OK—poured it into the tea, and returned to her room trying desperately to get her act together.
It had been great sex, though.
Even through her hangover, she felt a warm, sensual rush as she recalled it. Her fingers still smelled of him, them.
Fuck!
Why was it so … so good with some people? It wasn’t that it wasn’t good with others—Chloë tended to enjoy sex with most of the men she slept with, especially now that she was older and more confident about saying what she liked—but there were a few with whom it was … well … better. More … fun? Yes. Passionate? Yes. Daring? Yes, that too. Or was it that she’d believed he was safe—because he was married—she was less guarded, more at ease? She remembered his touch. Stroking her right from her feet, slowly up her thighs, over her hips, in at the waist, up to her breasts, circling there, teasing—oops, she was getting turned on all over again—stroking her neck, then her hair … his mouth, kissing …
That was why I did it, she recalled. The kissing was the point of no return. Then there was the tequila, of course. And before that, the things he’d said about Beth, his ex. He seemed to really like me, fancy me. And, damn it, I really liked him … It was a lovely—no, unforgettable night. We got on so well—he was so open and easy to talk to. So interesting, so interested in me, so charming, so sexy …
Better have a shower. Go to work. I have to go to work, she told herself. Shit! Will I see him? Will everyone be able to tell?
Round and round, the thoughts went. Bong, bong, went her head. It was a weird combination—the bus to work (normal), the hangover (not unheard-of), the lack of sleep on a weekday (unusual but something she had done before), the I-went-out-for-dinner-with-the-publisher-of-UK-Magazines-who’s-married-with-a-child-to-discuss-my-idea-which-he-likes-and-we-slept-together-and-it-was-great (a totally new scenario). It was all so recent, so complicated, so awful, so fantastic. It was beyond her comprehension.
“Bloody hell!” said Patsy, as Chloë plonked her bag on her desk. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing.”
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“Bacon sarnie?”
Chloë thought for a moment. “Good idea.” She fumbled for her purse.
“It’s on me,” said Patsy, and she bounced out of the office appearing sickeningly healthy. A little later she returned with a white paper bag, grease seeping through already.
“You’re a doll,” said Chloë, peering into the bag. It looked foul. Would it help? She took a bite. Delicious. Brown sauce squidged onto the article she was trying to read.
“So,” chivvied Patsy. “Tell all.”
Ten minutes had given Chloë time to fabricate a tale. “Rob. His birthday. You know. His crowd—they love to party. We hit Soho.”
“You’re such a fag hag!” laughed Patsy. “And I thought you’d had sex.”
“Ha!” feigned Chloë. “Not bloody likely. Well…” She rummaged in her in-tray for authenticity. “What’s on today?”
She got through the day with the help of several cans of Red Bull and Patsy, who fended off callers with a heroism that would have made Robert the Bruce proud. At lunchtime they resorted to their favorite hangover cure—heading to the Top Shop superstore on Oxford Street, and Chloë, who didn’t really have the energy to remove her clothes again, waited patiently outside the changing room while Patsy tried on endless outfits.
There was one call that afternoon, however, Chloë did take—it came through internally on her direct line so she didn’t have much choice.
“Chloë?” It was a woman’s voice that Chloë didn’t immediately recognize.
“Yes?”
“It’s Vanessa Davenport here. Is now a good time?”
“Er, um, ish.” Chloë glanced over at Patsy, who was busy typing but whose gossip radar was legendary.
“I’ve just had a word with James Slater.”
Chloë’s heart lurched.
“He showed me your proposal
It had been great sex, though.
Even through her hangover, she felt a warm, sensual rush as she recalled it. Her fingers still smelled of him, them.
Fuck!
Why was it so … so good with some people? It wasn’t that it wasn’t good with others—Chloë tended to enjoy sex with most of the men she slept with, especially now that she was older and more confident about saying what she liked—but there were a few with whom it was … well … better. More … fun? Yes. Passionate? Yes. Daring? Yes, that too. Or was it that she’d believed he was safe—because he was married—she was less guarded, more at ease? She remembered his touch. Stroking her right from her feet, slowly up her thighs, over her hips, in at the waist, up to her breasts, circling there, teasing—oops, she was getting turned on all over again—stroking her neck, then her hair … his mouth, kissing …
That was why I did it, she recalled. The kissing was the point of no return. Then there was the tequila, of course. And before that, the things he’d said about Beth, his ex. He seemed to really like me, fancy me. And, damn it, I really liked him … It was a lovely—no, unforgettable night. We got on so well—he was so open and easy to talk to. So interesting, so interested in me, so charming, so sexy …
Better have a shower. Go to work. I have to go to work, she told herself. Shit! Will I see him? Will everyone be able to tell?
Round and round, the thoughts went. Bong, bong, went her head. It was a weird combination—the bus to work (normal), the hangover (not unheard-of), the lack of sleep on a weekday (unusual but something she had done before), the I-went-out-for-dinner-with-the-publisher-of-UK-Magazines-who’s-married-with-a-child-to-discuss-my-idea-which-he-likes-and-we-slept-together-and-it-was-great (a totally new scenario). It was all so recent, so complicated, so awful, so fantastic. It was beyond her comprehension.
“Bloody hell!” said Patsy, as Chloë plonked her bag on her desk. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing.”
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“Bacon sarnie?”
Chloë thought for a moment. “Good idea.” She fumbled for her purse.
“It’s on me,” said Patsy, and she bounced out of the office appearing sickeningly healthy. A little later she returned with a white paper bag, grease seeping through already.
“You’re a doll,” said Chloë, peering into the bag. It looked foul. Would it help? She took a bite. Delicious. Brown sauce squidged onto the article she was trying to read.
“So,” chivvied Patsy. “Tell all.”
Ten minutes had given Chloë time to fabricate a tale. “Rob. His birthday. You know. His crowd—they love to party. We hit Soho.”
“You’re such a fag hag!” laughed Patsy. “And I thought you’d had sex.”
“Ha!” feigned Chloë. “Not bloody likely. Well…” She rummaged in her in-tray for authenticity. “What’s on today?”
She got through the day with the help of several cans of Red Bull and Patsy, who fended off callers with a heroism that would have made Robert the Bruce proud. At lunchtime they resorted to their favorite hangover cure—heading to the Top Shop superstore on Oxford Street, and Chloë, who didn’t really have the energy to remove her clothes again, waited patiently outside the changing room while Patsy tried on endless outfits.
There was one call that afternoon, however, Chloë did take—it came through internally on her direct line so she didn’t have much choice.
“Chloë?” It was a woman’s voice that Chloë didn’t immediately recognize.
“Yes?”
“It’s Vanessa Davenport here. Is now a good time?”
“Er, um, ish.” Chloë glanced over at Patsy, who was busy typing but whose gossip radar was legendary.
“I’ve just had a word with James Slater.”
Chloë’s heart lurched.
“He showed me your proposal
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