by Nicky Wells
“Perfect timing,” Dan exclaimed. “There you go…an engagement present. A trial run tonight. So I can confirm that you look your very best for your husband-to-be.”
Was this guy for real, I wondered again, unsure whether his suggestion was an innocent attempt at recovering a very awkward situation or a weirdly twisted act of manipulation.
Despite myself, I declined again. “No,” I wailed in terror, “I really can’t accept this.” I added as an afterthought, “How would I explain this to Tim?”
“You went shopping to look your best for the party. That’s a normal thing for girls to do, isn’t it?” Dan had an explanation ready.
“But it’s way outside my budget. I would never buy something like this.”
“So—you made a special effort. Trust me, he’ll appreciate it.”
I fingered the silky fabric and examined the exquisite cut. Dan was absolutely right. Tim would adore this dress. Of course there remained the small detail of having to find out whether this creation would fit my rather too traditional English-pear curves.
I seized upon another idea. “What about the pearls? You can’t buy pearls for yourself, that’s really bad luck.”
Dan didn’t miss a beat. “Your mother’s?” he suggested with a grin.
My mother’s? I considered this idea. It was conceivable. My mother had, in fact, once given me a string of pearls that had previously belonged to my grandmother. Not being a pearly-kind of girl I had never worn them but I thought Tim knew that they existed. I could feel myself crumble.
“No,” I wailed for the third time. “I really can’t.”
Dan sighed patiently. “Okay, then have the stuff as a loan, just for tonight. So that I can take an old friend out for dinner. And if you change your mind…later…” What was that tiny hesitation about, I wondered?: “…you can still keep it. Deal?”
“Deal,” I finally caved in.
“Great,” Dan exclaimed. “Go ahead and change, then. I won’t look.”
I looked round wildly. “What, in here?”
“Where else?”
“But…people can see me.”
“No, they can’t. This”—he tapped the glass in the window and the partition to the driver—“is completely non-see through. Go on!” He gave me a little nudge, and then covered his eyes with his hands. “I won’t peek, promise” he assured me even as I could see his eyes twinkle between his splayed fingers.
And so it came that I, Sophie Penhalligan from Newquay, changed into an expensive silky black dress and a string of pearls in the back seat of a black stretch limo outside one of the poshest hotels in the world. If someone had told me that that was in my stars, I would have sent them to the funny farm.
Changing into that dress changed everything. I could feel from the first moment that it was a perfect fit, even before I got out of the limo and had a chance to smooth it down. Kudos to Dan for getting this right; even I had difficulty picking dresses off the rail for me but somehow, he had made an excellent choice. The silk felt cool and expensive against my skin. The pearls, while physically cool, felt warm and luxurious around my neck. And by a stroke of luck, I had decided this morning to wear my shiny heels. They looked stunning with jeans and I had wanted to feel a bit glam. Now they would do nicely with this rather more…refined outfit.
I felt like an actress changed into costume before a stage performance. I felt…taller somehow. I felt…important, and expensive. Different. Ready for anything; well, almost.
After my lightning change, Dan got out of the car, walked around and opened the door for me, extending a hand so that I could gracefully step out of the limo. The porters sprang into relieved action and formed a little reception committee, ushering us swiftly inside like we were someone important. We were led directly to our table in the restaurant and once more I couldn’t help but wonder just how often Dan had come here before with his conquests.
The table was laid beautifully—stiff, crisp linen cloths, candle sticks, silverware, expensive crockery. Not so different from Tim’s favorite eatery, then, so how was it that this décor was pleasing me where I had found The Quarry so stuffy?
I didn’t know. This was in a league of its own, and although starched and prim, and proper, everything was somehow…more exquisite. More right. Or maybe it was just the different company that put me more at ease. Where Tim was all too…keen to make an impression, Dan seemed perfectly at home in this environment and the pomp and luxury seemed more…normal somehow.
Without awaiting orders, a waiter appeared with a bottle of white wine. Dan made me taste it—yeah, like I knew anything about wine—and then accepted. “There will be more champagne later,” he promised with a grin and a wink. “But this white will go better with dinner.”
