Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 2) (12 page)

“
So? Who are they from?” Mum seems almost as excited about them as I do.

I open the card and read,
“
Congratulations on Estil! You’re going to rock”
.

It’s only signed with a kiss
, but I’m certain I know who it’s from - one ridiculously good-looking tennis coach. He must have asked Ben for my address after he found out we were friends.

“
Well, Mum,” I begin, forgetting about my Estil woes in a surge of unexpected pleasure. “I’ve met someone.”

You’d think I’d told her I’d won the Nobel Peace Prize her reaction was so huge.
“Oh, dear, how wonderful!”

She crosses her
hands over her heart and looks so genuinely happy for me I could hug her. Which is in fact what I do because, although she’s not big on showing any form of physical affection, I’m on a flower-induced high right now.

“
Tell me all about him,” she says, sitting on the sofa bed and patting the spot next to her for me to sit.

“Well, he’s American, his name is Scott, he’s undeniably handsome, and he’s a tennis coach.” I can’t suppress my smile.

“
A tennis coach?” she queries, looking confused. “Does that mean you met him at the Capital City Club?”

“
Yes, he takes Cardio Tennis. We’ve already had a sort of date,” I colour slightly at the memory, “and we’re going out tonight for a drink.”

“
Oh well, dear. A tennis coach sounds like some fun.”

I know what she means.
She means have a fling but don’t get serious because he’s not a doctor or a lawyer or something that will keep me in the manner to which she would like me to become accustomed, and to which she would like to be able to boast about at her bridge club, more to the point.

Sensing this subtext I rebut,
“He’s not just a coach, Mum. He’s working to set up a business, a tennis resort in the North Island. Designed along European lines. It’ll be top notch.”

Top notch? In defending Scott I’ve ended up sounding like some British public school toff.
Oh well, I’m running with it now.

“
I’m sure that’s just wonderful, dear.”

“
Errrr, thanks, Mum.” Her tone has a definite finality to it, so I’m guessing the conversation about Scott is now officially closed.

“
Now, I mentioned this morning I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Oh yes, that’s right. I’d forgotten about the impending ‘
chat’ in the light of the day’s dramas.

“
Yes. What is it, Mum?” Against my better judgment curiosity piques my interest.

“
Well,” her voice quivers somewhat and I can see she’s clearly nervous.

I nod and smile at her encouragingly and she continues.
“For a while now I’ve been seeing someone.” She pauses, searching my face for a reaction. “A man. I’ve been seeing a man.”

“
Wow,” I reply.

I’m genuinely surprised
and a bit taken aback. Of all the scenarios revolving around Mum’s bijou world I hadn’t expected this one. I’m actually too shocked to speak as I picture my mother - she of the frilly floral tops, pearls, and flouncy, sensible length skirts - going out with an actual
man
.

“
Are you all right, dear?” she asks, looking concerned for my wellbeing.

I realise I must have a
vaguely traumatized look on my face, so I consciously rearrange my features into what I hope is a convincing smile of encouragement, but I suspect from Mum’s reaction it doesn’t quite hit the mark.

She leaps into reassurance mode, as if I’m an eight-year-old kid who’s concerned she’s about to get a new dad
dy.

“
He’s really very nice, just lovely, dear. I know you’ll like him. There’s nothing to worry about. We’ve been seeing each other for a while and I thought it best you should know.”

I stop her by putting my hand up, not unlike the Pope, and she clams shut almost immediately.

“
Mum, it’s great. I’m really happy for you. I don’t know why you thought I’d be bothered.”

“
Really?” she squeaks, looking happier and infinitely calmer than she had just a few moments ago.

Having recovered from the init
ial astonishment and still buzzing about getting flowers from Scott, I’m feeling very generous.

“
Absolutely. It’s about time you got on that old wagon again. You and Dad divorced yonks ago now. Really, I think it’s great.”

She lets out a puff of air and smiles broadly at me.
“Good.”

“
So…? Tell me about him,” I ask.

“
Oh, yes dear. Well, his name is Sydney and we met through Church. We’ve actually known each other for some years, working together on various committees and the like, and of course seeing one another on Sundays. And although we had, what do you young people say, ‘the hots for each other’? Is that it?”

