“Shall we dine, Miss Harding?”
God, he smells amazing. As he places his masculine palm on the small of my back, I feel his warmth penetrating my body. My spine tingles with the discharge of his energy and my loins work overtime. Guiding me gently, never losing that physical contact, he ushers me to a table marked Reserved and graciously pulls out the chair, holding an assertive hand up to the waiter and declining his assistance. Ensuring my comfort takes priority, then Brian takes his place opposite and suddenly I am overcome with emotion. Him, this place, the contract, it’s all too much. What the hell is happening in my life for me to be sitting in the Merchant Hotel, listening to the City’s most eligible bachelor ordering a bottle of Bollinger’s La Grande Année 1997?
Undoubtedly, my success is fast-growing in terms of business performance, particularly for such a young company. But it’s certainly not at a level in keeping with this place, although I could really get used to a life like this. It’s typical – after years of being single and having no money, just like the bloody buses, everything seems to come at once. But who’s complaining? Right now, it feels like it’s a case of frantically grabbing whatever I can and stocking up. You never know, the next bus might break down or the timetables might change without warning.
The waiter deftly removes the foil and wire and firmly grips the cork, twisting only the bottle, expertly. A muted pop sounds and I watch, drooling, as he pours the contents into long slender flutes.
I wait impatiently for the bubbles to die away.
“Here’s to us!” I smirk then.
Brian, eyebrow raised, questions me. “Us, Miss Harding?”
Knowing full well the game I’m playing, I feign innocence. “Yes, us. Our business relationship and its success.” An angelic expression sweeps across my face but behind it lurks the devil in disguise, working out my next double entendre. “What did you think I meant, Brain?” I lean forward into the table, enjoying this game of ‘catch me if you can’, my breasts perched on the crisp linen tablecloth, my hands and wrists coloured by its stark whiteness.
“I’m not a man of assumption, Miss Harding.” He raises his glass towards mine. “Certainly not with a woman of your calibre whose presence flatters me greatly.”
Keep talking.
Chink!
Holding the glass by its long delicate stem and eager to display the art of fine dining etiquette, I take a sip of champagne, noting its lavishness, feeling its expense and I roll my eyes with pleasure as it slides down my throat, massaging it as the bubbles explode. Encore! By God, you can tell this stuff cost the earth – it takes you on a return trip to heaven and back in a millisecond. That’s what I call value for money. Someone else’s money, of course!
“Mmmm . . . exquisite . . . but such extravagance for a simple business meeting,” I quip slyly.
“What did you expect? Beer?” he laughs. “I never drink beer.”
“Seriously?”
“Never.”
Weird. But impressive.
“Brian, haven’t you forgotten something?” I ask coyly.
“And what might that be, Tina?”
That’s the first time he’s used my name this evening.
“The agenda!” I laugh raucously, attracting the attention of affiliated diners. Two sips and I’m already feeling giddy. And horny. Don’t give it to him on a plate, Tina. Make him work for it.
The view tonight is sensational. Before me I take in this virtual statue of a man, muscular in build and striking in profile. I mentally undress him with my vivid imagination, feeling our lips lock together, longing to feel his manliness vault up against my frame. In short, I’m gagging for it. It’s been too long.
“Madam, are you ready to order?”
Shaking as he strokes the soft flesh of my inner thigh, fingers expertly removing my lace . . .
“Tina, do you need a little more time?”
“What? Erm.” My face burns with embarrassment. “No, no. I’m ready, thank you.”
“Kate,” I whisper. “It’s me. I’m in his house. Oh my God, you should see it!”
Tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, I plump up my lips with a dab of collagen crème. “No, I’m not going to sleep with him. Maybe a kiss or something – but by God is he drop-dead gorgeous!” I lift my dress with one hand, checking the stocking tops are in battle position, armed and ready for attack. Or better still, defence. “I’d better go. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Bye!”
Washing my hands, I remove a smudge of lipstick from my teeth and squirt a final measure of Euphoria on my neck and down my cleavage after hoisting it up a little. My stomach feels rather bulging after such a wonderful meal. Divine in taste but lacking a little in quantity, but made up for by copious amounts of alcohol, filling the gap perfectly though leaving me feeling a little bloated. And a little drunk. Pure indulgence.
