by Mandy Lee
While the train slows to a half-expected halt in the middle of a tunnel, I close my eyes and allow my thoughts to rake their way back over the lunchtime rendezvous. His big hands are back on my body now, his lips skimming across my skin, his eyes fixed on mine in the bathroom mirror while he gently massages me down below. At the sound of a moan, my eyelids flip back open. Jesus. That must have been me. Glancing anxiously round the carriage, I take a few good, deep breaths, deciding that it’s about time to get a grip on myself because the Northern Line is no place for a mental sexual odyssey. Dear Lord, I’m in trouble. In fact, I’m in five star, top-of-the-range, it-doesn’t-come-any-bigger-than-this trouble because I already like him far too much and I’m already beginning to worry that it’s all going to come crashing down round my ears. Before I can pursue my thoughts any further, the train jolts back into action and within minutes, I’m caught up in a tide of bodies washing its way up the escalator at Camden Town.
I’m home well before Lucy. Leaving the bath to run, I stand in front of my full length bedroom mirror and undress. Fully naked now, I gaze at myself, wondering what it is that he finds so irresistible. Giving up on the puzzle, I head back to the bathroom and slip into the tub. I spend the next half an hour languishing in the water beneath an open window, enjoying the occasional waft of cool air from outside. I dry myself off and take a look through Lucy’s wardrobe. Sometime soon, I really am going to have to go clothes shopping but for tonight I’ll just have to make do. And for some reason, I want to wear a dress. I pick a short, flowery number and pull it on. I dry my hair, pin it up and apply my usual bare minimum make-up. Finally, I’m ready. Returning to the kitchen, I search through my handbag for my mobile and stare at it for an age. Do I dare a text? At last, just after seven, I summon up the confidence.
I’m all ready and I’m wearing a dress!
There. That should do it. Not too eager, but just eager enough. Clutching the phone in my hand, I sit back and wait … but nothing comes. My mind begins to race. Perhaps he’s in the shower. Or he’s gone for a run. Perhaps he’s busy with some last minute work. Whatever’s going on, he can’t have seen the text. He may well be the biggest, arrogant bastard that London’s currently got to offer, but after everything he did and said at lunchtime, I’m still pretty sure he would have sent a reply. After half an hour, I wonder if I should send a second text. I’m about to start on it when the front door swings open and Lucy launches herself into the kitchen. She stops in her tracks, drops a bag of shopping onto the floor and gapes at me.
‘Wow!’ she breathes. ‘You look great in that dress. What’s going on?’
‘I’ve got a date.’ I gaze back down at the phone. ‘I think.’
Taking a bottle of white wine out of the bag, she stands up straight and pins me down with a frown.
‘You think?’
‘Yep.’
‘With Mr Mean and Hot and Moody?’
‘Yep.’
Her face breaks out into a huge grin. She grabs two glasses out of the cupboard and fills them with Pinot Grigio.
‘He talked you round?’
Suddenly, I’m thinking about the sofa, and then I’m thinking about the bathroom, and now I’m blushing.
‘Kind of.’ I reach out for a glass.
‘You go, girl!’ She perches on a rickety chair. ‘Is he picking you up?’
‘At eight.’ I look back down at the phone. Still nothing.
‘Well, get plenty of grape juice in you. Fortify yourself.’
I smile weakly and take a sip of lukewarm wine.
‘Good day?’ I ask.
While Lucy stands up, rummages in the shopping bag and begins to run through the painful details of yet another day with the Steves, I watch as the minute hand on the kitchen clock creeps its way up towards the twelve.
‘The man with the shih tzu came back,’ she rattles on. ‘His breath stinks like a blocked drain …’
She cuts an onion, slices a red pepper and chops up a handful of mushrooms. By a quarter past eight, she’s finished with the preparation, slinging the ingredients into a frying pan along with a can of chopped tomatoes.
‘Oh,’ she sighs. ‘I think I was supposed to fry stuff first.’
I take a deep breath and decide that it’s time for the second text.
Are you running late?
I sit in silence, watching as Lucy sets about boiling the crap out of a panful of pasta. By the time she lumps everything together onto a plate without the slightest regard for presentation, it’s just gone half past eight. I wait for Lucy to settle down at the table before I shoot off a third text.
