Do You Want to Know a Secret? (38 page)

Oh my God, it’s a full-blown Mr Darcy moment. Just like in the
Pride and Prejudice
TV series when Lizzie sees him coming towards her with that wet shirt stuck to his manly chest . . . all of a sudden, the force of attraction I’m feeling for him is making me weak-kneed.

I introduce Daniel to everyone and, I swear, I can practically see thought-balloons coming out of people’s heads: ‘So who is this cutie that Vicky’s been keeping under wraps all this while?’ Or maybe that’s just my paranoia going into overdrive. Miraculously, neither Paris or Nicole seem to know him socially, and what’s even more amazing, he doesn’t ogle either of them when they shake hands, which is kind of unheard-of. Most guys take one look at their twenty-something
pertness
, lack of wrinkles, dewy skin etc., etc., and they’re goners.

But not Daniel. I might be imagining it, I mean, I
must
be imagining it, but it really does seem like I’m his focus of attention. He’s chatty, friendly, and . . . almost flirtatious with me . . .?

Oh shit, I must have that wrong. He’s seeing someone else, I tell myself sternly as we sit down for Act One. He’s
involved
.

This is not a date . . . repeat, this is NOT a date . . .

Which is kind of a shame, actually, because if it were, it would be just perfect. He and I are sitting right at the back, on our own, and the place just looks magical. The lighting designer has worked miracles, and just as the sun is slowly setting, he’s bringing up twinkly fairy lights, creating this magical, mystical effect, perfect for
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. The weather’s held up, it’s been a hot day, and the evening is cool and clear . . . perfect, I couldn’t have stage-managed it better.

The show starts, and I’m on the edge of my seat till Barbara comes out. And then . . . there she is. Looking like a goddess in her long, Shakespearian costume, the wild red hair tousled and rolling down her back. And she’s
brilliant
. Absolutely jaw-droppingly, scene-stealingly amazing. Just like I knew she would be. And I’m not just saying it, nor am I imagining it. At one stage Daniel whispers to me, ‘Wow, your friend is incredible,
how
come I’ve never seen her in anything before?’

He leans in close to say it, and no kidding, I actually do get goose bumps.

This is not a date . . . this is not a date . . .

We’re sitting closer, far closer to each other than we need to, and as Act Two begins, and it gets a little chillier, he slips his jacket off and puts it around my shoulders.

‘Your hands are like ice,’ he whispers, slipping his warm hand over mine and holding on. And I don’t let go.

He’s just being friendly. This is not a date . . . repeat ad nauseam . . .

The show is a wow, an absolute wow, and even though there’s only about eight of us in the audience, we’re all spontaneously on our feet by the final, hilarious scene. And Barbara is the undisputed star. No question, no one to touch her. I’m on an absolute high, floating on air as we all meet backstage, everyone hugging each other, everyone euphoric, unable to believe that it all went so well. I even find it in myself to congratulate Evil Angie, who was . . . well, better than OK . . . but then comparing her to Barbara’s electrifying performance is just not comparing like with like. She’s all over Daniel when I introduce them, but he’s his usual laid-back self, congratulates her and then goes back to telling Barbara how stunning she was.

‘It’s only the truth,’ I say, hugging her for about the
tenth
time. ‘If you were a dame of the British Empire you’d be . . . Helen Mirren. No question.’

I’m feeling so euphoric that I even find myself hugging Serena and telling her that if the opening night goes half as well, we’re on to a winner. She’s probably the only person in the backstage, makeshift dressing rooms not dancing around the place, though. She just looks at me with her scary glasses on and calmly says, ‘Beware of a good dress rehearsal, my dear.’

There’s a cosy, quiet pub around the corner which everyone adjourns to and Daniel and I stroll there together, arm in arm. In a friendly, casual way, of course. This is not a date . . .

The actor who plays Oberon, King of the Fairies, is chatting up Barbara big-time, so I don’t actually get to do what I normally would: i.e., drag her off to the Ladies and dissect the whole behind-the-scenes subplot that’s unfolding romance-wise.

‘So, you must have been surprised to see Daniel here tonight?’ she asks me, in very pointed girl-code for: ‘Because I certainly was. What exactly is going on and what’s the story?’

‘Yes, he’s offered to invest in the show,’ is my deflective answer. Girl-code, for: ‘Don’t ask, not too sure myself what’s going on, but believe me, you’ll be the first to know.’

