The Revenge Date/Ten Reasons to Say I Don't Bundle (Romantic Comedy)

by Geraldine Fonteroy

  Beside them, the toilet door suddenly burst open, and they quickly brought their hands back to more respectable positions.

  The secretary and the mailboy looked disconsolate, now that they had satisfied themselves, to find the chairman’s daughter had witnessed their furtive shag. The secretary, at least, was married.

  Rosie had smiled and turned away. She knew better than to offer an opinion, because it wouldn’t be the expected one, and her father would kill her if she said: ‘nice one’.

  Pierre grabbed her hand and pressed it against her own face, his still attached. She could smell the aftershave so strongly now and her body reacted with uncomfortable force. ‘Come on,’ she had told him. ‘What’s good enough for them is good enough for us.’ She usually demanded at least a bed with clean sheets or a comfy sofa or chair for her assignations, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and her desire to fuck the incredible Frenchman wouldn’t wait whilst they got their coats, said their goodbyes and found a hotel.

  The bathroom was one of those floor to ceiling marble jobs, with a bank of stone basins supported by automated taps. Thinking she had locked the door, she pulled Pierre by his crisp striped tie over to a stone bench designed for girls to put on their war paint. Responding immediately, he took her by the waist and hoisted her gently onto it, running his strong hands down her body as he did so. She longed to see what he had to offer, in all its unadorned glory, but when she went for his zip he gently slapped her hand away. ‘Naughty, naughty,’ he had said, and once again, her body leapt in response. She had honestly never had anyone who was so accomplished. It could have been the hot, dark looks, or the sexy accent, or the expensive aroma – whatever the ingredients were for pleasure, he had them and she wanted him like she’d never wanted anyone. Grabbing one stockinged leg and then the other, he placed her feet other side of him, then knelt down and pulled back the skimpy pants. When his lips touched flesh, she had groaned again, more loudly this time. ‘Shhhh,’ he advised, before continuing to slip his tongue in and out whilst running his hands up and down her backside. ‘Fucking hell,’ she remembered exclaiming, before dragging him away from her before it was too late to experience more. ‘I need you,’ Rosie had whispered, and Pierre told her to unzip him in a rather stern voice. ‘Quickly now,’ he said, and she felt her insides jump again. Jesus, did this guy have the moves, or what? She did as she was told. It was as delicious as she expected. She hoped he wouldn’t want her mouth to return the favor – she didn’t do that for just anyone, had never done that for anyone – but he told her to grab him and gently run her fingers around it. It was already glistening with his obvious excitement and the minute he had the condom on she grabbed him by the neck and pulled him towards her, their lips meeting frantically, her hand still on him, guiding him in. The feeling was excruciatingly blissful, and Rosie, in spite of trying to hold on, felt herself coming and coming over and over in waves and he pounded against her, her knees up against his shoulders, on that cold, hard stone bench.

  Then he was calling out to God in French and just in the nick of time, he pulled out, yanked off the condom and shot away from her, into the nearby toilet stall. What the hell was he doing? Rosie was well seasoned when it came to sex – and she had never seen something do that! She supposed she should be thankful he had the good sense to use the condom at all. There weren’t many rules she insisted on when it came to sex. In fact, there were really only three. No blow jobs, always a rubber and nothing that left even temporary scars.

  A moment later, reality had hit. Rosie remembered thinking how weird it was that the moment she came; she was bored with the whole affair. Deep down she had hoped that it might be different with someone she really, really, fancied, but alas, no. Sure, he was hot, but somehow, coming cured her of the attraction, and once it was done, she couldn’t wait to get away. Just like all the other times.

  ‘Would you like to come back to my ‘otel? Pierre had murmured, kissing her ear, but the magic spell was broken. He was still, cute, French and rich, but she was bored. Time to move on. The night was still young, after all.

  ‘Maybe another time,’ she had said, noting his disappointment with a vague amusement. Probably the first time it had happened to him.

  Straightening her dress, she had waited for him to use the loo, then she hurried in, cleaned herself up, and had exited the stall, only to be greeted by the face of her mother.

