‘How are you this soft?’ he whispers, between kisses. It is a rhetorical question, but I’m happy for him to keep looking for the answer.
He slides his hand down again, all the way over my hip, before gently separating my knees. Then he slips under the hem of my skirt until the pads of his fingers are drawing slow, feather-soft patterns over the crotch of my underwear. A figure of eight. Or maybe something else. I don’t exactly know, because by this stage I am galloping down there. He slides his tongue into my mouth at the precise moment that he slips inside my pants and begins to play. He teases and twirls. Occasionally he dips inside me, while I silently gasp and squirm with pleasure.
‘You are almost unbearably gorgeous,’ he whispers, between kisses.
I have a feeling like I’m underwater, fully immersed. All my senses are heightened, from the hair standing up at the back of my neck to the silky warmth pulsing around his fingers. I am smothered by a feeling of such building intensity that, by the time I come, it is both intolerable and exquisite all at once. A burst of concentrated pleasure so intense that it’s almost pain, followed by a full sensory rush. I have a sudden clarity about why the French call thisla petite mort– the little death – because afterwards, my limbs feel weak and I am physically spent. All I can do is gaze at him in the afterglow and ask: ‘Exactly how am I supposed to spend two hours making banana splits after this?’
Chapter 45
Sam’s playing an away match the day after he left me breathless on his sofa, but we arrange to go for a drink after work on Tuesday night. It’s lovely, everything about it, but I’m hit by a beat of paranoia immediately afterwards, a lingering feeling that I need to rein this in. Whateverthisis. Still, he is uppermost in my mind the following day, in between trying to work out how we’re going to field a team for our tennis fixture this evening.
It was already a stretch, with two of the regulars on holiday, several injured and others working. Our best bet until an hour earlier was Samira, the flight attendant. But she was on call and is now destined to be pointing out the emergency exits to passengers on their way to Magaluf while we are playing away at Bolton Heath. Barbara, in desperation, WhatsApp-ed the entire team saying we should all ask around to find a stand-in. Anyone would do.
‘Does she really meananyone?’ I say in a text to Nora, as I’m returning to the office after a supplier meeting.
‘Oh, I think so. They only need a body for us to be able to field a full team tonight. They can stand there like a plant pot if necessary. I’ve just heard her asking the window cleaner if his wife is free.’
‘Any luck?’
‘They have a prior arrangement to go ten-pin bowling.’
When I enter the building, Kayla starts waving from across the shop floor. I stop as she begins zigzagging through the display stands.
‘What’s up?’ I say, when she reaches me.
‘It’s all happening,’ she says, wide-eyed.
‘What is?’
‘Armageddon. Check your emails. There’s an all-staff meeting at three today.’ She draws a finger across her throat, in case I hadn’t already worked out the grim implications.
The announcement appears on the websites of the financial press minutes after staff are informed.
‘Lifestyle chain Fable & Punk is cutting 132 jobs – more than half its workforce – after its new owner Barisian Group called in administrators,’ reads the piece in theFT. ‘The company was bought three months ago for £26m in cash; however Barisian said it was not willing to continue funding a turnaround after it had “consistently missed its business plan targets” and posted losses. ‘“While the management team has tried to stabilise
the firm,”’ the statement continues, ‘“it has become clear that the
ongoing funding requirements would far exceed amounts
the group considers viable. Immediate redundancies will be made so the company can continue trading while sale discussions take place and its future structure is assessed.”’
So, half of us are going. But, just to add to the fun, we won’t know which half until the start of next week, when meetings will be held with individuals to discuss their future. I realise as I take in the news with a rock in my gut that, until this moment, I’ve been high on sex and tennis in recent days. But my endorphin bubble has now been well and truly popped.
By any stretch of the imagination, this isbad.
‘Fuck,’ I say, not very eloquently.
‘Iknow,’ says Kayla. ‘This is the first time since I came off Tinder that I am seriously regretting it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’d prefer to be on a date with some dullard than sitting at home by myself, panicking about what’s coming tomorrow morning.’
Just the thought makes me feel ill. If I was at home all by myself tonight, I’d whip myself up into a nervous frenzy and unquestionably end up googling things like, ‘How much money can you make selling feet pics?’
I’m about to head upstairs when something occurs to me.
‘What is it?’ Kayla asks. I spin around slowly.
