This is not a date, I tell myself nervously as I observe my reflection in the mirror, this is simply dinner with a friend. Although Ian isn't really a friend, I think. Ok, so this is just dinner with a colleague.
Yes, put that way it sounds reassuring. I like it.
“You’re not going out looking like that, I hope?” asks Vera reproachfully from the doorway.
“What's wrong with it?” I ask innocently, looking at myself in the mirror.
“What's wrong with it is that you're covered up from head to toe!” she points out as she enters the room.
“Perfect! In case you hadn’t realised, that was exactly my intention,” I confirm.
She snorts and sits down on the bed. “You can’t go out looking like that. I won’t let you. Over my dead body!” she threatens, folding her arms. “Look, forget about all your past history – you are going for dinner at the home of a man who is charming, good-looking, aristocratic, rich—”
“Obnoxious, arrogant, spoiled—” I add, “and plenty of other adjectives. And?” I ask, a little irked by the intrusion. I’d been thinking for quite a while now that I no longer had to answer to anyone about how I wanted to dress.
“You can’t go to his house looking worse than my bloody mother!” she says loudly.
“That's not a very nice way to talk about your mother,” I retort, untroubled by her accusations.
Vera looks at me angrily. “If you must wear trousers, at least put on your skinny jeans! And change that horrible T-shirt! What kind of colour is that, anyway?” she asks indignantly.
“It's brown,” I reply.
“Exactly! It's brown!” she repeats, sounding exasperated. “And you seriously think it’s ok to wear a horrible brown T-shirt on a Friday night?”
“Is there a rule that says you can't wear brown on a Friday? It's just dinner with a colleague, so I can wear my horrible brown T-shirt,” I say with conviction.
“Darling, for the record, you shouldn’t even wear that t-shirt to go to your mother’s for dinner, because even she would have something to say about it.”
That's low!
“Okay, okay, this t-shirt might not be the nicest thing I've got in my wardrobe—” I admit, finally deciding to take it off.
Vera grabs it in a flash. “I'll take that – it'll make a brilliant duster! Knowing you, sooner or later, you might decide to wear it again.”
I try to look offended but she doesn’t even look at me.
“Now change those bloody trousers!” she orders.
When Vera is in this aggressive mood, you've no choice but to give in, and so I grab the jeans she has decided I should wear, and begin to get changed. I haven’t worn a pair of jeans this tight in donkey’s years and I find them quite uncomfortable.
“Can’t I just wear my usual ones?” I beg.
“No, you can’t – these are perfect,” she informs me, decisively.
“As long as I don't pass out—” I grumble. But my friend isn’t even listening.
“Now we have to find you a decent top,” she says, and starts rummaging about in the wardrobe. A few minutes, and several tops later, she emerges from the pile with a satisfied expression. “This is perfect!” She says, holding up a black top covered in sequins and with a plunging neckline.
“When did I buy a top like that?” I ask, bewildered.
Vera chuckles. “You didn’t – we gave it to you for Christmas a couple of years ago.” Obviously I've never worn it. “Come on, put it on,” my friend says to me.
“It's too low-cut!” I protest, but she doesn’t seem to feel the same way.
“It’s just low-cut enough. Put it on,” she orders. Her tone implies that I'd be unwise to argue, so I follow her orders.
“Perfect,” she tells me with satisfaction. “Now your black ballerinas with the flowers on.”
“But it's cold outside!” I complain.
“And so you'll suffer! Just like the rest of the female population.”
Sulkily, I put on my shoes. “You're not a librarian, you're Cruella De-bloody-Vil.”
She passes me a black sweater which I use to try and cover myself up a bit. “Can I put this on, at least?” I ask sarcastically, as I slip into my coat.
“I've always loved that coat, so you have my approval.”
Vera gets up from the bed and follows me to the door. “One last thing: for God's sake, don’t be horrible to him! A man who cooks for you – when will that ever happen again?”
I let out a chuckle. “Don’t be so gullible,” I say out loud, “a man like that doesn’t cook – he orders in, dear.” And with that, I rush out to get the tube.
*
It takes me half an hour to get to the centre. Coming out of the underground I meet a flood of tourists who are wandering around Piccadilly, and, shivering, walk towards Hyde Park, moving closer and closer to Trafalgar Square. That's the power of money, I reflect with amusement: an apartment in the city centre.
