do it.’
‘There are a couple of scripts I’ve been looking at. Part of me would like to take a break. I’ve been filming back to back for the last few years. The last film I did, a superhero one, part of the Marvel franchise, is in editing at the moment and due out next month. I’m flying back to LA for a round of publicity. This film is virtually in the can and the next one goes into pre-production in October and then we start filming in Los Angeles in November.’
‘Busy boy. You deserve a break. Why don’t you take one?’ She propped her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands.
‘You have to take every opportunity, remember.’ He echoed their mantra from their student days.
‘Yes but it’s different now. You’re well-established; you can pick and choose.’
Even from behind his sunglasses, she spotted his quick frown. ‘There’s always someone new out there chasing the parts.’
‘Seriously?’ Surely he didn’t believe that. ‘Do you ever take a step back and think about where you want to be in ten years’ time?’ It sounded as if he were on a treadmill, that he was too scared to step off. It couldn’t be good for him. It was one thing to be driven by ambition but not fear.
‘What are you scared of?’
Richard stiffened, the glass half way to his lips held in mid-air.
‘I don’t know what you mean?’
‘Yes you do.’ She softened her voice as she sensed his barriers going up and laid her hands on the table. ‘This continual working. You’ve never had a break. Looking at how many films you’ve been in, you must have worked non-stop.’
He shifted in his seat and put his glass down. ‘You’re a fine one to talk. What are you scared of?’
‘Me?’ She reared back. They weren’t talking about her.
‘Yes. All those manuscripts lying around.’ He pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and laid a hand on hers. ‘Why haven’t you done anything with them?’
The soothing touch of his hand stopped her when instinct had her prepared to change the subject, bolting away like a horse. ‘I have … with a couple.’ She winced at the blatant fib.
‘You always had tons of ideas.’ His low voice, infused with admiration, sent a flush to her cheeks. ‘Such vision. Are you pleased with the play you were working on?’
She sat back with pride. ‘Yes, although it’s been a pig to sort out. The director wanted some substantial rewrites. Make Ella softer at the end.’ She grimaced. ‘I know he was right, but it’s been hard work.’
‘Faint heart and all that.’ Richard teased. ‘Have you got any more things in the pipeline?’ He stroked his thumb idly over t
he top of her hand, sending a slight shiver up her arm. She wasn’t sure if he was even aware of it, but she did know from the slight cock of his head to one side, the stance of his body leaning towards her and the slightly parted mouth, that she commanded his complete attention. The absolute focus, like being in a personal sunbeam, was almost as sexy and mind-fogging as the earlier kiss.
‘Not really. I’ve got an idea in the back of my head about a teacher who befriends a young girl who’s neglected at home. The girl runs away from home and there’s a big hunt for her. She’s discovered hiding in the teacher’s house because she feels safe with the teacher, but of course, that’s a huge no, no. So the teacher is arrested.’
‘Interesting idea. Does it happen?’
‘As teachers we have to make sure that we don’t put ourselves at risk of doing anything that could be misconstrued, even by association. Our code of conduct has to be above reproach.’
‘I can’t see you as a teacher, you know. Aren’t there lots of rules and regulations. I recall your favourite phrase, “rules were made to be bent”.’
‘I do my best.’ She winced. Some of the endless policies they had to read at work drove her mad and Alan was always the voice of reason, explaining why they were so important. Most of the time, it was a question of stating the bleeding obvious.
‘So what now for the one you’ve finished? When’s that going to be put on?’
‘It isn’t. Not for ages, if then. The director, Andrew Fisher, hasn’t had a chance to find a backer yet.’
‘That doesn’t sound like you. Waiting on someone else. I remember you marching along with a sandwich board outside the theatre in Worthing drumming up audiences, pestering the local papers and camping on the doorstep of the radio station until they agreed to do an interview – and you weren’t even in that play.’
‘Don’t remind me!’ Back then she’d been so eager and filled with a sense of righteousness and zeal. ‘I was younger, then. Believed in it all.’
‘And you don’t believe in your work now?’
‘I do but …’ She wasn’t going to say she was wiser but she’d run out of energy, lost the passion, about the time that she realised Richard wasn’t coming back.