Right. Okay. Fine by me. It was, in fact, quite delicious. Crisp and dry, with just a hint of fruit, immensely Italian and immensely drinkable. I sipped contentedly. This evening was shaping up quite nicely, and I relaxed now that everything was above board and under control.
“I have taken the liberty of pre-ordering dinner, if that’s okay?” Dan stated matter-of-factly. “I remember that you liked fish. They serve some exquisite lobster bisque here. And for mains, we will have steak tournedos and a nice full red. Sound good?”
I nodded mutely, glad to have been relieved of the duty of choosing my food and the anxiety of examining the prices. Even though Dan—again—clearly didn’t expect me to pay my own way, just knowing how much everything cost would have sent me into fresh paroxysms of guilt, fear, confusion and…well, some kind of sense of obligation. This way, I could just lean back and enjoy. I just hoped tournedos didn’t mean raw.
In no time, a succession of waiters appeared bearing plates and trays with our food, and dinner proved to be an enormously enjoyable undertaking. I felt completely at ease. Perhaps the black dress and the pearls made all the difference, made me feel like I belonged. Unlike at our last dinner-not-date, we didn’t say much. There was no need for conversation, whether sparkling, flirtatious, innocent, or otherwise. We spent a lot of time just looking at each other and savoring each other’s company—and the food, of course—but there wasn’t the slightest trace of awkwardness. It was one of those good silences.
At the same time, our very silence also brought a different quality to our every bodily move and facial expression. We seemed to be communicating rather explicitly at a non-verbal level and the effect was…electrifying. There was something in the way that Dan took spoonfuls of lobster bisque to his mouth…and kept his spoon in his mouth just a fraction longer than was strictly necessary to perform the simple business of eating. There was something in the way in which I could see just a tiny flicker of a tongue caressing the silver of his spoon before he eventually let it go. There was something about the way in which he behaved that made me hot and dizzy all over. He was…suggestive, but without being crude. I was utterly fascinated. I had never before seen anything as erotic. And wasn’t it usually the woman who was supposed to use this kind of ploy?
For my part, I found myself responding like-for-like. I didn’t notice initially that I was doing it, but then I caught myself sucking my spoon and pulling in my cheeks and batting my eyelids all in one go. Of course, Dan read my gestures for what they were. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.
By the time we got to dessert, I felt wired. So hot that I wouldn’t have trusted myself to speak even if we actually had conducted a proper conversation. I had a vague awareness that I was woefully banishing any thoughts of the outside world, other people, or tomorrow. Just being here, with Dan, and doing what came naturally, was what I wanted to do. Naturally, a logical culmination of an experience such as this was…well, the obvious. But Dan had promised no funny business, and I wanted to trust him utterly and completely. Whether I could still trust myself was another matter entirely, but one that I didn’t want to examine closely just at this time.
It was probably—no, definitely—due to the heady mixture of unknown em
otions and too much good wine that I found myself eagerly agreeing to retreat to Dan’s suite upstairs for a nightcap.
A suite?
Upstairs?
A nightcap?
Well, that made perfect sense. Didn’t it?
Chapter Twenty
And what a suite it was! It was spectacular. I had thought the room Tim and I had had in Paris had been extraordinary—but this was something else altogether. There was an enormous bouncy bed with rich quilts and covers. A large, ornate, white fireplace with a real fire crackling lustily in it. Flowers on the mantelpiece. A large, gold-framed mirror above. Antique armchairs strewn casually about the room. A white dressing table with spindly, bowed legs. It was like something out of a movie. Dan excused himself while I explored the living room.
Lounging experimentally on the sofa in front of the fire, I wondered about Dan’s circumstances. I knew Tuscq had been successful in their day, and I remembered Darren saying that none of the band would ever have to work again if they didn’t want to. But somehow, after seeing them at that tiny gig in the pub…well, I had imagined they were perhaps doing all right for themselves. But Dan was clearly doing a little more than all right; he was rolling in it. And while he seemed totally at home in this suite, his usual off-duty appearance wasn’t nearly as flashy or rich to suggest customary habitation at a five-star hotel. Jeans, shirts, Timberland loafers—all expensive stuff but not on a suite-in-the-Royal kind of scale. So yes, I was surprised.