Out of the blue a repeat thought passes through my veins, stopping me cold and numbing my body. Again. “The person who is destined to be your soul mate is all around you. Your paths will cross soon . . . if they haven’t already!” It’s been staring me in the face all along. It was so close to me I was touching it but couldn’t see it clearly, until now.
Leaning against the granite sink, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, reminiscing about every time we’ve met. The tingling, the excitement, that feeling in my solar plexus that makes me hyperventilate until dizziness hits. The physical reaction down south merely at the thought of him.
I think about this evening when his hand was against my back and how desperate I was to spin around, to feel his palm pressed against my breast, to allow his fingers to peel back the black lace, brushing my hardened nipples, squeezing the tips before taking the full breast in his open mouth, feeling its warmth and wetness, surrendering to a languorous tongue-bath. How could I have been so blind? The chemistry has been there from the start and it’s been reciprocal.
My legs feel a little weak at the prospect of what I am suddenly planning for the rest of the evening, but my reflection staring back reminds me that from head to toe I am perfection, cosmetically that is. There is nothing much I can do about my freckles but, strangely enough, they’re not bothering me too much tonight. Not since I was a child have my bare legs been on display, no matter how tanned, and while the thought of their exposure tonight causes me a little insecurity, I can think of plenty of distractions to ease the burden.
Brian sits alone on the white leather sofa holding a champagne flute, watching the fire burn romantically as the rain pelts against the window frame. Operatic tunes sound through the stand-alone speakers, low in volume but loud enough to gauge the passionate but alien words of the singers predictably declaring their undying love. Or rather dying as is so often the outcome.
The room is minimalist and typifies every man’s perfect bachelor pad. It plays home to a cinema-sized wall-mounted TV sitting above the fireplace, and a compact music system with endless speakers carefully placed in various angles of the room. Real boys’ toys! On the solid floor, polished to precision, lies a huge white rug, immaculate and uninviting.
I tip-toe into the lounge, conscious of damaging the floor but determined not to lose my killer heels. I nestle down close to Brian. Very close.
“I won’t ask what took you!” He laughs, leaning closer, inhaling deeply.
Oh God, please don’t come any closer. Okay, do. Yes, do!
“You smell wonderful, Tina.” His head sinks into my hair, inches away from my tingling neck, and he gently takes a handful of it, savouring its boutique like a vintage wine. This is all too much for a girl who hasn’t seen more than her Rampant Rabbit for God knows how long.
Brian pulls away, turning to retrieve my drink, and as he hands it over our hands touch and we freeze. With two hands practically clutching the same glass, we stare into each other’s eyes – his wild with lust and mine desperate to witness the sight of his muscular chest, to run my fingers over it, stroking it, teasing it and giving a clear indicat
ion of the level of expertise awaiting.
“God, you’re sexy, Miss Harding!” he pants breathlessly.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” I wink, taking the glass from him, placing it on the floor away from us.
I sexily kick off my shoes and, lifting my legs, draw my feet onto the sofa. The deliberate motion causes my dress to slide up a little, revealing more thigh.
I take Brian’s hand and boldly place it on the soft denier and like a puppet I control his every move. Holding firm, just above his wrist, with my eyes never losing his, I slide his hand up very slowly, inch by inch, teasing him. I let out a loud groan as his fingertips touch my bare flesh and try to stop myself from taking his hand and thrusting it deep inside my pants. Slowly, Tina. Make him beg for it.
Brian, unable to control himself any longer, suddenly makes a plunge for my lips. His strength topples me over and, no longer in control, I lie helpless on my back as he regains full authority.
“Are . . . you . . . okay . . . Tina?” His words are broken up between gentle kisses on my neck and I arch my back, feeling the wetness of his tongue flicking expertly, wishing he would make his way down my body with accelerated speed. I feel a wetness ooze below, ready for him, and as his body leans more heavily against mine I note his hardness and the smell of his manliness, desperately wanting to feel him deep inside of me.
