Year of Being Single (19 page)

His phone rang. It had a sensible, normal ring tone. No
Rocky
theme tunes or Crazy Frogs, thank goodness. She’d heard them all.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I really have to get this. It won’t take long.’

He picked up his mobile from the table and took it over to his desk, where he sat down on the huge leather chair.

‘Hello, Patrick,’ he said, then laughed lightly. ‘Yes, absolutely.’ And he launched into some indecipherable stuff with lots of numbers. Imogen switched off. She was looking round Richard’s office again. There really wasn’t much in it. She supposed all the dull stuff, like photocopying and filing and faxing (did they still fax any more? Telex? Was that still a thing?) happened elsewhere. Only the top stuff happened here.

Richard had a couple of tall, imposing stainless steel cabinets. She wondered if he kept a stack of clean shirts in a top drawer, like in the movies, Gordon Gecko-style. She had a sudden – and not unprecedented – wonder of what he looked like bare-chested. If only he would change his shirt now. She’d love to see it. Should she throw a glass of champagne over him and force his hand, arm, pecs, whatever?

He put down the phone. She decided to wander over and sit down on the brown leather swivelly chair opposite him. She was a tiny bit tiddly now, so she started spinning on it.

‘Since you’re taking a ride on that thing,’ he said, ‘do you want to scoot round here so we’re on the same side?’

Her stomach did an energetic somersault. He waited while she trundled her chair round, feeling slightly silly. Once she’d rounded the corner, he grabbed the edge of the chair and pulled it towards his until they were facing each other, knees touching. She looked down at their knees – his under expensive grey fabric; hers with tan leather stretched over them. It was a new kind of intimacy, and actually more erotic than the bumping of other body parts she had known. Or maybe it was just the man.

She had to fight the urge to stroke one of knees with her hand. Knees, eh, she’d never found them sexy before – now she was irrationally desperate to see at least one of Richard’s.

He was looking at her quizzically, once she’d dragged her gaze upwards, and said, in an amused voice, ‘Is it
okay
if we touch knees, or is it too much for you?’

‘I’ll let you know,’ she said. His face was dangerously close. If she wanted to, she could lean in and kiss him. And she did want to. Usually, by now, she would have done it. She would have played out some seduction routine much earlier in the lunch: crossed her legs enticingly; fed him a grape or two, hitched something up or down, whatever she thought would work best. She may have even done one of her specials – leaning directly across a dinner table and brazenly sticking her tongue straight into someone’s mouth. She’d done it before, sending cutlery and crockery crashing. It had been a very hot night with an ultimately cold fish of a man – another of her disasters.

She was too close to him. She’d drunk too much champagne. She liked him too much. This was all getting too dangerous. What was she thinking? She had to go on the counter-attack and quickly. She had to regain some composure here, some ground. Collect herself. She thought, with shame, of her two friends, their vow to have a year of being single, her supposed new code of conduct. This man could be no good for her. She wasn’t supposed to be falling for anyone.

She shunted her chair a foot away from him. He looked surprised. He looked even more surprised when her voice took on what she hoped was a haughty froideur.

‘You seem to have me all wrong, Richard,’ she said.

He looked totally taken aback. Those blue eyes widened.

‘You think I’m an English ice maiden, don’t you?’ she said. ‘And that with a bit of warm American maple syrup and a dusting of cinnamon, I’ll melt in your arms. So you can
have your way
. But it’s not a dead cert, you know. I might
not
melt.’ Champagne favours the brave. Her voice ratcheted up to
def con
hauteur. ‘I may be sworn off men, for all you know.’ There, she’d told him. ‘I might not want to go near your American hot dog with an English barge pole.’

He roared with laughter, throwing his head back. His throat was sexy. Firm, tanned, with a lovely sprouting of hair at the base of it. It looked like it needed nuzzling.

‘I’m not quite sure what a
barge pole
is, my English Princess,’ he said, his eyes mocking and gorgeous. ‘And
sworn
? What, you took an oath or something?’ Christ, that American accent was bloody sexy, she thought, as the champagne continued to take hold. No more booze around this man, she thought. It’s not a safe area.