Oberon is too busy yakking away at her for us
to
get any more chance to talk, and Daniel and I . . .

It’s the weirdest thing. I think, possibly because I know this isn’t a date, I can really relax and chat and be myself with him. He’s completely mad about the show, raves about it and is insisting on coming to the opening night with me next week, and all the time we’re sitting closer and closer to each other. He’s right in my body space now and I’m NOT imagining it. At one stage, his fingers just lightly brush off mine as he’s picking up a drink, and it’s like . . . electricity. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such an overwhelming physical attraction to any guy like this before. It’s like every time he as much as runs his hands through the big mop of curls, all I can do is wonder what he looks like with the shirt off . . .

I only had two drinks, I swear, but when he offers to drive me home, I don’t put up any resistance. We say our goodbyes, slip out of the pub, and before I know it, I’m plonked in the passenger seat of his posh Aston Martin, unable to take my eyes off him. He’s focused on the road ahead, but every now and then turns to me to see if I’m OK . . . I am . . . absolutely . . . I just can’t help wondering what would happen if I was to slip my hand inside his shirt, that’s all . . .

This is not a date, Vicky, this is not a date . . .

Too soon, way too soon for my liking, we’re outside my house, and for once I’m not even embarrassed that there’s a skip sitting outside it. He turns off the engine
and
I know, I just know he’s waiting to be asked in, so I go for it.

‘Daniel, there’s something I have to ask you . . .’

‘Mmmm . . .’ He’s moved in close to me, and we both know exactly what’s going to happen. But I have to ask him first, it’s burning me up.

‘Is it true . . . now you can tell me to mind my own business . . . but is it true that you’ve . . . you’ve . . . and, you know, now that I’m about to ask you I’m fully aware of how nosey this sounds . . . but . . . is it true that you’re seeing someone in the States?’

‘Who told you that?’ He’s looking at me sideways now, and for the first time in the whole, magical night, that teasing twinkle is gone from his eyes.

‘Emm . . . well . . . I heard it at the office, when you were over there . . . I’m sorry, I was . . . emm . . . just curious, that’s all.’

‘Vicky, the last time I listened to office gossip, I think they had me married off about three different times, divorced then re-married with kids all over the place. What can I tell you? It’s all total bollocks.’

‘But you were in the States for so long, everyone said . . .’

‘What exactly did they say?’

‘Well, that there was a penthouse involved. And that you were moving in with . . . emm . . .’

Now he starts to laugh, the eyes crinkle up at
the
edges and I know he’s back to himself again.

‘Vicky, yes, I was in the US for a long time, and I can’t tell you why, just trust me on that, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Besides,’ he says, turning slowly to me. ‘If I were involved with someone else, would I be sitting here with you? Would I even attempt this?’

He puts both his hands on my face and we kiss. Slowly, gently, almost dreamily.

For a second he pulls away and I move with him.

‘What, what’s the matter?’ Don’t stop, not now . . .

‘Now there’s something I want to ask you.’

‘Sure,’ I say, wanting, desperately wanting to feel him kissing me again.

‘Vicky, I know you date your fair share, and why shouldn’t you, you’re a beautiful woman, but . . . I’m not just some other guy to you, am I? You’re not seeing anyone else?’

‘Come back here,’ is my answer, as I drag him over to me, kissing him hard now, intensely, like this has been building between us for the longest time.

Next thing, wordlessly, we’re both getting out of the car and going inside. I don’t even have time to explain or apologize for the state of my house/building site, we’re in my tiny hallway, undressing each other, me slowly unbuttoning his shirt and trousers, him peeling my underwear off, almost in slow motion, like he has all
the
time in the world. Then, we’re going upstairs, strewing a trail of clothes behind us, and at one stage, one of us, I’m not even sure who, kicks over a pile of tiles, sending them crashing to the hard, granite floor.

‘I’ll replace them in the morning,’ he says thickly, in-between kissing, which is so intense and hungry now I can hardly bear it. Finally, this is it. Me and Daniel, naked and alone in my room, filthy unmade bed and all. Oh my God, now it’s happening so quick.

