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 30 th !
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.”
“Has he been coming on to you?”
“No.”
A tiny thumb stroke is hardly a come-on.
“Have you been coming on to him?”
“NO!”
“How did he even know it was your birthday?”
I explain about Scott seeing Adam’s birthday card and tantra.com and that he must have put two and two together to come up with an original gift idea that’s probably no big deal to somebody who works in television, as Adam should know.
“So now can we go eat?” I finish.
“Sure, let’s go,” he says.
He agrees, but before we do, he confiscates my present and pops it in the top drawer of his bedside table.
***
Adam and I met in Brighton one weekend, shortly after I’d started university. I was on the pier, which has its very own two-bit radio station, piping through loudspeakers dotted along its length. The DJ was asking for requests. I don’t know what it was, the sound of his voice, witty and laid back,
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 30 th !
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.”
“Has he been coming on to you?”
“No.”
A tiny thumb stroke is hardly a come-on.
“Have you been coming on to him?”
“NO!”
“How did he even know it was your birthday?”
I explain about Scott seeing Adam’s birthday card and tantra.com and that he must have put two and two together to come up with an original gift idea that’s probably no big deal to somebody who works in television, as Adam should know.
“So now can we go eat?” I finish.
“Sure, let’s go,” he says.
He agrees, but before we do, he confiscates my present and pops it in the top drawer of his bedside table.
***
Adam and I met in Brighton one weekend, shortly after I’d started university. I was on the pier, which has its very own two-bit radio station, piping through loudspeakers dotted along its length. The DJ was asking for requests. I don’t know what it was, the sound of his voice, witty and laid back,
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