The second the taxi is in motion, his lips are on mine. It’s hard to coordinate with the bumping and the breaking and I’m feeling a little champagne-dizzy so it’s a relief when he transfers his attention to my neck. He’s wearing a different cologne to the wedding but it smells equally expensive. It makes me feel like I’m in the hands of a professional. And he is slick – I barely notice the transition from the cab to his place. From the key in the door to the steaming shower.
‘It’s all ready for you . . .’
I hover in the doorway, asking myself if I’m really going to shed my clothes right here, right now. I’m sure there must be a reason why I should hold back but I can’t for the life of me think what it is. My eyes glance around the bathroom – it is exceptionally clean. Cleaning service clean. He has an aftershave collection to rival Selfridges and those towels look so plush . . .
‘Never mind the towels!’ I hear May huffing. ‘What are your instincts telling you about him?’
I don’t know if I can even trust them anymore – I’ve been wrong so many times, utterly convinced I’ve met a quality guy only to flash-forward and see his dark side. Perhaps it’s happening in reverse this time? The more layers I peel back, the more I like what I see.
Speaking of which . . . Tristan’s jacket is off now and his unbuttoned shirt is giving me a preview of his tanned chest. He may have been at the opera by night in Milan but he was definitely on the hotel roof terrace by day.
‘Everything okay?’ he asks.
And that’s when I hear a voice, which sounds a lot like Jay’s, say, ‘Go on, treat yourself!’
And so I do.
*
It’s dizzying to be desired with such intensity. I can’t believe someone so attractive could be this into me! I’d forgotten the outrageous pleasure of exploring a man’s body – how flawlessly silky his skin is, the firm lines, the boulder biceps . . .
It is clear now there will be no trip to the pub. Instead we kiss like we’ve been starved of contact for decades. Hearing his pleasure-drenched moans and knowing I am the cause is such an ego boost. My chin is going to be scorched tomorrow but I don’t care. I just want to pull him closer, clamp him to me and feel that primal connection, bruised hip bones and all.
There’s no gazing into each other’s eyes, no still moments, no giggling – it’s just full tilt sexual charge.
Eventually we fall apart, panting, shiny, trying to catch our breath. He reaches over and presses a button on his bedside remote and I feel a cool breeze whisk over my damp skin – it’s as if I’ve been sunbathing in the tropics and now I’m being spritzed by an ice mister. Heaven!
I’m just thinking that no words can do justice to what just transpired when I realise he’s fallen asleep. Oh, thank goodness. Finally a chance to steady my heart rate and give my body a chance to process what just happened. A few areas are clearly in shock from the excessive partying. I don’t blame them – I’m kind of in shock myself. I didn’t know I could be that amorous. I look over at his naked body. To think I wanted to do a runner from the restaurant!
I do, however, plan to do a runner from his bed – anything to avoid the morning-after anti-climax. I mean, that was so wild, I couldn’t bear for hungover awkwardness to ruin the thrill of it all. Besides, if he was thrown by how I looked when I arrived at the restaurant, he’d be holding up a crucifix come the morning. I don’t even need to look in the mirror to know that my hair has already gone full zombie apocalypse. The only problem is that my body is too spent to move. Perhaps if I just took the quickest nap, just enough to revive myself . . .
*
When I reopen my eyes, I see daylight taunting me from under the blind. Oh no. That is not tentative daybreak light, that’s late morning on a grey day. I’d look at my watch but I don’t want him to know I’m awake yet. First I need to come up with an exit plan.
I look around the room, which might as well be a hotel suite it’s so immaculate and free from personal artefacts. There’s even a bottle of designer water on the nightstand and – talk about service – two paracetamol. Did he do that last night or is that his version of a mint on the pillow for all his female guests?
I make a surreptitious, half-yawning movement to see if he responds.
Nothing.
I have got to take a slug of water.
I slowly move my hand towards the nightstand like I’m afraid of triggering a laser security system. Nice and easy does it. Oh no! Sparkling! I try to hush the hissing spurt of bubbles but still he doesn’t stir. I raise the glass bottle to my lips, so grateful for the hydration. There’s even a hint of refreshing mint so I feel like it’s doubling as mouthwash. Now if I can just slip out unnoticed, I can send a cute text then get extra dolled up next time I see him. Far better that way.
