by Shari Low
The focus switched back to the ever-smiling Goldie, who now had only a few seconds to wind up the show. And only the very perceptive would notice that she said goodbye and wished everyone a great weekend through very gritted teeth.
15
The Gemini Date
‘Little black dress…’
‘Which one?’
‘The one I bought for my Uncle Dan’s funeral. Actually, it’s not so little because my mum would have killed me. Anyway, that, or…’ I threw open my wardrobe and pulled out my one other item of formalwear. ‘Classic black trouser suit. Smart one. It’s from Next, but as long as you don’t get too close it looks like Prada. Have I told you how much I hate getting ready for these dates?’
‘Only fifty-two times. Where are you going?’
‘Nobu.’
‘Oooooooooh, very in with the in-crowd,’ Trish jeered, with more than a hint of sarcastic amusement. ‘I’d go with the trouser suit. It says “aloof and in control…”’
‘Which I’m definitely not.’
‘Exactly! That’s why you should wear it, you big wuss. And as an added bonus you don’t have to shave your legs. Unless, of course, you plan on doing a Becker in the broom cupboard.’
‘No, that’s too obvious,’ I replied tartly. ‘Apparently blow jobs under the table are the in thing just now.’
‘In that case, definitely the trouser suit–easier to bend.’
‘Don’t talk to me about bending–I’ve now progressed from daydreams to full-on nightmares and I had a particularly bendy one last night that I’m pretty sure has left me with a lifelong aversion to male organs and hairy faces.’
‘Not a sentence I ever thought I’d hear,’ she chuckled. ‘So what happened?’
‘Pamphlet edition or War and Peace?’
‘Pamphlet–too much information might force me to freak out and stop taking your calls.’
‘Okay, threesome situation–me, Conn and Craig the therapist.’
‘Fuck, I can feel the bile rising.’
‘Had the same effect on me.’ Which was the truth. ‘Anyway, got to go and meet my doom.’
I hung up and, despite strong and determined counter arguments from my self-preservation gene, couldn’t help but relive the trauma of the mental movie that had premiered the previous night. I’d left work much later than usual because I had to wait until Zara had finished sweeping the office for bugs (and while this might sound like a procedure requiring high-tech equipment, Zara had actually convinced herself that she could do it just by tuning in to their frequency and sniffing them out. Needless to say, she’d yet to find any, but she had come across two mobile phones, a portable alarm and a kettle that were camouflaged by various cushions and shrubbery, so she was claiming a minor victory). When I finally got home, I treated myself to a gourmet dinner of a cheesy baked potato and schlepped off to bed with two weeks’ worth of highbrow, intellectual celebrity magazines when…
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I leapt up, not even stopping to grab a robe, and ran towards my door, yanking it open just six inches in a dual mission to a) find out who was there while b) concealing the fact that I was absolutely scud naked.
‘Leni, I’m sorry–I was an idiot and I had to let you know how sorry I am.’
It was Capricorn Craig, his elbow patches completely in a twist, his expression aghast.
‘How did you know where I lived?’
‘Does it matter? What matters is that I’m here and I’m so, so sorry.’ He was leaning against the doorframe now, utterly deflated. And, much as I wanted to rant about his arrogance and smugness, I realised that I had no right. Hadn’t I been the one who’d unleashed a torrent of emotion on him? Hadn’t I used him as a tweed-clad shoulder to cry on? I had no one to blame but myself.
‘Goodnight, Leni…and I’m really sorry, and I just wanted you to know.’
‘Stay.’ The whisper was out of my mouth before I realised what I was saying. ‘You can stay.’ I pushed the door back and stood there, completely naked, utterly vulnerable.
He walked towards me and his lips fastened hard on to mine, pushing me back against the door, his breathing heavy, hot, passionate, his whiskers giving my lower jaw a free dermabrasion.