Getting carried away, my pelvis rises and falls violently against him as I simulate my eagerness.
“I am going to make you come like never before, Miss Harding,” he promises and I almost cry with the anticipation.
“Oh God!” His knee gently presses against my swollen clitoris and I part my legs, allowing added pressure, feeling like I could orgasm like this alone.
“Brian,” I mutter.
He continues to tease my neck and earlobes.
“Brian!” I say with urgency.
“Tina!” He joins in with the game as I push against him fiercely but his weight suppresses me.
“Brian!”
“Tina!”
“Stop!”
8
Kate clutches onto the pillow, burrowing her head in it deeply, but the muffled sound of raucous laugher still emits from it. Giddy and uncontrollable, she lifts her head with tears rolling down her face. “Oh, Brian!” she mimics. “I’m going . . . to . . . be . . . sss . . .”
Once more she collapses onto the bed, snorting, improvising kissing then vomiting, pretending to wipe her mouth and come back for more, her tongue dancing around foolishly. “No, really, I’m okay,” she mimes. “Don’t stop now!” Her hips thrust back and forward. “What? Oh, yeah, I’d better brush my teeth!” She’s off again, into peals of uncontrollable laughter.
How many times do we have to go through this tonight? I wish I’d never told her now, although I certainly wouldn’t be able to share this with anyone else, especially not Chantelle given how often I preach to her about not mixing business with pleasure.
“It’s not funny, Kate.” I wince, holding my head in shame. “Right in the throes of passion. How the hell am I ever going to look him in the eye again?”
Kate makes an attempt to be serious for a moment, although in an oversized pair of pink flannelette pyjamas with a Snoopy design it’s really not possible. “Look, why don’t you just blame him for plying you with drink – tell him you’re not used to drinking that much?”
“I was okay until I lay down, but then the room started to spin. That hasn’t happened to me in years.” I shake my head, groaning. “I ruined his rug, Kate!”
“Pphwwwrrr!” Kate is off again, rolling around the bed, beating down on the duvet wildly and gasping for breath. She surfaces. “Just tell him you thought a souvenir of you might be nice!”
“Oh what a wonderful idea! The next time he sees carrots he’s going to think of me? Any more intelligent suggestions?”
I really can see no end to this situation, nor the funny side of it, particularly after such a romantic meal followed by the promise of the most spectacular orgasm in years.
Brian was as gentlemanly as usual. He apologised profusely, taking full responsibility for the episode. He, naturally, thought I was calling out his name in lust, hence he didn’t move off me. I have to admit, it was rather nice to hear him call my name back. “Tina! Tina!” Hhmm . . . I tried my best not to make him feel stupid but he seemed to take it quite hard. Or maybe he was more gutted about his Conran rug then he was prepared to let on.
“Why don’t you just call him, Tina. He’s rung you three times already and you’re giving out all the wrong signals by ignoring him.”
“I can’t, Kate. I haven’t got a bloody clue what to say apart from ‘Can I buy you a new rug which incidentally I can’t afford!”
Kate tops up our glasses with red wine and tips the remains of the crisp packet into the glass bowl, placing it in the centre of the king-size bed. Fat lot of use this bed has been to me. It’s an investment with a nil return.
I am also feeling guilty for ruining Kate’s evening. We haven’t had a girls’ night out in ages as Kate works on location so frequently, but I simply couldn’t face it tonight. Plus my eyes look like they haven’t seen sleep in weeks and my body is shaking, although a little less after our hair-of-the-dog exercise. Kate’s suggestion, of course.
“Tina, are you happy with estate agency?” Kate asks bluntly.
“Yeah, it’s the best achievement of my life, Kate,” I answer without hesitation. “Why do you ask?”
“I dunno really. Maybe it’s because you keep quizzing me about work and you’ve talked about your old acting career more than once in the past half hour.” Kate shoves a handful of crisps into her mouth, attempting to talk at the same time. “I haven’t heard you mention it in years.” She chokes deservedly. “Why now?”
That’s what I love about Kate, her willingness to challenge you over everything.
