Читать книгу The Dating Game - Avril Tremayne - Страница 12
ОглавлениеFive seconds after hitting the intercom outside the glass doors of SydneyScape Apartments, Sarah found herself in an impressive marble lobby. Spying a desk manned by a well-dressed concierge, she headed in that direction, only to be forestalled by the concierge’s regal wave in the direction of the elevators. As she veered obediently, the concierge picked up the phone on his desk—calling David to announce her arrival, Sarah guessed.
The elevator doors glided silently open; Sarah stepped in; they glided silently closed. After a hushed ascent, the elevator stopped with an almost non-existent whoosh at the thirtieth floor, disgorging her onto a plush beige carpet that muffled any hint of a footfall.
She felt a laugh bubbling up in reaction to the almost unnatural silence … until the sight of David leaning against the doorframe of his apartment along the corridor immobilized everything about her, even her vocal cords. All she could do was stare. He was wearing well-worn jeans and a T-shirt that fitted him like a second skin, and he looked even more delectable than he’d looked in a suit. She couldn’t quite believe that she’d had the nerve to make a deal with this handsome, poised, intimidatingly perfect man.
And then he smiled, and Sarah found herself walking, Pied Piper style, towards him.
‘What’s in the suit bag?’ he asked, when she reached him.
‘What I’m wearing,’ she said, sounding a little too breathless for her liking. She cleared her throat. ‘For the painting. It wasn’t an easy decision to make.’
He stepped into the apartment, holding the door open for her. ‘No? Why so hard?’
‘Well, it’s a portrait.’
‘Yeees.’
‘And I want to look … historic. I first thought maybe a business suit, but that seemed kind of boring. Next, I went for a day dress—one with poppies, very cheerful—but who wants to be quite that casual on canvas?’ She stepped over the threshold. ‘I also tried on a basic black ensemble, but it smacked a little too much of a crime writer’s publicity shot, so, I … I … Oh!’ As she took in the big, airy room.
Bright, exotic rugs scattered across dark wooden floorboards. A couch in a deep, velvety orange. There was a low wooden coffee table, two cabinets holding intriguing treasures and several tables topped with quirky artefacts. The walls were covered with modern paintings of different styles and sizes. There were two groupings of Aboriginal spirit poles in earthy colours each side of French doors that opened onto a deck, through which Sarah could see a beautifully lit sculpture soaring skywards, the twinkling lights of the city almost close enough to touch, and the Sydney Harbour Bridge in the distance. There were doors at either end of the room. Sarah guessed one led to the kitchen and dining room; the other to the bedrooms and bathrooms.
‘Uh-oh, you’ve stopped talking!’ David said, laying the suit bag across the couch. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Your apartment,’ she answered, and then laughed as the rest of what he’d said hit her. ‘Oh, you! I don’t talk all the time, you know.’
‘Well, I haven’t slept with you, so I can’t say what happens then.’
‘Ha-ha-ha.’
‘So what’s wrong with my apartment?’
‘It’s just not what I expected.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘Something a little more Don Juan, only modern.’
‘The mind boggles at what a modern Don-Juan-style apartment would look like.’
‘To start with, it would have nude etchings!’ she said smartly.
‘I’m never going to live down those etchings, am I? Thank God I’m not painting you naked or you’d have me pegged as a dirty old man.’
‘Actually, how old are you?’
‘Thirty-four—old enough to be deemed decrepit by your peer group. But I’m not dirty, I promise.’ He grinned. ‘Although I can be, on request.’
‘And how often is that requested?’
‘More often than you’d believe. Why? Are you sorry you didn’t take me up on my original offer?’
‘Oh, if I’d known it was dirty sex on offer, who knows what I might have agreed to?’ She gave a gusty sigh. ‘Ah well, lost opportunities—a bit like that premature ejaculator I told you about last week.’
‘Hey, don’t rope me in with any premature ejaculators!’
‘Well, I haven’t slept with you, so I can’t rule you out there.’
‘You’re such a brat,’ he said, laughing.
She poked her tongue out at him, and then looked around again. ‘Seriously, I love this. It makes me think that perhaps you’re going to—’ She stopped herself. It didn’t matter if David Bennett liked her backyard granny flat. He’d never see it. ‘Never mind. Are any of the paintings yours?’
‘That landscape.’ Pointing. ‘The dancers.’ Point. ‘And the still life over there.’ Another point.
She walked closer to each in turn, examining them carefully. They were completely different subjects, but had a common style. Jagged lines, harsh brushstrokes, violent splashes of colour.
‘They’re sort of … brutal,’ she said.
David had come up behind her. ‘I was in a brutal frame of mind at the time. But don’t worry, bluebell, I’m not feeling brutal at the moment; you’ll turn out differently.’
