Four Temptations (2 page)

“I...”

He squeezed. Perhaps a reassuring gesture, but that was when I became aware of his response to that embrace, a new hardness against my belly, and I stepped away, and around him, not meeting his look.

“Thank you,” I said. “For the lift. And the coffee. I...”

When I looked he was smiling, a little uncertainly.

“No worries,” he said. “Listen, if you need anything at all, just yell. If you want to chat, just pick up the phone, or text me and open a bottle of wine and I’ll be round in a flash, okay?”

§

Text messages are dangerous. They’re so easy, so informal, that you can easily get drawn into saying things you would never say to a person’s face.

That’s where we should have left it, with my simple reply to his query. Am fine. We should have stopped before pulling on that thread, because once you start everything unravels and there’s no going back.

I was on the sofa again, cradling a glass of Merlot in one hand, my phone in the other.

His reply was brief:

I took a sip of wine.

And that was when that thing happened, another tipping point, another line crossed, as I keyed a quick follow-on message:

Flashing back to that moment by the car: his strong arms around me, that hardness growing against my belly. The scent of him. That brief instant when I’d hesitated before pulling away.

It felt like forever before he replied, long enough for me to curse myself repeatedly for being so stupid, for embarrassing him like this.

It felt as if my heart was trying to escape from my chest. I didn’t know how to interpret his reply, whether it was just an innocent comment, or if there was meaning behind those words. And what if there
was
intent behind that reply?

Stupid, tipsy flirting by text wasn’t going to help anyone.

Was he really suggesting what I thought, or was I reading too much into his messages?

Simon Darby. Old acquaintance, my husband’s best friend. I shifted in my seat, and took another sip of wine. Squeezing my thighs together as I moved had sent a stab of pleasure deep into my belly. Was I really getting turned on by this?

And was he really taking advantage of the situation, taking advantage of me and my stupid, muddled head? I wouldn’t have thought it of him, but then I’d never really seen him in a sexual way, so it wouldn’t even have occurred to me that this might happen, that he might be so shallow and insensitive.

I shifted again, remembering that hardness pressing against me.

The phone went, and I jumped, as if caught in the act.

It was Simon. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes, fine thanks.”

“You want some company?”

“I... No. Thank you, but no, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I am. Thanks.”

“’kay.”

§

It would have been a rebound thing, a revenge thing. It would have been a mistake.

I was flattered by the attention, and surprised at the turn of events, but it could only ever have been a mistake. I wasn’t in a good place, and I didn’t want to lose a good friend just for a rebound thing, a revenge fuck.

And a part of me still doubted my interpretation of that exchange with Simon. Maybe it was innocent, and I’d just read too much into it. Once you start seeing hidden meanings it’s hard to stop.

You want some company?

He was just being nice, supportive, just being a good friend.

Of course he was. And that erection grinding against me had just been a Snickers bar in his pocket.

He was a man.

Any opportunity, any sniff of a chance...

And what were
his
motives? To put one over on his old friend Porter? Or was it simply because he’d sensed an opportunity? Would I have been just another tick in his little black book?

That moment of horniness had well and truly passed, now. I didn’t even feel flattered any more, just lonely and maudlin.

§

I got through the next few days. I got through work, planning the layout for a client’s autumn fashions catalog. I got through life, alone in that big house in the suburbs.

I tried not to think about anything beyond what I was doing at the time. Detail work like the catalog was perfect for that. Each day I arrived at the studio early, left late, and ate take-out food in front of the TV.

I didn’t have time to think about Porter, or about Simon’s opportunistic flirting. It was just work, eat and sleep.

I didn’t break out of that tight focus until the Friday night, when I went to Maggie Nolan’s book launch and saw my husband with his arm protectively around the waist of a skinny young blonde and I had to fight with every ounce of strength in my body not to go up to him and hurl my glass of wine in his face.

Focus
...

Maggie had been a copywriter at the agency where I worked a few years ago. Bubbly and funny and bored as hell with her work, she was always going to break out some day. After the first novel and movie deal she quit the day job, but stayed in touch. We were friends on Facebook, and we sent each other cat pictures and other funnies all the time, even though we only ever saw each other occasionally.

She was friends with Porter and Simon, too, which is why they’d been invited, and Porter had actually had the gall to show up with his new girlfriend. Or was she new? How long had they been together?

The launch was at an old pub, one of those events where I couldn’t help but feel very small-town. Everyone seemed to know each other; there was lots of air-kissing in greeting, lots of faces I recognized from magazines and TV.

Maggie saw me as soon as I walked in, and came rushing over with two glasses of bubbly.

“Rebecca, Rebecca,” she said. “So glad you could come.” And then, in that melodramatic way of hers, she drew me closer, glanced back over her shoulder and said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t
realize
, darling. Apologies for the
faux pas
, I should never have invited–”

Porter was there, on the far side of the room, his arm around her waist, his head dipped close to her as she spoke. Her lips were perfect rosebuds, her eyes wide and deep blue; her cheekbones were sculpted, her hair that slightly tousled shaggy cut that must have taken her hours to achieve. She was a good head shorter than him – my husband! – slim and perfect in a short black dress that revealed perfect golden legs and perfect golden cleavage.

I wanted to turn around and leave.

I felt old and frumpy in my flower print Jane Norman midi dress and gladiator wedges.

“I didn’t
know
...”

I turned back to Maggie. “Sorry, I should have said that Porter and I were...” Why was I apologizing for not having made some kind of announcement? And why was I cross with Maggie, of all people? “I’m sorry.” I faltered. “I just...”

