Ginger’s father, Michael, said his only daughter’s best features were her kindness, her sense of humour, a warm face and eyes like her mother’s: huge, trusting amber eyes with eyelashes longer than any giraffe’s. Michael had brought up his two sons and Ginger all on his own when his wife had been killed in a road accident on the way back from visiting relatives in her home town of Ballyglen. Ginger’s hair was like her mother’s too, her father said.
‘What about next week?’ Stephen was asking as they danced. ‘We could see a film. What do you like?’
Ginger, who quite often went to the cinema as it was something you could do alone, had seen all the films she wanted to. But pleasing a man, Liza insisted, meant kowtowing to him without him knowing. As she’d had at least fifteen steady boyfriends, from the age of fourteen onwards, Ginger – current boyfriend total to date: nil – felt that Liza must know what she was talking about.
‘What doyoulike?’ Ginger asked, quashing the feeling that she was letting down the sisterhood by not answering honestly. But she had to give it a try. The initial kowtowing clearly was onlypartof the process. When you knew someone, then you could be honest with them.
She envisioned her and Stephen when they were happily in love, perhaps on holiday in a cold country because Ginger didn’t do beachwear. ‘I lied that first night about films I like,’ she’d say and he’d laugh. ‘I know, silly. It made me fall in love with you faster.’
Stephen led her off the dance floor as the band finished up, and he began talking about the newFast and Furiousspin-off movie he’d take her to see.
Ginger, who had two brothers after all, and had been forced to sit through most of the original series, already knew the entire plot. She did not mention this but instead said: ‘That sounds wonderful.’
And it would be: a date with something other than the remote control.
Ginger Reilly, thirty years old today, and a spinster of this parish, as her Great-Aunt Grace might say jokingly, had only ever been on one other date in her whole life. He’d been a guy from college who’d eventually asked her out to the pub. He’d then proceeded to tell her about how much he fancied her college mate. End of date.
‘You’re curvy, not fat, and you’re a late bloomer,’ Mick, her eldest brother, had said, kindly, as she’d sobbed to him that it was because she was fat, wasn’t it? ‘Your time will come, sis.’
And it had.
Being thirty, Ginger decided, was going to make all the difference.
She had more confidence, more experience of Life, more ... moresomething, she was sure of it.
Working for Caraval Media had sharpened her up, helped transform her into the tough cookie with the smart mouth who made gangs of people from work think she was the funniest thing ever. More money, thanks to her agony-aunt column in an online teenage girl mag, meant she could afford cool, well-fitting black clothes. She was getting places.
Except with the opposite sex.
Her sex life was a wasteland. Always had been.
To Paula in work, she pretended she had lovers on speed dial. Telling Paula was the gossip equivalent of WhatsApping the whole planet.
Therefore in Caraval Media, Ginger Reilly was seen as one of those large, sassy girls who had men falling at her feet so fast, she had to kick them out of the way to leave the house in the morning.
With Liza, her friend since they were four, Ginger dropped the facade and fell into the relationship they’d had forever: a size eighteen woman who would not stand in front of the mirror naked and who had never, ever had a proper date with a man, never mind actual sex.
Liza knew Ginger’s secrets, knew she dressed to hide herself, knew she longed for real love.
And then tonight had come ... and with it came Stephen, sexy, kind and liking the version of Ginger in the poufy dress she’d worn purely to please her best friend.
As the wedding band shuffled off and the hotel staff brought in sandwiches and pretty wedding-themed cupcakes for the latecomers who would arrive for the after-party with the DJ, Stephen led Ginger out onto the hotel terrace and leaned her against the wall in a dark corner.
‘You look so beautiful in that dress,’ he murmured.
His hands were touching her bare shoulders and he kissed her briefly on the lips, so she tasted the heavy red wine they’d both been drinking.
As bridesmaid, Ginger had merely had a glass of champagne early on during the toast. She knew she must be on call all day, ready with anti-shine powder and perfume. But Liza was happy now and Charlene, the other bridesmaid, who was as thin and beautiful as Liza herself, had been sitting beside Liza for ages, giggling and chatting, so Ginger had allowed herself a half-glass of wine with Stephen. Now she felt the wine and sheer passion warming her up, not to mention Stephen’s large body pressed against hers.
‘You’re so gorgeous, Ginge,’ he said.
Normally, anyone who called her Ginge got their head verbally ripped off, but she could allow beautiful Stephen the luxury.
Then his mouth moved in a fiery line down her neck and it felt so wonderful that she didn’t care what he called her. This was passion. This was what other people had had. Why had she waited so long? Why hadn’t she joined an online dating site or even tried out something as openly sexual as Tinder and put herself out there instead of hoping for someone to ask her out? Why not be what she’d pretended to be for so long? A sexually modern woman who enjoyed the glory of her own body and the pleasure sex could bring.
Stephen progressed down towards her breasts and Ginger felt herself surge with sensuality. This was wonderful.
She cradled his large head against her and, despite having read hundreds of erotic, historical fiction novels where sex by chapter three was a given, sheer lack of experience in the real world meant she wondered what to do with her arms.
