Be Careful What You Wish For (25 page)

‘A toast,’ says James, passing me a flute of champagne.

Smoothing the bit of my dress that I forgot to iron, I look at James. He clinks his glass against mine, gazing at me intently, and I know I should be feeling all – well – romantic. ‘To us,’ he says, his voice heavy with implication.

But instead I feel faintly ridiculous. ‘To us,’ I whisper. Out of nowhere I have an urge to giggle. To crack some stupid joke that’s not even funny. Like Gabe kept doing the other night when I was watching
Love Actually
on DVD, and I kept having to shush him by hitting him with a cushion.

‘So,’ James is saying, touching my cheek, ‘did you like the roses?’

‘They were beautiful,’ I say, banishing all thoughts of Gabe and his terrible jokes, which seem to haunt me. ‘I left you a message. Didn’t you get it?’

‘Yes,’ he smiles, ‘but I wanted to make sure.’ He begins to nuzzle my neck.

‘Oh, really?’ I whisper, standing still, the urge to giggle vanishing. To give James his due, he has an amazing knack of kissing me right where . . . Oooh. As his mouth circles the soft flesh under my chin I abandon any self-consciousness and tilt my head back with pleasure.

‘Because I couldn’t help noticing . . .’

Enjoying the heady sensation of champagne bubbles fizzing on my tongue and his lips moving delicately across my cheeks with soft, feathery kisses. I close my eyes and feel myself letting go.

‘. . . they only sent nine roses.’

I snap my eyes wide open.

‘Didn’t you notice?’ he says, looking at me now with concern.

I can’t believe it.
He noticed.
‘Erm . . . no, I don’t think so,’ I say.

Head tilted back I stare at the cornice.

‘Yes, there were definitely only nine,’ says James, kissing my neck again, only now it’s irritating rather than sexy. ‘I counted them while you were changing. I’ll call the florist tomorrow.’

‘No, don’t. Honestly, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter.’ I don’t know which I’m more alarmed by: that he might call the florist, or that he counted them. Pulling away I reach for the champagne bottle to top up my drink, only I do it too quickly and the bubbles overflow down the side of the glass.

‘But I asked for a dozen red roses,’ he continues, quickly grabbing a napkin and pressing it around the side of my glass to blot up the excess.

‘Don’t worry, I have plenty.’ I squeeze his arm.

‘I know, but that’s not the point,’ he says, dropping to the floor and feverishly dabbing at the rug, although I’m sure I didn’t spill that much. It was only a dribble. ‘You can’t send nine,’ he mutters.

‘Why not?’ I tease, half joking, half serious. Taking another elaborately folded napkin from the dining table I go to help him but he shoos me away, telling me I’m the guest. A vague feeling of unease descends on me, and before I know it I say, ‘Who made the rule that it has to be a dozen roses? What’s wrong with nine?’

‘Because you just can’t,’ he says, perplexed, as if I’m challenging a universal truth, like saying the earth’s flat or men are great at multi-tasking. ‘That’s not how it works.’

How what works?
Romance?

As I gaze down at him squatting on the floor I suddenly feel my whole belief system being shaken. I’ve spent my whole life dating unromantic men when I wanted to be sent flowers and treated to candlelit dinners and now – I glance at the candles on the table, the champagne chilling, the glasses with not so much as a smudged fingerprint – instead of being romantic, all the rules and this formality feel a bit contrived.

‘Hey, let’s forget about it, shall we?’ I smile lightly, taking the napkin from his hand and replacing it with his refilled champagne glass. ‘Don’t let it spoil tonight.’

‘You’re right. I’m sorry, darling.’ He stands up and strokes the hair off my forehead. ‘I just wanted everything to be perfect for you.’

‘Everything is perfect,’ I say reassuringly, putting my arms round him. He looks so crestfallen I try to cheer him up. ‘Hey, I’m going to go down to Cornwall tomorrow. It’s my family’s annual get-together and, well, I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.’

A family get-together may be viewed as a nightmare by some men, but not James: his face immediately brightens.

‘We own a little cottage in Port Isaac, it’s nothing fancy but really pretty. It’s called Bluffers Cove as it’s set right on top of a hill.’