  Bloody door wasn’t locked. Talk about dumb luck. Of all the people at that party - her mother was the one who had to walk in on them!

  Pierre went bright red, which was idiotic as it had told Harriet Matchall all she needed to know. Shaking her head in disbelief, her mother had walked straight back out again, and the next morning had told Rosie that if she didn’t go to a sex therapist, there would be no more financial support of her lavish and blatantly vacuous lifestyle. That meant getting a flat in some Godforsaken place in London, and securing a dead-end job just to pay the rent. Given the choice between therapy and a flea-invested studio apartment somewhere in South London, Rosie chose therapy.

  Which was where she was now.

  ‘Three men,’ the therapist repeated. ‘In less than six hours.’

  In Rosie’s mind, the other two didn’t count.

  The next, a randy London trader from East London called Frank, was just to show her parents she didn’t give a fuck what they said, but after an extremely unsatisfactory shag in the same toilet, this time up against the door for security, her mother hadn’t batted an eyelid at Rosie’s obvious transfer of attentions.

  So Rosie had sought victim number three, an associate from a law firm her father used, and dragged him back to her bed in Kensington, so that her parents would discover him skulking out on their return from the party.

  Which they had.

  Rosie reasoned if they thought she was a sex addict, code for slut, then let it be so, but her mother had simply sighed deeply and reminded Rosie that she would be expected to take onboard what the therapist said.

  Looking at Doctor Rosswell now, babbling on about Rosie’s up and coming trip and asking what it could possibly mean to her, Rosie wondered what the possibility was of finding love in New York.

  She’d been on the dating scene in the UK for over ten years and there had been no inkling that she had the capacity to love a man in that way. She didn’t even want to sleep with them twice.

  But she couldn’t tell Doctor Rosswell that right now. The diligent Grey Virgin might have her sectioned or something.

  Finally, the hour, and the lecture, were up.

  Weren’t therapists supposed to let you talk? All she seemed to do was listen to Doctor Rosswell tell her over and over again that she had a problem.

  But she didn’t.

  She just liked her sex without strings, that was all.

  What was wrong with that?

  CHAPTER THREE

  ROSIE’S BEST MATE SCARLET RANG in response to a text that read ‘Off to do Manhattan’. Rosie was sitting in a cab, on her way to the airport to meet Hugo.

  ‘You’re going where, with whom?’

  ‘New York, with this banker I met.’

  ‘Have you fucked him?’

  ‘Yep. Night before last.’ Not that she wanted to remember that particular event. Recalling Pierre was a lot more pleasurable.

  ‘Well, this is a first, isn’t it?’ In spite of Rosie’s record with men, Scarlet believed that Rosie could find love if she just met the right guy. Rosie wasn’t interested in love. She was twenty-six, had never had a job, and since exiting Bristol University (where she had met the studious Scarlet Abingdon), had dedicated her life to having a good time. She didn’t plan to stop anytime soon. Love meant all sorts of comprises she wasn’t prepared to make – including monogamy.

  ‘He must have a dick the size of . . .’ Scarlet’s voice faded away longingly. Although she didn’t approve of Rosie’s tarting about, she did envy her ability to score rich, handsome men whenever she wanted. Scarlet
was, for want of a better word, plain and frumpy, although she tried her best not to be. Being one of those people who always managed to look scruffy, even wearing Armani, Rosie suspected her mate’s dress sense was a legacy from growing up on her father’s thousand acre cattle farm in Scotland.

  ‘Fairly ordinary shag, actually.’ Rosie enjoyed filling her friend in on her escapades. Not as much as she did Doctor Rosswell, but nearly. ‘Had one of those cocks that bends. I love that, if I am on top, but he blew after a few minutes. Then he tried going down on me – if was like an epileptic butterfly having a fit against my clit. Honestly, there should be an obligatory Oral 101 at all public schools in England.’

  Scarlet giggled. ‘Tell him what you want, then.’

  ‘I tried. He began sucking and I felt like I’d fallen on a decrepit Hoover that had lost its suction. Loser, Scar, total nonce.’

