The Personal Shopper (34 page)

The next forty
minutes of the drive were
tense. Instead of smelling like new, the car stank of spew. Owen still felt bad, he was curled in his seat groaning into one of the six plastic bags secured for him at the service station. Lana’s attempts to giggle-stifle would fail every so often in a snotty explosion.

‘I’m sorry to be just a little ticked off,’ Gray tried to justify his barely contained fury. ‘I was just looking forward to showing the car to John.’ Ah, the man with the 30-foot, interior-designed yacht . . . Ah. Annie understood now. A bit of man-to-man size-comparing had been in the offing.

The drizzle cleared, the sea sparkled, the yacht bobbed up and down on the water, desperate to play, John appeared in top-to-toe white with a sailor’s cap and a sunburnt face, but still Owen felt horrible.

‘I think Owen and I will have to sit this one out,’ Annie, almost sick herself – but with regret – told a dumbfounded Gray and Lana.

Gray and Lana looked at each other in undisguised confusion. Neither felt they could say: ‘I’m not going with you – without her!

Annie managed to persuade Gray that she should take the keys to the car and find a valeting service in the little town, once Owen had recovered.

With hindsight, the day went extremely well: Annie and Owen spent hours walking along the beach, talking, throwing stones, finding shells, enjoying each other’s company, then eating ice-creams on a wall together. (‘
At least there won’t be lumps, if you throw up on the way home!
’)

Lana and Gray came back from the yacht trip glowing with excitement and finally comfortable together. Jim of
 
the Washaway Valet had not flinched from the stains on the Mercedes back seat; no, he’d claimed it was an
 
honour to work on a car so showroom new. He’d managed to turn the deep brown marks into something much more biscuity and he’d used a fine internal ‘cleansing’ mist to reduce the nostril-clogging stink.

That evening, Owen went to bed very early, worn out by holding it together on the journey home. Lana left before dinner in a great full-of-the-joys-of-yachting mood, for her friend’s Suzie’s house for a pre-arranged sleepover.

So Annie and Gray ate alone together: a gourmet curry meal for two, bought specially from M&S.

There was
a scented candle burning in the
room and the string of extremely flattering pale pink flower lights looped above the bed was already switched on. Annie had a sleepover of her own in mind.

Kissing in the kitchen led to kissing in the bedroom.

Gray’s cheeks were warm and dry, still salty from the sea. As she licked his neck and began to unbutton his shirt, he excused himself and in the moments he was gone, Annie whipped off her clothes and brought out the brand new lilac satin knickers and bra she’d selected for this little scene, then tied a silky, matching kimono on top. Her legs and bikini line were newly done, her room smelled delicious, there was moody jazz on the stereo. She applied lip gloss and arranged herself attractively across her bed waiting for the good time she was determined would follow.

And waited . . .

And waited . . .

Once a full fifteen minutes had passed, she got up and went out into the hallway. Although she’d thought Gray might be trying to slip in one of his many showers, no sound was coming from the bathroom.

‘Gray?’ she asked, tapping lightly on the door. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, well . . .’ came a hesitant, slightly strained reply, ‘not really.’

‘Are you OK? Can you come out?’ she wondered, really hoping this wasn’t some troubling bowel situation. It was
 
too early in their relationship for all that. It really was.

There was deep sigh, then she heard Gray’s footsteps coming towards her. He undid the lock and put his head round the door, but for several moments just looked at her, as if he wasn’t sure what to say.

‘It’s OK,’ she assured him. ‘If you don’t want to talk about it . . .’
the painful piles . . . constipation . . . whatever
,
‘don’t worry.’

‘
I forgot my medication, you know, the love drug.’ He hurried the words out, trying to make a little joke of it, but still looked tense.

Oh good grief
, he meant his Viagra. He’d obviously been in here searching his overnight bag ten times over and maybe trying to kick things off naturally on his own.

They’d had a little chat about the Viagra recently, and he’d assured her it was more of a psychological prop than a physical necessity.

‘You’re fine,’ she told him, reaching out to take hold of his hand. ‘Just come into the bedroom with me and we’ll . . . play.’

There was a strange moment when Annie found herself lying on her back, with her head hanging from the bed and an extremely willing, able and raring to go Gray on
 
top of her. But other thoughts kept crowding into her
 
mind to distract her from fully taking part: she remembered lying right here, but with Roddy, an ice cube squeezed between her breasts . . . and then . . . next thought, reading in a magazine that women should hang their heads from the bed during orgasm because it made the experience more extreme.

She was trying to decide if this was because the blood rush was speeded up or slowed down. But anyway . . . back to the man at hand. He was looking very pleased
with himself and definitely wanted to put the nonmedically enhanced Bone to good use.

But . . . but . . . looking up at her very own familiar ceiling, headboard and pink lights, she knew she definitely didn’t want to do this here, on her marital bed.

No, no, definitely not.

But Gray was keen. Well, how could he know what she was thinking? She was wearing a smile and murmuring ‘Oooooh yes, yes’ to him.