She turned to him. ‘How am I going to turn out? You’re not really going cubist on me, are you? Because I was envisaging something more glamorous, along the lines of Gustave Leonard de Jonghe. Timeless elegance. The kind of portrait you can hang at the top of a sweeping staircase today and it will still look good in fifty years. It’s a matter of … of posterity. I mean, spare a thought for all those people who had their portraits done in the Eighties and now have to look at themselves with mullet hairdos and shoulder pads! Now they could have done with a bit of cubism. But the dress I brought with me has a touch of the 1930s about it, and the Thirties have stood the test of time. Plus, I’m really hoping my feet are going to make it into the painting because the matching shoes are gorgeous.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ David said, and his lips were doing that twitch she’d figured out meant he was trying not to laugh. ‘You get changed and show me, and then we’ll see.’ He gestured to the door leading off the room to the right. ‘The guest bathroom is through there, first on the left.’
‘Okay, but while I’m gone, try to visualize Gustave Leonard de Jonghe’s Dressing For The Ball.’
‘Just be gone, brat, or the only thing I’ll be visualizing is your backside under my hand.’
‘Oooh, promises, promises,’ Sarah said, and as he made a grab for her, she yelped and jumped backwards. ‘All right! Going!’ she said, laughing.
‘Good!’ he said sternly, but he was laughing too.
***
David wasn’t sure what to expect of Sarah’s take on a nineteenth-century painting in a 1930s-style dress, but when Sarah re-entered the room with a ‘Ta-da!’ and a twirl he was momentarily speechless.
She looked good, but in a bad way. An uncomfortable way.
The dress was a rich, deep ruby, with ruching from bodice to hip that made her shape seem sexier than it had last week. And the red shoes? Six inches of wet dream.
‘Did you wear that for your date with Craig?’ David asked, before he knew the words had formed. Not that the question wasn’t reasonable—everything about her dates was within range as far as he was concerned. But the challenging tone that went with them, not so much. Because there wasn’t anything to challenge. He’d practically set the damn date up for her, hadn’t he? She was free to wear whatever the hell she wanted.
‘Of course not,’ she scoffed, apparently either not noticing or not being offended by his tone. ‘A jazz bar screams basic black. But how did you know about the date?’
‘Well, duh, we work in the same office. I introduced you. Of course he told me he was taking you out when I … er … accidentally ran into him.’
‘Accidental, huh?’
‘That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.’
‘So I guess you accidentally ran into him afterwards so you know what happened on the date, too.’
‘He’s interstate this week so no, but— Hang on. Why? What hap—’
‘And if I had worn this dress, what would you say?’
‘I’d say it was overkill.’ At least for that dipshit. ‘So what did hap—’
‘Where do you want me to stand?’
‘Not stand, sit.’ He gestured to an armchair. ‘There.’ Pointing to the small table beside it. ‘And up to you, but I poured you a glass of wine to help you relax.’
‘Thank you,’ Sarah said, sitting. She picked up her glass and took a sip. ‘Now what happens?’
‘Now you talk while I sketch.’
‘Talk. Okay. It’s nice and warm in here.’
‘Reverse-cycle air conditioning.’
‘I love your couch.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘The rugs, too.’
‘Glad to hear that, as well.’
‘So … the portrait. What’s it going to be? Watercolour? Oil?’
‘Oil.’
‘Where’s the painting equipment?’
‘I’ve turned one of the bedrooms into a studio.’
‘Why don’t we do the sketching part there?’
‘Because.’
‘I like the view. Through the French doors.’
He stopped sketching and looked at her. ‘Okay. Pause it there, bluebell. Are we doing eye of newt and toe of frog, or are we just going to talk about paint colours and fabric swatches?’
She looked at her lap, tapping one foot, then the other, on the rug, which he assumed was the seated equivalent of shifting foot to foot, which he’d seen her do in the storeroom when she wanted to bolt. And he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
‘What happened on Saturday night, Sarah?’ he asked, and he accepted the challenging tone this time because this he needed to know. If that mongrel had stepped out of line with a girl David had introduced him to, he was going to beat the crap out of him and then make him eat it.
‘Nothing,’ she said, and sighed. ‘Really, nothing. It’s just … I think it was a failure. Sorry to disappoint you.’
Stand down, David. ‘Are you going to give me the details?’
‘I’m not sure there’s a lot to tell. I’m not even sure what went wrong. Or what constitutes an important date indicator, for that matter. So maybe you can ask me questions. For example, does it matter what he wore?’