  ‘So you decided that he was such a dud fuck, you’d run away to New York with him. I know you like handcuffs, but isn’t that taking masochism a little too far?’

  ‘Mother began harping on about me having an addiction again, and I could tell she was waiting for me to let Hugo down gently and tell him to piss off, so to spite her, I didn’t.’

  There was the slightest of pauses. Rosie suspected that Scarlet was thinking her mother might have point. ‘You’ve always said you don’t do pity fucks, but clearly spiteful fucks are okay.’

  ‘Spiteful fucks are fine. Besides, I’ve bought the handcuffs, that should liven things up.’

  Scarlet sighed. ‘Got to go, the judge is coming back in and my client is shit scared she is going down.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘Tried to shoot her husband.’

  ‘Deserves a bloody medal, if you ask me.’ Rosie was only half-joking. From what Scarlet told her, the clients who attended her legal aid solicitor’s office were the real victims, not the men.

  ‘Law doesn’t work that way, but I’ll let her know you said so.’ Scarlet’s cheery tone was becoming softer. ‘Gotta go now, bye. Call me from NYC.’

  An hour later Rosie was sitting in BIA’s business class lounge at Heathrow, thinking with distain that half the men in the room were totally and utterly unfuckable. Hugo, thankfully, had regained some of the Daniel Craig demeanor of the other evening, and was casually dressed in a Thomas Pink casual shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of grey chinos and a preppy sports jacket. Very Ralph Lauren, she thought to herself, considering his stocky frame with something coming close to a fond memory. It’d be okay to fuck him a few more times, she supposed. If she had to. Their flight was called, and as they made their way onto the plane, she noticed one of the air stewards giving her the eye. Dressed as she was in a Karen Millen belted military dress, silver wedges, her blonde hair swept back with an Alice band, there was definitely something of the supermodel about Rosie that day. As usual, peoples’ eyes, both male and female, watched her carefully – the former with desire, the later with undisguised jealousy – and the clean-cut air steward, who was handsome in a grotty, Brad Pitt kind of way, was no exception. Perhaps it was time to join the mile high club again? For the fifth time that year.

  ‘Hi, I’m Paul. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.’ Ah. Irish. Yum. His cheeky grin and freckles made him look younger than he probably was. She liked shagging younger guys – they didn’t moan so much when you said goodbye. Looking down, she eyed his crotch, then moved her eyes back up to his. The female steward standing next to him glared at Rosie with hatred. Poor cow was no doubt in love with the cocky sod. Good luck with that love, Rosie wanted to tell her. She knew a player when she saw one.

  She was about to invite Paul to bring her a hot towel later when Rosie remembered Doctor Rosswell and her parents. Instead, she decided that she might as well get to New York and find her own accommodation before she cheated on her date. In Rosie’s mind, she wasn’t a user. Well, not completely. And she didn’t want to be a cheater, which was why she’d never managed to settle on one guy. It was like committing to one type of meat, or bread, or wine forever. It gets monotonous.

  Besides, because she’d always had money, there was no motivation for Rosie to bother with trying to illicit the finer things in life from the men she slept with. She had her friend Scarlet for normal fun. A guy was for fun in bed and that was that. No payment required or expected. Woman who behaved like that were, in Rosie’s mind, hookers.

  Although when she said this to Doctor Rosswell, the Grey Virgin shook her head and asked: ‘what do you call it when you do exactly the same thing, but for more money?’

  Rosie was tempted to say, marriage, but she thought Doctor Rosswell might have a heart attack from the aggravation.

  No, it was only proper not to shag the steward, she supposed, after Hugo had paid for such a lovely first class ticket.

  Shame though. Rosie thought she had seen the beginnings of a fine hard-on in those tight navy trousers!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NEW YORK PROVIDED ITS USUAL buzz for Rosie, and she suddenly felt more alive (if not more agreeable with respect to Hugo) once they’d arrived at the Four Seasons. Satisfyingly, the skinny, dopey-looking bellboy’s eyes nearly popped out at the sight of her stalking into the hotel, and Hugo had given her a huge goofy grin as they stood waiting to be checked in. Blah. Obviously she was the best-looking girl he’d ever been seen with, and the thought was a turn off, a complete turnoff.

