by Jo Kessel
“He’s a number cruncher at the network. In finance, I think.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“Huh,” he half laughs. “Funny you should ask, but no, he’s not. I’ve only met him a couple of times, recently, but apparently we were at school together, in the same year. I wouldn’t have remembered unless he’d told me. And the strange thing is I’d almost forgotten who he is again. Huh.”
“So the lunch, at the Oxo Tower, did that or did that not happen?”
“With Cameron?” he furrows his brow, taps two fingers on his lips and takes his time. “Hum, sorry, yes, I go to the Oxo Tower so often that it’s hard to remember when and who with. Yes, yes, I did go there with him. I think I had the seared tuna.”
“Scott, it doesn’t matter to me whether you had seared tuna, pigs cheeks or rump steak. What I need to know is why you had lunch.”
“Right, yes, sorry, but I’m a bit baffled as to where you’re leading with this.”
He puts his elbows on my desk and starts rubbing his temples, deep in thought. He suddenly flings himself back in his chair, freshly composed.
“Ok. I remember.” He delivers his lines carefully, as if reading from a slow-paced autocue, glazed eyes staring at some spot behind me. “He took me out to lunch to discuss expenses I’d been claiming. I remember thinking it a bit strange because the person who normally handles this is someone called Trevor Charles, but I never questioned it. Anyway, he said the network was clamping down on what he called ‘excessive claims’. I agreed that I’d been bending the rules a bit, putting in for a few too many lunches and a couple of unnecessary Versace suits. I promised to be a good boy, help tighten the purse strings, we shook hands, toasted it with champagne and that was that. Why? What’s the relevance of this?”
What marvellous hypocrisy - spending a small fortune on wining and dining to tell someone to stop doing the very same thing!
“Well,” I say, “your former schoolmate went to the police and made a statement, claiming he’s reason to believe you wanted Elizabeth’s husband dead.”
“Sorry?”
Scott does a double take, as if he’s misheard.
“Apparently, he heard you on your mobile, outside the cloakrooms.” I look down at my notes. ‘It’s going to be you and me, I promise, very soon. He won’t be around much longer. I’ll take care of it’, he says you said. And later, when you went to speak to a group of fans in the restaurant, you left your mobile on the table. Cameron took it upon himself to check to see the name of the last person you’d been speaking to. The name Lizzy came up. Is any of this making sense?”
Scott looks genuinely perplexed.
“This is preposterous. He’s taken everything out of context.”
He’s definitely agitated.
“So, that conversation did take place?”
“No, b-, yes, b-, no, b- well, yes, I think I know what he’s alluding to, but it wasn’t how it sounded. Elizabeth wanted to leave Rupert for me and I was reassuring her that that’s what I wanted too. I can’t remember exactly what I said, but I certainly wasn’t implying that I wanted him bloody dead!” He shakes his head in disbelief. “So, what does this mean?”
“Not a lot, because Rupert isn’t dead and there’s no corroboration for Cameron Matthew’s statement. The police would need more than that to bring charges of attempted murder. I just wanted your side of the story.”
Despite my reservations about Scott Richardson, despite finding him slicker than all the oil in the Middle East and a tad creepy, it’s possible he’s telling the truth. Nothing is adding up though.
“Why do you think Cameron Matthews would go to the police with something like this?”
“I’ve no idea. I barely know the man, despite us supposedly being classmates. Look, are you sure this doesn’t hinder my case?”
“No, no. This won’t be used as evidence, so don’t worry,” I reassure him. “But I’d steer well clear of Cameron Matthews please, as a precaution.”
“Whatever you say,” he says respectfully.
“Right, then. Thanks for coming.” I smile, genuinely. However I feel about Scott, he’s still about to stand trial. Tough or not, support is always welcome at times like this. “And really, don’t worry.”
“Congratulations,” he says, when he’s on his feet.
“What for?”
I’m confused. I haven’t won his case yet and at this rate an amputated horse would have more chance of winning the Grand National.
“It’s your birthday.”
He moves to look at a card that’s so huge it’s almost the height of my desk. I’ve stood it on the floor behind my desk, supposedly out of sight, because it’s not particularly appropriate office decor. It says ‘29 TODAY’ on the front. I got it in the post from Adam this morning, with a message saying ‘make the most of it because you’re running out of time!’
“Actually, it’s not my birthday. Well, it will be, at the end of the week, but it’s the big three oh, not my 29th. This was my boyfriend’s idea of a joke.”
“He’s a lucky man,” he says, raising his eyebrows at my computer screen and then gives me a dirty, flirty look. “Int-er-est-ing!”
He takes my outstretched palm in his, flattering me with his eyes and a smile so winning, that for a split second I’m quite captivated. I feel his whole world revolves around me, that I’m as pivotal to his life as eggs are to an omelette.