The main entrance is majestic, exactly what you would expect from a building round here.
Ian sent me an e-mail this afternoon with the address and the code for the intercom. Hesitantly, I type in one and seven and it starts ringing, and a few moments later the door opens with a click. I walk into a marble hall, polished and clean, climb a few steps and wait patiently for the lift to arrive. I find myself on the fifth floor far too quickly. Up till now, this evening has only given me stomach ache and nothing else.
The hypothesis of a possible last minute escape, however, is thwarted by the appearance of Ian, who has opened the door of his apartment and is watching me come out of the lift.
“Hello,” he greets me warmly, as if my presence was the most natural thing in the world. He seems so at ease that it almost gets my back up.
“Thanks,” I say, walking towards him. He moves aside to let me in. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a blue shirt that fits him like a glove, with the sleeves rolled up. To complete the look, there is a leather belt and loafers that look as if they cost a small fortune. Good job Vera made me get changed: coming here dressed totally inappropriately wouldn't have helped me feel any better.
The first thing I notice is that his apartment is extremely bright, modern and perhaps smaller than I'd expected. The living room is very spartan, with a lot of contrast: the minimalist furniture is black and glossy, while the sofas and armchairs are white. If I'd ever owned anything like those they would have been covered with stains before the week was out!
The only thing that's old in here is the carpet, but that doesn’t spoil the overall effect. Indeed, if possible, it softens it.
At the back of the room, a very elegant table has been set: white tablecloth, square plates of the same colour and crystal glasses.
Ian leads me over to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to drink?” he asks immediately, just as you might expect from the perfect host.
“Better not,” I murmur, relaxing. Alcohol might not be wise.
“Come on, Jenny, keep me company,” he says, smiling, “you wouldn’t want me to drink alone.”
One of the reasons I detest this man so much is that with the right expression he can get pretty much anything he wants. And he knows it.
“Just a drop, then,” I agree reluctantly, shifting nervously on his immaculate couch. Will he ask me to pay for the cleaning bill if a drop of red wine should dare spill from the glass? I stroke the fabric on which I'm sitting: it must be some rare linen, I think, nervously.
Seconds later Ian re-appears at my side with a glass of white wine. Thank god it’s white…
I thank him with a nod and take a sip: sparkling and dry, just the way I like it. Surely this is not a coincidence. If I've learned anything in recent weeks it’s that with Ian nothing is left to chance. You might think it is, but it's all been planned to put you at a disadvantage.
“Great wine. And nice apartment,” I say sincerely, “even though I was expecting something a bit grander, it belonging to someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” he asks, sitting down and looking at me.
“Yes – nobility, the family home, and all that.”
“This flat's got a lounge, a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom. I don’t need anything else, given the amount of time I spend here,” he says. “Anyway, it's rented.”
I'm actually surprised. “Rented?”
“Yes – even though it is from my own grandfather,” he admits, blushing slightly.
I look at him doubtfully. “Then you're on holiday, so to speak, rent free.”
“If he could, my grandfather would make me pay double,” he says seriously, “so I'm just lucky I get to pay the same amount as the others.”
“What others?”
“The other tenants.”
“You mean, he owns the whole building?” I ask, impressed.
Ian seems to be struggling. “Well, yes,” he admits, “one of several.”
“Then why doesn't he just give you an apartment?” I ask. I mean, if I had a grandson and a thousand apartments, I would happily give one up.
“He did try, after I finished university, but he never gives something for nothing. Sooner or later he always sends you the bill. And I'd rather pay the rent than owe him anything.”
I really wasn’t expecting this. Sure, Ian earns enough to be able to pay the rent, but it's still strange. Not many people, I think to myself, would have done the same in his shoes.
“Anyway, I’m not going to stay here long,” he reveals, putting down his glass on the table. “I'm looking around for a flat to buy with what I’ve managed to put aside. What about you, why do you rent?” he asks.
“I've been thinking of buying something, but the truth is that I don’t like living alone. And I certainly can’t afford a house with three bedrooms in the centre of town to put my friends up in. I thought about it when I first moved in with them, but then time passed, and in the end I mothballed the idea. For the moment.”
“I understand,” says Ian, though I doubt he does understand what it really means to have to worry about having a roof over your head. The truth is that at any time he can change his mind and be given a home worthy of his illustrious surname.