I nod at her, pushing images of my mother having anything hot for
a man out of mind quick smart.

“
But neither of us had had the courage to do anything about it, you see. But one day, on a particularly wet and windy autumn afternoon, our hands brushed as we both reached for the order of service for the Easter Sunday service, and honestly dear, the electricity that coursed through me… ”

“
Ah!” I shout in an attempt to fill my brain with anything other than the image of sexual electricity working its way through my mother’s fifty-something year old body.

“
I’m going to stop you right there, Mum. I’m so, so happy for you and Sydney, but maybe just keep those bits to yourself? I mean, I’m the daughter here.”

She smiles in good humour.
“Of course, dear. Quite right. Anyway, I’ve invited him to dinner to meet you.”

“
Oh. Cool. When?” I ask.

“
Next week. He’s very keen to meet you. He has three children of his own, but they’ve all married and have moved away. I’m sure you’ll meet them in good time too.”

So this seems a little more serious than she’s letting on.

“Ok. Great. Look Mum, I’ve got some things to get on with, so I’ll look forward to meeting him then.”

I really don’t want to give her any opening to divulge further details about their sexual relationship, so shutting it down before it goes
anywhere near there again seems the safest thing to do.

“
All right, dear. Oh, I almost forgot. How was your appointment in town today? Do you think it went well?”

After the lack
of faith she showed in Morgan in our conversation yesterday I’m hesitant to divulge she’s gone on an unexplained walkabout, so I simply reply, “Yes, really well. Thanks for asking. But I do need to get back to doing some more work, Mum, before I go out with Scott.”

Once she’s gone to put the bouquet into some water for me I get back to my email and fire off a quick response to Morgan
, saying we urgently need to talk. I then decide I need to bill Stephanie so design an invoice template I’m actually quite proud of, fill in her details and email it out to her.

Looking at my watch I realise I need to get m
yself ready for my Big Date. I make the quick decision that since Morgan’s left me in charge for a seemingly indefinite period of time, I need to make some executive decisions. So, after a final once over of the website I make it go live, close my laptop and dive in the shower, feeling perhaps things are moving in the right direction.

Morgan or no Morgan
.

I arrive at The Roundabout Bar at about ten past eight, a calculated move on my part - on time at eight or early and I look too eager, later and I look like I don’t care enough. And I do care. I want to hit just the right tone with Scott because I have a feeling things might just go a long way with him.

After
all, I’d read my horoscope in the paper this morning and it’d said I would be in communication with a new love interest today. Or something to that effect.

And those things are never wrong, are they?

As I walk through the door and scan the room, I spot him sitting in the corner at a dimly lit table, engrossed in typing a message on his phone.

My heart skips a beat as I take in his casual gorgeousness.
He’s dressed in the same exquisite butt-showcasing jeans as the other night, but this time with a white and blue striped shirt that shows off his tan to perfection.

I
pick my tongue off the floor and walk towards him as sexily as I can muster, swinging my Seven for all Mankind jean-clad bum from side to side, hopefully without looking like I’m in desperate need of a hip replacement.

“
Hi,” I say as I stand in front him so he can take in my full splendour. Well, that’s the plan, anyway.

Luckily he does just that, noting my
figure-hugging skinny jeans and black Top Shop halter neck combo.

“
You look amazing,” he says as he stands up and kisses me on the lips, causing an instantaneous buzz of excitement to run through my body.

Shakily I
take a seat at the table and he offers me a drink. Returning with a glass of pinot gris for me and a Budweiser for himself, we clink glasses and smile at each other.

“
Hey, I’m glad you could make it, Jessica Rabbit,” he replies, not taking his eyes off me once.

“
Me too.”

I keep
gazing at his utter gorgeousness and realise I need to snap myself out of it and make some scintillating conversation or else he may think I’m some love-struck teenager. Which isn’t actually far from the truth right now.

Forcing myself to break
the spell I look around the bar. “I’ve never been here before. Is this your local?”

“
No,” he laughs. “Been here a few times though. I like it, it has a good vibe, you know? Chilled.”

“
Mmmm,” I reply, trying my level best to focus on something – anything! – rather than the way in which his fingers are caressing his bottle of beer.

