Sweet Temptation

by Lucy Diamond

  I imagined Charlie and me gazing into each other’s eyes, me in a teeny bikini with a flat brown belly, him in those Hawaiian trunks he’d bought last summer in Bournemouth. It was tempting, definitely, especially the thought of getting some sunshine in December. But my mum would never forgive me if she missed my wedding day, so we’d end up having a second ‘do’ here in Birmingham, effectively a double wedding – which would mean double the cost …

  I jumped as I heard the front door open, and in came Charlie. He was smiling, thank goodness. He’d been so moody all week, I’d felt quite apprehensive around him. Nervous, even. But tonight he was smiling. That was a good sign. ‘All right, babe,’ he said, dumping his jacket on the arm of the sofa. Then he noticed I was sitting there in my robe. ‘Oh aye, what’s up with you, then?’

  I smiled and crossed the room to kiss him. ‘Hiya,’ I said, putting my arms around him. ‘Just thought I’d surprise you,’ I told him flirtily.

  He tried to pull open my robe but I stepped back out of reach. ‘And I’ve been doing some wedding research,’ I went on. ‘You know, we really should set a date soon. December’s not that far off now, and we need to let people know.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I was thinking … How about the Saturday before Christmas? We might even get snow! Can you imagine how romantic that would be? And we could have loads of candles, holly and ivy, mistletoe …’

  ‘Blimey,’ he said, sounding taken aback. He even raised his eyes from my cleavage to my face to check I was serious. ‘Well, I’ll have to check City’s fixtures – there might be a big match on …’

  ‘Charlie!’ I scolded, putting my hands on my hips. He was saying it in a jokey voice, but I knew he meant it. ‘That’s not very romantic!’ Then I sighed, because I’d known damn well he would say that but had held out a tiny hope that he wouldn’t. ‘I’ve already checked. You’ve got Everton away.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ he said. Then he shrugged and stepped forward, sliding a hand into my robe. ‘Mmm, saucy,’ he said, stroking the silky bra I had on. ‘This is nice.’

  I stopped his hand with mine. ‘So what do you think? The Saturday before Christmas?’

  He looked at my hand on his, then up at my face. His pupils were dilated and he had that slightly wild look about him that he got when he was feeling horny. He tweaked my nipple teasingly. ‘Go on, then, yeah. The Saturday before Christmas it is. Now come here, you.’

  It was only then that I realized I’d been holding my breath the whole time, waiting for his response. ‘Oh, Charlie!’ I cried, flinging my arms around him. ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you!’

  He seized the chance to rip my robe open and seconds later we were on the floor and he was inside me, almost tearing my bra in his haste to pull my breasts out of it. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the blood thump through my body, his words ringing around my head.

  Go on, then, yeah. The Saturday before Christmas it is.

  We’d set a date. We’d actually set a date. In less than five months I was going to be married. ‘I’m going to make you so happy,’ I panted, as he thrust away at me. ‘I’m going to be the perfect wife for you, Charlie.’

  He grabbed my hair and collapsed on top of me. I stared up at the living room ceiling with a massive smile, feeling like the luckiest woman alive. Getting married just before Christmas … oh, I was so excited. Now I just needed to get the invitations out quick before he changed his mind again.

  Chapter Ten

  Honey Honey

  Lauren

  It seemed like an age until the speed-dating night rolled around, so I threw myself into activity to take my mind off daydreaming about Joe the whole time. Over the weekend I went clothes shopping, intent on finding the killer outfit. All the summer fashion ranges looked hideous on me, though. Give me winter any day, I thought, where you could pile on the layers and not worry about showing any wobbly bits. I finally found a dark blue wrap-dress in Monsoon which managed to be flattering and foxy at the same time (even more so when I put my Magic Knickers on) and some strappy heels to match. I had developed a bit of a thing for shoes over the last year … I think it came from being denied so many nice clothes due to big-bird syndrome. With shoes, even fatties got a good choice.

  After all the schlepping around I did that weekend, and with the thought of the cIingy wrap-dress keeping my calories in check, by the time it was FatBusters on Monday I had actually lost three pounds.