“So it's all over with your boyfriend, then?” he asks.
It's a strange question, and has nothing to do with this evening. “Absolutely,” I confirm, watching his reaction carefully, “but you knew that already.”
“Oh, you know. People change their minds sometimes,” he says, cryptically.
“Yes, but if I had I would have told you. I mean, as your fake girlfriend—” I remind him.
“Well maybe you're a fake girlfriend who likes keeping one foot in two shoes—” he replies.
“I would have told you. And anyway, I don’t usually go back on my word. Charles really wasn’t the right guy for me. It took me a while to realise it, but I spend so much time at work that it’s hard to think clearly when I'm not there.”
My sentence makes him smile. “I know what you mean.” The sound of a timer going off in the kitchen interrupts us. “It must be ready,” he says, standing up. “Would you like to come to the table?” he asks.
I look at him with puzzlement. “Have you cooked?” I ask.
“Of course. Why, what were you expecting?” he replies, as he disappears into the kitchen. Apparently Vera has got it all spot on.
“Appetizer” he says, sitting opposite me and placing on the table a dish containing a delicious-looking selection of cheeses and jams. “Please tell me you eat cheese,” he implores with bright eyes. “Yes, I do – all kinds” I confirm, with a laugh at his expression.
“Thank God. I was about to call you and ask, but I didn’t want give it all away. Anyway there's tofu too—”
I'm extremely impressed that he has remembered that I’m vegetarian and has taken so much trouble to come up with a suitable menu. This thought is so unsettling that I hold out my glass for him to refill: I need a drink.
“What shall we drink to?” he asks, raising his glass.
“I don't really know—” I stammer, trying to think of something, then Beverly pops into my mind. “A job well done?”
Ian's face darkens slightly. “Don’t keep thinking about work,” he says, “let’s toast new opportunities.”
It's a phrase that might mean many things, but, somehow, as regards possibilities, there's only one that I can think of, and that is that the man in front of me is going to kiss me again tonight. The image is so shocking that I try to shake it off immediately, and Ian can’t help but notice me squinting.
“You okay?” he asks sensing something.
“More or less,” I reply, “even though the truth is that you're making me nervous.” This confession slips out without me realising.
Ian doesn't seem to appreciate my answer. “Well I'm sorry to hear that, because I'm genuinely doing my best to make you feel comfortable.”
I know that he is. It's so nice tonight that I feel like I'm going to be sick. He's so bloody different from usual that unusually I don’t understand what his plan is.
“It’s all this that makes me nervous,” I try to explain. “Generally you're not this easy to get along with.”
“I'm going to have to correct you there: I am, actually, but only with people who let me be,” he responds in the same tone.
“Why this dinner?” I ask him, coming straight to the point.
Ian raises his eyes as if trying not to lose his patience. “It's just dinner, relax,” he says, trying to calm me. “Anyway, it seemed like a nice way to talk about everything – about hunting, about what my grandfather told you—”
“What is it that you think he said to me? It was nothing,” I say defensively. But he doesn't fall for it.
“I know my grandfather very well. He’s been much more present in my life than my parents, who were always away at work or some function or other, so you shouldn’t tell me fibs.”
I admit that it was not my intention to tell anyone about my exchange of views with the Duke of Revington.
“We didn’t say anything important. We talked about how different I am to your usual choices,” I say, blandly.
Ian chews his food nervously. “Did he offend you in any way?” he asks, peering at me with maniacal attention.
Now it’s my turn to raise my eyes. “Do you really think that I don’t know how to look after myself?”
He of all people really ought to know what I'm like, especially if provoked.
My words seem to calm him. “Of all the people I know, you're the one who knows how to defend herself best,” he confirms, admitting a fairly obvious truth.
“So don't worry about it, then! I knew what to expect and I knew how to respond. Nothing happened, or at least, nothing happened until I let the pheasant get away.”
Ian laughs. “Yes, so I heard,” he says, raising his eyes.
“I'm sure you did. To put it bluntly, you sent a believer in animal rights on a hunt, what did you think would happen?” I ask, still chewing.
“Nothing. I just hoped that you wouldn’t decide to point the gun at one of the hunters,” he says chuckling, as he slices off a piece of brie.
“Well I didn't, you'll be pleased to know,” I murmur, as I help myself to a piece of wholegrain bread.