And confused. Confused about his intentions, never mind my own. When he had suggested going to his suite for a quick nightcap, I had been completely intoxicated on my own sense of wanton abandonment. I had been ready to go to his room, ready for a nightcap of some description. But did that mean I was ready for sex? I flinched. Probably not. Or yes?
On the other hand, seeing the suite had had a kind of sobering impact on me. This was serious stuff. I trusted Dan, and I wasn’t scared that he would…impose. I no longer trusted myself not to ask for it, however. This was so romantic, so perfect. And then, somewhere deep inside, I was curious as to why here rather than, say, his house in Clapham. Was it a convenience thing? Was it to impress me? I nibbled at the skin around my fingers, a nervous habit I had acquired in secondary school and had never managed to shed. What would be the quintessence of my ruminations? Should I leave? Stay? Should I be chaste? Should I send all good intentions to hell?
Rachel’s voice replayed in my head like something from a long forgotten dream—Atta girl…
I shrugged, as if to rid myself of all these thoughts, and wandered around the suite, picking up this, setting down that, turning down the covers on the bed. Then I realized that there was an inordinate amount of splashing coming from the bathroom and, ever curious, I went and poked my head round the door.
Dan was having a bath. A proper, girlie bath. With dozens of candles scattered around the marble surfaces, heaps and heaps of foam in the water, and some kind of scented oil. He was reclining and smiling at me wickedly, steam rising in little swirls from his outstretched arms.
“Won’t you come join me?” he enticed.
I gulped. And stared. Time stood still.
My mobile phone shrilled. Saved by the bell.
“Sorry,” I gasped, “let me just go turn this off…it’ll ring for hours otherwise. ”
I hastily departed the bathroom and made a dive for my handbag, which contained my still-shrilling mobile phone. My thumb hovered over the off button. I simply assumed that the call would be from Tim asking me how I was getting on, but caller ID promised Rachel instead. All of a sudden, I was desperate, desperate to talk with her. I knew what she would say—which is what I wanted to hear—so one could reasonably argue that I had already made up my mind anyway, but I wanted affirmation from my best friend. I wanted to know that she would still talk to me tomorrow, irrespective of…what I might do.
“Rach,” I hissed. “I can’t talk long but I need to ask you something.”
“Soph,” Rachel giggled, “I can’t believe you’re even answering your phone. Where are you?”
“I’m at the Royal. In Dan’s Deluxe King Suite. Listen, I’ve got to be quick. Dan’s run a bath for us with candles, foam, warm towels, and all. He wants me to get in. Like, now.”
Rachel didn’t respond immediately. “You are in the Royal, and he wants you to have a bath with him?” she repeated incredulously.
“Yes.”
“And you’ve got to think about this?”
“Yes.”
“Are you insane?”
Oh dear. Perhaps she was being the voice of reason for once.
“No, I’m not.” I acknowledged, and reluctantly drew the obvious conclusion, “Perhaps I should just leave.”
“No!” This came out so loud that I nearly dropped the phone. “Sophie, I feel like the most amoral person in the world counseling you to do what you want to do, but you have the hots for that guy. And you always will. So, you can either get it out of your system now, before you actually get married, or you can make your life miserable from here on.” She paused. “Because this will haunt you even more than the Edinburgh thing. You’ll always wonder.”
Now I was silent.
“Look, Soph, you know that I’m a complete slapper and you know what my advice is. But if you don’t go ahead, I want you to give me a call right away so that I can take your place, do you hear me? Now, be bad and I’ll see you tomorrow.” And she was gone. I switched off the mobile phone, not wanting to risk another disturbance later on. Just in case.
The call with Rachel showed me clearly what I wanted to do. She merely gave voice to my own thoughts. Did that make me immoral and a slapper?