But really, she was wondering how to get off the bed before they were too involved.

She began to pull slightly against him, down towards the floor. Her bed had a satin bedspread, so once she’d begun the slide, it was easy to keep it going. Already her head was touching the carpet, now her neck and shoulders were following.

‘Whoaaaa . . . where are you going?’ Gray asked, still holding on and sliding with her.

Her elbows took her weight and as she giggled at him, her hips and legs followed a little too quickly as she brought both herself and her would-be lover down onto the floor with a thud.

The angle of Gray’s bodysurf to the floor was much steeper than hers and as his hands were behind her back, he couldn’t put them out to save himself. He hit the carpet, chin first, and gave a cry of pain.

‘Whooops, sorry!’ She was still giggling.

But Gray was lying face down on the floor, groaning slightly.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked him, slight flicker of worry now. Were all her romantic encounters with Gray going to end with a 999 call?

He raised a hand and put it gingerly onto the small of
 
his back: ‘My sacroiliac!’ he gasped, ‘it’s popped out before . . . I’m going to have to get you to roll me over.’

She did, but to the slightly concerning soundtrack of Gray going ‘Aaaaaaaaaaargh!’ over the moody jazz.

Once he was on his back, he raised his right knee slowly and painfully, finally managing to pull it towards his chest, where he held it tight and began to rock from side to side. Whatever ardour Annie may have had for Gray, it was a little quenched at the sight of this.

He made the ‘Aaaah!’ sound again. Then finally, there was a look of relief on his face. He stood up and walked gingerly, not to mention butt-naked, in a semicircle. He was limping slightly, but declared, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll settle down.’

Annie put on her kimono and went in search of wine, deciding it was time for a civilized glass of Tesco’s finest under the covers. She didn’t want to risk killing him with a further lovemaking attempt.

Snuggled up under the covers together, relaxed by the wine, Annie began to touch him again. She started with gentle strokes on his chest, which was muscular, because he kept fit and looked after himself. She played with his nipples then began to work her way down, watching the changing expression on his face. She was enjoying this: teasing him, coaxing h
im back into action
.

Suddenly, she found she was more than interested herself, wanted him to play all the same games with her, make her just as excited and breathlessly ready as he was now.

Then they were making love, properly . . . and it was
 
OK, she was telling herself. It really was OK. Not amazing, but not disastrous. It reminded her of ‘sex: the early
attempts’ . . . because she was suddenly optimistic that from here on in, it would get a lot better.

Later, when they were both almost ready to fall asleep, Gray startled her with the words: ‘I don’t really like doing this.’

‘What? Sex?’ she asked, wondering what big self-revelation was to follow.

‘No, no . . . Are you joking? That was great!’

Always nice to be appreciated.

‘No,’ he went on, ‘I mean coming here, sleeping over .
 
. . you visiting my home every now and then. It’s all quite stressful and inconvenient. Your children must be wondering what’s going on.’

‘Oh, I think they know,’ Annie responded. And she began to have a nasty suspicion:
was he telling her it was over? Surely not?

‘Annie, I’m taking a risk, I know we’ve only been seeing each other for six weeks or so, but we’re grown-ups . . . I think we both know what we want.’ He paused, then came right out and asked, ‘Why don’t you rent out your flat for a bit and move in with me? Give me a trial period. Properly. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

She was glad he was cuddled in behind her, talking into her neck, so that he couldn’t see the look of astonishment cross her face at this suggestion.

‘I’ve got a big house,’ he added, ‘I’m rattling around in it. Why don’t you move in? The three of you. Please at least tell me you’ll consider it?’

There was a long, long pause, as all sorts of arguments, thoughts and emotions raced through her mind.

Finally, after several swallows, listening to the nervously shallow breathing Gray was making as he awaited her reply, she told him: ‘That is a very kind, very generous offer, Gray. Really. You’re just going to have to give me some time to think about this.’

Chapter Twenty-two

Footballer’s wife in spring:

Black tight top (D&G)

Boyfriend cut jeans (Sass and Bide)

Black strappy wedges (Gucci)

Black raincoat (Burberry Prorsum)

Gold bag (Balenciaga)

Huge black shades (Chanel)

Est. cost: £2,700

‘Black’s so slimming, innit?’

‘Look, babes, it’s spring. And I know spring is hard to get right in London, but it is our duty to try,’ were Annie’s words of encouragement to Dannii, as she arrived at the changing room door with another armful of clothes.

Dannii (yes, with a double ‘i’) was 20, the luscious (obviously), blonde (predictably) girlfriend of a Chelsea FC midfielder with – according to WAG bible,
heat
– £4,000 of ‘pocket money’ a week to spend on herself.

Although, at the rate Dannii was burning her cash, £4,000 a week wouldn’t be enough and she’d soon be asking her 21-year-old lover-boy for a raise: ‘So long as I keep him very happy, he pays up and keeps me very happy,’ she’d cheerfully confided.