Are you OK?
I stare at the screen for what seems like an age.
‘Isn’t he coming?’ Lucy splutters through her final mouthful of something vaguely Italian and distinctly undercooked.
I shake my head. Still no reply.
‘I don’t think so.’
Without another word, I pour a second glass of wine and take myself off to the living room. Somewhere deep inside me, a cloud seems to have formed and I’m in no mood for a chat. I curl up in the corner of the sofa, stare blankly out of the window and listen to the rattle of plates and pans being washed up in the kitchen. At last, the rattling comes to an end and Lucy joins me on the sofa.
‘Why isn’t he coming?’ she demands.
‘I’ve no idea.’
She checks the time display on the DVD player. Five past nine. We both know what that means.
‘Have you texted him?’ she asks.
‘Three times.’
‘Any answers?’
‘Nothing.’
She turns and gives me one of her overly compassionate specials, and I wish that she’d stop it.
‘Well …’ She takes a gulp of wine and pushes out a belch. ‘He’s either stood you up or he’s been in some sort of horrific car accident.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Or he’s had a heart attack.’
‘Lucy, he’s stood me up. It’s perfectly obvious. He’s had what he wanted out of me, and now he’s moved on.’
‘He’s had what he wanted?’ she gasps, spilling wine all over the sofa.
‘Yes,’ I hiss. ‘At lunchtime. He had what he wanted in his office. Twice. Now, get over it and shut up.’
‘Fuck! What?’ Her eyes widen to almost cartoon proportions and her bottom lip drops so low, it very nearly comes into contact with her breasts.
‘I should have seen this coming,’ I mutter, ignoring Lucy’s state of near hysterical disbelief. ‘He’s that sort of man. He’s not going to change the habit of a lifetime, is he?’
‘So, that’s it then.’ She shakes her head, picks up the remote and begins to flick through the channels.
‘Looks like it, Luce.
‘Bastard. You’re better off out of it.’
‘I’m fully aware of that.’
‘Anyway …’ She shakes her head again. ‘Life must go on. Bridget Jones is on at half past and I’ve got another bottle of wine.’
I pull a cushion over my lap and hold it tight. I need comfort right now, and Bridget Jones, wine and cushion will do just fine. Slugging back a mouthful of Pinot, I lean my head into the sofa, wishing that Daniel Foster would get the hell out of my mind.
Chapter Fifteen
The following morning, it comes as no surprise to find myself slumped at a desk, drowning in exhaustion and feeling distinctly tetchy. It’s all my own fault, of course. After Bridget Jones had finally managed to bumble her way to a happy ever after, I just couldn’t help myself. Back in my bedroom, I must have spent a good two or three hours adding a few more layers of colour to the canvas before trying to grab a snatch of sleep underneath the fug of a London heatwave. And now, with my energy reserves depleted by too much wine, a good dose of creativity and way too little rest, all I want to do is bite somebody’s bloody head off.
In fact, to be rather more specific, all I want to do is bite Daniel Foster’s bloody head off because, as it tur
ns out, he’s in work today. And that means he wasn’t involved in a horrific car accident at all, and he certainly didn’t suffer a heart attack either. And that leaves only one alternative. The bastard did stand me up. I pull the jar of sweet peas towards me and come to a decision: I’ve been an idiot. I should never have let a man like that come into my life in the first place because, true to form, he only went and did what he was always planning to do. He pursued me, sweet talked me, and then he got exactly what he wanted. And now he’s lost interest. In fact, in all probability, he’s already moved on to his next conquest.
Still, stupidly, I check my mobile for messages … only to find a single text from Lucy.
Keep your pecker up, kid. And jack in that job. We can cope.