I examined Sophie Penhalligan, the immoral slapper, closely in the gilded mirror above the fireplace. She looked just like I did, except she had a happy twinkle in her eyes. All of a sudden, I felt emotions give way inside me like a landslide.
“So what?” I whispered to myself. “So bloody what?” I had reached a point of no return. All that I needed was a reason, an opening, any excuse, however flimsy, that would permit me to go into that bathroom and take my clothes off.
And then I hit on it. “People have baths in hot tubs together, all naked, don’t they?” I reasoned with my reflection. “You see it in the movies all the time. Friends, colleagues, innocent people. In Finland, they even have naked, mixed saunas, don’t they? So a hot bubble bath isn’t that different. Right? This could still be innocent if we want it to be?”
Thin ice—very thin ice, even—but under the circumstances, it just about held.
Dan was still reclining in the bath, smiling welcomingly and mischievously, when I reappeared in the bathroom.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Yeah…,” I muttered, feeling compelled to explain. “That was just Rachel.”
Dan arched his eyebrows in response. “Are you coming in?”
“I am indeed,” I announced and stepped out of my shoes.
Dan just watched and said nothing. I could feel his lovely blue eyes on me, willing me to undress as they had done in the office just a few hours earlier. The dress was next. Ever tidy, I hung it carefully on a hanger kindly left by the hotel staff for a dressing gown and then hung the ensemble on the back of the bathroom door. Giving myself ample opportunity to flounce around in nothing but knickers, bra, and a string of pearls. Giving Dan ample opportunity to laugh, recoil, or change his mind because my body…well, I wasn’t a Venus.
But no, those eyes were still upon me, full of interest and boyish laughter.
Knickers next, then bra. I had never undressed in front of a stranger before, and it was strangely…exciting.
Undo the string of pearls, deposit it carefully on a towel by the sink.
Walk up to the bath tub. Do a little twirl. Then, step in.
It was a big bath, definitely designed for two. The taps spouted from the wall at the side of the tub, and both ends of the tub were reclining. I settled opposite t
o Dan and the warm, foamy water swallowed me whole, right up to my collar bone. Not even a rogue nipple in sight. Our feet and knees met in the middle of the tub but that was it. Otherwise, no touching. None whatsoever. Instead, we resumed the gazing and smiling at each other that we had practiced over dinner, and then Dan even closed his eyes and let out a long, contented sigh. Relaxation seemed to be on his mind rather than exertion. Strange. I had expected…well, I didn’t know what exactly I had expected. Groping and fumbling, perhaps, or hot kisses. But this was great. I followed his lead and let the atmosphere wash over me.
This, in fact, was the perfect Friday night.
Chapter Twenty-One
After what seemed like hours, Dan spoke my name. I opened my eyes, noticing simultaneously that the candles had burnt down and that the water had cooled.
“Turn around,” he invited me softly, and I obediently spun my body in the bath, so that I could recline in his arms.
He reached over and engaged the hot tap, and quickly a warm current re-invigorated the bubbles while some of the old water slurped out noisily through the overflow. Then he reached out with his other hand to retrieve a sponge and some soap.
“Here, let me give you a little massage,” he whispered in my ear and began rubbing my body gently with the sponge. First the nape of my neck, then my arms, my tummy, and my back, and eventually what he could reach of my legs.
“Mmmmh,” I uttered, nearly melting with pleasure. Dan nuzzled into my shoulder and continued massaging.
“Mmmmh,” I made again, picking up the rhythm of his strokes. But my upper body area remained untouched, I suddenly noted with a measure of disappointment. Should I perhaps encourage him in that direction?
But no, it appeared the bath was over.
Dan hoisted himself out from behind me, swiftly covering himself with a big, white hotel towel before I had any time to ascertain whether there was a degree of arousal there on his part as well. I had thought I could feel something protruding, but our bodies hadn’t been very snug in that region so I wasn’t entirely sure. And now he had refused to show me, perhaps out of respect for his promise, but the sheer lack of certainty further fueled my disappointment. I wanted to know just what kind of effect I had on him. I was hot and bothered. But was he? I scrutinized his be-toweled midriff closely. Was there a bulge there, or not?