Maggie laughed, unprompted, and far too loud, keeping me fixed with those sharp eyes. “Imagine I’m giving you a great big supportive hug, darling. Okay? But I’m not going to do that because he’d see and you don’t want to show him any sign of weakness, now, do you? Okay, darling? Hug over. Was the bastard looking?”

I laughed, for the first time in days. “Yes, yes,” I said. “He looked over. Didn’t seem too bothered, though.”

“Oh he will be, darling,” she said. “He just won’t want to show it.” She put an arm around me and steered me through the crowd. “Come along, let me introduce you to some people.”

She wasted no time. There was a TV scriptwriter, tall and dark, with a gentle Edinburgh accent and single. “Rebecca’s single too, you know!” And there was an author who shared Maggie’s agent, a little older, with salt and pepper hair and an infectious laugh. He was single, too.

It was over the top and far too obvious and the perfect antidote to how I’d been feeling all week.

It was much later when I saw Simon Darby, over there chatting with Porter and his perfect little bimbo. Laughing... Chatting and joking and
laughing
with them.

For a moment, Simon paused and glanced across, and he had the decency to look shamefaced. Then the blonde said something and he and Porter laughed, and the moment had passed.

“Darling, darling,” said Maggie, taking my arm again. “Come along, Rebecca. There’s someone I want you to meet...”

§

The odd thing...

Well, the odd thing was when I realized later that I’d been more angry with Simon than with Porter.

Porter was there with his girlfriend, brash and inconsiderate as usual; he never had been the sensitive type.

But Simon...

Back when I’d first asked him if Porter was having an affair he’d denied it, but he’d denied it in such a way that it absolved him of any responsibility: no, Porter wasn’t having an affair, or if he was, then he hadn’t told Simon about it.

And after all that solicitous texting, after the phone calls to check that I was okay, here he was with Porter, laughing and chatting as if nothing had happened.

Why should I be surprised at that? They were old friends: of course they’d laugh and chat together. They were
business partners
, for God’s sake.

So why did I feel cheated on?

Why did I feel more hurt by Simon’s betrayal than Porter’s?

§

Home. I went inside. I’d been mulling over it all in the cab back from Maggie’s launch.

It was nothing, I decided. Just another element of my fragile emotional state. A man who had shown some kind of interest, who had at least cared a little... Simon’s support and friendship had mattered to me, and maybe a part of me had read too much into that.

It wasn’t his fault. It’s just how I was feeling at that time.

§

My cell phone went as I was fumbling the key into the lock. I fished it out of my clutch purse, saw that it was Simon calling, and put it away again.

I’d had a drink or two but my head was still clear enough for me to know that the best place for me now was bed. Alone.

I hadn’t realized how tired I was.

Upstairs, I opened a new packet of wipes and took my make-up off, then went to brush my teeth. I was half-undressed when the doorbell went a short time later.

Simon.

I almost left him there, but when he rang again I pulled on a silk gown and went down to the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as I edged the door open a few inches and peered out at him. “I’m an ass and an inconsiderate fool and I should have known better.”

“You had a drink with an old friend,” I told him. “What’s wrong with that, apart from it being probably too many drinks, and it’s far too late for you to be banging on my door?”

“He was with
her
...”

“You told me he wasn’t having an affair.”

He looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I–”

“You were in an impossible position. I get it, okay? He’s your friend.”

“I know. But so are you.”

§

That tipping point thing. The moment when it becomes easier to carry on than to stop. The moment when you pull a thread and you just have to keep going.

That.

§

His eyes when he said those simple words.

I know. But so are you
.

Head tipped down, blue eyes peering up at me. Watchful, studying my face for a response; almost calculating. But vulnerable, too; fragile, exposed.

The slight quaver in his voice, like an adolescent’s cracking tones as he emphasized the
you
.

The way he looked in the dim light of my front doorway, rough around the edges but still so damned
hot
, like he’d stepped out of the pages of a magazine.

All that and more. Something indefinable. Something electric.

It was a physical thing, a thing of that particular moment. A sudden
need
.

Okay. Maybe it wasn’t just physical. Maybe it was a revenge thing, an anger thing.

Maybe it was self-validation and revenge all thrown in together: Porter might have his young, perfect blonde but I still had it, I could have his best friend if I wanted.

It was a rebound thing.

It was the product of several things, all mixed together: the look in Simon’s eyes, the tone of his voice, the alcohol and the emotional turmoil muddying my thinking. It was a need to be
needed
.

A need.

That’s all it was.

§

I took him by the lapels of his linen jacket, rough and hungry. I drew his face down to mine and pressed my mouth to his. His lips were hard at first, as if he was going to resist, as if that brief moment of uncertainty in his eyes as I pulled him towards me was going to turn into some kind of willpower thing, some kind of resistance.

But then they yielded, softened, parted, and my tongue was flicking across his teeth, finding his tongue, driving deep.

Still holding his jacket, I backed deeper into the house, pulling him in my wake.

My back came up against a bookcase, floor to ceiling and crammed with books. The shelves dug into my spine as Simon ground against me, and there was no mistaking that hardness pressing against my belly.

I stood on tiptoes, adjusting position so that he was grinding against me lower down, and then his hands were inside my gown, parting it, sliding around my ribcage, one hand on my back the other stealing down to my ass and pulling at the flimsy lace of my little French shorts.

I threw my arms back, knocking books from the shelves, and then his mouth moved away from mine, found my jaw, my neck, and worked its way down to kiss and nibble along my collarbone and across my shoulder.

That hand... slowly it slid inside my lace shorts, fingers trailing down the crack of my ass, teasing me. As the lace stretched and pulled, the fabric tightened across my pussy, pressing against my clit, and I cried out.