‘No. I didn’t swear on the Bible or anything like that. I told you, I’m not religious,’ she said, continuing to inch her chair away from him. ‘I just decided. Well, there are three of us. All off men. We’re supposed to be single for a year. We’ve come up with a charter.’ She was saying too much. She’d had too much booze. Next she’d be telling him all about the losers she’d dated. Or about Dave Holgate’s belly. It was tempting. Richard would laugh that delicious laugh. It was suddenly more important than anything else in the world, that he find her hilarious. It wouldn’t hurt, would it, to tell him she’d been enormously unlucky in dating?

‘A
charter
, hey? And there’s three of you?’

‘Three of us. Friends. Me, Grace and Frankie. We live in the same street. We’ve had enough of men. It’s not that unusual.’

‘Someone hurt you?’ he asked gently.

‘No, not at all,’ she snapped. ‘Just a long, long series of disappointments.’

‘The wrong kind of men?’

‘Men like you, actually. But I keep coming back for more, it seems.’

‘Ah, a pattern. I see.’ He looked amused, where she thought he might have looked angry. ‘So, I’m your next disappointment?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she muttered. Damn it. She’d said too much. The point was he was
not
disappointing, far from it. But she wouldn’t tell him that.

‘Hmm. Interesting. All these men…all these disasters…and you. Do you think there could be a common denominator here?’ He was teasing, but she was unnerved and terrified.

‘I haven’t
made
these men disappointments! They’ve done it all on their own, believe me.’

She was more than a bit annoyed. Good. Annoyed was good. It was better than being scared witless. Annoyed meant she could
go
. And she really should go. Make an exit. Get out while the going wasn’t good. What a shame she hadn’t eaten anything. Her appetite was back now, booze-fuelled. Those egg custard tarts had looked so delicious. She wanted to stay for pudding. She wanted to stay for Richard. God, he was bloody gorgeous.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she whimpered. ‘I don’t trust myself.’

She could have
punched
herself. No, don’t say that! It immediately shifted the balance of power. It told him she fancied him. That she really liked him. That she was under his spell, his control. Why, why,
why
did she say that? Ironically, she’d said it before as a casual line in seduction. When she trusted herself all
too
well, when she knew exactly what she was doing. It usually preceded leaping on someone with wanton abandon. Now she said it as bare fact, a fact that she was vulnerable and petrified.

‘I need to go,’ she repeated. ‘I’ve got somewhere I have to be… I…’

He grabbed the base of her chair and pulled it back towards him in one deft move. This time they were thigh to thigh. His turned his upper body to face her. His face, mouth, lips were close to hers, so close. She could smell his skin. She could see straight into his eyes. He leant forward, placed his left hand softly under the side of her face…and kissed her.

Oh. My. God. His lips were warm, almost hot. There was a heat coming off his face in citrusy wafts. He was kissing her. He was kissing her. He was kissing her. She never wanted it to stop. She’d never been kissed like this before. She was spiralling down a delicious tunnel to total oblivion. It was tender, it was teasing, it was tantamount to heaven.
Richard
…

Finally, his lips were gone from hers. She felt bereft. She could have kissed him all day. She opened her eyes to see him sat there, smiling at her. She smiled back, then, suddenly, she was horrified. This was wrong! So, so wrong. She was supposed to be off men. For a year! She was supposed to be a single woman, enjoying her freedom. She
couldn’t
fall in love with him. He would only end up breaking her heart. The type of man she’d always thought she was
safe
with was going to break her heart. She had to get out of here
now
, or she would never get out alive.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said again, weakly.

‘Why?’ He looked…satisfied. Sexy as hell. ‘We haven’t even had dessert, or pudding, as you call it. Would you like to have some
pudding
before you go?’ He gestured over to the table. She glanced at it. The egg custards were glistening in the sun. How did he know she loved them? He was mocking her a little, she knew, but in a way she was frightened she really liked.

She was undone, all over the place. Oh my God, that kiss. So warm, so American, so amazing, so…hazardous. ‘I’ll take a custard tart for the road,’ she said, standing up and trying to get her voice to sound somewhere near normal.

