Читать книгу Envy - Amanda Robson, Amanda Robson - Страница 17

‘Away at a conference,’ I say. ‘I see. I’ll have to catch him another time.’

You are looking more beautiful than ever, with your colt-like legs. Your tiny waist. Your ample breasts. I stand looking at you, imagining, as I have so many times before, their shape unfettered by the confines of a bra. Tip-tilted. Large alveoli. Bell-like. Your hair and your eyes shine. Like Elizabeth Taylor, you are exotic and colourful. The excitement that simmers whenever I see you rises inside me.

‘This Prosecco diluted with orange juice is a bit insipid,’ I say raising my almost empty glass. ‘Would you care to accompany me to the kitchen to find something proper to drink?’ I manage to ask, holding your violet blue eyes in mine. ‘What about it?’

You pause. You swallow. I watch your Adam’s apple move up and down your pretty throat. ‘Good idea,’ you reply.

Together we move away from the main party, out of the hallway and through the children’s sitting room – plain sofas, large TV and an Xbox with surround sound – into the kitchen.

The kitchen is a hive of activity. The catering company are buzzing around like flies, putting the finishing touches on trays of canapés, loading the dishwasher with used glasses. A tiny woman, wearing a blue uniform, with a face so delicate she looks like a flower ambles towards us. ‘Any chance of some whisky?’ I ask.

‘Of course, Sir, I’ll find you some. Ron has quite a collection. Any particular brand?’

‘Glenmorangie is my favourite.

‘What about you, Faye?’

‘Red wine please.’

The catering assistant reaches into a box stacked in the corner, pulls out a bottle of red wine, and opens it expertly with a flick of her wrist, pouring you a glass and leaving the bottle on the counter. Then she pads over to a cupboard in the corner and pulls out a black and orange bottle containing my favourite tipple. She pours a generous amount into a crystal glass.

‘Ice? Ginger?’

‘No thanks.’

I sweep the wine bottle from the counter, put a hand on your back to guide you, and carrying our drinks we step back into the children’s sitting room.

‘Let’s just stay here, away from the riff-raff,’ I suggest, sinking into a sofa to the right of the door.

You laugh, kick off your killer heels and sink gratefully next to me onto the sofa. It sags in the middle and my body has slipped to lean against yours. I want to bury myself in your scent.

‘You are so beautiful, Faye. But you know that, don’t you? People must always be telling you that.’

You lean more closely against me. My right hand hovers near the small of your back.