Читать книгу Remember My Name: A glamorous story about chasing your dreams - Abbey Clancy, Abbey Clancy - Страница 14

I half expected someone to spot the difference in me the next day. I thought Patty would notice the glow, and declare I was looking radiant. Instead, she just narrowed her eyes at me and suggested I should start getting more beauty sleep—’like twenty-four hours a day’.

Huh. So much for my radiant glow, I thought, as I arranged their organic artisanal macadamia nut cookies on a plate. Not that they’d eat them—the whole PR department was on a permanent diet. They just kind of inhaled them, and then spent the rest of the day talking about how guilty it made them feel. If one of them chewed on a chia seed they’d declare themselves full.

I nipped to the loo while I waited for the coffee to perc, and glanced at myself in the mirror. Hmm. Maybe she had a point—I did look a bit rough round the edges. My hair had a tangle in the back of it the size of Dubai, and my liner had done an unintentional zigzag beneath my left eye. I wasn’t wearing the same clothes as the day before—Jack had booked me a cab home at the crack of dawn to avoid any Walk of Shame scenarios—but I could definitely do with some quality time in the shower.

Somehow, though, I just couldn’t find it in me to care. I was happy—I was walking on sunshine, as Katrina and her Waves might have said. I was even happier than I’d have been if I’d scoffed all those organic macadamia nut biscuits.

It had finally happened. After what felt like a month of foreplay, it had finally happened … and boy, had it had been worth the wait.

Dinner was lovely, even if I did skip the tiramisu—something that would normally have had my mum feeling my forehead with the back of her hand in case I was running a temperature. And after that, we’d gone to this little place in a backstreet in Chelsea that was all dark wood panelling and smelled of brandy and whisky and cigars, even though nobody seemed to be smoking one.

We’d spent ages talking; just talking and talking and talking—about music, about life, about family and friends and our hopes for the future. Okay, I will admit that he didn’t reveal too much—but it was a nice change to be with a man who wanted to listen as much as he wanted to bang on about himself. He was genuinely interested in me, which took me a while to get used to—I mean, I’m not that interesting, to be honest. At least I don’t usually think I am.

I’m all right—I’m not so boring someone would fall asleep while they’re having a conversation with me or anything—but I’m not likely to be signed up as a guest on Newsnight any time soon either. And I’m okay looking—I know I’m not a minger, and I scrub up well, but I’m nothing special. Nobody’s going to trip over themselves staring at me on the street.

But with Jack, I felt different. He made me feel like I was a sexy supermodel, not just someone who scrubbed up well. He made me feel like my stories were brilliant, my views were important, that everything about me was fascinating. We laughed and we chatted and we flirted and we drank—and it was all totally dazzling. It was like being exposed to a completely new species of manhood—one I’d never encountered before.

Maybe I was a bit star struck, I don’t know. Maybe I was also a bit grateful, that Jack had seen something in me that so many others had missed. Maybe I was just sex-starved and he was gorgeous. Whatever the reasons, though, the end result was the same—I was hooked.

When we’d emerged from the bar and climbed into his Audi I’d been merry and giggly and high on life. He was nowhere near as merry—he was driving, after all—but he did seem happy.

‘I’ve had a wonderful night, Jess,’ he said, turning towards me and laying one hand on my knee. I don’t know whether he’d planned it that way, but he’d parked right under one of those old-fashioned streetlights that’s made of curved wrought iron and looks all olde worldy, like something from a Dickens film. The glow from it was cast over his face, shining from his dark eyes, glinting on the deep brown waves of his hair. To use an intellectual term, it was pretty hot.

‘Me too,’ I said, then straight away burped like a frog with some serious digestive issues. It was a good, strong burp—deep and croaky. Luke would probably have given it an eight out of ten for comedy effect.

I quickly covered my mouth with my hand, and realised I was too tipsy to be as horrified as I should be. Instead, I started laughing—because, you know, noises that come from your body are naturally funny. At least they are where I come from—we never get fed up of fart jokes in our house.

He joined in, and we both laughed for a few minutes, until I was able to speak again.

‘I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not really,’ I said. ‘It’s your fault for getting me drunk. And at least it was only one burp—my sister Becky can do them on demand. She can even make tunes out of them.’

‘Really?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow and grinning. ‘How fantastic. Has she considered going on Britain’s Got Talent?’

‘Not yet, but I might suggest it to her … Anyway, I really did have a great night, Jack. I suppose I’d better get home and sleep this off.’

He nodded, and looked at me seriously, his eyes never moving from mine. Unlike his hand, which was definitely moving—in little circular motions on my thigh that should have tickled, but instead just made me feel a bit gooey inside.