‘That sounds great! I can’t wait.’ He hugs me, then looks serious. ‘So this is where I get to meet your parents?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s very casual,’ I reassure him. I don’t want to frighten him off.

But I’ve obviously misinterpreted him: this seems to make him even more keen. ‘No, I’d love to meet your parents,’ he says, kissing the tip of my nose.

‘You would?’ Wow, this is amazing.

‘Of course. And mine are dying to meet you.’

‘Absolutely. I’ve told them all about you. Maybe we can drive to Kent and visit them next weekend?’

I hesitate. Gosh this is all very serious.
And very soon,
pipes up a warning voice.

‘Well, what do you think?’

‘Yeah,’ I’m suddenly nervous at the thought of meeting his parents, but I take a large glug of champagne and swallow my fears. ‘That sounds great!’

The rest of the evening slips past in a hazy blur of food, alcohol and music. James is a terrific cook, and we eat oysters, pumpkin risotto and the most delicious passion-fruit sorbet that he had made himself, all washed down with three different types of wine. In fact, by the time we’ve finished eating and he asks me to dance I’m a little drunk.

I giggle tipsily. ‘But we need some music.’

Picking up the remote he points it towards the stereo. ‘Your wish is my command,’ he murmurs. There’s a faint whir as the disk inside begins to spin and pulling me to my feet he wraps his arm tightly around my waist. Now
this
is what I call romantic.

Interlacing my fingers through his I rest my head dreamily against his chest, waiting to hear what music he’s chosen. It’s probably something soft and sensitive like Simon and Garfunkel, or classically romantic such as ‘Something’, by George Harrison, my absolute favourite.

A song begins and I close my eyes. I recognise the opening chords. They sound familiar, like . . .

I stiffen. No. It can’t be.

But it is.

As James waltzes me round the living room I listen with horror as he sings along about feeling it in his fingers and toes. This has to be a joke.

‘I love the lyrics don’t you?’

Is he insane? I open my eyes to see James gazing at me earnestly. ‘Mmm . . .’ I nod. Honestly, what can I say? That they’re corny? An image of Marti Pellow grinning flashes into my mind.

‘I thought you’d love it,’ James is saying, ‘that perhaps this could be our song.’

Oh. My. God. I’m cringing with embarrassment and my feet move like lumps of lead. The song seems to go on for ever and I can feel the earlier mood of seduction fast disappearing. Much longer and it will be totally ruined.

As we continue slow-dancing round the living room I wait hopefully for James to make the next move. Dinner, champagne, music . . . Surely by the rules of romance the next on the list should be the bedroom? I wait in anticipation. And desperation. Until I can’t stand any more Marti Pellow and decide to make the first move by steering James into the bedroom and unbuttoning his shirt.

Thankfully he gets the hint and we take it in turns to remove each other’s clothes until I’m lying naked on his super-king bed and James is . . . Where is James?

I open my eyes woozily and take a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. And then I see him. Standing at the foot of the bed. With a hard-on.
Folding our clothes.

‘James, do you have to do that now?’ I ask, sitting upright.

‘It will only take a moment darling.’

I stare at him indignantly. I’m lying here. Naked. Ripe. And up for it. And my boyfriend is putting his socks into little balls. Insulted, I cover my breasts with my hands and watch as he picks up my dress, which I chucked with abandon on to the floor, and puts it on a hanger. Honestly. Neat and tidy is one thing – but this?

‘There, all done.’

He strides over to the bed, slides his naked body next to mine and curls his arm round my waist. ‘Now, where were we?’

I’m tempted to sulk – after all, it’s not exactly flattering to come second place to someone’s underpants – but it’s hard to stay mad while James is kissing those deliciously erogenous zones behind my ears, slowly, gently, delicately. I let out an involuntary moan. Mmm, this is amazing – I wish it would go on for ever.

Abandoning myself to the feeling of his lips against my neck, I close my eyes. I swear I’ve died and gone to foreplay heaven. Feeling him hard against my thigh, I reach down but he pushes me away and circumnavigates my belly-button with tiny kisses.

I smile at his teasing and wait. After a moment, I let my hand wander back. ‘What’s the rush?’ he whispers, pushing it away again, only this time with a lot more determination.