‘Not here,’ I murmured, bravery overtaking me as I took his hand, pushed the door closed and guided him towards the bedroom. We were almost there when he pulled me to him again, lifting me up so that I wrapped my legs around him, my heart thumping against his chest. One hand was behind my neck, the other under my buttocks supporting my weight as he reversed into the bedroom. There, he swung me round and…
‘What the fu—’
He was staring now at the unexpected–the space in the bed that he had anticipated occupying. The one that was, it seemed, already taken.
His arms dropped to his sides, sending me crashing downwards.
‘So this is a bit weird,’ I admitted sheepishly. ‘But you know, Craig, you did say that I had to move on and take control.’
‘What? Are you kidding? Is this some kind of joke? I’m out of…’
‘Stay.’ Good grief, where was this coming from? I didn’t do deviant sex games. I was strictly a no pain, no kinky stuff kind of girl, yet now I was…
‘What?’
I glanced over at the gorgeous, long-haired man who was lying in bed, obviously amused by this turn of events. Would he mind? Of course not. He was always up for new experiences in the field of hedonistic pursuits.
‘It’s fine with me,’ Conn murmured nonchalantly, as if this happened every day of the week. Actually, that could be close to the truth.
I could see that Craig was fighting an inner turmoil, a conflicting dialogue raging between his brain and his libido, so I decided to help him along. As he stood there, stunned, frozen, I unzipped his trousers and let his anatomy speak for itself. I licked my finger, then slowly, teasingly, ran it along his solid shaft. He groaned with pleasure, his eyes closed, his head thrown back as the sheer bliss assaulted him.
After a few minutes of massaging his cock, I pulled it towards me, turned around, and used it in a gear-stick manner to guide him to the bed.
I climbed on top of the duvet, Conn immediately kneeling up behind me, massaging my breasts as Craig pulled off his jacket and his brown cord chinos, his eyes never leaving the scene in front of him, his cock never flagging. Gently, he pulled me towards him, kneeling down on the floor as he positioned himself in between my legs and lowered his head.
It was that Seventies porn movie all over again.
I gasped as his tongue flicked inside me, hitting my clitoris with relentless repetition. Meanwhile, Conn had bent down and taken one of my nipples between his teeth, biting hard, the pressure matching the intensity of the three bodies that were now moaning with pleasure. It was the most, the most…
Aaaaaaaargh!
I woke up with OK! magazine stuck to my face and had to spend several minutes scrubbing off the imprint of Paris Hilton’s arse from my left cheek. The horror and revulsion were harder to shift.
Even now, just reliving the memory was making me physically shiver.
What was wrong with me? I’d always been a bit of a dreamer, but never on an X-rated scale. And not even my trusty The Stories of the Soul–dreams & daydreams and how to analyse them had a chapter on threesomes with your boss and a weird academic.
It had to be all the recent changes in my life–I was sure they were catapulting me into a subconscious turmoil that was manifesting itself in imaginary exploits.
What I really wanted to do now was to go to bed, sleep, and wake up calm and revitalised. What I really had to do now was to decide what to wear for another night of psychological trauma.
I went back to my deliberations. Millie had reckoned the dress would be the best bet, and now Trish had said the opposite.
A little flutter of nervous tension ripped through my belly, although there was a definite mathematical shift now that I was meeting Jon, a stockbroker I’d chosen from
the big bag of Gemini applicants. Actually, I hadn’t so much chosen him as given in to the pressure of the relentless number of applications–eleven separate letters, all declaring his fervent hope that he got picked. The guy was either desperate or determined, but either way the postage outlay deserved a reward.
The emotional shift had come about when I’d called him and he’d suggested we have dinner at Nobu. Before each of the previous dates I’d been one hundred per cent in the ‘dread and fear’ bracket, but now there was a ten per cent portion of excited anticipation, which I suspected was down to my shallow gene doing the conga at the prospect of dinner in a swanky restaurant.