No, Lucy, we can’t, my brain complains. That bloody flat is costing us a bomb. As soon as we possibly can, we need to move out of Camden and find somewhere a little more affordable, and until then I’m stuck right here in this stupid excuse for an office, in a stupid excuse for a job, one floor down from the womanising shitbag of the year. I plant my gaze on the computer screen, knowing full well that there’s only one way to make myself feel better. I need to tell him straight what a complete bastard he’s been, even if he does sack me off the back of it. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve repositioned the keyboard, logged into my email, and I’m typing:
‘Mr Foster. Actions speak louder than words. In spite of everything you said, you’ve obviously had second thoughts. Just to let you know, I feel thoroughly used. I don’t need to tell you that you’re an arrogant piece of shit who goes around taking what he wants without a care for the people he hurts. You already know that. Miss Scotton.’
I click the send icon, lean back in my chair and glance across at Jodie only to find her staring right back at me as if she’s trying to fathom the innermost workings of my mind. Letting out a sigh, I go back to pretending to read Lucy’s ridiculous chunk of romantic sludge while another sixty minutes drag their heels and I spend every single one of them with my stomach in knots. Every now and then, I turn a page of the book. Every now and then, I check my computer screen. Every now and then, I sigh.
Still no reply.
‘I’m going out for lunch,’ I announce at last.
Jodie’s head pops up from a magazine.
‘But it’s only half eleven.’ She reaches for her mobile.
‘And I don’t give a shit. I’m going out for lunch right now.’ I pause for dramatic effect. ‘And I might not come back.’
Snatching my handbag from beneath my desk, I storm out of the office and make for the lift, riding it down to the ground floor and blustering my way out of the building. I’m on auto-pilot now, taking a right and stomping my way along the embankment like a stroppy diva on a bad day. And yet again, I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m going, but after wandering the streets and alleyways of Southwark for at least half an hour, I find myself in exactly the same coffee shop where he asked me out in the first place, sitting on exactly the same sofa and glaring out of exactly the same window. Knowing full well that I’m more bothered about Daniel Foster than I care to admit, I take a sip of my latte. On a second mouthful, I finally come to a decision, the only sensible, logical decision that I can possibly make. I need to leave the south side of the Thames behind me. And to hell with the bills. I need to go home. Deciding that I’d better let Lucy in on my plans, I dig through my handbag in search of my mobile only to find that it’s not there. For a split second, I panic, wondering if I’ve been the victim of a pickpocket, and then I remember: I’ve left it on my desk. But I need my phone. And that means one last foray into the dangerous world of Daniel Foster. Taking several deep breaths, I steel myself for the task ahead.
***
A few minutes later and I’m back in the lift, staring down at a selection of over-polished shoes and trying to keep my pulse under control. I have no idea why I’m so nervous about a simple thing like picking up a mobile phone and walking out of an office but here I am, nevertheless, tucked into the back of an elevator with a bunch of well-dressed professionals, struggling to take in a decent breath. I’m admiring a pair of stilettos when I become aware of a familiar scent tickling its way up my nose. Slowly, sensing that my heartbeat has begun to accelerate, I raise my eyes and take in the back of a pair of black, tailored trousers that are directly in front of me. My eyes climb further, up past an expensive, black jacket, finally coming to a halt at the back of a head that seems to be topped with a mop of ruffled, blond hair. In an instant, my knees begin to wobble. Oh shit. This is just perfect. He’s here, right here in the lift with me, standing right in front of me, and he’s blanking me completely. I swallow hard, discovering that my mouth seems to have dried up, and even though I know he’s just not worth it, my heart begins to thud. At the thirteenth floor, the last of the lunchtime traffic spills out into a corridor, leaving nobody else but me and him. When the doors close, he stays exactly where he is, rooted to the spot with his back to me. It takes a few seconds for the lift to rise to the fourteenth floor. As the doors open once again, I make a move, but find myself suddenly held back by a strong arm.
‘This is my floor,’ I complain.
‘Not today, it’s not.’ He nudges me backwards, waiting for the doors to close. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘I thought you’ve already had what you wanted,’ I snarl and I realise that I’m shaking now. ‘I mean, you’ve stripped my assets and now it’s time to move on, isn’t it?’
He turns quickly, so quickly I don’t have time to see it coming. Grabbing both of my hands, he pins them against the wall, pushing his body up close and grinding his crotch into mine. Immediately, a wave of heat floods its way through my groin. I close my eyes and hear myself moan. Now, that wasn’t in the plan. I’ve been ambushed and already I seem to be reaching for the white flag.