An image of Craig in a yukata flashed in David’s head and those hairs on his neck stood to attention again. Not that he cared, even if she’d seen him stark naked … except that he did, dammit! It was too soon. And Craig wasn’t … wasn’t worthy. He should have put a stop to Craig at the gallery the minute he’d assessed the sleaze quotient. ‘Yes, it matters,’ he said, and could tell from the snap in his voice that his temper was on a leash.
‘Black pants. White shirt. Green vest.’
And relax. Not naked.
‘And a fedora,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘A what?’
‘A fedora. It’s a hat.’
David bent his head down, and started sketching. ‘Yes, I know what a fedora is.’
‘Are you laughing?’
‘I’m trying, manfully, not to.’
‘Then maybe control your dimples.’
‘They’re a law unto themselves.’
‘Oh, they so are not. But come on, what else do you need to know?’
‘Did he pick you up?’
‘No. I live across the Bridge. I never expect to be picked up from home. It’s too inconvenient. Even though Adam says anyone who doesn’t want to come and pick you up for a date isn’t worth the effort.’
‘I don’t care what your brother says, you don’t let a new guy know where you live. So your answer is right, but your motivation is wrong: it’s not about what’s convenient for the guy, it’s about weeding out the psychos and stalkers for the girl. Rulebook moment.’
‘Weed out psychos. Check.’
‘Big check, or I’ll be the one going psycho. Okay?’
‘Okay. Although Adam seems to think the threat of him beating the living daylights out of any guy who lays a finger on me is enough to keep them in check.’
‘Violence is never the answer. Avoidance is the key.’
‘And then of course, I live in a granny flat out the back of my mother’s house, so she’s usually in screaming distance in an emergency.’
‘Usually?’
‘Well, she’s jaunting around the Mediterranean at the moment before heading to Italy with her new boyfriend Massimo, so she’ll be away for a few months.’
‘Now there, you see? You just rattled that off to me without giving it a second thought. If we were at your flat, any curb on my behaviour your mother’s proximity may have had would be instantly negated.’
‘Oh. Yes. I see. Should I not have told you that?’
‘You can tell me anything. It’s everyone else you need to be cautious about. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
He sighed. ‘So you met him at the bar …’
‘Yes.’
‘And, presumably, he bought you a drink before he took to the stage.’
‘Yes.’
‘Sheesh, it’s like getting blood out of a stone,’ he said, and stopped sketching to fix her with a no-nonsense look. ‘What did he buy you?’
Pause. Long.
‘Sarah?’
‘All right. Passion Pop. A bottle. For us to share.’
‘What the actual fuck! Did you drink it?’
‘Um … yes?’ she squeaked.
‘Um … no! Unless a guy knows you very well, he shouldn’t order a drink for you without asking what you like. Especially an abomination like Passion Pop—Jesus H Christ!—but not even a bottle of Cristal—which, incidentally, only a poser would buy for you on the first date.’
‘You poured me a glass of wine without asking what I wanted, and this is only the second time we’ve met.’
He bent his head forward to the sketch again. ‘Ah, but that just happened to be the wine I’d opened for myself, and this is my apartment not a wanky jazz bar, and we’re not on a date.’ He stopped suddenly, looked up. ‘And you can tell me—right now—if you don’t like it, and I’ll get you something else.’
‘I like it.’
‘You’re blushing. And to prove to you how well I know women, I’ll tell you that I worked out the first time you blushed that you do that when you lie.’
‘You did?’
‘I did. Now, for rulebook: hanging out with girls who agree with everything you say and like everything you like is boring. Don’t ever do that unless you really do agree with everything a guy says and like everything he likes. And if you do truthfully agree with everything he says and like everything he likes, dump him anyway. I’m telling you—boring!’
‘Fine. You found me out. I don’t like the wine. I don’t like Pinot Noir at all. Happy?’
‘Fine. I’ll get you something else.’
‘Fine. But am I supposed to like Pinot Noir?’
‘Fine. Hang on! What?’
‘I mean, is it unsophisticated to dislike an entire grape varietal?’
‘Who the hell cares?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, Sarah,’ he said, ‘I could bang on about their being Pinot Noirs and Pinot Noirs, but that would make me an insufferable prick. So why don’t you just tell me what wine you actually like? Or do you hate wine, and I need to mix you a cocktail?’
‘Fine. In white wine, I like Chardonnay, as long as it’s super cold. In red, Shiraz.’
David laid his sketchbook on the coffee table. ‘I don’t have any Chardonnay quite that cold, so Shiraz it is.’
***
As David disappeared through the doorway Sarah presumed led to the kitchen, she contemplated getting up to re-examine his paintings for clues about his ‘brutal frame of mind’. Why brutal? What had happened? It was a mystery. He was a mystery. And she was intrigued—almost enough to not care if he caught her snooping.