*
“Have you finished?” he asks me shortly after, pointing to my plate.
“Yes. And it was delicious,” I tell him, as I help clear away the dishes.
“Ok, now it's time for the highlight of the evening,” he reveals, peering out from behind the kitchen door.
“And that would be?” I ask.
He re-appears a minute later with a steaming pan. “Italian cuisine: aubergine parmigiana,” he says, placing it on the table. It looks sensational.
“Sure it's not a frozen one?” I ask suspiciously.
Ian pretends to be indignant. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t have it cooked yourself—” I say, thinking about how long it takes to prepare a dish like that. We left the office pretty late.
“I made it last night, with the help via phone of my cleaner. But I made it!” he says proudly.
“And you're sure you haven't put any poison in it?” I grimace as I help myself to a hearty portion.
He grabs his fork, helps himself to a piece directly from my plate, chews and swallows.
“See? Still alive,” he says, with a wink.
I push his hand away from my plate and try some. It looks absolutely divine.
“Good,” I admit, despite myself, shortly after.
“Only 'good'?” he asks, almost offended. “Ok, really good! What more do you want?”
“At the very least 'exceptional', because people 'like me' don’t cook, as you know!” he teases. “So I'd like extra points for my hard work. And for a successful result.”
“How do you know that I say things like that about you?” I ask him in annoyance.
“What, don't you?” he asks, not at all offended by my tone. “The truth is that you're very predictable when you're passing judgement on the rich.”
For a moment I give him an intimidating glare.
“But we're digressing,” he says, “we haven’t finished talking about what you said to my grandfather.”
He doesn’t give up, apparently. Not that that's anything new – he's always been determined. “If you really want to know,” I say, sipping my wine, “why don’t you ask him?”
“I did, dear Ms Smartarse, and he wouldn't tell me,” he complains. Wise man the Duke. “Ian, really, we didn’t say anything. He wanted to know a little bit about me and I was straight with him. We talked about you a bit, and eventually he advised me to dump you as soon as possible.”
I'd wanted to tell him this in the most offhand way possible, and this certainly wasn't it.
“Why?” he asks, almost frowning.
“Why ignore the fact that we are pretending?” I say, as though talking to a child.
“Don’t play about with words,” he says, giving me a dirty look. “You know what I meant.”
Actually I don't – I'm not clear at all.
“Why don't you make an effort to understand. I don't come from a posh background, I don't come from a rich family, my dream in life is anything but to get married and play the good little wife, and I'm not attractive enough to be with a person like you.”
I don’t have any particular complexes about myself – I know what I'm worth and I'm objective about my looks, but a comparison between the two of us is unthinkable. I imagine that in his family they've probably been picking the most beautiful wives in the entire country for generations, with a significant overall increase in the aesthetic average. In my family, partners have been chosen for generations on the basis of their brains, and the physical appearance has been totally neglected. I'm not complaining, I'm just talking about facts. I'm very happy with my brain, and I'd never want to trade it in for better looks.
“Don’t you like the way you look?” asks Ian, astonished.
“Of course I like the way I look!” I say, defensively. “But I'm a normal woman – normal height, normal build.”
“You're normal, I get it. And I’m not?” He asks, pressing the point.
Oh, come on, do we really have to play this stupid little game where he pretends he doesn’t know how objectively attractive he is?
“Let's say that you're a bit less normal,” I say.
Ian raises an eyebrow, as though he hasn't fully understood my words. “What exactly about me is a bit ‘less normal’?” he asks, staring at me so hard that I can’t help but blush.
“The eyes,” I say unthinkingly, because it's obvious that no sane woman would have said that. It’s time I stopped drinking, if it isn’t already too late.
Ian’s face is begging for an explanation.
“You have the bluest eyes I've ever seen,” I admit through gritted teeth, lowering my eyes. What the hell is wrong with me? Has he slipped a truth drug into the parmigiana?
His expression softens, and he smiles at me in surprise. “Really?” he asks. It’s obvious that wasn’t the answer he was expecting.
As if all of London's women weren't scratching each other's eyes out to tell him.
“Well, yes. But, then, we people with boring brown eyes are easily impressed,” I try to defend myself, clearly embarrassed.
I got myself into this mess, and now I have to find a painless way to get out of it.
“You have beautiful brown eyes,” he replies, staring into them. “And they're sort of green around the outside,” he points with one hand.
