Let's Make This Thing Happen

by PJ Adams

  He stood, slightly awkward, under a verandah draped with flowering clematis. I’ll get the car to pick you up at the station and drop you round at L’Auberge’s back entrance, he’d said. I’ll meet you there. We’ll be discreet.

  Someone like Ray Sandler could never really do discreet. Not like Emily Rivers could: her whole life consisted of doing discreet.

  Up until now, at least.

  She took the initiative, stepped forward, put a hand to his chest and tipped her head up. Even now, a stab of insecurity stole over her: what if he didn’t dip his head forward to meet her kiss? What if she’d got it wrong?

  He dipped his head.

  His lips were firm, the contact brief, but with an impact that lingered. He kisses like chili. An utterly random thought, but it was the first analogy that came to mind: the way his touch lingered, the afterburn.

  He was studying her, smiling.

  Still so many pinch-me moments: she knew by now that this was more than just a groupie thing, or a casual fling, but still – this was Ray Sandler! She could still close her eyes and see those Angry Cans posters on her bedroom wall, from when she was a teenager.

  “Shall we go in?”

  He was still smiling. Smug bastard.

  She peered towards the restaurant in what she hoped was a vaguely dismissive way. “I guess,” she said, and allowed him to take place his hand on the small of her back and guide her inside.

  §

  So where does someone as instantly recognizable as Ray Sandler go to be discreet?

  On the face of it, a Michelin-starred restaurant by the Thames wasn’t the first place Emily would have suggested. But then she hadn’t known that L’Auberge had an entire suite of private dining rooms they didn’t publicize, and an alternative back entrance approached by its own private road that fed into a car park separate from the main one.

  She’d never done this before. All this sneaking around and hiding away from public view seemed pretty cloak and dagger. It forced you into a strange mind-set, a new way of thinking.

  “You know this can’t work, don’t you?” she said, studying him closely across the table. “I’m married. You’re married. You’re just about to relaunch your career. You have an album coming out. The press will be all over you. Social media, too. You’re public property. This can never work.”

  Their private dining room was just off one of the main restaurant areas, its only protection a narrow arch and a quirk in the architecture that cut them off from public view. It gave the sense of still being part of the restaurant, while simultaneously being removed and secluded. Even as they were hidden away, it had the feeling of being normal. If eating in this kind of place could ever be considered normal.

  Their table was by a wide window, with views out over a narrow strip of manicured grass to the river, the scene lit with golden evening sunlight. Swans bobbed on the water, as if anchored in position for their decorative effect. Pleasure boats drifted past, and sometimes children would wave.

  “You like it?” asked Ray, that smile still pulling at his mouth.

  “It’s all so...” She couldn’t find the word. Quaint. English.

  “Rock’n’roll?”

  They laughed.

  “We recorded the album here,” he said. “Well, not here. The studio’s in a converted narrow-boat, just along the tow-path. Twelve days, flat out. A track a day. Now that was rock’n’roll. Then five months and counting on the mix, detail freak that I am.”

  That smile totally transformed his face. She loved it. His comment reminded her of that first night, after the surprise comeback gig at the Roxette. He’d rocked the place, but then afterwards he’d been so insecure about his performance, about the new songs, about how the fans would react. Record an entire album inside two weeks and then spend months obsessing over fine-tuning was exactly that mix.

  “I ate here all the time while we were recording,” he said. “This place was like our works canteen.”

  She laughed. She couldn’t help herself: he said that kind of thing without any sense of irony. Half the time he was joking, but the other half... this was a world he took for granted. She could easily believe that L’Auberge, one of the finest restaurants in the country, was just a handy place for a sandwich on breaks from work for him.

  Time to get back to the point. “This is never going to work.”

  “Are you always like this?”

  He was sitting with his elbows on the table, hands clasped, chin resting on his knuckles. She’d pissed him off. She could tell she had.

  “Like what?” Trying not to sound too defensive.

  “So utterly fucking beautiful. The light coming in that window. The way it catches your hair. Your eyes. Takes my breath away.”

  That was so not what she had expected.

  “Wine?” He nudged the leather-bound wine list towards her. When they’d come in, the maître d’ had said this was only the summary list and that the sommelier was on hand to provide tailored recommendations from the cellar if Emily chose – he had addressed only her; Ray must have heard this all before on all those lunch breaks from work.

  “You choose.”

  He ordered a Pouilly-Fuissé. The bottle came almost immediately, and Emily tasted it. Delicate with a hint of oak – if asked, she’d have said it tasted like a Chardonnay, but the best Chardonnay she’d ever had.

  “The spinach and sorrel soup is stunning,” he said. “They serve it with two soft-poached quail’s eggs floating in it. It’s the best soup you’ll ever taste.”

  ‘Works canteen’ indeed. This had never been simply a convenient place for a sandwich for him. He’d brought her here to wow her.

  It was one of those moments. A moment when she caught herself just looking at him. Not because he was Ray Sandler, her fantasy poster-boy from ten or more years ago. Not because now in his mid-thirties those pin-up good looks had matured and transformed in much the same way his voice had: taken on a tough maturity, a grittiness. Not because he was stinking rich and worldly and was using all that to impress her.