But before she could give in to curiosity, David was back with a decanter and two glasses. He poured a glass for Sarah and one for himself, and as she sipped, he picked up his sketchbook and started drawing again.
Silence.
And then he sighed and put down his sketchbook again. ‘Why can’t you sit still?’
‘Drinking wine requires movement.’
‘It’s not the wine. It’s this …’ He squirmed, demonstrator-style. ‘You’re fidgeting.’
‘Maybe I’d better top up my wine. That might help me relax.’
‘Drink away. But if you slide into a drunken stupor and I have to book you in for AA meetings at the end of this, I won’t be impressed.’
‘Do not slide into drunken stupor. Check.’
‘Brat,’ David said, and went back to drawing.
While he sketched, Sarah pondered the idea of being still. She’d never thought of herself as either still or not still—she just was. ‘Is it a good thing?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Stillness.’
‘It’s neither good nor bad. Like Pinot Noir.’
‘But you like it, right?’
‘Yes.’ He raised his eyebrows meaningfully at her. ‘Especially when I’m sketching.’
‘Oh, you! Seriously, is it an attractive quality in a woman?’
‘It suggests a certain confidence, to be still. And confidence is always attractive.
‘So, yes.’
‘So, yes, I guess. Now, back to Craig. What happened post-Passion Pop?’
‘We talked.’
‘About?’
‘Music.’
‘And what did he think of your preference for pop music?’
Sarah did the foot tap thing again.
‘Saaaaraaaah? You did tell him, right?’
‘It didn’t come up.’
‘Blushing.’
Her hand came up to her cheek. ‘Oh, but it’s not a lie. Not really.’
‘You were at a bar, where he was scheduled to perform, talking about music, and he never asked you what kind of music you liked?’ He shook his head. ‘Not buying it. I mean, he’s a moron but not that much of a moron.’
‘If he’s a moron, why did you introduce me to him?’
‘Because I’m a moron.’
She started laughing. ‘Oh, you!’
‘It’s true. I’ll choose better next time. Now come on, spit it out. Music.’
‘The subject really didn’t come up, because …’ Her eyes squeezed shut. ‘Because I told him jazz was my favourite type of music before he could ask me and that was the end of that.’
‘I see,’ David said.
Sarah opened one cautious eye, then the other, biting her bottom lip.
‘Stand up and go over to the glass doors, will you?’ David said.
‘Why? Are you going to make me jump off the balcony?’ she asked with a nervous half-laugh, clutching her wineglass like a lifeline.
‘Yes, if you do something like that again. But for now, just move. Okay, stop … right … theeere, good. Turn side-on.’ Sketch, sketch, sketch. ‘What else did you and Craig talk about?’
‘Golf.’
‘And?’
‘Football.’
‘Okay, I think I can see what went down. You talked about everything that interests him, and nothing that interests you.’
‘But I told you, I can talk about—’
‘Anything, yep, got it, PR girl. Face me.’ Pause while he drew. ‘And then he sang.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he any good?’
‘Truthfully, he was singing in the wrong register.’
‘So he sucked? Come on, gloves off.’
‘He was … not good.’
‘So when he rejoined you, you said … what?’
‘You don’t really think I was going to tell him how bad he was!’
‘There are ways, and there are ways.’
‘Whatever “ways” there are, they’re not my ways, are they? I’ve clearly been doing things the wrong way my entire life.’
‘Hey, enough with the italics! Just tell me what your “way” was on Saturday night.’
‘I told him he was brilliant,’ she mumbled. ‘As anyone with a modicum of … of politeness in their character would have done.’
‘His mother, maybe. No—don’t argue.’ He started sketching again. ‘Rulebook: excessive politeness does not a memorable date make. It’s the same in principle as agreeing with everything a guy says.’
‘Okay, but he didn’t seem bored.’
‘Turn a little to the left, but keep looking at me.’ Pause, while he looked between her and his sketch. Then, super-innocent: ‘So he called you on Sunday, I suppose, after you were so obliging as to sing his praises and agree with everything he said?’
‘No, but I didn’t really want him to. And anyway, they never call the next day, do they?’
It was a rhetorical question, but David answered it anyway. ‘Yes, Sarah, they do. If they’ve had a great time and they want to have another one, they call you the next day. Sometimes they even call you later that night.’
‘Or text?’
‘Or text.’
‘Like you texted me?’ she said, and laughed.
Pause, and then David batted that away. ‘Yeah, don’t get too puffed up in your own conceit there, bluebell. It’s Craig who should have been doing it. Craig, your date.’
‘Well, Erica never seems bothered by it when they don’t call straight away.’