“Never mind my eyes,” I say in annoyance, lowering them again. This evening is getting stranger by the minute. Good job I haven’t mentioned his mouth!
“So, to sum up, you think that you are less attractive than me,” says Ian, looking for confirmation.
Ah! When he applies himself, he manages to get the idea…
“Can we please change the subject?” I ask, genuinely uncomfortable. “I don’t feel any less attractive than you, I feel different from you – it's… different,” I babble.
Ian sniggers. “Ok, then, we're different. Fine. More wine?” he asks, and without waiting for an answer fills my glass.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask.
“No, I'm just trying to make you relax. You were a bit tense when you arrived.”
If it comes to that I still am, only now, I'm tipsy from the wine and keep blurting out what I really think. Great.
“Have you finished?” asks Ian, pointing to my empty plate. When I'm nervous, I eat and drink without even realizing it, obviously.
“Yes thanks. It was all very good,” I confirm, handing it to him. “Shall I help you wash up?” I ask, getting up and following him into the kitchen, where I see him put the dishes into the sink. “No, no – somebody else will do that tomorrow!” he says, scandalized by my proposal. Of course. His Lordship doesn’t wash up, how could I have forgotten? I reflect in annoyance. Although, to be honest, I can’t blame him: his family has got so used to being served over the last thousand years that Ian couldn't really be any different. He probably even thinks that he's a revolutionary, in his own small way, only having one maid and not a dozen like the rest of his family.
“I did buy the dessert, though,” he admits, pulling out of the fridge a wonderful Sachertorte with whipped cream.
“I think we'll forgive you this once, then. But Ian… spray cream? Really?” I tease, as we approach the table again.
If this had been a normal dinner invitation I would have offered to bring dessert myself, but I was so busy fighting off panic that I even forgot my good manners. Good thing he's thought of everything.
“I know, I know – it’s not my style,” he admits with a guilty shrug.
“You'll have to forgive yourself,” I say, happily spraying a pile of whipped cream onto the slices he has just cut.
I'm about to sit back down, but as I'm putting the can on the table, I see that Ian's expression has changed.
“You've got cream on your nose,” he says, eyes shining, as he touches my face.
“Leave it, I’ll do it.” I'm jumpy. The slightest contact with him is so unnerving that I can’t wait to get away from it.
But Ian takes no notice, and with a delicate gesture rubs my nose with his finger, getting dangerously close. In his eyes I can see determination.
“Ian,” I say, reproachfully.
“I warned you, I love it when you say my name.” Well, that's not what I was expecting to hear. “Have you finished?” I ask, as he is showing no sign of taking his hand off my face. Instead, he suddenly places his open palm on my cheek. The usual electric shocks race through my body. “I haven’t even started yet,” he says cryptically, drawing nearer and nearer. The fact that a second later his mouth is on mine is no surprise to either of us. I should have stopped him before, I reflect angrily as I abandon my lips to his. I should have done something, I should have got out of here.
This man does kiss divinely, though, and the combination of the wine and his lips has got me in a trance. I feel more sensual than ever as I start to caress him and stroke his neck, and Ian pulls me even closer, and kisses me even more intensely, if that's possible.
When I feel his hand moving up towards my breast, though, I snap out of it as though I've had an electric shock, and pull away abruptly.
“I don’t think—” I say, trying to regain control of my mental faculties, hoping they haven’t completely deserted my body.
Ian is still staring at me with those eyes.
“Stop it,” I say with a frown as I grab my plate and walk over to the couch. Better to put a few feet between us. I sit down and take a bite of my slice of cake. I need to try and normalise my blood sugar levels – that kiss knocked them for a loop.
Ian watches me eat for a while, then takes his plate and comes and sits next to me. The bastard laughs as he looks at me out of the corner of his eye. As far as I'm concerned, though, there's more to cry about than to laugh at.
“I can see you looking at me,” I say angrily.
“What, is it against the law to look at you?” he responds. “You're the only person here, there's nobody else to look at.”
“Then you should have invited some other people,” I say in exasperation.
“Next time there'll be four of us, then. But first we'll have to wait for George and Tamara to decide to become a couple.”
“So you've noticed it too?” I ask, happy to change the subject.
“It's pretty obvious,” he says, continuing to eat, “that George has a soft spot for her.”