Perhaps it had been worth going through the pain barrier of the Rambo wannabe from Milton Keynes, the twat from the band, my non-assertive twin and Dr Phil to get to this point: a fabulous dinner in a famous restaurant with a guy who sounded like he wanted to treat me in style.
I pulled on the trousers, going for Trish’s suggestion because–well, because she was always right, and if she ever discovered that I hadn’t taken her advice I’d still be hearing about it when they were wheeling us to the lounge for bingo and custard at the old folks’ home. I added a little black skinny-rib polo-neck (Top Shop, January sale, a tenner) and slipped on the jacket, covering up the elastic bandage that the hospital had advised me to wear for a month after they’d removed the cast.
I checked my reflection in the mirror: hair down and as close to Stu’s original creation as I could manage with a quick shower and a going-over with my cheapo straighteners. Make-up passable–carefully blended foundation, smoky eyes, pale, glossy lips, and I’d even had a go with a set of false eyelashes that had been on special offer at Boots. Feet: Trish’s Gina peep-toes with the five-inch heels that she’d left the last time she’d had a few drinks too many and found herself in no fit state to walk in anything more perilous than my joke slippers (the ones with a large fake-fur hamburger on the front of each foot). Finishing touches: a quick squirt of Chanel No. 5 and the small diamond studs my parents had bought me on my twenty-first.
I ran my hands over each lapel, brushing away any dust or sprinkles of make-up. Yep, I thought, checking out my reflection from the left, then swinging around to get the back view. I actually scrubbed up pretty good. And Trish was right, I decided, as I grabbed my square black leather handbag (bought for impressing at interviews when I’d first left college)–the suit was definitely, definitely the best choice. This time, I absolutely had it right.
I wished I’d worn the dress.
My compulsive fear of causing offence had compelled me to arrive early, and as I sat in the bar I realised that the in-crowd were an eclectic bunch: there were stunning young females in designer boot-cuts and slinky tops, there were some very glamorous women in ultra-chic dresses and sky-high heels, there were some bohemian, casual outfits, all skinny denim and gypsy tops, but absolutely nowhere was there another person who looked like they’d just finished a day shift at the local undertaker’s.
Except me.
Urgh, why did I always get it wrong? The very next day Mr Ahmed at the local newsagent’s was going to experience a profit spike, because I resolved to do a long-overdue trolley dash in the fashion mag section.
At least if I’d worn the dress I could have made a stab at the whole Audrey Hepburn look that was being carried off beautifully by a nearby twenty-something brunette, who was currently licking the palm of a calorifically-challenged and vertically-challenged bloke wearing more thick gold jewellery than a serial criminal could shoplift during breakfast, lunch or dinner-time at Tiffany’s.
Thankfully, Gemini Jon arrived before I could take self-doubt to a whole new level. Or perhaps not. The first thing I noticed was his smile as he approached me: warm and open. The second thing I noticed was that with his blond ruffled hair and lean frame he wasn’t a million miles away from a younger Kiefer Sutherland. And the third? Damn! What was he wearing? A black suit with a black T-shirt underneath.
One person all in black says bereavement; two says bank job.
‘Hey, we match!’ he exclaimed. Observant. ‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’
‘Depends whether anyone phones the police to report us. We do look uncannily like a criminal team that featured on Crime Stoppers last night.’
He laughed easily and without a trace of inhibition or self-consciousness. I liked that. It calmed my emotional overload of dread and fear and replaced it with the beginnings of a resolve to enjoy myself. It was only a few hours of my life (how bad could it be?), we were in a public place (what harm could I come to?), I’d spent two hours on Google researching the role of a stockbroker (to be used in case of awkward silences), and I’d already somehow managed to come out with one witty retort (didn’t look like a complete cabbage). And as we were shown to our table, he stopped to let me go first (good manners), then reached around and pulled my chair out for me (very polite) and asked if he could get me another drink (caring, hospitable). After the blokes I’d been subjected to recently, my romance gene was putting out the bunting.
