It's Got To Be Perfect

by Claire Allan

  I smiled in the direction of the barman, secretly relieved myself that no one was following me in, and I walked over and ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio. Scanning the room, I saw no immediate sign of a walking carpet so took a seat at the bar and tried not to gawp every time the door opened. I composed myself into a semi-comfortable pose, adopting a casually nonchalant look as if sitting at a bar by myself was completely natural to me. Although given that when I’d had my first encounter with the Hairy One I had been doing just that, it was a given he would think it was natural anyway. In fact, he would probably think I was a total lush. And a slapper. And what made it worse was that a lushy slapper seemed to be just the kind of woman he wanted to spend his evenings with. I had a dose of the collywobbles but thankfully copped myself on before I started gulping the wine like a woman on the verge of an alcoholic-induced coma.

  I was just reaching the bottom of my first glass, in record time, when I heard the bell above the door ring – despite the noise – and I looked around and saw him. He was remarkably good-looking. I think in part this was due to the fact that he was fully clothed and the full extent of his hirsutism was hidden. He was wearing a suit, which was deliciously crumpled and his eyes were heavy with either desire or exhaustion – I couldn’t tell from that distance. There were traces of his hairiness. A tuft of hair threatened to rise above his shirt collar and swamp his Adam’s apple. His hands looked a little as if he was wearing some of those freaky werewolf pretend-hands from Halloween. Bizarrely, he was completely clean-shaven – which looked odd. Although I appreciated that if we were going to get intimate in any way, shape or form later, it would be much nicer not to have to deal with his bristle.

  He looked around and I waved – a regal queen-like wave – and he smiled. He had a nice smile, and perfect teeth. They weren’t even remotely hairy. I smiled back as he walked towards me and I muttered a “Hey”. I would have added his name but I was still lamentably ignorant.

  “Annie,” he said. “Lovely to see you.”

  He looked me up and down, mentally undressing me in a way that sent a frisson of excitement shooting down my spine and straight to my special lady place. I blushed at the thought. And blushed harder that as a grown woman I was unable to think of my intimate areas as anything other than “special lady places”. I would be a crap dirty talker.

  “Lovely to see you too,” I said and smiled. I was smiling a lot. I knew I looked like a fecking eejit.

  He glanced towards my wineglass, the dregs of which looked miserable and said: “Pinot Grigio?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “We pinned a bottle back at yours that last night, don’t you remember?”

  I laughed nervously. There was no way I was admitting I didn’t remember what wine we drank, or even that we drank wine at all. It would lead to all sorts of confusion and stress and me admitting I didn’t know his name.

  “Of course,” I added.

  He gestured to the barman who now looked even more confused, at the fact that not only was I not with Pearse, I appeared to be with someone else entirely.

  “A bottle of Pinot Grigio, please?” he smiled. “Just put it on our tab.”

  “Of course,” the barman replied.

  I was relieved when a new glass was put in front of me. Something about this man, and his complete and utter masculinity, made me very, very nervous and very, very in need of a drink.

  “Shall we get a table?” he asked, sipping from his glass.

  I nodded. “That would be nice.”

  “I’m starving,” he said, and something about how he said it made me very aware that he was not just talking about food.

  As we sat and ordered a selection of tapas, I was surprised at how easily we made conversation. I mean I knew relatively nothing about this man except that he smoked and was, from what I could remember, an exceptionally good shag. I bluffed it enough through general chatter to find out that he worked in banking and was relatively well off. He didn’t have a big house on the hill like Pearse – but he had a nice house by the sea with nicely proportioned rooms and, I imagined, a bathroom door within easy reach of the toilet in case of people-breaking-in emergencies.

  I chatted about my job – the deadlines, the Fake Smoke Breaks and Bob. Some of it he apparently knew already from our first encounter but he didn’t seem to mind listening again.

  My salvation came over the king prawns when an equally handsome man in an equally crumpled suit walked over and said hello.

  “Anton!” he said cheerily, reaching out for a manly handshake.

  I had to sit on my hands to stop myself from jumping up and declaring: “Anton! Thank feck for that!”

  Anton smiled back and the men chatted briefly about something or other. I wasn’t listening. I was too busy internal-happy-dancing at finally knowing his name. As the mystery man walked away, I felt at last in my comfort zone.

  “So, Anton,” I said breezily, “shall we order dessert after this?”

  “I thought we’d been through this,” he said with a sly smile.

  “Through what?” I said, alarm bells ringing. What had we been through? He hated desserts? He was on a low-carb diet? He had diabetes? Desserts were against his religion? He thought I was grossly overweight? He thought women shouldn’t take the initiative in restaurants? The possibilities were endless . . .

  “You agreed to call me Ant – you know, as in Ant & Dec.”

  “But I like Anton!” I said, missing hardly a beat and managing, I hoped, to conceal both my relief about the dessert issue and the fact that my memory of said conversation was just a black hole in space.

  “I thought we agreed ‘Anton’ sounds a bit 1970s’ male hairdresser?” he said.

  “Oh, I don’t know. My friend Fionn has a mad fancy for that Anton Du Beke character from Strictly Come Dancing and he’s not gay,” I countered.