  ‘That’s wonderful, Lauren,’ Alison told me as I stood there on the scales. ‘Hey – we’ve got a three-pounder here!’ she called to the rest of the group.

  They all applauded as if she’d just announced I’d been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, and I blushed like the village idiot. ‘Lauren, that’s fantastic!’ Jess said, rushing up to me with shining eyes. ‘You’re doing great!’

  It was silly, wasn’t it, to get excited about three measly little pounds. It wasn’t as if I’d done anything particularly earth-shattering, let’s face it – all that had happened was that my body weighed a fraction less than it had done the week before. Not a big deal in global terms, so why did these people care? They seemed happier about it than I was, to be frank. Still, trivial as it may have been … it was nice. The congratulations gave me rather a glow. Yes, Lauren, you will go to the ball. And yes, Lauren, the handsome Prince Joe will be captivated by you.

  I was starting to think that optimism had a lot going for it.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!’ I cried.

  It was just after seven o’clock the following Friday and I was fired up with adrenaline. We’d decorated the office function room with fairy lights and red curly bunting, and there was tinkly piano music in the background (I’d decided against Barry White in the end – too cheesy and too obvious). I’d set up two long lines of tables for two, and there was a vast table full of wine and juice at the back, which Patrick’s twenty-year-old art-student sister had been roped in to serve. Patrick himself was making his way through the room, a tray of canapés in each hand. And yes, before you ask, there he was – Sexy Joe Smith, in a white shirt and jeans, thumbs tucked into his pockets. Mrrrrow.

  I was on a small platform at the front, teetering on giant heels, and beamed down at the throng in front of me. Some I’d met previously, like Slaphead Bob, our least successful Love Heart (he’d been with us for two years now and had had over thirty first dates without a single request for a second), and I was trying to guess who the others were from their photos. (Was that Emily Perks with the big bad perm? I hoped she would luck in with a big bad hairdresser who’d sort out that tragic ’do.)

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you all here tonight,’ I said into my microphone. ‘Welcome to the legendary Love Hearts speed-dating evening! I hope you’re all going to have a lot of fun … and maybe even find a little romance tonight.’ I smiled around the room, making lots of eye contact with everyone except Sexy Joe himself. For some reason, every time my gaze even approached him I lost my bottle and had to turn my head away. I knew that if I looked at him, and he looked back, I’d turn to jelly, and I really didn’t want to lose control – not yet, anyway.

  Now, let it not be said that I’m devious or calculating. No, no, no, no, no. Clever – yes. A little bit sneaky – oh, go on, then. The thing was, it was all very well, hosting the speed-dating event, except for the fact that I, as hostess, wouldn’t actually get to banter with and make eyes at a stream of twenty blokes, would I? As hostess, my role would be more pastoral – making sure everyone had a drink, that everyone was relaxed and enjoying themselves. Well, forget that. That wasn’t anywhere near exciting enough for me. Nor would it get me a crack of the whip with Joe. Which was why the next thing I said was this:

  ‘We’re a few ladies short tonight, so I’ll be taking part too – just to give you guys some practice. I’ll also be able to feed back to you on your flirting techniques – so don’t feel shy about trying out your best lines on me, okay?’

  I did a pretend pout and there was a ripple of laughter,
but I saw a couple of sour looks on the faces of the women. Get over it, girls, I thought. I’m as desperate as you lot are. Besides, I’m running this show, so I get first dibs on the men, all right?

  ‘For those of you who’ve never tried speed-dating before, this is how it works. The gentlemen will sit on the left side of the tables while the ladies sit at the right. You get three minutes to talk to the person on your table, and then my glamorous assistant Patrick –’ he did a curtsey when I indicated him – ‘will ring a bell, like this.’

  Ding-ding. Laughter.

  ‘That means it’s time for the ladies to move along one table, while the gentlemen remain seated. You each have a number, a pad of paper and a pen, so that you can make notes about your fellow daters. For example, if you’d like to see them again, make sure you write down their number and give that to me at the end. If we get a match – in other words, if the dater you like likes you too – then we’ll put you in touch to arrange a second date.’ I clapped my hands. ‘Good luck, everybody. Let’s begin!’