As always, the whole background to our meeting was the icebreaker, and I assured him that the salt cellar wasn’t bugged, there were no cameras in the pot plants, and Zara wasn’t about to suddenly burst in clutching a crystal ball.
Okay, deep breath, and time for the initiation of Zara’s project rule number seven:…during the course of the evening, as much information as possible on previous dating history should be attained. Family and work history should also be attained.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ said I, in a hesitant manner that probably made it clear that I minded asking, ‘but what made you apply to take part in this?’
‘Actually, I didn’t.’
‘You did.’
He was grinning now. ‘I promise I didn’t. However, my sixteen-year-old sister, who spends her life in pursuit of great new ways to humiliate and upset her brother, did. I think maybe I should call and tell her that it backfired big-time.’
Mmm, sweet and complimentary at the same time. My romance gene’s street party was really kicking off now that I could strike ‘publicity seeking’ and ‘desperate’ off his list of potential characteristics and replace them with ‘friendly’ and ‘flattering’.
‘So how did you end up doing this, then?’ he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I’m Zara’s PA and it’s part of the job–twelve dates, all with different signs of the zodiac.’
‘How many have you had so far?’
‘You’re number five. I’ve already met Scorpio, Leo, Capricorn and Aries.’
He was genuinely intrigued. ‘Are you enjoying it?’
I weighed up my options. Revealing any further information would be in direct contradiction of Zara’s project rule number four: Details of this project and of candidates must not be discussed with anyone outside Delta Inc. And even if I was to be a rebel and disobey she who sees all, the polite and discreet thing to say was that it was all going swimmingly and I was learning valuable lessons that had deep anthropological significance.
This was a time for intelligent, rational thinking and making smart choices.
But somehow a fit of the giggles burst out, along with a whispered, ‘No, I bloody hate it.’
For some reason he found this funny, setting us both off on such a snort of completely irrational hilarity that the diners at nearby tables couldn’t resist a curious glance at Bonnie and Clyde.
An hour of easy conversation later, I’d discovered something utterly astonishing: he was…normal. Completely run-of-the-mill. No apparent hang-ups, craziness or tendencies towards deviance. Just wonderfully, spectacularly, reassuringly normal. He had one sister, originated from Devon, and had moved to London when he’d landed a job with a brokerage firm. He loved his mum and dad, lived in Islington, played squash, ran three miles every second day, liked to travel, drove a Mini and loved going to comedy clubs. And he had a quick, self-deprecating humour that somehow made being with him ab
solutely comfortable. Oh, happy days. The apprehension and the desperation to get the night over with joined my pre-date nerves at the wayside.
I excused myself and nipped to the loo. As soon as I was in the cubicle, I pulled out my phone and dialled Trish.
She answered after the first ring. ‘Fucking shoot me–The Damnation Fires are playing on the show on Monday and they’ve just requested a Satanic priest and three live chickens. Why did I take this job?’
‘No idea. Anyway, guess what?’ I whispered, momentarily forgetting that she hated both whispering and trite questions.
‘You’ve decided to become a lez and you’re going down on Angelina’s jolie as we speak?’
‘I am. But other than that, this one’s nice, Trish.’
‘You said that about the singer.’
‘I know, but this one’s funny. And it’s weird, but there’s a…a kind of…connection.’
‘Well, you’ve got a lot in common–you’re both incapable of finding a partner using traditional methods.’
‘Will you shut up? Anyway, phone Stu and tell him that I’m okay–he gets pissed off if I don’t check in every three minutes when I’m on a date.’
‘I will indeed, your ladyship. Now get back to Mr Wonderful–and remember what I told you…if you run out of things to say…’
‘Yes?’ I replied, racking my brain to remember what worthy advice she’d actually given me.
‘Just slip under the table and unzip.’
I didn’t bother informing her that this would be in direct contravention of Zara’s project rule number five: Physical contact with candidates should not be initiated. Instead, I snapped the phone shut and left the cubicle, then made for the main washroom door.