I begin easing myself off the mattress. That’s the first leg out, I’m working on the second but this bed frame is so high I think I’m going to have to employ a rolling motion.
‘All right?’
I look up and see Tristan’s form filling the doorway. I jerk my head back to the bed and find it empty – not quite sure what I was expecting to see there.
‘You’re up!’ I say, grappling with the sheet.
‘One moment . . .’ He walks past me to the bathroom, returning with a velvety robe, pale ivory to his rich navy. ‘Now come with me . . .’
I go to protest – I just need to tidy myself up a bit, maybe take a thirty-second shower – but he is already leading me through to the kitchen, all black granite and brushed-chrome fixtures. But who’s looking at the cabinetry when there is a breakfast spread to rival a boutique hotel: outsize chocolate croissants, Greek yoghurt scattered with pink pomegranate seeds, heaps of diced tomato and grated cheese beside the omelette station (aka the frying pan), orange juice so fresh the citrus zest is tickling my nose . . .
‘I thought you might need some fortification before we begin again.’ He pulls me towards him with the belt of the robe. ‘We can spend the whole day getting to know each other.’
My shoulders slump. ‘I wish I could, truly, but I have to go.’ I catch sight of the oven clock. ‘In fact, I’m already late.’
He releases me abruptly. ‘Another client?’
‘No, no, my mum.’
‘Your mum?’ he hoots then reaches for me again. ‘I’m sure you can miss one Sunday lunch.’ His lips begin at my neck, moving hungrily down to my collarbone as he teases open my robe. ‘Wouldn’t she want her little girl to be happy?’
I jump back, startled by the sensations he’s triggering. I have to nip this in the bud before I become another item on the buffet.
‘Honestly, I can’t let her down, if anything happened to her the one week I didn’t visit . . .’
He frowns at me.
I hesitate. I don’t want to reference her condition, it seems too personal. Which is odd since I didn’t think twice about discussing it with Ben . . . ‘It’s just a set-in-stone thing with us, but I really appreciate all the trouble you went to – it looks amazing.’
‘So, that’s it?’ he scowls. ‘You’ve had your fun and now you’re walking out on me?’
Oh jeez.
‘I’m not walking out on you, I’m just keeping a prior appointment.’ Is he really in a huff or just messing with me? I decide to give him a moment to cool off. ‘I’m just going to hop in the shower, if that’s okay . . .’
‘Mmm, sorry, you’re going to have to skip that,’ he snips out. ‘I’ll need to set the alarm so we have to leave together.’
What? I frown back at him. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’
‘I need to go now. I just remembered I’m meeting the guys.’ He clips my shoulder as he passes me on the way to the bedroom and starts pulling items from his wardrobe.
I can’t believe how quickly he’s switched from nuzzling my neck to turfing me out on my ear. This definitely feels like a punishment. And what a waste of this glorious breakfast. I look back longingly at the croissants. I get the feeling he’d smack my hand if I reached for one now.
As I collect my clothes to change in the toilet I wonder if I could have handled that better. Once again he’s the one who’s gone to an enormous amount of effort and I’m the one spoiling his romantic plans. And what’s he going to say in response? ‘You hurt my feelings!’ No. He’s going to get surly. I decide I need to have a sincere moment with him – to let him know how amazing the whole evening was – but he looks away as he holds open the front door and I say nothing.
*
‘Of course!’ I mutter to myself as we step out from Tristan’s building and into the rain.
I don’t have a coat, let alone an umbrella. All I can do is run for the shelter of the tree while he bleeps his car, parked directly outside on the kerb. I watch with incredulity as he steps into his low, sleek Jag. I don’t even know what part of town I’m in and he’s going to drive off and leave me? How was none of this in my premonition? Surely this is how it ends – me bedraggled and furious with myself for succumbing to his charms. Why isn’t this scenario ringing any bells?
Speaking of ringing – my phone is still dead. Obviously. They really should have kept phone boxes on for these sorts of situations. All I can do is walk until I find a busier road then ask directions or flag down yet another taxi. I seem to recall him mentioning there was a pub nearby . . .