‘Is that what you want?’ he said simply, all traces of laughter gone from his voice. ‘To go home? Because of course, I’ll take you if you do. But … I was wondering … if you’d like to take this to the next level? Come back to mine for a coffee?’

Something in my expression must have changed—and maybe he interpreted it as something negative—because straight away he continued: ‘And by coffee, I do mean coffee—no strings attached.’

‘Oh,’ I said, leaning back in the plush leather seat in a way I hoped was sexy, but probably just made me look like I needed a wee. ‘Just for a coffee? I can get coffee at my flat.’

‘Mine’s better,’ he replied, instantly, smiling at me in a way that I can only describe as Pure Sexy. ‘It’s hotter and it’s smoother and it’ll definitely keep you up all night. If that’s what you want.’

It was what I wanted. In fact—and I’m so glad I didn’t actually say this out loud—I was gagging for it. I’d always tried to have good intentions about Jack; no matter how good-looking or charming he was, I’d tried to avoid thinking about it becoming anything more. Because he was my boss. Because I didn’t want to behave like an idiot and get the knock back if he wasn’t interested, beyond a few casual kisses. Because I knew I was vulnerable—my glamorous life was taking its toll on me, with the long hours and all the hard work for so little return. I wasn’t at my strongest, and didn’t want to make it all even worse by getting my knickers in a twist about a man.

But, well … I’m only flesh and blood, you know? And it’s not like I jumped into bed with him. We’d taken the time to get to know each other. We’d had coffee dates and dinner dates and drinks dates. We’d had kisses and cuddles and long, lingering moments where things could have moved quicker—but they hadn’t. We’d taken it slow. Or—if I was being really honest with myself—Jack had taken it slow.

So, cutting a long story short, I’d spent the night at his flat. His penthouse apartment on the top of a modern building with views over the Thames—a place that I’d have to call a bachelor pad. It was ultra-sleek and ultra-stylish and it had an ultra-big bed—which is where we spent most of the night.

A lady doesn’t kiss and tell—and neither do I—but it had been fantastic. I was a bit drunk, which helped—I worry less about the way my body looks when I’m a bit drunk, which makes it all a lot better. It’s no fun when you’re too busy holding your tummy in to enjoy yourself, is it? Plus, there was the Jack factor—the way he made me feel, during our dates: as if I was the centre of his world, and he was lucky to be spending time with me. Well, he was like that in the bedroom as well.

I’m not that experienced when it comes to sex—I’ve not had very many boyfriends, and the only time I ever had a one-night stand, I didn’t know it was going to be one until the next morning. But I was experienced enough to understand that Jack was good at it—and that he could become addictive.

That was the only thing that was worrying me, as I scuttled around the office carrying the tray of drinks and cookies back to the PR pillocks. That I’d be too into him. That I’d do that girl thing and mix up good sex and good company with something more, and blow it all out of proportion. That even if I didn’t intend to, I’d find myself doodling Jess Duncan on scrap paper to see what my new signature would look like.

We’d had a bit of a talk about it, afterwards. When we were lying tangled up in his silk sheets, listening to softly playing soul music, the candles he’d lit around the bed burning low and filling the room with the scent of something spicy and musky. We agreed that whatever happened next, we’d need to keep it a secret—for both our sakes.

He didn’t want to be seen as the Starmaker lech, taking advantage of the talent. And I didn’t want to be seen as a slapper, understandably enough.

‘Let’s just go with the flow, Jess,’ he’d said, stroking my hair and leaning forward to gently kiss me. ‘See where this takes us—letting other people in on it will only complicate matters. I want to have you all to myself for a while, anyway. I’m selfish like that.’

The way he’d said that had sounded so romantic—wanting me all to himself. Like I was a chocolate fudge cake or something. And last night, I’d been happy with that. This morning, as I scooted around my flat trying to find clean underwear and wondering if all that energetic bonking had earned me a bacon buttie for breakfast, I’d still been happy with that.

Now, as I tried to work and found myself constantly finding excuses to walk past Jack’s office, I wasn’t so sure. I’d checked my phone about three million times. I’d casually chatted to Heidi at her desk only a few times less. And all I got from it was a crick in my neck from trying to stare through his glass door from behind one of the potted palm trees. I don’t know why I bothered—the glass was frosted, and all I could see were vague shapes moving around. It could have been my uncle Brian in there for all I could tell.

I knew I was behaving badly—stupidly—but I couldn’t quite stop myself.

I’d been here before. All women have, I think. At that stage where you feel brilliant and crap all at the same time. That stage where everything could happen—or nothing at all.

That stage where I’d normally have Ruby to talk to, or Becky—and now, here in London, I had nobody.

Unless you counted Patty—and as she was currently taking off her platform boots so I could go and polish them for her, I really, really didn’t.