Oh, OK. Feeling a little redundant, I lie there as he continues to run his hands over my body and kiss my nipples. Wow, this is incredible . . . It’s phenomenal . . . It’s . . . I stifle a yawn . . .

No sooner has the thought appeared than I’m shocked. I never thought it was possible to have too much foreplay. But you can, I realise, fidgeting to hurry him up. Steadfastly ignoring me, he’s now doing feathery kisses down the side of my face.

I take matters into my own hands: ‘Erm, do we have any condoms?’ I mumble, as James buries his face in my chest. Not exactly subtle, I know, but hey, what’s a girl got to do to get a bit of nookie around here?

But instead of taking the hint, James merely murmurs, ‘Sssh,’ and begins doing this funny thing with his eyelashes against my nipples.

Over his shoulder I catch sight of the digital alarm clock, the time illuminated in the dark. It’s nearly two in the morning.
We’ve been in the bedroom for over an hour.

‘Mmmm, you smell amazing,’ groans James, his voice muffled by my hair as he hugs me to him.

‘Mmm, so do you,’ I groan back.
So now can we have sex, please?
begs a silent voice inside me as I press myself closer. I try wriggling my hips. Usually this works a treat, but James merely hugs me and for a while we just lie there like that. Hugging.

I try looking on the bright side. It’s so rare to find a man who likes cuddling: normally they get a hard-on and it’s just wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. But not James. James lurves to hug. Last time we slept together he spooned me all night long. Admittedly it was a bit hard to sleep as I like sleeping face down, limbs spread starfish wide, and the next day I was so knackered I kept nodding off at work, but it was very romantic. Waking up in your lover’s arms. Your hair and makeup all perfect. Well, it’s the stuff of movies, isn’t it?

Not that my makeup was perfect. In fact, when I woke up my mascara had smudged all over his three-hundred thread count pillowcases.

‘Heather?’ In the far distance I can vaguely hear James’s voice, ‘Are you asleep?’ I shake my head dreamily. Then it goes quiet and just as I’m drifting off I hear his voice again: ‘I love you.’

I turn my head sharply to him. I feel a twinge of panic. Just a twinge, nothing major, and I’m sure that’s a completely normal reaction as I’m not used to men telling me they love me first. I tend to go for emotional cripples who have difficulty expressing their feelings.

Yes, that must be it. That’s why I feel a little freaked. And a bit claustrophobic – but I’m sure that’s because, with the heat of the duvet and James, it’s actually getting a bit difficult to breathe.

I fidget in his embrace, pushing the goosedown away from me to get a little air. Ah, that’s better. I stop wriggling and smile flirtily at James, only he doesn’t smile back.

And then I realise: he’s waiting for an answer.

Oh, fuck. Here’s me wanting a bit of good old-fashioned nookie, and here’s James wanting to declare his undying love. By rights, I should be delighted. Filled with joy. Over the moon. After all, it’s something I’ve dreamed of and wished for. Only the funny thing is, I’m not. Instead I feel cornered. I really, really like James. Honestly I do. He’s so sweet and kind, and the last thing in the world I want to do is hurt his feelings.

But you don’t love him, Heather.

The voice inside my head startles me. No, that’s not true. James is everything I’ve ever wished for in a boyfriend. So what if it’s only been . . . Hurriedly I work out the days in my head.
A week?

Seconds, that’s all it takes, from him uttering those three words, to me now lying here in his arms feeling confused and overwhelmed.

Like eyes in a haunted-house painting I peer sideways and see him gazing lovingly at me from across the pillow, his perfect olive skin, his chocolate brown eyes, his strong square jaw. I feel myself melt. Oh, for Godsakes, Heather, just look at him. He’s perfect. You must love him. I mean, what’s not to love?

And so I say it. ‘Me too,’ I whisper.

He breaks into a grin and grabs hold of me and—

Well, put it this way. I get my wish.

 

‘
W
hereabouts are you?’

Ed’s voice nags at me from my mobile, which I’ve wedged under my chin, ‘Ummm, not far . . .’ I reply evasively.

Sitting bleary-eyed on my bed I continue stuffing things randomly into a leather holdall. It’s Saturday and James and I were supposed to be leaving bright and early this morning to drive down to Cornwall for my family get-together, the plan being we’d arrive – oooh. I peer at my watch. Ten minutes ago.