We’re going so fast, I can barely take in what’s happening . . . then out of nowhere, in-between his furious kisses I suddenly open my big mouth and say, ‘Daniel, you’re like a gazzillionaire and you’ve probably had sex with supermodels and gymnasts . . .’

‘Shhh,’ he whispers, kissing my earlobe, then my neck, then down further still, making me groan with pleasure . . .

Oh my God, that’s it.

I, Vicky Harper, think I’m in love.

Chapter Twenty-Five

DEFINITELY IN LOVE
. Stop the presses. It’s official. We did it so many times last night that neither of us slept a wink, but you know what? I don’t care. Dawn is slowly creeping through the shutters, we’re cuddled up together, and I honestly think I could die and go to heaven, right here, right now.

Daniel, being Daniel, however, starts messing.

‘So this is where you live,’ he muses, staring at the plastered, unpainted walls, the raw, unvarnished bare floorboards and, oh yeah, let’s not forget the industrial-sized bag of cavity wall insulation lying in the corner. ‘Now, OK, it’s not exactly the Ritz Carlton . . .’

‘Enough out of you!’ I say, wide awake now, playfully throwing a pillow at him.

‘You’re supposed to say, “It’ll be lovely when it’s finished. And I hope that I’m still alive in the year two thousand and fifty to see the end result.”’

He roars laughing, then leans over to my bedside table.

‘So what’s this then?’

Oh shit, now he’s picking up the battered, well-thumbed law of attraction book. OK, I say, reasoning quickly to myself, it could be worse, he could have found far more embarrassing books than that.
How to Make Any Man Fall in Love With You
, for one. Or
Seven Secrets of Highly Seductive Women
. Or, God forbid,
How Camilla Did It
.

‘It’s actually . . . emm . . . a kind of philosophy book,’ I say primly, or as primly as I can sound given that I’m stark naked with only a sheet covering me. ‘Myself and Laura and Barbara are all . . . emm . . . sort of . . . reading it at the moment . . . we’re all very interested in . . . emm, you know, mind-expanding . . . stuff. Metaphysics and the like. What can I say? I have very brainy friends.’

He flicks open a page randomly and starts reading aloud.

The law of attraction is obedient and will always deliver whatever you wish. But beware, as with every genie in the bottle scenario, there’s a caveat. Focus on whatever you
don’t
want and it’s a proven fact that the law of attraction will manifest what it is you’re thinking of. Put simply: dread something and you’ll summon it towards you with the speed of light
.

He tosses it aside and snuggles into me again, warm and cuddly, and next thing we’re kissing again and he’s murmuring into my ear, ‘So if I keep saying “I don’t want sex with Vicky” then this’ll keep happening?’

‘Now you’re getting the hang of it,’ I whisper, sliding underneath him this time. ‘Clever boy.’

Oh my God, I’d forgotten how bloody amazing being in love is. I’ve all the symptoms: the inane grin on my face, the glow in my cheeks from a sensational night with my lover, lack of appetite for anything other than sex and more of it. It’s like I’ve been so starved of any kind of romance, love, affection you name it, for so long that now I’m making up for lost time and savouring every fabulous minute of it.

At six a.m., we’re both in the shower together and it’s just so amazing. He watches me dressing and the fact that we both have to turn up on the set of the Original Eyes commercial is the only thing stopping me from hopping back into bed with him and happily spending the rest of the day there. We leap into his car, and although he offers to drive me straight to Ardmore Studios, where the shoot is to take place, for once, I’m finally able to think straight and ask him to drop me off where I abandoned my car last night.

‘Wouldn’t it look a bit suspicious if we both arrived together?’ I say, not letting go of his hand.

‘Do we care?’ is his teasing answer as we kiss goodbye.

‘Hey, you’re the one who says there’s enough gossip about you in the office!’

I’m just about to clamber out of his car and get into my own when he pulls me back.

‘You know, Vicky, I want us to go on a first date. A proper first date. Last night doesn’t count.’

‘Doesn’t count?’

‘Introductory sex, that’s all. Only a warm-up act, baby. No, I want you and me to . . . well, I’m keeping it a surprise, but will you keep next weekend free?’

‘Mmmm, you talked me into it.’ My hand is on his thigh now, and I’m not messing, I could leap on him in the car right this minute and risk arrest for indecent exposure. And I wouldn’t care.

‘Sure you’re not dating any other guys? No other boyfriends you want to tell me about?’