  Because he gave a shit.

  Because he could say things like how utterly fucking beautiful she was and she knew that – no matter what she thought – in his eyes, at least, she was.

  “Was that a ‘yes’ to the soup?” That smile again.

  She nodded. She didn’t trust words.

  He raised a forefinger and a waitress appeared. “The soup, please,” he said. “And I’ll have the tournedos de cabillaud. Thank you.” He directed the smile at the waitress. He treated the staff like real people, something she always admired. Not like Thom, who barely gave waiting staff a glance, let alone a ‘thank you’ or a ‘please’.

  That wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t do that: comparing Ray with Thom. Apart from anything, it really screwed with her mind.

  “We’re married,” she said, remembering the point Ray had deflected her from minutes before.

  He smiled, and said, “If only.”

  “Bastard. That’s not what I meant.”

  And he had the gall to look hurt.

  He reached across the table and put a hand on hers. “Sorry,” he said. Then: “Relax. We’re here. Enjoy. We can do all the worrying later.”

  He raised his glass and the cut crystal scattered shards of sunlight. “Sláinte.”

  He was right. They’d managed to slip away, find some time together. She shouldn’t be spoiling it with worrying about the future or the risks. She raised her glass, said, “Cheers,” and took another sip. The wine really was exquisite. She remembered the look on Ray’s face when they’d shared a bottle of cheap red at the Roxette. That must have been like a coffee lover drinking cheap instant.

  He broke his own advice almost instantly. “So what did you tell him? About tonight?”

  She shrugged. Looked away. Didn’t he know that talking about her husband was never going to be an aphrodisiac?

  “What did you tell her? Róisín.” The wife to whom he was still ‘technica
lly’ married, as he’d put it.

  He didn’t look away, she’d give him that.

  “I haven’t spoken to her in weeks,” he said. “She goes through Mo for anything financial, or business-related. We’ve lived separate lives for years, but she’s still part of the infrastructure, part of Ray Sandler Incorporated. Nothing more than that, though. What about you? You and Thom?”

  “You really know how to woo a girl.” She knew she was showing double standards: she’d been the one to raise their marriages, after all. This was how she was around Ray: her mind would skip from one thing to another, always looking for threads to pull, as if she had to keep knocking herself back down every time her heart soared.

  She’d been looking down at her glass, but now she looked up into those dark eyes. All she had to do was glance away for the spell to be broken and her insecurities to come flooding in. But when she met that look... “Kiss me,” she said.

  She leaned forward, but made him do all the work: made him half-stand, lean forward with his thighs pressing against the table, stretch towards her until he could finally press those firm lips against hers. More lingering this time, a tentative pressing of tongue against her lips, against her teeth. A hand briefly at the back of her head, pulling her hard into his kiss, and then releasing, pulling away, sitting again.

  How did he do that? All the doubts, all the uncertainties, swept away in a moment. Her heart was thumping, her breathing fast and shallow. Her skin must be flushed a deep scarlet.

  She looked away, looked back, and that smile was tugging at his mouth again, his eyes drinking her in.

  “Bastard,” she said softly, and his smile broadened.

  2

  “I told him I was out with a group from work, then stopping over at a friend’s place.”

  Him. For some reason she found it difficult to refer to her husband by his name in front of Ray. Marcia had caught her out recently saying she was ‘still’ married to Thom, and that said it all. She hadn’t made any plans to leave him, but she had clearly already been thinking of her marriage as a finite thing. And yet... here, now, it was easier to think of him as a him, not Thom.

  “Will he call your friend to check?”

  She didn’t like this. It was too calculating. Ray sounded like an old hand at this kind of thing.

  She took another spoonful of her soup. He’d been right: it was sublime, and it went perfectly with the wine – had he steered her towards both deliberately?

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Really. Marcia’s been telling me to dump him for ages.” She’d tried to turn it into a joke, but that didn’t quite work. She put a hand on his. “It’s okay.”

  He nodded. “I just don’t want you hurt,” he said, and looked away¸ out of the window, in a brief show of vulnerability.

  When he looked back Emily pointed to his plate and said, “I don’t know if you’re one of these people who think it’s awful bad manners to share, but really... that looks so good!”

  He laughed, then broke away a section from a perfect round disc of cod, swept it through the thin, frothy sauce and held it across the table for her in what was almost a mirror of their earlier kiss: holding the fork so she had to lean forward, stretch, until he placed the fish gently in her open mouth.

  The cod was firm at first, but then suddenly it just dissolved in a delicate flood of flavors, of fish, butter, parsley, a little dill. If she’d chosen, she would never have gone for something as commonplace as cod in a restaurant like L’Auberge, but this was sensational.

  He was watching her, waiting for a response.

  She was still leaning forward. She smiled, and said, “You were just hoping for a peek down my top, weren’t you?”

  His gaze dropped to her cleavage – unavoidable after a comment like that – and then back to meet her look. “Where have you been?” he said, almost to himself, and then he looked away again, turning his head with a visible effort.

  She looked at his profile, uncertainly. Something had just happened, but she didn’t know what.