“Yes, but she's got a thing for you,” I point out.
Ian pulls a face. “No she hasn't.”
“It's obvious,” I insist, as I bite into the chocolate crust.
“She thinks she has, but she doesn't really like me,” he says confidently – so confidently, in fact, that it almost makes me doubt my conviction.
“You like me though,” he says, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Excuse me?” I ask, convinced that I must have misheard.
“You're saying you don't?”
“I absolutely don't!” I say angrily. “How can you think such things?”
“I don't know, I thought—” he says softly, realizing that he's using the wrong approach.
“What rubbish you talk sometimes—” I say, affecting a bored tone.
“I can prove it to you,” he replies, brightening up. He looks like someone who has already made his mind up and doesn't want to think about his decision too much.
“How?” I ask in amazement. Just the question that I shouldn't have asked, idiot that I am.
“Put that plate down,” he says, sweetly.
But I hold onto it even tighter, as though it were my last defence against the enemy. “Don’t you even think about it.”
“Come on, don’t be a coward,” he says, pulling the plate from my hands and putting it next to his. Without it, I feel exposed.
“Ok, now just relax,” he says, as he approaches. As though there were any chance of that.
“I won't relax until I get out of this bloody flat,” I answer, in an unexpected outburst of sincerity.
“Lean back,” he says, pulling me back with him and putting his arm around my shoulders.
“What are you trying to prove?” I ask, seriously concerned. It almost seems as though Ian is out of his mind tonight – I don’t recognize him at all and I can’t work out what his intentions are.
He touches my cheek with his hand. Now, I feel lost. “Feel that?” he asks. Of course I feel it, I would probably feel it even if I were dead.
“What am I supposed to be feeling?” I ask blandly, as I try to pull away.
“Your heartbeat,” he answers, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. My heart is going like the clappers, and both of us can feel it.
“So? I’ve got a fast heartbeat. So what?” I ask boldly.
“You should consider being a comedian, not a lawyer,” he says with a laugh, still staring at me. “Are you done with the jokes?”
My face must be a clear enough answer, because the next moment we're kissing again and if possible we're putting even more enthusiasm into it than before. It is clear that he wants to prove that I am completely in his power. And, bloody hell – I really am.
A few minutes later I'm lying on the couch, and he's on top of me.
Well, I tell myself in a pathetic attempt at self-justification, it is hard to move when you've got a heavy weight crushing you.
Without stopping kissing me, Ian begins to lift my top and then touches my belly, and when he does I give a vague, incomprehensible moan. His hand moves more determinedly now, sliding gently up to my bra.
“Can we take this top off?” he asks, removing his lips from mine for a moment.
“No, we can’t. Absolutely not,” I say, panting. I mustn’t get undressed, whatever happens. I can’t give in.
Ian starts kissing me on the neck, then higher, up to my ear. “We must,” he says softly, while I start to lose all control of myself again, and a few minutes later, when he starts pulling off my top, I don’t offer any more resistance. Hmm, really remarkable, my willpower.
Just for the record, if I'd worn my horrible brown t-shirt, none of this would have happened – nobody in their right mind would have wanted to take that off.
In the meantime, my hands are struggling with Ian’s shirt, and he seems to be enjoying the feel of my hand on his skin.
His mouth moves down to my belly and then starts to rise, but not before he has explored every inch of my skin. The idea of his mouth on my body is almost too much for me, so I close my eyes and try and push the image away, but his lips and his hands are magic, and I can't think of anything else.
“Please, stop,” I implore him, writhing.
Ian lifts himself up onto his elbow and smiles at me almost jauntily. “I’ve only just started.”
He has an expression that I've never seen before: sensual, playful, and, dare I say it, almost happy.
“Oh God!” I exclaim in despair. It's starting to sink in that I've really gotten myself in deep this time.
“How about if we were to go somewhere else?” he asks me, looking at me with those annoyingly blue eyes.
I look away. “Forget it!” I shout, “I will never set foot in your bedroom.”
“God, what a drama queen you are,” he says, not sounding the slightest bit worried. He gets up from the couch and, as though I were a feather, picks me up in his arms. Now, as every modern girl knows very well, twenty-first century men just don’t do this type of thing, ever! And that's why finding myself suddenly cradled in his arms like a precious object reduces me to a quivering wreck.