‘Sure.’ He was smiling. Relaxed. He had just kissed her. As he walked over to the table, she examined his back view again. It was nice. Too nice. He wrapped a custard tart in a sky blue napkin for her. Nimble fingers. Lovely fingers. She wanted those fingers dipping in her custard. Stop, stop, stop! She had to get out of here, NOW!

She nearly ran to the door. She fled, without looking back.

The heavy office door shut softly behind her, like an anti-climax.

As she made her way back through the open-plan office, veering slightly but determined to look sober, her head was held unnaturally high. She was channelling all her favourite female television characters. Carrie Bradshaw walking through
Vogue
, Ally McBeal strutting through the law firm, Scully walking purposefully wherever it was she used to walk.

Several pairs of eyes looked up as she passed.

‘I love your shoes,’ said a woman’s voice from inside a grey cubicle.

‘Thanks,’ said Imogen. She felt obliged to stop. They
were
kick-ass shoes. They were the type of shoes you put on as soon as they arrived in the post, and then you sat on the sofa with them, holding one leg aloft in turn so you could admire them. The kind of shoes you kept by the side of your bed so you could see them as soon as you opened your eyes in the morning. They had been carefully chosen for her lunch with Richard. She had stuck them out one end of the white tablecloth to make sure he noticed them. He had.

She peered inside the cubicle. The woman looked friendly. Nice cardigan. Teal. She had photos of beaming children stuck all over her work station. A large box of tissues in a floral case. Imogen was transfixed. This was the feminine side of re-insurance. She was aware she was staring. Nosing. What would snooty reception girl say?

‘Lucky you,’ the woman whispered with a smile, over the top of her computer, and at first Imogen thought she was still talking about her shoes. ‘He’s lovely.’

‘Thank you,’ said Imogen, again. She didn’t know what else to say. She smiled at the woman in a way that she hoped said ‘poised, sober and lucky’, not ‘pissed, just been kissed and all over the place’, and walked a very straight, measured line through the office, past the impressive reception desk and to the lifts.

Once inside, with the doors closed, she looked at her face. She looked deranged, changed. She leant her cheek against the cool metal flank of the lift, and saw the London street loom larger and larger below her until she was level with it.

She’d fallen for him, hadn’t she? He’d kissed her and she’d fallen for him. There was no going back.

The door opened and she stepped out. As she click-clacked back over the marble floor and out of the revolving door into the breezy city street, she believed herself to be the weakest person she knew.

Chapter Fourteen: Frankie

A couples’ triathlon?

I’m washing my hair that night.

Ha ha. What about driving down to Southend and taking a jog along the seafront?

Maybe. But only if we get fish ’n’ chips!

There had been two more Couch to 5k meet-ups since Frankie and Hugh had snogged by the car park (she could only make alternate Sundays – she was going again tomorrow) and they had kissed goodbye – very energetically – both times. It was becoming a lovely habit. She’d got over her complete astonishment at it happening, that first time, and now expected it and looked forward to it. It was fun.

In between snogging meet-ups, they texted a lot. Hugh was pressing her to go on a date with him, but so far, Frankie had resisted. Despite her eagerness to give him her number, once she’d really given it some thought, she’d decided she was reluctant. She’d only recently got rid of Rob and wasn’t sure if she wanted a boyfriend or any kind of new man. She was happy to kiss Hugh – really happy – and enjoy their textual flirting, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready for more. She relished the periods of time to fantasise about him; if she went on a date with him those fantasies might disappear in a puff of smoke. She really didn’t want another Rob.

Hugh was keen and persistent. This morning he was trying to pin her down to a day and time. They’d been volleying texts between them like tennis balls since eight a.m. and it was now quarter past ten. His text speak was appalling and he used lots of horrible things like ‘gr8’ and ‘TTFN’ and far too many ‘lol’s, but he was fairly amusing and he wanted to go out with her, and that made her feel good. Thinking about their delectably infrequent, frantic kissing at the edge of the car park made her feel
really
good.

She grinned as another text came through. Oh. It was from Rob.

Harry forgot his homework.

Oh no! Can’t he do it when he gets home tomorrow?