Changing the subject he asks,
“Hey, you said you’re from London right? What’s it like?”

“
I absolutely loved it,” I say, deciding I’d correct him about the whole actually being a Kiwi thing later down the track.

It’d
be one of those stories we tell our grandchildren - “She let me think she was from London and I fell in love with her on the spot”. Oh how we’ll all laugh.

“
I lived in a cool area called West Hampstead, which had everything you could possibly need, other than the awesome shops. But I worked in the West End so lunch hours were taken care of on that front. Did you know you’re the first person to ask me about my time there? Kiwis just aren’t interested in hearing about it. One person actually said to me, ‘oh everyone’s lived there’, like it was nothing new. So rude.”

“
Oh yeah, it must rock. Such a cool city. Really intense. I’ve only been there once, when I was on the circuit.”

“
The circuit?” I ask, loving his American accent.

“
Yeah, you know, when I was a kid, playing tennis. I didn’t get out and see much of the place, but what I did see was totally awesome. Hey, did you get to any of the Olympics? Go to that incredible stadium?”

“
Hell no, tickets were scarcer than hen’s teeth,” I reply, finishing my glass of wine. Hmm, that went down a little too quickly.

“
Hen’s teeth?” He looks genuinely confused. It mustn’t be an expression used in the US.

I laugh.
“They were nearly impossible to get.”

“
Oh, I get it. Hen’s teeth,” he says, trying it out. “Huh. A bit like fish fingers,” he adds with a cheeky grin.

“
Yes, I suppose,” smiling back at him, feeling our connection growing.

“
So you were living in London and didn’t see
any
of the Olympics?”

“
I did get to see some of the women’s marathon.”

To be
completely honest it was only because the course bisected my route from the Tube stop to meeting friends for a drink at the Slug and Lettuce. But hey, he doesn’t need to know that, does he?

Another funny story for our grandchildren
, perhaps?

“
Wow, that would’ve been awesome.”

“
Yeah, it was,” I reply, remembering the way in which I ended up shouting at some Dutch spectators who wouldn’t get out of my way. “Awesome” might be stretching it a bit.

Deciding it’s best not to get into too much detail about my
distinct lack of Olympics experiences I decide to move onto something else.

“
So how about you? How did you end up here in Wellington of all places?” I ask, pulling a face.

He pic
ks up on my negativity. “It’s not that bad here. I know the weather’s a bit crappy, but it’s a cool little city.”

“
The coolest, apparently, right?” I comment rolling my eyes and smiling in what I hope is a sexy way.

“
Yeah, I heard that.”

We laugh gently
together at the reference to the Lonely Planet Guide’s assessment of Wellington as ‘the world’s coolest little capital’ and I feel so close to him - like we’re two kindred spirits, stuck in a place we’d both prefer to be far, far away from.

“
Anyway,” he continues, breaking the spell, “I came over about a year ago and ended up getting the coaching gig. I was living in Florida so it was a bit of a change, but I needed it at the time.”

This prickles my interest. I wonder why he needed a change? Sounds intriguing.

“Why?” I ask. “Had you done some dodgy dealings? Broken too many hearts? Crossed some drug lords?”

He
laughs, reaches over and starts drawing on the back of my hand with his fingertip. It feels excruciatingly sensual, like every nerve in my body has relocated to the back of my hand - an area not usually considered the most erogenous zone on the body, but right now all my senses are fully focused on it.

“
Nothing like that, Jessica. Just needed to get away, you know? Anyway, another drink?”

He pulls his hand away to stand up and
I want to scream, “
Don’t stop! For the love of God, don’t stop!
”

But instead I
comment casually, “My round, you stay put.”

I go to the bar and order us another wine and beer. The first pinot
gris has really relaxed me and any nervousness I had when I arrived has evaporated into the ether. I feel interesting and sexy and the man of my dreams can’t seem to take his eyes off me.

All in all it’s a pretty good start to the date.

After our third drink, plenty of intimate chatting, and some more of that incredible hand stroking, I’m feeling more than a little toasted. We’ve been getting really close, laughing at each other’s jokes, sharing stories, and I’m basking in his attention, barely registering there’s anyone else in the bar.

As
I put my now empty glass on the table Scott leans in towards me, slipping his arm around my waist. “I’ve been thinking about our kiss, you know? The one in the closet.”