‘Who’s Erica?’
‘Erica Wilder. One of my two best friends. Lane’s housemate. She’s a flight attendant.’
David’s eyes widened appreciatively. ‘A flight attendant?’
‘What is it with guys and flight attendants?’
‘It’s a women in uniform thing.’
‘More like a mile-high club fantasy.’ She took a giant sip of wine. ‘Before you get carried away, I’ll tell you what I told Adam: Erica has a boyfriend. And about a hundred guys waiting in the wings hoping Jeremy drops dead.’
‘Adam? And Erica? I thought he wanted Lane.’
‘Long story, which I am not going to go into.’
‘Well if Erica could get your brother’s eyes off Lane after what I saw of him at the gallery last week, she must be something else. And you’re telling me there’s nothing special about flight attendants?’
‘It’s not about her job. It’s about …’ waving her wineglass ‘… her.’
‘Beautiful, is she?’
‘Very.’
‘Smart and confident and classy?’
‘Very.’
‘Experienced with men?’
‘Very.’
‘And these men swarming all over her never call her the next day?’
‘I … She … They … Hmm …’ She frowned, like she was trying to pull up memories. ‘Maybe it’s that she doesn’t always take their calls.’
‘Ah, now that’s quite different.’
***
David could tell the moment the implication sank in because her eyes bugged out. ‘That means they just don’t call me the next day. Or even the day after that. Or in Craig’s case, four days after! Well if that doesn’t totally … totally … Oh! And those dimples of yours are not helping me feel better about it.’
‘You’ve really got it in for my dimples tonight. Most girls like them.’
‘I’m not most girls,’ she said darkly.
‘You don’t like them?’
‘Not tonight, I don’t.’ She looked at him. ‘And there they go again! Indenting, in that infuriating way.’
‘So tell me, bluebell, dimples aside, are you sticking with me, or are you going to sack me as your adviser and hire Erica the paragon of feminine pulchritude?’
She pursed her lips for a long, thoughtful moment. And then she said slowly, ‘Erica’s advice usually ends with her saying there are plenty of fish in the sea, so get out my rod and reel.’
‘Good advice, if you’re angling for a cyclothone.’
‘A what?’
‘A cyclothone. The most common fish in the sea. They’re everywhere. But you see, I don’t think you want an everywhere fish, bluebell. You want something like a Fan Caulofrino Fin Fish—very hard to find, but once it’s attached to a female, it’s hers for life.’
‘Hers for life,’ she repeated thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I like that. It’s exactly what I want. Someone for life.’
‘And now that you’ve let me compare your future husband to a truly hideous-looking fish, I think it’s time we talked about the negs.’
‘The what?’
‘The negs. You’ve heard of guys negging girls, right?’
‘No.’
‘But I’ll bet it’s been done to you, even if you didn’t know it was happening. Guys do it all the time to good-looking girls, trying to take them down a peg or two in the hope of getting laid.’
‘Charming.’
‘Actually, it’s pathetic, but it seems to work.’
‘Example?’
He put his sketchpad down. ‘Say we’re in a bar …’ Walking towards her. ‘And I come over to you.’ Stopping in front of her. ‘I’m nervous as hell, because you’re a ten and I’m barely scraping a seven on a good day. So I might look at your hair.’ Looking at her hair. ‘And I nod, as though to say, Not bad. Not good mind you, but not bad. You’re starting to think there’s something wrong with your hair. But then, I say, “Nice,” and you’re feeling better. Maybe even starting to preen. Until I add, “You’re doing the two-tone hair on purpose, right? Blonde with black roots? I didn’t know the 1980s Blondie thing was back in fashion, but you go girl.”
‘And voila! You’ve been negged. You’re going to speak to me, and it’s not because I gushed about your pretty blonde hair, but because I rearranged our relative social values. I’ve indicated you’re not that special. I’m saying that even though twenty other guys have been kissing your tush all night, I’m not going to. I’m not responding like all those other guys—therefore I have a power those other guys don’t. You want to know why I’m not tripping over my tongue for you. You’re wondering how you’re going to get me kissing your tush like everyone else.’
‘Well, I’m certainly not wondering if my dark roots are showing, since I’m a natural blonde.’
‘Maybe you’ll tell me that … but that still means you’re talking to me, doesn’t it?’ And then he smiled, and his eyes dipped to just below where the ruching of her dress finished, low on her belly. ‘Natural blonde, huh?’
She looked where he was looking and her mouth dropped open. ‘Oh. My. God.’
Up came his eyes, brimming with silent laughter. ‘See? The conversation is begun, whichever way you want to play it.’
‘I need to see this in action.’