“You’re an impressive woman Ali. I’ve heard that you’re the best and I want you to know that I’ve the utmost faith in you. Maxwell couldn’t have given me a better brief. I shall be telling him what a great job you’re doing.”
I’m so won over by his charm that when he brushes his thumb on the top of my hand subtly, briefly, the minutest of caresses, I ignore the undeniably sexual undertone to his gesture, thank him for coming, promise to be in touch soon. Slightly annoyed at having been so easily manipulated, it’s not until he’s well out the door that I realise I couldn’t have put my screen saver on properly. Scott Richardson must have been staring at the homepage of tantra.com.
***
Adam and I are in bed, later that night.
“Yes, babes, yes, please yes,” he murmurs, holding himself tight inside me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper huskily, nibbling his ear lobe, not sounding in the slightest bit contrite, “but no, no, NO!” With the last negative I unceremoniously toss Adam’s naked body off of mine.
“You’ve got to learn how to enjoy surfing the edge better,” I say.
“And you’ve got to learn how not to kill a moment better,” he replies sharply. He hrumphs, settles down on his back, wedges a pillow between us, puts his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling.
We’re on stage three of how to achieve orgasm without ejaculation according to Dr. Josie at tantra.com and it’s not going well. Adam had liked stage one and two. I’d lit a candle, put on soft music and we’d stroked each other for a bit. Then I got out a little bottle of slide and ride massage oil that I’d bought late afternoon. I’d nipped out to the new Ann Summers in Covent Garden shortly after Scott Richardson left. Neeta was back at her desk by my return and was most interested to know the contents of the paper bag I was clutching. I’d kept shtum. Anyway, the slide and ride massage oil had been a hit. It was when we started making love and I mentioned that I wanted it to be tantric that things started to go downhill.
“Why?” he’d said, as our bodies gently rocked back and forth.
“Because that’s what got Kayla pregnant.”
“Well, the bloke obviously didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Neither do you. That’s the point.”
I reached up to meet his mouth with mine, trying to silence him with a kiss, but he was having none of it. He kept the motion going, mechanically slipping in and out, but his mind was elsewhere.
“This is ridiculous. What is it, some kind of inverse logic that if I don’t come inside you, you’ll get pregnant? Y
eah, work that one out.”
At this point he tried to disengage, but I trapped him, wrapping my legs round his lower back like a Venus flytrap.
“Come on Adam, this is nice, don’t stop,” I’d whispered.
“I’ll only carry on if you explain to me how this is going to work. How you’re going to get pregnant if I don’t come.”
“Well, of course you’re going to come, but not INTENTIONALLY,” I explained.
I was making this up as I went along. Dr. Josie had no sexpert advice for my particular set of circumstances. In fact, I doubt tantric sex has EVER been used as a conception aid. But working on the assumption that Vijay didn’t mean to come, because that’s the whole POINT of tantric sex, to orgasm without ejaculating, I can only deduce that a tiny bit must have seeped out by mistake. And that tiniest little bit must have been like the cream that rises, the rich gold top of sperm. And that, crazy though it might sound, is what I wanted from Adam.
Placated by my explanation, though not convinced, Adam went on to lose himself in our slow, sensual, gentle, rhythmic rocking (stage three of how to achieve orgasm without ejaculation), but then he came close to the point of no return and he didn’t want to return. That’s when I threw him off.
“When you’re almost at the point of no return,” I explain to an increasingly pissed off Adam, “you’re meant to become still, relax your pelvic muscles and then start up again.”
“My pelvic muscles are relaxed all right,” he says, flapping his floppy privates in his hand. “Is this what you had in mind, Ali?”
I turn on my side to face him, try to wake him back into action.
“Come on babes, don’t be such a killjoy. This could be fun. It can keep you going for ages,” I goad him. “It’s the difference between being a fast food or a gourmet meal in the sack kind of guy. Which one would you rather be?”
Surely his ego won’t tolerate being the McDonalds of lovemaking? Fast, cheap and doesn’t fill you up for long.
“Oh, alright then.”
He pulls me towards him and we start stroking each others’ bodies again. Slowly, sensually, aided by the slide and ride oil, which makes his skin feel all soft and tingly as it moves against mine, we begin to build the energy towards climax again. As Adam’s right close to the edge I dangle him a carrot. If he manages to surf this wave, and the next, I might, just might, let him have his merry little way.
Chapter 7
Jon the clerk hands me a gift-wrapped parcel, the size of a double CD. I quickly slip it into my bag, a huge brown mottled leather satchel, and make a run for it. Adam’s waiting for me, parked illegally on a double yellow outside the small wooden door that takes pedestrians into the Inns of Temple. The Barristers’ answer to the secret garden. It’s another world entirely. A square kilometre or so maze of cobbled streets, beautiful buildings, quaint courtyards with fountains and beautiful green squares. This is where my chambers, law library and dining hall all are. I love it here. It’s a place of peace and quiet, weirdly juxtaposed slap bang between the clogged up arteries of Fleet Street and the Embankment.