“It’s not something I’m conscious of doing, Kate, to be honest. I suppose you being here reminds me of the fun we used to have.” Our glasses clink together as we down the remainder of their contents in a race to finish first.
“Fun like that,” Kate giggles. “Except in our day it was cider and black.”
“Do you believe in fate?” I quiz her curiously.
“Yeah. About as much as you do!” She rolls her eyes sarcastically. “What’s got into you, Tina? You’re a bit of a weirdo tonight. You and I have never believed in fate and all that stuff. We’ve always said it’s about being in the right place at the right time. That and bloody hard grafting.”
“I know, Kate, but for some reason I can’t help wondering if life is already mapped out for us from the day we’re born.” I look at her confused expression. “Don’t you think?”
Kate lunges forward, grabs a full wine bottle from the bedside unit and unscrews the cap. “I’ll tell you what I think.” She fills my already half-full glass right to the brim. “You’re talking shite and you’re not even pissed. Knock that back and at least you’ll have an excuse!”
She jumps off the bed and slides open the mirrored wardrobe doors. “Let’s have a fashion show like we used to!” she says excitedly while I groan with reluctance.
My body feels like it’s glued to the bed and I feel bloated from eating hangover junk all day. “You do it and I’ll be the comp,” I suggest, rolling over into the warmth left behind by Kate’s body.
Exhausted from so much thinking and ill from alcohol poisoning, my eyes close as I await her first little number.
My throat is dry and barren and I clumsily feel about in the dark for water, desperate to replenish some much-needed fluids. Kate is flat out next to me in her pyjamas, snoring gently. I knock back the entire pint glass which I can only assume Kate kindly put there given I don’t even remember falling asleep.
My mind races with thoughts of the past few weeks as the alcohol stimulants keep me from sleeping. The psychic, the contract, Simon, Brian, the wedding . . . How much can a girl cope with? I make a note to
prioritise and conclude that work and my sister’s wedding have to be at the top. Much as a screaming multiple orgasm from Brian would be at the top of my aspirational list, I’ve made so much of an idiot of myself that it’s redemption time. Maybe Kate is right? Maybe there is no such thing as fate. But how can we really be sure? Perhaps instead of a guardian angel each one of us is born with a cartographer? Their role being to compile a map for our lives and navigate invisibly, allowing us to go off course from time to time but sitting ready and waiting to clearly signpost the correct turning when we’re about to venture into unknown territory, or take the wrong route?
Kate is right about one thing. I do talk some shite. Go back to sleep, Tina.
Still pyjama-clad, Kate and I slump on the sofa watching mindless Sunday TV with mugs of freshly brewed coffee.
“Let me know when you’re hungry and I’ll make us breakfast,” I slur, too tired to talk properly let alone make breakfast. And anyway, just in case I haven’t completely blown it with Brian, excuse the pun, I need to feel and look as svelte as possible, without contracting bulimia or visiting the gym, and the loss of a few pounds certainly won’t do me any harm.
While I jest about bulimia, during the start of my career and not long after graduating from university, I was signed to a local agency for both acting and modelling jobs. The pressure to remain stick-thin was overwhelming. To say that I have witnessed the sound of countless retching from toilet cubicles is absolutely no exaggeration. Hence the reason I tried it myself and, quite worryingly, found it easy. When Gemma, the director of City Models, suggested I lose a few pounds, I starved myself for a week, surviving on two pieces of toast alone. I felt and looked lighter by the end of the exercise, and I walked like I was floating on air. Which is practically what I was living on. Anyway, I decided that starvation definitely wasn’t my thing so I decided to join the rest of them by binge-eating anything and everything from chips to chocolate, relishing the flavours as they teased my mouth but feeling remorse and guilt minutes later as the food hit my stomach making me feel bloated and fat. “What goes down must come up,” we used to joke. There was no point hiding it to be honest. Anyone carrying Polo mints was bulimic and it was quite acceptable in the industry. I’m definitely over the whole addiction thing but once you’ve battled with some form of weight problem, it haunts you for the rest of your life. Consequently, my weight oscillates like a blow-up doll with an irreparable puncture.
Crystal Balls Page 8