‘Any nightclub, any bar, any weekend, you’ll see it. And the thing is Sarah, you can turn the tables and do it yourself. In fact, I want you to do it. To try it, at least.’
But she was shaking her head vehemently. ‘Sorry, I can’t see myself talking about a guy’s pubic hair, even tangentially. Not going to happen. I need another example.’
‘Okay. Craig’s fedora—God, the options! But we’ll do an easy one. Something like, “My grandfather always told me gentlemen only wore hats outside—is this a new thing, wearing them indoors?” See? It doesn’t have to be vicious, just something to show him that you’re not going to fawn all over him. Once he knows he has to work to get you, he’s invested. He’ll be plotting to get you out on another date, calculating how soon he can call you.’
‘Hmm, I think I get the idea,’ she said, but she sounded doubtful.
He was close enough to smell her, now. To touch her. To … taste her. What would she do if he licked her, just below one of her ears, where the delicious scent she was wearing would be warm and heady?
Jesus! Where had that sprung from? No licking allowed.
He hightailed it back to his sketchbook, flipped to a fresh page, and started drawing hard enough to tear through the page. He rubbed a thumb over the tear, as though that would smooth out his own sudden edge.
‘But it seems a terrible way to live, hurling insults at each other,’ she said.
Time for a fresh page, some lighter pencilling. ‘You don’t live like that—it’s just how you meet. And the goal isn’t to insult someone. It’s just a way of piquing a little interest where you might otherwise have struggled to be noticed. Once you’ve hooked your fish, you can pack away the bait and start to get to know the other person.’ He looked down at his sketch, then back to Sarah. ‘Face me straight on. Yes, good.’
‘I just can’t quite believe that tactic could really work.’
‘Then I guess I’ll have to prove it to you. What are you doing Saturday night?’
‘Having a drink with Erica, and I can’t not go because she’ll smell a rat.’
‘Oh, I want you to go! The legendary Erica is the perfect target.’
‘Perfect tar—?’ She stopped, looking confused … and then suddenly not. ‘Oh! No! No, you’re not going to neg Erica?’
‘Sure am.’
‘In front of me?’
He was sketching again. ‘No point otherwise.’
‘It won’t work.’
‘If it doesn’t, I’ll buy you a bottle of Passion Pop.’
‘Ha ha ha! Anyway, we’ll never know because, I can’t let you try. Not with Erica.’
He stopped drawing and looked at her. ‘Because …?’
‘Because of Lane. Not that Lane is going to be there, but Erica knows who you are and she’ll tell Lane. And I …’ She shrugged, looking sheepish. ‘I still haven’t worked out how to tell Lane what’s happening here.’
‘But I’ve never met Erica,’ David said—and then the truth dawned. ‘Wait! Are you telling me I’ve been discussed between the three of you as a potential lover for Lane?’
‘Well … yes. But in a highly complimentary way.’
He started laughing. ‘If I’d known Lane was that interested, I’d have moved faster and nailed her.’
‘It’s not funny, you … you …’
‘Bastard?’
‘Beast.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Animal. Swine, rat, skunk, dog.’
‘Going the whole barnyard are we?’
‘Brute, monster—’
‘Aaand I think we have it covered.’
‘Maybe you should have moved faster,’ she said hotly. ‘Then I wouldn’t be here now, and Adam wouldn’t be looking so miserable, and I … I … and … ooooohh. You know what? I want to punch you, even though I don’t generally punch people.’
Could a pixie look fierce? Because that’s what Sarah looked like: a fierce pixie. He wanted to hug her. He threw his sketchpad and pencil onto the coffee table. ‘Come on. Take your best shot. Get it out of your system.’
‘I’m not going to punch you. I just want to.’
‘So unclench that fist you’ve got going there, champ,’ he said, and almost laughed again as she looked down at it as if she’d never seen her own hand before. ‘Sarah? Sarah! Listen to me.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. It’s important.’ He waited until she looked at him—well, glared at him. ‘Lane and me? It’s ancient history, and I’m not the kind of guy who looks back. So you keep me a secret, even though I think it’s stupid, that’s fine by me, no problem. But I swear, if you start getting all violent and tortured over something that did not even come close to happening …? Then not only am I going to go all cubist on your arse, but I am going to make sure your shoes don’t make it into the painting either. Got it?’
She kept glaring at him, but finally, with a stamp of one foot, capitulated. ‘Okay! Got it! No need to have a coronary.’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine,’ she sniffed.
‘And I have a solution for Saturday night, so you can relax about that, too.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ll use a false name. What do you think about Lucas Green? It has a suitably MI5 feel to it. Matches the whole “down low” ethos, don’t you think?’