  An instant.

  A moment when behavior said more than words ever could.

  A tension. A yearning need. A...

  She didn’t know.

  She looked down into her lap.

  She’d never felt so drawn to another person as she did right then.

  She looked back up, and those dark eyes had fixed on her again. “It’s all moved very quickly, hasn’t it?” she said. It was only a matter of days since that comeback show at the Roxette. Technically, this was their first real date.

  “My world moves at a very different pace,” said Ray. At first that sounded an arrogant thing to say: him telling her It’s all about me. But she knew what he meant. She’d only had glimpses of his world, but that had been enough to see that it was very different to hers, and part of that was that everything was bigger, faster, more urgent.

  “Do you ever wish it hadn’t happened for you?” she asked. “That you could walk down a street without anyone noticing you. Live in an ordinary house on an ordinary street.”

  He raised an eyebrow and let his gaze roam around their private dining room. Then: “Hell, no,” he said, and laughed. “Believe me: you very quickly get used to all this, and it’s really not bad.”

  §

  She shouldn’t have checked her phone. Whatever she found would only make her worry. Silence and she’d wonder what Thom was doing, what he was thinking. Or if there were messages...

  How’s it going? :)

  That was the first one. How could he sound so unlike himself in a mere three words and a smiley? It sounded forced: when was the last time Thom had asked her how her evening was going? When had he last shown the slightest interest? And when had he started using smileys? He was a man who punctuated and spell-checked all his messages. All of it: too much forced effort.

  There was another one sent just over an hour later:

  You’re quiet tonight. Not even anything on Facebook. Having fun? x

  There was a missed call, too. What was he after? Perhaps she should just log on to Facebook and check in from L’Auberge, tag Ray as her companion, and be done with it.

  Damn it. Why was Thom suddenly paying attention? Why was he checking her on Facebook? She didn’t like it. Didn’t like how it put her on edge, how it made her feel seedy when she was being so thoroughly spoilt.

  Just then, Ray came back, waving his own phone apologetically. “Sorry,” he said. “Just Mo. Says a reporter’s been asking about the new material.”

  “That’s good, surely? You’re going to need the publicity when the album comes out, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Me and the press don’t always get on. I don’t like all that. The album’s not ready yet, and when it is Mo will handle the publicity and it will be at our own pace. I just want to focus on the music, getting it right.”

  “Has anyone ever said you can be a real diva sometimes?”

  He laughed. “Most people wouldn’t dare,” he said. “They wouldn’t want to offend me, precious diva that I am.”

  §

  She’d tucked her phone under her leg, so next time it went she felt the buzz.

  “Sorry.” She took the phone out and checked it. Marcia this time:

  What’s with Thom? Just txted n asked what u were up to. Don’t worry. Told him you’re pissed already n ive taken yr phone off u. Is all good. Have fun :-) xxx

  “Just Marcia checking in,” she said to Ray. “Everything’s fine.”

  And she was sure it was.

  She was worrying about nothing.

  Really she was.

  3

  He was right about his world: it wasn’t bad at all.

  Outside now, the sky was turning gold and mayflies were skipping across the water. And inside... Ray’s grilled rabbit in Armagnac sauce was extraordinary, but Emily’s Challandais duck with cherry jus was the hands down winner.

  “Where’s the evening gone?” she asked, cradling her glass in
both hands.

  “You have to treasure times like this, don’t you?” said Ray.

  She’d been thinking almost exactly that. Save up every moment because, realistically, how many evenings like this were they ever going to manage?

  “Where are we staying?” she asked. Somewhere close, she hoped. She didn’t think L’Auberge had rooms.

  “Not far,” he said. “I’ve arranged for us to crash at a friend’s place.”

  She hadn’t quite imagined spending the night on a friend’s sofa, but right now she didn’t really care. She needed to be holding Ray; needed him to be holding her; needed lots of skin on skin contact; needed him.

  “You want to skip dessert?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said simply, and stood.

  They slipped away through the back door. Ray must have paid the bill already, but she hadn’t seen him do so. Perhaps he had an account here, as a regular.

  Outside, he reached for her hand and led her down to a path that ran between the river and a strip of grass and trees that fringed a high stone wall. It felt like they were kids, walking hand in hand like that. Young and free.

  She liked it. Liked being transported back to a simpler age. Liked his touch. Liked the subtle sense of being led somewhere by a man in control.

  Liked it when he stopped, and used that grip on her hand to turn her, pull her against him.

  When his other hand stole up to the back of her head and buried itself in her hair, holding her steady as he dipped his head down and pressed his lips against hers.

  When his tongue drove into her half-parted mouth, forcing it wider.

  The sense of urgency, of need.

  The sense of being so wanted.

  Their tongues pressed, and a velvety fuzz of stubble scraped at her face. He tasted of wine, a complex blend of savory flavors from the food, of him.

  All the time, his eyes were open, locked on hers.

  He released her hand, looped his arm around her waist and drew her hard against him.

  Now, somehow, her back was against that stone wall and the hardness of a thigh was pressing between hers, stretching the fabric of her skirt so tight she was sure it must rip.