“This isn't fair—” is all I can manage to mutter as Ian carries me into the bedroom, and puts me down gracefully on the bed, before lying down next to me.
He looks at me in amusement, not in the least bit bothered by the panic that he can surely see on my face.
“It would be nice if for once you would start kissing me first,” he says, smiling, “at least just to confirm that the feeling is mutual.” He says it with a smile, but the phrase hides a certain insecurity that I would never have expected in him.
I pull him closer, my gaze moving from his eyes over every part of his face. “You make me do crazy things,” I say accusingly.
Ian watches me. “Well, that’s a good thing. Someone had to teach you to be a bit crazy.”
At this point, one more kiss is not going to make any difference to what is already a mortifying evening, I think, as I draw myself closer and closer to him, and when I do finally decide to kiss him, I see him close his eyes almost ecstatically. I look at his black eyelashes, until the pressure of his mouth forces me to close my eyes as well.
He embraces me and makes me roll onto his chest, while his hands start to stroke my back, before coming to a halt at my bra, undecided what to do next.
“Can I?” he asks, as he continues to kiss me on the neck.
“I'd rather you didn’t,” I answer with a blush.
“I'd rather I did—” he sighs, starting to play with the hook.
“Please, don't—” I freeze, terrified of surrendering completely. Ian looks at me again, smiling.
“Let's make a deal: you can keep the bra on for the moment in exchange for these boring old jeans.”
“What?” I ask, eyes wide.
Ian strokes my cheek. “You should have worn a skirt,” he says seriously. “These jeans are so tight – they’ll be hell to get off.”
“I wish I had a pair that was tighter,” I reply, trying not to let his eyes hypnotise me.
“You almost always wear trousers in the office,” he notes. I didn’t think he noticed my clothes.
“They're more comfortable,” I say, annoyed. What sane woman prefers a skirt to a pair of comfortable trousers?
Ian suddenly rolls us over, taking me by surprise. God, what a vision, girls: a gorgeous, shirtless vision with tousled hair and lips red from kissing. What a shame that this is going to be the first and last time I see this particular man in a similar position.
Then he starts to loosen the button of my jeans and suddenly what a moment ago had seemed a terrible idea instantly becomes a fantastic idea. I let him take them off and there I am in my white knickers.
Oops. My simple, horrible, plain white knickers. And obviously, I'm wearing a black bra…
For a moment I close my eyes in desperation, because I’d be willing to bet my yearly bonus that this man has never seen a woman wearing a mismatched bra and knickers.
“Ok, I think it's time I got going,” I say, trying in vain to break free and get off the bed.
“Now?” asks Ian in amazement.
“Actually, I should have gone a long time ago,” I say, mortified. “Now's a bit late, but better late than never.” I am sure that I'll go down in history as the woman who dared to wear two-tone underwear, but who cares. At least I won’t be one of many. Ian stops me. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks, sounding worried.
“You?” I ask in surprise. “You had nothing to do with it. It's me. I've already made enough of a fool of myself with this bloody underwear.”
Ian looks at me as if though I were speaking Arabic.
“Look, in my defence I can only say that I never, and I mean never, thought you were going to see it. I swear. I thought there was more chance of the world blowing up first.”
Ian doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “That's the problem?” he asks.
Ah, that? He makes it all sound so silly, this gentleman.
“We can solve that in no time,” he says. I feel his hands on my back undoing my bra, and I'm so taken aback that I don’t have time to stop him.
“Ian!” I exclaim in outrage, trying to cover myself up but failing miserably.
“I just wanted to help—” he says, looking at my breasts. “It just seemed like a really serious problem. And what gentleman wouldn’t help a girl in trouble? Anyway, now that we've got past that particular hurdle?”
“I was about to leave?” I ask uncertainly, not really finding the strength to get out of this bed.
Ian gets up and starts to undo his jeans, which fall to the ground. If I have a heart attack now, at least I'll have died happy, I think nervously.
“This is a really bad idea—” I try to tell him, softly, “We're still in time to stop—”
But Ian sits down on the bed and starts kissing me, kissing me so much that I can hardly breathe, and I let myself be completely carried away by this sensuous tsunami which completely washes away all my willpower.
A few minutes later, when the rest of our clothes have evaporated, all I can think is that what I'm doing is definitely the biggest mistake of my life.
But, for once, who cares.