She laughed then, and he knew she didn’t want to so it charmed him all the more. ‘For a banker, you’re kind of out there, you know.’
‘Yes, I do seem to be these days. But then again, I’m only half a banker. So, when and where on Saturday?’
‘I’m meeting Erica at six o’clock at Midnight Madness in Newtown—do you know it?’
‘Yes, I know it. Unfortunately.’
‘Hey, what’s wrong with it?’
‘Let’s just say it attracts quite a young crowd.’
‘Um … yeah! In case you hadn’t noticed, I happen to be young.’
The simple comment pulled David up short, and he looked at her, really looked at her, absorbing the truth of that. She was young—in years, in appearance, in outlook. Why was it shocking him to acknowledge that when it was the simple truth? ‘Yeah, I guess you are, aren’t you?’ he said, and stuck on a smile he couldn’t quite make himself feel. ‘Okay then, Midnight Madness it is, and I’ll try to repress my old-man shudders.’
‘Thank you sooooo much.’
‘What time should I arrive?’
‘Between six-thirty and seven?’
‘Done. Now, lean a little towards me, that way you do.’
‘What way?’ she asked, and David could only marvel. She really had no idea.
‘Like you’re going to tell me a secret.’
‘Like this?’ Leaning.
‘Perfect.’
‘I was just thinking …’
‘Hmm?’
‘What you said about Craig. What do I do if he calls me?’
‘You tell him you’re not interested. But you’ll be blocking him anyway, so he won’t be able to call.’
‘I will?’
‘You will.’
‘Then what will you do if he asks you about me?’
‘I’ll tell him you’re not interested.’
‘Are we sure I’m not interested?’
‘We’re sure. We don’t date people who wear fedoras inside bars and then don’t call us for four days.’
She sighed. ‘Good thing I didn’t follow through on my compatibility plan, then.’
‘Your what?’
‘I’ve been weighing up the pros and cons of having sex as early as possible in a relationship. Is it something you do yourself? Have sex on the first date?’
His pencil stopped on the page. One, two, three beats, and then he looked over at her.
‘So that’s an affirmative,’ she said—and talk about smug! ‘As I already knew.’
‘Whoa! Just— Whoa! In my case, they’re called one-night stands, because I’m not interested in a relationship. Your case is completely different.’
She shrugged—a little too casually. ‘But it still makes sense to fast-track the easy stuff, if you ask me.’
‘Easy stuff? Sex is the easy stuff?’
‘Yes. Does the sex work—yes or no? If the answer is no, you can call it quits with minimal time wasted. If the answer is yes, you move on and explore the more emotional areas.’ Another shrug. ‘It’s like snipping off the low-hanging fruit first.’
‘Low-hanging—?’ David took a deep breath, and then surprised himself by bursting into laughter again. ‘Remind me to keep the scissors and my low-hanging fruit out of your reach!’
Sarah’s eyes dropped to the front of his jeans.
‘Thank you!’ David said, when she started giggling. ‘Nice to know my genitalia is the source of some amusement to you.’
‘I haven’t actually seen it so I can’t say.’ Another giggle. ‘Although I certainly felt it last week in the storeroom.’
‘It’s a mystery to me why you haven’t been murdered yet,’ David mused, and when she giggled again said, ‘All right, brat, let’s back up a step. Tell me: did you want to have sex with Craig?’
‘I definitely thought about it.’
‘So that’s a “no”. Because if you wanted to have sex with him, you would have had it, trust me.’
‘But he didn’t call me, which has to mean he wasn’t interested in having sex with me.’
‘Different things, sex and dating,’ he said dismissively. ‘I’ll bet he kissed you goodnight—or at least tried to.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘How did he kiss you?’ David asked and then regretted the question. The idea of messy, sloppy, long-haired Craig with his mouth near Sarah was making him feel queasy.
‘What do you mean, how?’
Oh God. And now he had to get specific with his words? ‘Cheek, mouth, tongue?’ he got out. ‘Did he whisper anything?’ Dear God. ‘Sniff you?’
‘Cheek. Then mouth. No tongue. No whispers. No sniffing. And I was wearing Jasmin Noir.’
Okay, that was too adorable not to enjoy. ‘Jasmin Noir and he didn’t even sniff you? God, what a slow top!’
‘Dimples! I can see them! And stop twitching your mouth.’
‘Sorry, but it’s funny. So … what did he smell like?’
She frowned, as though trying to recall, but in the end, shook her head. ‘I don’t think he was wearing any cologne.’