I feel mildly teary but set myself in motion – arms folded across my chest, head down to keep the rain from getting in my eyes. How can we have gone from crying with laughter at dinner to this? Never mind all the bedroom shenanigans . . .
‘Amy, wait!’
Oh gosh, he’s coming after me! I quicken my pace. Too little too late, mate!
Suddenly he’s stepping in front of me, opening out a black executive-style umbrella and offering me shelter – the two of us now face to face in this dark, waterproof cocoon.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, his voice low and sincere, his eyes fully locked onto mine now. ‘I really like you, Amy. More than I should at this point. And I wanted you to stay – I’d gone to a lot of trouble with breakfast, I had all these fantasies . . .’ He gives me a sly smile. ‘You can’t blame me for wanting more of what we had last night . . .’
I don’t know what to say. So much of my mind is taken up with the sensation of wet wool on my arms.
‘The fact is, it’s nice that you want to be with your mother. And that you keep your promises.’
I look warily back at him, still not sure where this is leading.
‘So can I take you there?’
Much as I’d like to spurn him, the rain is getting heavier. I heave a frustrated sigh. ‘I don’t even know where we are – it might be a trek from here.’
‘I don’t mind, wherever you need to go.’
‘What about your friends?’
He shrugs. ‘They can wait.’
I push my hand through my wet hair. ‘Well, at least I got my shower!’
He looks sheepish. ‘You know, I’ve got a brand new Tolly McRae blanket in the boot, I can make you all cosy.’
‘I’m riding in the boot?’
‘No,’ he splutters, laughing.
‘Well, it’s best to be sure about these things.’
*
I’m grateful that he’s keen to show off the capabilities of his car stereo so we don’t have to talk, and even more delighted that I get to charge my phone from his lead.
When the screen comes back to life I surreptitiously tap on the map to check our route. We are in Chelsea. And not only are we on course for Battersea, we’ll be there in a few minutes. I exhale in relief.
‘Worried I was going to abduct you?’ he smirks.
‘Just checking our arrival time,’ I say, turning my phone face down and making a show of peering up at the pretty pastel paintwork of Albert Bridge. The strands of lightbulbs look like a cat’s cradle of luminous pearls at night – my mum loves it when we sneak up onto the fire escape to see them. She says it makes her feel like we’re Tinkerbell and Wendy, about to take flight . . .
‘You know, I could wait for you . . .’ Tristan suggests.
‘No, no. I’ll be here most of the afternoon,’ I say, sitting forward in anticipation of the turning. ‘Here we go. Anywhere here is fine!’
‘Come on, let me drop you at the door.’
‘We’re practically there.’
‘Well, let me take you actually there.’
‘Now we’ve gone past it.’
He brakes, turning to me with a frown. ‘That was a nursing home.’
‘I know,’ I say, tensing, feeling as if I am somehow betraying my mum by revealing her whereabouts, and her circumstance.
‘Your mother is in a nursing home?’ He hangs his head. ‘Well, now I feel even more of an arse.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ I reach for the door handle.
‘Wait! We’re still on for next weekend, aren’t we?’ His hand is on my arm. ‘You have to let me make it up to you. I’ll get you extra churros.’
His eyes do a convincing job of conveying molten chocolate dipping sauce.
‘Please,’ he insists. ‘I’m an arse. But I’m an arse that really likes you and wants to be less of an arse so you’ll like me back.’ He leans closer. ‘The way you did last night.’
My cheeks flush and I experience an acute sensory flashback to our sheet-tumbling.
‘Amy . . .’ he breathes my name, touching the side of my face and leaning in for a kiss.
One part of me feels I should keep him at a distance – that was a pretty weird moment back at the flat – the other part of me is already yielding.
When we come up for air he has a satisfied look on his face. He knows he’s got me hooked.
‘I guess we just had our first argument and make-up,’ he smiles. ‘I kind of liked it.’
I’m still feeling conflicted so I focus on prising myself away from him and trying to sufficiently compose myself to make it to the nursing home entrance. As I reach the front door my phone bleeps a message.
Look at what you do to me . . .
And, yes, there’s a visual.
I slam my phone to my chest, eyes darting around as if some passerby might have caught an X-rated glimpse. Now I feel even more jangled and riled up.
I’m also smiling way more than I should.