  It was like grownup musical chairs as everyone rushed to sit down somewhere. I positioned myself three seats down from Joe’s table, not wanting to make it too obvious why I was putting myself through this ordeal. Usually, I let the ladies sit down for the evening and got the guys to move around, but I’d decided I couldn’t count on him to sit near me, so I had to do it this way round. Obviously, once I’d had my three minutes with him, I would retire gracefully from the ordeal. I had no intention of letting guys practise their chat-up lines on me for the whole evening, especially not now I’d seen the motley bunch here tonight.

  I glanced along to see who was sitting at Joe’s table. A rather attractive redhead with pale, porcelain-like skin. Damn.

  Ding-ding. ‘Off we go!’ I called. I turned back to the guy at my table who looked vaguely familiar. ‘So, tell me about yourself,’ I said.

  ‘Hi, I’m Andrew,’ he said. He had a friendly smile – good teeth – but rather bloodshot blue eyes. Drink problem? I wondered.

  ‘Um … what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’ he asked.

  God help me. ‘Ha ha,’ I replied mirthlessly. ‘Very original. What do you do for a living then, Andrew?’

  He looked discomfited by the question. ‘Well, you should know – I only sent you my profile the other week,’ he said testily.

  Right. Like I was supposed to commit every bloody fact to memory. ‘We do have over three hundred members on file right now,’ I told him sweetly. ‘Much as I’d love to, I’m afraid I don’t memorize the personal details of every single client.’ Then I narrowed my eyes, suddenly remembering: this was Andrew Preston, the prat on a quest for the perfect female rear end. ‘Actually … Yes. Weren’t you the one who specified that you wanted ladies with … what was it? A “sexy bum”?’

  He had the decency to blush, at least. Then he laughed in a Ha-I’m-so-bloody-macho sort of a way. ‘That sounds about right,’ he said. Woof woof! He gave me a long look. ‘Oh dear. You seem to have a problem with that. You’ve gone all red.’

  ‘I do have a problem with women being objectified like a slab of meat, yes,’ I said. ‘And I find it annoying when—’ I broke off hurriedly. I could feel myself straying into rant mode, and this was neither the time nor the place.

  His foot was pressing against mine under the table. ‘Quite feisty, aren’t you, boss lady?’ he said softly. ‘I take it your motto isn’t “The client is king”, then?’

  I gritted my teeth, dying to get stuck into a full-blown argument and pull him apart (the client is a prick, in your case, love, was on the tip of my tongue), but I just about clung on to my professional image. ‘So – time for some feedback,’ I said briskly, withdrawing my foot from his so swiftly I saw his body jerk. ‘You’re rather provocative in your approach, Andrew. Combative, even. Women don’t like that. Perhaps you should try to—’

  ‘Bloody hell, you sound like my ex-wife,’ he moaned, leaning back in his chair and gazing around the room. ‘I thought this was meant to be fun.’

  Ding-ding. Patrick on the bell – and thank goodness for that. The sooner I got away from this jerk, the better. ‘Good luck,’ I told him curtly and moved to the next table without even waiting for a reply. I flicked a glance Joe-wards to see him smiling a twinkly and somewhat lingering goodbye at the redhead. Maybe he was smiling in relief at getting rid of her. Maybe she had chronic halitosis and a flatulence problem. I hoped so.

  A tall blonde woman with a beaky nose and an earnest set to her mouth sat opposite him now. ‘Hi, I’m Marianne,’ I heard her say in a drippy sort of voice.

  I realized I was staring and turned my attention to the guy opposite me. ‘Hi,’ I said, and held out a hand. ‘Lauren. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Hi, Lauren,’ he said. He had a limp, slightly clammy handshake. ‘David Holway. You’re looking very lovely this evening.’

  I gaped. David Holway? My perfect LoveMatch? The computer was definitely taking the piss out of me with this one. ‘Thank you, David,’ I said after a moment. ‘Starting with a compliment is an excellent idea. Unfortunately, I heard you say exactly the same thing to the girl who was sitting here before me, which slightly reduces the impact.’

  He blushed. ‘Sorry. But you do look lovely! And the girl before you did too.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say? I’m a red-blooded man, that’s all.’