‘Now there you’re wrong. Craig drenches himself for a regular day in the office, so I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest he wears at least a hint of Old Spice when he’s on a date.’ Which meant what? Not much of a kiss had occurred—that seemed certain! Good. Craig was the worst possible choice, a huge mistake on David’s part. ‘So … what? Didn’t he get close enough for long enough?’
‘Of course he got close enough. I told you, he kissed me.’
‘What did he do with his hands? Where did he put them?’
‘On my shoulders. Hey!’ As David shook his head, disgusted … and relieved. ‘It was a simple goodnight kiss, not a deep-dive tonsillectomy!’
‘And you didn’t like it, did you?’
‘It was … all right.’
‘Wow. That good, huh?’
‘Well, it wasn’t bad, anyway.’ She sounded exasperated … but then her eyes narrowed slightly and her tongue came out to tap her top lip for a moment. Next moment, she was depositing her wineglass on the closest table. ‘I’ll show you.’
And as Sarah started walking towards him, David’s mind went completely blank.
***
Sarah wasn’t sure what she was doing was a good idea, or even why she was doing it, but she was doing it anyway.
David had gone as still as a statue. He didn’t move even when she took the sketchbook and pencil from his slack hands and put them on the coffee table. She was close enough to smell him now, in a way she couldn’t remember smelling Craig, and concentrated on trying to define what it was about the scent of him that was so alluring. Patchouli … dark rose … brandy cream. Delectable.
David’s nostrils had flared, like he could smell her, too. Why, oh why, wasn’t she wearing Jasmin Noir? Maybe then, she wouldn’t be kissing him, he’d be kissing her. Wait! What? No! This wasn’t a real kiss. It was a demonstration.
Demonstration, she repeated in her head as she put her hands on David’s shoulders.
She raised herself as high as she could on her toes, and brushed her mouth against his cheek. A quick swirl of impressions assaulted her. That wondrously complicated scent. The raspy feel of the stubble on his cheek, against her mouth. The way his shoulders tensed suddenly under her hands. How his body seemed to lock. Her thumping heart. The slap of need low in her belly. A desire to touch her tongue to his skin, slide her hands over his chest.
She adjusted her stance, subtly bringing her thighs closer together because she wasn’t sure they wouldn’t go in opposite directions if she didn’t take charge of them, then chastely pressed her lips against his. She wanted to sigh, and lean against him, and keep her mouth there. She had to force herself to count in her head—one, two, three, four, which she judged was the length of time Craig’s kiss had taken—then force herself to come down off her toes.
‘Like that,’ she said, all breathy. When David only watched, unsmiling, she added, ‘Only if we wanted to be strictly accurate, we’d have to reverse positions. You know, make me the one being kissed.’
‘So like this?’ David asked. But he didn’t wait for an answer, simply put his hands, heavy and hard, on her shoulders and leaned down.
Sarah waited, breath held, her heartbeat kicking up an extra notch. An indistinct plea formed in her head for something, some contact. But he didn’t kiss her. Instead, he put his cheek on hers. Rested it there for a long moment, breathing her in. ‘Not jasmine,’ he said, against her ear. ‘Vanilla.’
She nodded, too full of heightened expectation to speak. And then David shifted, his hands tightening, mouth touching her cheek for a long, lingering moment. Moving to her mouth, staying there for one, two … three … four … five … Oohhhhhh.
He eased back, looked down at her. ‘So … Did you like that, Sarah?’
‘It was …’ Beautiful. Intense. Amazing. More, I want more, I want— No! That wasn’t the deal. She had to stop this now. She cleared her throat. ‘Okay.’
Silence, deep and heavy, as a shiver trembled through her. He touched her hot cheek, as though he were testing the blush she knew was there. Lying—he knew she was lying.
‘Just okay?’ he asked softly, and something flared in his eyes that was completely different from his usual slightly bored amusement. ‘Then I think we’d better analyse it.’
‘I don’t unders—’
‘What was wrong with it?’
‘N-nothing.’
‘But nothing was especially right with it, either. Was it too wet?’
‘No.’
‘Too dry?’
‘No.’
‘Too tentative?’
‘No.’
‘Was I too aggressive?’
Sarah licked her lips as though recalling the kiss—saw his eyes zoom in on her mouth, and found herself licking her lips again. ‘No.’
‘Taste bad?’
‘Wh—? No! You tasted like … like wine. At least … Did you? I don’t know. That was a closed-mouth kiss.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘And seriously, there was nothing wrong with it. I just … it just … was okay.’ Blushing hard. ‘Same as Craig.’ Blushing harder.
‘Same as Craig,’ he repeated, and there was that flare in his eyes again. Danger. ‘I think you know I can’t leave that comparison unchallenged, Sarah,’ he said, and then he smiled—minus any hint of a dimple. ‘So brace yourself.’
