Feeling like a naughty schoolgirl, I danced down the corridor in anticipation. I was going to enjoy every square inch of that sumptuous suite. I left a note for Emily in her room telling her that I’d see her for breakfast.
* * *
Oblivious to the noise of the crowded bar, Daniel picked at the label of the beer bottle. He’d blown the perfect opportunity to speak to Olivia. In fact he had no idea what had just gone on in that hotel room. He’d blown more than speaking to her.
Punching the hard wooden surface in front of him felt like a strong option. What an idiot. It was as if he’d had an out-of-body experience. He’d vowed to stay out of her way since the night at the hospital and now, all he could think about was her smooth skin and the slender body in the flimsiest of silk and satin. The curve of hip bone. The delicate indentation of belly button. Long lean legs. Her slim boyish shape was the antithesis of Emily’s voluptuous curves, but all of a sudden ten times sexier.
What the hell had just happened back there? He’d missed playful Olivia, the banter that had once been the hallmark of their friendship. How long had it been since he’d seen that wicked, shy smile? It had all come back with one socking great blow bringing pure lust, which had wiped his mind of his plans to talk to her.
He’d been inches from jumping her bones. Forgetting why he was there. He frowned at the damage he’d done to the beer label. This was crazy. Why was sitting down to talk to her proving so damn impossible? That had been the sole reason he’d been hanging around in the hotel room earlier... and look how well that ended.
The screen above the bar was showing the news, a clip of the premiere. Suddenly aware of the image, he sat up and watched the pictures, abandoning the final shreds of the label. There was Emily waltzing down the red carpet, he’d already seen Seb and Miranda. Where was Olivia? Scanning the picture he looked for a glimpse of her blue dress. Maybe she was out of shot.
He lifted the bottle to his mouth to take an angry swig. He couldn’t get her out of his head or the words that he should have said to her back in the hotel room. He knew exactly how he should have played it. Tell her he was worried because he knew what men were like. Given her a male perspective. Made her realise that men took the line of least resistance. Most of them were lazy bastards when it came to relationships, having their cake and eating...
It was one of those Homer Simpson, slap your own forehead ‘doh’ moments. His hand froze midway to his mouth as the realisation dawned on him.
Shit, was that really what he’d been doing with Emily for this last couple of months? He took a long pull of his drink. The mouthful of beer soured as he swallowed. It wasn’t as ifhe’d made any promises or talked commitment. But then they’d never really talked much at all about anything that mattered.
He swung his legs off the bar stool and stood up. They’d socialised a lot, meals out, pub visits, shared a bed... had some, he winced at his own admission, half-hearted sex. .. he wasn’t that consumed with lust to make a deal of it. It had been too bloody easy — Emily had been easily pleased. Demanding in that she wanted money spent on her, meals, days out... so easy to do but without much substance behind it.
He finished his warm beer in one last swallow and gave the TV another glance. There was Miranda in the famous dress — he vividly recalled the throwaway words Olivia had made in the car that day when she’d suggested the whole idea to Emily. His brother and Miranda made a handsome couple, chatting and laughing up at each other as if they’d known each other for longer than half an hour.
It looked real. Instant attraction, the right chemistry or a well-honed performance by two professionals?
He had to admit the whole thing had been pulled off brilliantly. Em had bitched like crazy for the last few days about what a slave driver Olivia was, but it had paid off. For all her faults, Olivia was good at what she did.
His phone beeped with a text message. Sebastian. A wry smile crossed his face as he read the text. Stirring it up again. So, there’d been a cock up and Olivia was on her way back to the hotel. Interesting.
Throwing a tenner down, he left the bar. Outside he considered taking a cab and then decided it was excessive. If she’d gone back to the hotel, she’d still be there and besides he wanted to think about what he was going to say to her. With Olivia it was probably best just to get straight to the point.
But what was his point?
‘I’m jealous as hell.’ His stomach pitched.
Is that what he should say to Olivia? He suddenly realised even if it was the truth, he couldn’t say it to her. But it was the truth. He was jealous of this unknown man. Because he and Olivia were friends?
And where did that leave Emily? How could he be jealous of one of her friends, if he was going out with her friend? And that led to the inevitable question, what was he going to do about Emily? She was innocent in all this. Olivia was taking her unhappiness out on her, which wasn’t fair or deserved. Poor kid couldn’t do a thing right at the moment. He felt a twinge of guilt.
Someone had to tell Olivia she was making a fool of herself. Someone who knew her. Someone who had her best interests at heart.
* * *
Entering the suite this time, I closed the door with a firm click, leaning giddily against it. I was queen of the castle. Could one room possibly be worth this amount of money for one night?
It even smelt different up here. Miranda’s Samsara was the most recent in a palimpsest of subtle smells, new carpets and leather furniture mixed with Windolene and furniture polish overlaid with liquorice and cigars.
The stylist’s boxes had gone. All that was left was the discarded packaging and a Hansel-and-Gretel trail of polystyrene beads. A used glass with ‘Minx Red’ lipstick smears around the rim was the only other evidence of occupation.
The full-length windows, unfettered by blinds or voile, looked out over the rooftops of London. Nearby I could see the globe atop the London Coliseum and just beyond it the top of Nelson’s hat in Trafalgar Square.
I drooled in earnest the minute I pushed open the bathroom door. The rest of the suite was palatial and luxurious in a magazine double-page-spread sort of way. The pillows wereplumper than plump, the décor was straight fromHomes & Interiors, the bed was emperor-sized rather than king and the carpet virtually velvet — it was all stylishly gorgeous. But the bathroom was instant orgasm, the culmination of every one of my Cleopatra fantasies. I clapped my hands to my face in sheer delight, my smile leaking out from beneath my fingers, unable to suppress the squeaks of joy. This was bathroom heaven and you’re talking to an aficionado; subdued lighting, black slate, a double-ended bath, a Philippe Starck sink and full-sized expensive toiletries, none of this miniature rubbish. I wouldn’t have been surprised if asses’ milk poured from the high-spouted tap.
Fresh orchid petals were strewn around the edge of the bath, vivid fuchsia against stark white and black. Bouncy, fluffy towels were piled inches thick on a long wide shelf, from which hung a monogrammed cotton waffle bathrobe. Completing the utter decadence was a flip down plasma TV screen.
I’d definitely be using that bathroom but first I needed an ice bucket and two champagne flutes. Kate and I were going to enjoy this bottle of Cristal.
* * *