  He didn’t look much like a red-blooded man to me. He looked like someone with a very boring office job and a very boring life who had white watery milk running through his veins, not thick, hot blood. From the nervous wobble of his mouth, I got the feeling he might burst into tears if I said as much, though. ‘So, have you tried speed-dating before, David?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘First time for me. I haven’t been out much since the wife walked out. It’s taking me a while to pick up the pieces, you know.’

  Oh, Christ. Shoot me now. ‘Right. Maybe not a good idea to talk about ex-partners at this sort of evening, David,’ I tried – but there was no stopping his mournful confessional.

  ‘She’s got another fella, you see. She was cheating on me for six months before I found out. I hate her. In fact I said to her, if I ever see her and him together, I’ll lose the plot. I mean it.’

  He was clenching his weedy fists and turning puce. Oh dear. This was turning out to be a long three minutes.

  ‘David,’ I said. ‘What do you hope for, in the future? I mean, in another partner?’

  He stared at me unseeingly. ‘Honesty,’ he said. ‘And loyalty.’ He hung his head. ‘And someone just to be with, you know. Companionship. A friend.’

  To be fair, I knew exactly how he felt, but his neediness was starting to make my skin crawl. ‘Well, I hope you do find all those things in one person,’ I said to him kindly. ‘And if you can try your hardest to be positive and upbeat this evening, you never know, you might be in with a shout.’

  His gaze met mine. Hope flickered in his eyes. ‘You mean … ?’ He was reaching a hand out towards mine. Oh shit. He didn’t think I meant with me, did he?

  I snatched my fingers away, pretending to brush a crumb off my dress. ‘I mean, there are lots of lovely ladies here tonight,’ I told him. ‘Best of British to you.’

  Ding-ding. Round three. Hurrah! A chance to get up close and personal with Sexy Joe at long last. I stood up to let the next woman slip into my seat and took a second to compose myself before walking to his table. ‘You’re looking very lovely this evening,’ I heard Jilted David say to my successor and fought the urge to giggle.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, sitting down opposite Joe. I was blushing furiously – thank God I had half the Estée Lauder counter on my face to hide behind.

  He kissed me on the cheek. He smelled scrumptiously of soap, sharp citrusy aftershave and a clean shirt. Mmmm. He’d made an effort. For me? I wondered. I bloody hoped so. Two seconds in and I was already thinking of ripping his clothes off, running my hands down his torso, kiss
ing him all over …

  ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘I’m having a great time tonight – thanks for inviting me.’

  Damn it. A great time? I’d been counting on the fact that he’d be bored rigid until I parked my butt in front of him and dazzled him. I’d been hoping that the redhead was a stinker and that Marianne was a wet lettuce. ‘That’s wonderful news,’ I lied. ‘I’m so glad you could make it. So … how are things?’

  He was smiling. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘I’m really busy with work, but I love it. How about you?’

  I gave him my best smile and prayed there wasn’t anything stuck in my teeth. ‘Sounds familiar,’ I purred. ‘But you know what they say … all work and no play, Joe … I’m glad to see you out here playing tonight.’

  He winked. ‘Oh, I’m a player, all right,’ he said. Phwooaarr, he had a voice so sexy it was practically rubbing itself against my leg.

  ‘You seem a pretty confident kind of guy,’ I went on, quickly trying to dispel the thought of any part of him rubbing against me. ‘How are you finding the ladies so far? Have you met anyone you’re interested in?’

  Yes, all right, so it wasn’t the most subtle approach, but the clock was ticking and, hell, you can’t go for the slow-burn when you’ve only got three minutes. The subtext was as clear as anything: Me, me, choose me! But for some reason – was he a bit simple? – he wasn’t picking up on my telepathy. Nor did he seem to have tuned in to my smouldering, come-to-bed-hot-stuff body language. Balls.

  ‘Well, actually …’ he said, lowering his voice and leaning nearer to me.

  I leaned nearer too, feeling conspiratorial and excited at our closeness. My heart was jumping beneath my sexy wrap-dress, and a prickle of goosebumps spread over my bare arms. My knickers were practically throbbing with longing for him. ‘Yes?’ I asked seductively.