lunchtime. Only the receptionist and the art director were around. The receptionist was filing her nails, and the art director was hunched over a light-box examining transparencies. Lowering her voice, she told him, ‘Lacy black bra and French knickers.’
‘Take them off for me tonight?’
What am I doing?
‘No, Johnny, look, I shouldn’t have answered that question. I have to talk to you.’
‘Talk is boring. Didn’t you say that yourself last night?’
Nicola was taken aback. ‘Last night? I didn’t see you last night.’
There was a brief silence on the other end. ‘Who is this?’
‘Nicola.’
‘I knew that.’ Johnny seemed to be doing some quick thinking. ‘Just yanking your chain, Nic.’
Anabelle says,
If He Yanks Your Chain, You Tell Him to Flush Himself!
‘I’m serious, Johnny.’
‘Settle, petal.’
‘Don’t patronise me.’
Self-esteem—the Personality Trait for January!
‘Ooh, feisty!’ The truth was, Johnny was aghast at the thought that Nicola had caught him out. Over the last few days he’d been contemplating the possibility that she could turn out to be someone special in his life—boyfriend or no boyfriend. Yet thinking about Nicola that way made Johnny feel vulnerable, like he’d just built a house, the doors and windows of which couldn’t be shut. So he fortified himself in the only way he knew: with booze, coke and other women. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t sincere.
Nicola silently counted to three. ‘Look, Johnny. I don’t think this is getting anywhere. But I left my scarf at your place. Could you mail it back to me at work?’
‘That’s a tad impersonal.’
‘I think I’ve got altogether too personal with you, Johnny.’
‘Nicola.’ Johnny’s voice lowered to almost a whisper. ‘Do you think I’m a monster?’
Nicola was thrown by the question. ‘Uh, no, no, of course not.’
‘It would be OK if you said yes. Sometimes I think I’m a monster.’
Nicola went silent.
‘Why don’t we meet for a drink at seven tomorrow and I’ll give it to you. Aqua Luna?’
Nicola thought for a moment. There was no way she should be meeting Johnny Wright again. ‘Tomorrow’s not good for me,’ she said. ‘How about Thursday?’
Fox was rostered for overnight duty on Thursday.
Following three Stoli martinis with a twist of Johnny B. Wright charm, Nicola gazed into the hypnotic blue glow of the bar and felt like someone caught in a rip in a warm, tropical sea.It was useless to struggle. To struggle would be to drown. If she drifted out far enough, she concluded with a drunken logic, she’d have a better chance of eventually making her way back to shore.
Once could be written off as an accident. Twice was pushing dangerously close to an affair. Nicola hated the thought of lying to Fox. On Friday afternoon at work, while doing some research on the internet, she briefly wondered if it wasn’t time to log on to
www.breakupgirl.com
(‘One of Our Favourite Sites—Turf and Surf!’) but the thought of life without Fox made her feel deeply sad. Besides, she’d read enough Bridget Jones not to have many illusions about life as a singleton and she knew without checking that Johnny would score two out of ten on the Ideal Mate’s Rates test. As Anabelle would say, ‘He’s Wild in the Sack—But Will He Make the Bed?’
That evening, Nicola arrived home to find the table set with candles and roses and a small wrapped parcel next to her wineglass.
‘What’s all this?’ she asked, her jaw dropping.
Fox smiled. Except for Nicola’s column, which he read dutifully, despite the fact it had a tendency to leave him with lingering performance anxiety and a curiosity as to how Nicola knew all she did, Fox didn’t usually read
Lip.
In preparation for this evening, however, he’d studied the entire ‘On Your Knees!’ feature on romantic proposals from a few issues back, ticked off every item on the checklist and then added a few of his own.
He reckoned it
‘Take them off for me tonight?’
What am I doing?
‘No, Johnny, look, I shouldn’t have answered that question. I have to talk to you.’
‘Talk is boring. Didn’t you say that yourself last night?’
Nicola was taken aback. ‘Last night? I didn’t see you last night.’
There was a brief silence on the other end. ‘Who is this?’
‘Nicola.’
‘I knew that.’ Johnny seemed to be doing some quick thinking. ‘Just yanking your chain, Nic.’
Anabelle says,
If He Yanks Your Chain, You Tell Him to Flush Himself!
‘I’m serious, Johnny.’
‘Settle, petal.’
‘Don’t patronise me.’
Self-esteem—the Personality Trait for January!
‘Ooh, feisty!’ The truth was, Johnny was aghast at the thought that Nicola had caught him out. Over the last few days he’d been contemplating the possibility that she could turn out to be someone special in his life—boyfriend or no boyfriend. Yet thinking about Nicola that way made Johnny feel vulnerable, like he’d just built a house, the doors and windows of which couldn’t be shut. So he fortified himself in the only way he knew: with booze, coke and other women. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t sincere.
Nicola silently counted to three. ‘Look, Johnny. I don’t think this is getting anywhere. But I left my scarf at your place. Could you mail it back to me at work?’
‘That’s a tad impersonal.’
‘I think I’ve got altogether too personal with you, Johnny.’
‘Nicola.’ Johnny’s voice lowered to almost a whisper. ‘Do you think I’m a monster?’
Nicola was thrown by the question. ‘Uh, no, no, of course not.’
‘It would be OK if you said yes. Sometimes I think I’m a monster.’
Nicola went silent.
‘Why don’t we meet for a drink at seven tomorrow and I’ll give it to you. Aqua Luna?’
Nicola thought for a moment. There was no way she should be meeting Johnny Wright again. ‘Tomorrow’s not good for me,’ she said. ‘How about Thursday?’
Fox was rostered for overnight duty on Thursday.
Following three Stoli martinis with a twist of Johnny B. Wright charm, Nicola gazed into the hypnotic blue glow of the bar and felt like someone caught in a rip in a warm, tropical sea.It was useless to struggle. To struggle would be to drown. If she drifted out far enough, she concluded with a drunken logic, she’d have a better chance of eventually making her way back to shore.
Once could be written off as an accident. Twice was pushing dangerously close to an affair. Nicola hated the thought of lying to Fox. On Friday afternoon at work, while doing some research on the internet, she briefly wondered if it wasn’t time to log on to
www.breakupgirl.com
(‘One of Our Favourite Sites—Turf and Surf!’) but the thought of life without Fox made her feel deeply sad. Besides, she’d read enough Bridget Jones not to have many illusions about life as a singleton and she knew without checking that Johnny would score two out of ten on the Ideal Mate’s Rates test. As Anabelle would say, ‘He’s Wild in the Sack—But Will He Make the Bed?’
That evening, Nicola arrived home to find the table set with candles and roses and a small wrapped parcel next to her wineglass.
‘What’s all this?’ she asked, her jaw dropping.
Fox smiled. Except for Nicola’s column, which he read dutifully, despite the fact it had a tendency to leave him with lingering performance anxiety and a curiosity as to how Nicola knew all she did, Fox didn’t usually read
Lip.
In preparation for this evening, however, he’d studied the entire ‘On Your Knees!’ feature on romantic proposals from a few issues back, ticked off every item on the checklist and then added a few of his own.
He reckoned it
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