‘This is not asset stripping,’ he breathes into my face.
I suck in a deep breath, open my eyes and decide that it’s going to take every last molecule of grit and determination to get out of this one. He grinds into me again, sending a bolt of lust right to my core.
‘You stood me up last night,’ I choke.
‘Something came up.’
‘Did it now?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You could have texted me.’
‘It was impossible.’
I laugh. Really? You didn’t have a single moment to explain yourself?
‘And you didn’t reply to my email.’
‘I didn’t like your email. It didn’t warrant a reply.’
The doors open and I’m released. I’ve had just enough time to lower my hands when my wrist is grabbed and I’m yanked out into reception. I’m stunned. If his secretary sees this, then the gossip is really going to fly around the building. I half expect to be dragged into his office, just like the last time. After all, he’s probably just feeling a tad randy and in need of a lunchtime booty call. Instead, I’m pushed behind Carla’s desk and shoved down onto her chair.
‘What are you doing? Where’s Carla?’
‘Gone home sick. I need a PA for the afternoon.’
He straightens up and scowls at me. Jesus, he’s in a mood. And Jesus, he looks as hot as hell. And Jesus, even though I’ve spent the last few hours of my life trying my damnedest to reason the sodding man out of my head, he could take me right here if he wanted to … and I really wouldn’t complain.
‘You’ll do,’ he growls.
‘Me? But I don’t know what to do.’
‘There’s the diary.’ He motions towards a huge black, leather-bound book. ‘The computer’s still logged in. That’s a phone. If it rings, answer it. And try not to be rude.’
Open-mouthed, I watch as he strolls off into his office. Well, what the fuck’s going on now? After ignoring me for the best part of a day, he launches a surprise attack in a lift and then he orders me to answer his phone? The man’s a complete fruit loop. Get out of here this instant, the s
ensible half of my brain screams out. And I’d go along with it too, if only the idiot half wasn’t currently musing over the possibility that Daniel Foster just can’t stay away from me. I shake my head and will my mouth to close. This is all too intriguing. It’s as if he’s thrown down a gauntlet and all I know is that I’m sorely tempted to pick it up.
Before I can follow him into his office and demand to know what the hell he’s playing at, the lift doors slide open, revealing a pair of extremely serious-looking men. As they approach me, I know that my mouth has begun to open and close in panic. I must look like a goldfish.
‘We’ve got an appointment with Mr Foster,’ one of the men announces.
I open and close my mouth some more. And then I find myself opening the diary, scrabbling through the pages until I arrive at today’s date. Running my finger down the page, I stop at one o’clock. Mr Ross and Mr Chapman from some company or other. Desperately trying to compose myself, I get up from my chair.
‘One moment please.’ I edge my way past them into the big kahuna’s lair.
I find him sitting at his desk, jacketless. He’s staring at his iPad now, deep in thought.
‘Mr Foster,’ I announce crisply. He looks up at me, his face expressionless.
‘Mr Ross and Mr … er …’ Shit, I’ve already forgotten the second man’s name. ‘Mr Whatsit are here.’
I catch the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.
‘Please show Mr Ross and Mr Whatsit in,’ he says politely. ‘And Miss Scotton.’
‘Yes?’
‘Coffee for three.’
‘Coffee for three o’clock?’
‘Coffee for three people, Miss Scotton. Please do your best not to behave like a complete moron.’
‘But I am a complete moron, Mr Foster,’ I inform him. ‘After all, I’m still here, aren’t I?’
Without waiting for a reaction, I turn my back on him and take my time sauntering out through the open doorway. Doing my best to smile winsomely at Mr Ross and Mr Whatsit in the process, I show them both into the inner sanctum and while a conversation strikes up between the men, I turn my attention to a closed door that’s just to the right of my desk. Tentatively, I push it open, finding myself in a small kitchen where I discover a kettle, flick it on and set about rummaging through the cupboards. With a great deal of effort, I manage to locate cups and saucers but when it comes to anything that vaguely resembles coffee, I’m not so lucky. I’m bending down, checking out the contents of the fridge when the sound of his voice causes my body to jolt.