Which other one
could it be?

“
It was pretty intense,” he adds.

It feels so good
touching him again. I admit I’ve been thinking about it for most of the evening.

“
Yeah, it was. It was amazing,” I reply, the memory still fresh.

“
There’s something about you, Jessica Banks.”

Be still my beating heart.

“Want to get out of here?” he whispers, so close to my ear I feel a surge of excitement rush down my neck.

I thought only people in movies said things like that, but then he
is
American, so I guess he can get away with it.

“
Sure,” I reply, feeling a rush of anticipation. We all know where
that
leads in the movies.

We get outside and I
say, “My car’s parked down the street. And anyway, I feel a little tipsy. Might need to eat or something before I can drive.”

Hoping I kno
w the answer to the question I ask breathlessly, “Where do you want to go, anyway?”

He takes hold of me
, pulling me right up against his firm body, and we kiss, and this time I’m very glad I don’t need to be anywhere else. It’s just like our first kiss, only more insistent.

A
nd of course there’s the fact there’s much less concern we might knock sports kit over in a cramped closet.

“
How about your place?” he asks as he strokes my back in an almost impossibly erotic way.

Because he sent me those flowers he knows I live on the other side of the city and besides, I’m not too sure Cynthia would like me turning up with Scott at eleven at night.

She’s a more afternoon tea with the new boyfriend kind of mother.

“Not sure that’s a great idea, what with it being my Mum’s house and all,” I joke, feeling a bit like a floozy, offering myself up to him on our first proper date - I can’t really count the powerhouse juice as a date, despite the outstanding tonsil hockey in the closet.

But, what the h
ell? With Morgan’s recent untimely departure Estil looks like it might fall around my ears, I’m living in my childhood bedroom at the age of twenty-eight, and besides, Scott is outstandingly sexy.

What’s a girl to do?

He laughs and walks me over to a bright red Ford Mustang, opening the passenger door.

“Get in. I ha
ve an idea.”

Open to adventure and feeling all tingly following
our kiss, I willingly get into the car, feeling the cold leather as I slide down and buckle up. He gets in beside me, flashes me a cheeky smile, and then drives off at breakneck speed down Tawa’s main street, then onto the motorway towards the city.

We end up driving all the way up to the l
ookout at the top of Mt Victoria, laughing about all sorts of silly things on the way, all the while feeling the anticipation building between us.

As he stops the car
at the top of the hill and turns to look at me, I feel suddenly extremely nervous. It could be because this is the place I used to come with my high school boyfriends and in fact where I lost my virginity to Dan Ostenberg when I was seventeen.

Or it could
just be the sheer expectation of what’s about to come.

“
Beautiful up here, isn’t it?” I say to him as he unbuckles his seatbelt.

I note
, surprisingly for a Saturday night, there are very few people and cars around. He doesn’t answer but instead pulls me over to him, murmuring how much he wants me, how sexy and beautiful I am - all the sorts of things a girl hopes to hear from gorgeous men the world over.

We kiss again and then he pulls away
panting.

“
Man, I want you so much, Jessica. You’ve no idea,” he whispers in my ear as he plays with my hair.

“
Oh I think I do,” I respond breathlessly, regretting I couldn’t just magic up my divine little West Hampstead flat for us to go to right now.

He then gets that little half smile on his face
as though something brilliant has just occurred to him and murmurs in my ear, “You know these seats go pretty far back. I bet you’ve never made love in a Mustang before.”

The audacit
y of the man! To assume I’m going to have sex with him after just one and a half dates, even if he
is
the most deliciously hot man I’ve ever met.

Not waiting for a response he kisses me with even more
passion, reaches up under my halter-top and brushes my already hard left nipple with his thumb, sending an irresistible shock of electricity coursing through my body.

He then
dexterously pulls me on top of him, merely skimming my legs against the gear stick in the process.

W
hat little resolve I have to refuse him - and let’s face it, it really barely registers as resolve if having him is all I’ve been thinking about for the last three hours - dissolves as fast as an effervescent vitamin in a glass of water, as I feel his hard, athletic body under me, pulling me on top of him so I’m straddling him as we kiss one another hungrily.