  “No, well, I know that. But he’s a dancer. Not exactly a man’s man. I prefer to present a more manly persona to the public.”

  With body-hair like that he didn’t have to worry on that score.

  He laughed. “My parents thought they were being trés chic when they named me Anton – cooler than Anthony but still getting the hint of a saint’s name in.”

  “Well, both are fine with me,” I said, secretly commenting that anything was preferable to Chewbacca or “yer man” or, as Fionn had suggested earlier that day, “Plunkett”. (She had taken a call from a similarly oddly named customer and laughed herself silly that it could be my hairy-backed lover.)

  “And where did Annie come from?” he asked. “It’s not that common a name these days.”

  “My parents are John Denver fans,” I replied. “I’m named after the song.”

  “Oh, what song’s that?” he asked, surprising me by not bursting into a verse of the country classic – “You fill up my senses . . .” – the usual response to my revealing my name.

  I toyed with the idea of answering “Grandma’s Feather Bed” but I guessed if he didn’t know a classic like “Annie’s Song” he was unlikely to be completely au fait with Mr Denver’s quirkier back catalogue.

  Instead I answered straight and gave him a blast of the first line myself. He nodded – somewhere between faint recognition and fear that he was sitting in a very public place with a lady liable to burst into song at any moment. I started to wonder at that moment if this was all going to go wrong. At least Pearse had known “Annie’s Song”. He had even serenaded me with it once in a closed Manna after hours, back in the very early days of our relationship of course. It was at the time when I still thought he had a spark and excitement about him relating to anything other than food produce and cooking methods.

  Still, I tried to push my doubts about Chewie – sorry – Ant to the back of my head and we continued with our meal. There was something undeniably sexy about him and I tried to focus on that – and the fact I did not want the effort of shaving my legs to go to waste.

  As it happened, with a glass
more of wine, we were chattering like old friends. Old friends, admittedly, who had feck all in common. By after-dinner coffee (which was of course ignored in favour of after-dinner wine) I was feeling hazy and starting to wonder if tonight would go the same way as the last time we had been together. I, at least, despite four glasses of finest Pinot Grigio, felt fully in control of my faculties which made the whole “Will I or won’t I invite him back to my place?” dilemma a little more difficult. I didn’t want to come across as a tart – although in fairness I knew there was a strong possibility I had achieved that goal last time – but I also didn’t want Anton Dunne (as it turned out his full name was) to walk away. I wondered if that sounded desperate – it did a little in my head. But, even though he didn’t have a baldy notion who John Denver was, I had to cling to the hope that he was a nice sexy guy and that perhaps there was a reason fate had thrown us together just over a week ago. And fate was a fecker – making me think my Life Plan was all on track and then throwing a hairy spanner in the works. The spanner had to have his purpose, though, and I hoped that would mean that with little awkwardness he would come back to my flat that evening. And that when I woke in the morning there would no hint of vague disgust at what, or who, I had done.

  I looked at him, his dark, round eyes staring at me. I looked at his werewolf hands – and something about the carpet of hair creeping out from under his shirt cuffs made me feel a little funny inside.

  “So,” I said and he smiled, a deeply sexy smile.

  “So,” he replied and I smiled, not overly sure mine was sexy and not just a little demented but he didn’t run screaming so I have to assume it was the former.

  He reached out and took my hand, caressing it slowly, stroking my palm and then turning my hand over to gently caress my fingers. I looked at him again and he wasn’t smiling – he was in fact looking as if he could pounce over the table at any moment and ravish me right then and there in the restaurant.

  “Let’s go back to mine,” I said, in a voice a little higher than a whisper and he nodded.

  “I’ll just pay the bill,” he muttered, leaving me sitting there in a state of high anticipation at what was about to happen. I went to the ladies’ for a quick reapplication of lippy and a nice spritz of perfume and I checked my mobile phone.

  “Have fun. Be good. And be careful,” Fionn had texted and I smiled. I had no plans to be good at all – just very, very bad.

  9

  I got two hours sleep that night. And yet when I woke up I didn’t feel overly exhausted – sore, yes – with a touch of that thigh-ache that Fionn had spoken about after her drunken night with Alex.

  Anton Dunne was lying beside me, snoring gently. The room was thick with a haze of sweat and cigarette smoke. (Yes, I had let him smoke there again, despite my promises that I wouldn’t – but, you know, I felt he deserved it after his sterling performance . . .)

  I had a stupid smile on my face. I felt, for the first time in a long time, satisfied. Part of me fought the urge to phone Pearse up, just to let him know that I hadn’t felt the need to fake anything with my new partner and to tell him if he treated his women with half the care and attention he used when stuffing a mushroom he might not have found himself single again.

  Yes, I felt smug. I felt the smugness of a woman who had just had damn fine sex. And this time I could remember it. I could remember almost every touch, every kiss, every caress and every bite. (Oh yes, there was some nibbling going on . . . it was very pleasant.) I didn’t feel even vaguely disgusted. I just ignored the hairy-back issue and instead luxuriated in running my hands through his chest hair. With my slut-red fingernails I felt very 1970s’ porn star. It was so unlike me to be so free with my sexual favours that I felt positively wanton. Maybe this is what Madonna had been harping on about every time she told us women to express ourselves. Because, believe me, I felt empowered.