Adam is whisking me away for the weekend to celebrate my thirtieth, which is tomorrow. This is the first birthday Kayla and I will be apart. She’s gone to Canada, to spend a week with our folks. I think the emotional trauma of the abortion has wormed deeper under her skin than she thinks. I’m hoping a good fix of mother love will sort her out. We’re pretty starved of that with Mum and Dad being across the pond. Friends often ask how I feel with my parents living so far away. And you know what, although I’d never admit it, a part of me is angry. I feel abandoned, even though I have Adam. My roots aren’t as firmly planted as I’d like.
This is all sort of a secret. Adam got me to pack a small suitcase last night, but I don’t know WHERE we’re going. So as we drive down the M20, I keep presuming we’re going to turn off, to some nice country B & B, in a little village near Maidstone or somewhere. Then I see the signs for Ashford INTERNATIONAL.
“Ooh, are we going abroad?”
Adam’s all cagey.
“Maybe.”
“Are we going to Paris?”
“No.”
“Calais?”
“No.”
“Boulogne?”
“No.”
“Am I close?”
He’s smug with pride now.
“Have you got my passport?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see.”
At which point he indicates and turns off for the Channel Tunnel Terminal.
***
“Wow, this is BEAUTIFUL!”
Adam’s booked us a junior suite at the five-star, swanky Le Palais Renoir. It’s in Le Touquet, about an hour’s drive from Calais. We could have done it in less, but the sat nav started us off in the wrong direction and even though my map-reading and linguistic capabilities are about as useful as a chocolate fireguard, because he wouldn’t tell me where we were going, I couldn’t try to help. No matter, we’re here and it’s lovely. The official name of the place is Le Touquet Paris-Plage. A hundred odd years ago, it was, Adam told me on our way up in the lift, Paris by Sea, a classy weekend retreat for the French aristocracy.
“What do you want to do?” I ask, opening my suitcase. “Shall we unpack now or later?”
“Whatever you want. I’m easy.”
Adam checks out the TV. He does that whenever we go on holiday. He checks that there IS a TV, that it works and that there’s a fully functional remote control. He won’t settle until all three are sorted. Woe betide our room shouldn’t even HAVE a television. He’s grumpy as hell, because for him part of the pleasure of being away is watching the box, even if it’s in a language he doesn’t understand.
My tummy is grumbling. I look at my watch. It’s nine o’clock, which means in France it’s ten.
“Do you mind if we go get something to eat. I’m starving and if we don’t go soon the restaurants might all close for the night.”
“Fine by me.”
I abandon my suitcase and have a look in the mirror, assessing my reflection. A touch-up of lipstick won’t hurt. I look around for my bag and find it by what’s sure to be my side of the bed, the left side. Blocking the view of all other contents of my bag when I open it, looking for my Mac twig lipstick, is the gift-wrapped package Jon gave me before I left work, which I’ve plain forgotten all about. I take it out and shake it to my ear, but there’s no noise. I undo the gold bow, part the glossy white wrapping paper to reveal a box. I remove the lid and ignore the card sitting under it, more intrigued by what’s inside. I rip open the thin tissue and the booty stares up at me. Something silky and folded, the colour of candyfloss. It can only be from one person.
“Oh, it’s beautiful Adam. Thank you so much.”
Adam’s distracted by the French version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire, but when I hold up what I presume is going to unravel into a scarf and it doesn’t unravel, Adam suddenly becomes interested, diverting his attention from the box to the contents of my right hand.
“Adam. You dark horse. I thought it was a scarf!”
I take the present in both hands, swish it from side to side in front of my hips. It’s a pair of incredibly saucy, sensually silky, slinky, low-cut, pink panties with a delicate black lace trim. They look edible, like a two-toned liquorice allsort.
Adam’s mouth gapes open.
“I didn’t get you those!”
“You didn’t?”
My lower jaw drops.
“You sure?” I ask.
“You think I wouldn’t know?”
Well, who the hell would by me a pair of pink panties then?
“Who’s buying you pink panties, that’s what I want to know?”
Adam looks hot in the face. He beeps at the remote control, turning the telly off. I reach for the box, which I’d cast aside on the dressing table and fish out the small card. The message is short and simple in nice, loopy, arty black-ink handwriting.
Some pink briefs
for my Brief!
Happy 30th!
SR
I’m taken aback, on two counts. First off, what the hell’s a client doing buying me something as inappropriate as lingerie? Moreover, how to explain to Adam?
Adam gets off his backside and snatches the card from my hand.
“Who’s SR?” he demands tersely.
“Scott Richardson.”
“SCOTT RICHARDSON! What’s he doing buying you these?”
He pulls the panties out of my grip.
“Well, I don’t know.”