  Rosie’s looks were as comfortable to her as her limbs - she didn’t really think about them. A few times a month some model’s agent tried to seduce her into this agency or that, but she couldn’t be bothered with all that work. Why stand in front of a camera and have your face plastered in zit-inducing makeup when the Bank of Mother & Father provided far more in terms of compensation, for far less effort?

  ‘Is this your wife?’ The concierge asked brightly. Hugo was so grateful for the mistake he pressed a hundred dollars into the guy’s hand. Ugh. At this rate Rosie was going to have to come down with malaria to avoid sleeping with this doofus.

  Even the concierge was more appealing to her right now, and he was sporting her pet hate, a full beard.

  Nothing worse that a scratchy beard rubbing against the inside of your thighs. She’d only tried it once and after having to seek pharmaceutical help for the rash it caused, even a goatee on the sexiest of men now caused her to pause. Shame, because goatees and silver foxes tended to go together, and older guys didn’t shoot their loads at the first sign of her tits.

  ‘No, not yet. Just my girlfriend.’

  Not yet. Not yet! Right, that was it. There was no way she could stay in the presence of Hugo a moment longer. She didn’t do second dates and this was why. They never got any better than the first.

  ‘Sorry Hugo, but I’ve got to go.’

  The concierge and the banker stared at her, incredulous.

  ‘What?’ mumbled Hugo. ‘We just got here.’

  ‘I know, and I feel really bad, but I just can’t do this, here, in this lovely hotel. I can’t pretend I am something I am not, not even for a moment.’

  Satisfied that her explanation was enough to ensure Hugo wouldn’t be too resentful, Rosie told the porter to take her bags to a taxi, and kissing the stunned Hugo briefly on the lips, she shot out of the Four Seasons and into a mid-afternoon New York traffic jam as fast as her Jimmy Choos would allow.

  An hour later, they pulled up at The Roundhouse in Tribeca – the taxi driver’s suggestion.

  ‘Not bad,’ Rosie said, looking in through the glass doors of the discreetly signposted boutique hotel. It was elegant but understated, something her mother would definitely approve of. And, according to Miquel the cabbie, whose cousin worked there, it was relatively easy on the credit card, at around $350 per night.

  She tried not to think about her mother’s reaction if she discovered that Hugo had been ditched on immediate arrival in New York. Harriet Matchall wasn’t stupid, and fully suspected that Rosie’s eagerness to co
me on the trip with Hugo was backed up by a desire to prove to her mother that Rosie wasn’t the total slapper Harriet thought her to be.

  Rosie sighed. Well, given that her parent’s paid the credit card, they would find out soon enough. But in the meantime, she was here, her first class airfare back to London was open ended (she’d checked), and so far she had noted two, no, make that three eminently fuckable men in the somber, stylish expanse of the lobby.

  Ignoring the appreciative glances cast in her direction, she marched up to the scowling brunette seated behind a convex reception area that was backed by a cabinet of what looked like porcelain figures of cheese, and handed her credit card to the woman.

  ‘Hi, I’d like to check in but first can you give me some cash to pay the driver? Put it on my room?’

  ‘Er, we don’t usually do that, ma’am.’

  Suddenly, a raven-haired guy in white trousers and a navy shirt strode over towards the door, where the doorman was holding the taxi driver at bay. ‘Here, let me.’ He peeled off a number of notes, surprise at the large fee flickering momentarily on his dark, Mediterranean features, and then he turned back to her, blinding smile plastered on his face.

  God, thought Rosie, I hope he doesn’t think that’s going to get him a shag. The thought of owing anyone anything was a major turnoff for Rosie. Dinner, okay, a show or a movie, fine, but only if invited properly before.

  She needed to get rid of him, and for that, she needed to pay him. Suddenly, he was beside her. ‘So, how about a drink to say thank you?’