  I climbed out of bed, leaving him sleeping, and stood under the shower letting the hot jets wash over me. I felt happy as a pig in shite, I realised. I’d had three amazingly wonderful orgasms the night before. I didn’t feel even remotely hung-over and, to top it all, I had plans to go shoe-shopping with Fionn. What more could a girl ask for?

  If there were any nagging doubts in my head – any teeny tiny voices telling me that this was not my usual behaviour and that I shouldn’t play with fire for fear of getting burned, I hushed them with a rousing chorus of “Annie’s Song”. Oh yes, my senses were well and truly filled.

  When I was dressed I walked into the bedroom and opened the windows to the bright spring morning. Ant didn’t stir. Seemed nothing much stirred him. Glancing at my watch, I realised I had to be out in half an hour and I needed to make sure he was gone. Even though he had shared my bed twice, I didn’t really know him and I certainly could not leave him unattended in my flat. I might not have had much in the line of luxury goods, but what little I did have I wanted to keep, and I certainly didn’t want him hoking through my knicker-drawer.

  “Morning, sunshine,” I said breezily, watching the soft air from outside ruffle his back hair.

  He grunted. It wasn’t vaguely sexy.

  “Ant, good morning,” I said a little louder. “Rise and shine!”

  He lay for a second, then turned with a smile on his face – and with one quick glance downward I could see that he was indeed rising and shining.

  I was twenty minutes late for meeting Fionn and my hair was a little more ruffled than I had intended. I had dropped Ant off in the centre of town with the promise that we would meet again, and that he would call. I had parked my car and hotfooted it to Debenhams’ Café where Fionn was sitting, thankfully with a look of amusement on her face.

  “So I’ve no need to ask how your night went then,” she said with a smile.

  “No,” I answered, straightening my hair, “I don’t suppose you do.”

  “And were you good and/or careful?” she asked with her best step-mammy-in-training voice.

  “I was, he tells me, very good,” I said with a wink. “But yes, Mammy, I was also very careful.”

  Fionn laughed but then she looked at me, that mammy-look square back on her face. “I just want you to be okay. I know you’re going through big changes but I want you to be sensible with it. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I’ll be sensible,” I promised because I really didn’t want to get hurt either.

  I ordered a coffee and we sat back, sipping in silence for a few minutes, and then I realised that I didn’t want this day to be about me and my liaisons. I wanted it to be about Fionn and her wedding and finding the most gorgeous shoes in the entire world to go with her stunning dress.

  “Right, lady, should we get shopping then?”

  “Just as soon as I’ve finished this coffee,” she said. “I’ve seen some lovely shoes downstairs and fitted them on and they’re perfect – but they are a bit, you know, different and I’d value your opinion.”

  “Hey, I’m all about the opinion,” I said with a smile, which reminded me of something. “So, you know, when you’re ready to tell me the latest instalment in the Rebecca dilemma, I’m all ears and ready to jump in with suitably bitchy and nasty comments where appropriate.”

  Fionn smiled, but it was a small smile and I could tell that the Rebecca issue was becoming less and less of a laughing matter. “I’ll tell you later,” she said. “And I might just take you up on that offer of plotting some dastardly plan to sort her out.”

  “Oh dear. Not going well then?” I offered.

  “That, my dear, would be an understatement. But I refuse to get bogged down in this just now when there are very, very ridiculously pretty shoes in this very building with my name quite possibly all over them. Drink up your coffee and let’s get moving!”

  It was only the closest of friends who could have detected that she was gripping her own coffee cup a little too tightly and that her eyes were a little tired – and I was pretty sure it wasn’t from an all-night bonking session.
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br />   “Right then,” I said, setting my cup back on the table. “Lead the way to Shoe Paradise!”

  Linking arms we headed to the shoe concessions and I darted in the direction of the gorgeous ivory satin-covered peep-toe shoes, embellished with crystals and with heels that would cripple even the hardiest of stiletto-wearing fashionistas.

  “Oh no,” Fionn said with a cheeky grin. “I have something altogether more fabulous in mind.”

  Intrigued, I followed her across the shop floor to a stand where – perched on top of the display – were a pair of bright pink satin-covered heels – so deliciously high and feminine I almost fainted. With delicate ankle straps, a small diamante buckle and the pointiest toes in Christendom, they actually made me gasp with delight.

  “What do you think?”

  “They are very, very beautiful but very, very pink,” I said, resisting the urge to reach out and stroke them.

  “No one will see them under my dress,” she said “But I would know they were there and I would feel fantastic in them.”

  “Well then, my dear, you simply have to get them. You must feel fabulous.”

  “You are right, and I will,” she said with a grin before lifting them and practically dancing to the sales counter to ask for a pair, boxed, in her size and ready to take home.

  “I just feel like doing something a little different,” she said as she handed over her credit card. “I’m always predictable and doing what people expect – but people won’t expect me to wear bright pink shoes – not even Alex.”

  Again I noted the forced smile and I gave her hand a wee rub.