One Night Stand (17 page)

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Authors: Julie Cohen

BOOK: One Night Stand
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Hugh shook his head as if I’d told him the saddest thing in the universe.
 
‘I’d always thought that writers were supposed to be observant people, but you challenge that belief every day.’ He tapped the binoculars. ‘Maybe these will help.’
 
I started to ask him what he meant, but at that moment a great cheer erupted from the stands as the game began and it wasn’t worth saying anything. Instead, I lifted the binoculars to my eyes and started to search the crowd.
 
I decided to take the stadium piecemeal, beginning at the left bottom from where I sat and sweeping the stands upwards, then over. There were quite a few people I couldn’t see clearly; some of them were too far away, and some were at the wrong angle from where I was sitting. Still, I had a good view of several thousand people, any one of whom could be the guy I’d slept with.
 
Twenty minutes later my arms were aching from holding up the binoculars and I’d only looked at a sliver of the crowd. There had been two guys with goatees, but one was Asian and one was ginger. When the stadium burst into cheers, presumably because Reading had scored a goal, I was happy to lower the binoculars and peer at the field through them.
 
Actually, this football thing wasn’t too bad. The men really could move, and watching the ball was much more interesting than looking at a bunch of people watching the ball. Plus, now that I took the time to study them, one or two or five of the players had extra-fine legs . . .
 
‘Any luck?’ Hugh asked, and then he evidently noticed where I was looking because he nudged me. ‘Eleanor, are you looking at the players’ arses?’
 
‘Maybe,’ I said.
 
‘You’re going to be a parent.’
 
‘I write erotica for a living.’
 
Despite that cast-iron defence I raised the binoculars again and searched the crowd some more. No . . . no goatee ... too old ... too young ... too blond ... too female ... too fat . . .
 
I shifted in my seat and instantly became aware that in my new position my thigh was pressed against Hugh’s.
 
His leg was warm and firm and it had been pressed against me thousands of times before. I’d sat on his lap, I’d watched films on crowded couches and squished into the backs of student Minis with him.
 
It had never been like this before. It was as if the side of my thigh had a ‘turn Eleanor on’ button on it and Hugh was hitting it repeatedly. Heat flushed through my body.
 
I could shift away. Or then again, I could pretend it wasn’t happening, and then I wouldn’t have to lose this feeling.
 
I curled my fingers harder around the binoculars and looked and looked because anything was better than meeting Hugh’s eyes by mistake and letting him know that I was enjoying rubbing legs with him.
 
I skimmed over a group of people waving flags, past a dark-haired man with a goatee, and then stopped and went back.
 
He was standing on his own, wearing a Reading shirt covered by a corduroy jacket, his arms crossed.
 
The part of my brain that wasn’t distracted by Hugh’s leg focused on him.
 
Was it George? It was hard to tell from so far away, and my memory wasn’t that clear anyway. Something about the way he was standing seemed familiar.
 
I pictured him holding a vodka and orange and making a half-sarcastic toast. I pictured him holding a microphone and singing ‘Jesus to a Child’.
 
Maybe. It could be.
 
‘Hugh.’ I tugged on his sleeve, handed him the binoculars. ‘Over there, near the exit,’ I said, pointing.
 
‘Where?’ He swept around, focused in, and I could see when he spotted the man because his shoulders tensed. ‘Is it him?’
 
‘I’m not sure. It could be.’
 
He lowered the binoculars and stuffed them into his knapsack. ‘It’s nearly half-time. Let’s go over to that exit and we’ll be able to catch him if he comes out.’
 
He launched himself out of his seat; I scrambled after him, over the other people in our row and up the steps to the exit. As we hurried through the concrete corridor at the back of the stands I heard another cheer, and then the unmistakable sounds of lots of people on the move.
 
The double doors to our left opened and fans streamed out, talking, laughing, hitting each other on the back, jostling. I hung back instinctively, not wanting to get trapped in the flow, but Hugh was on the balls of his feet, impatient and strung tighter than a wire.
 
‘There he is,’ he said, and again threw himself forward, into the crowd, parting it with his long limbs. I saw him reach out and grab a man by the shoulder of his corduroy jacket.
 
People streamed between us; I struggled through them, trying to reach Hugh and maybe-George. I saw Hugh’s lips moving and knew what he was saying without having to hear his voice: ‘I’ve got a friend who needs to talk to you.’
 
The man, whose back was to me, shrugged his shoulder violently, trying to shake Hugh off. Hugh held on and I heard him saying my name.
 
By this time I was close enough to hear the whole conversation. ‘Get the hell off me, I’m not talking to anyone, ’ the man was saying, and I paused, trying to remember whether George’s accent had been quite so Reading.
 
‘Listen, mate, you need to talk with her, it’s important, she’s over there, look.’
 
Hugh pointed at me and the man glanced in my direction.
 
Three things happened next, one following the other with swift inevitability.
 
The man said, ‘I don’t need to talk to some slapper.’
 
Hugh curled his pointing hand into a fist and thumped the guy on his jaw.
 
And I realised that this wasn’t George.
 
‘Hugh!’ I yelled, but by then it was too late. Not-George snarled and began raining blows on Hugh, who punched back, and I flung myself towards them and tried to grab Hugh and drag him away. Before I could get there three police officers in helmets and fluorescent yellow protective vests were wrestling the two of them to the ground.
 
15
 
‘My best friend, the football hooligan.’
 
‘Shut up.’ Hugh pressed the bag of frozen peas closer to his eye. I’d nicked the peas from the Mouse and Duck, which stood between the police station and our houses. Fortunately, I’d remembered to order them this week. ‘I’m just glad he didn’t break my hands or I’d be out of a job.’
 
‘I’m glad the police only decided to caution you. I wonder if it’ll be in the
Reading Post
tomorrow.’
 
Hugh made a disgusted sound and kept walking down the street towards our houses.
 
‘Who knew that you had so much testosterone flowing through your veins,’ I said.
 
‘It’s not testosterone. It’s honour. The man got you pregnant and then called you a slapper.’
 
‘One quibble, O Knight in Shining Armour: that man didn’t get me pregnant.’
 
‘And I wish you’d let me know that before I beat the hell out of him.’
 
I decided it was best to keep quiet about the number of bruises Hugh had sustained in this encounter.
 
‘Anyway, you don’t need to defend my honour,’ I said. ‘We’re in the twenty-first century.’
 
‘Don’t worry, I won’t bother any more.’ We reached his door, he dug in his pocket for the keys, and opened it. ‘Anyway, thanks for the peas.’ He began to slouch inside.
 
‘Hugh,’ I said. He stopped. ‘I’m sorry about this.’
 
He frowned at me, and then nodded. ‘That’s what I was waiting for. Come in.’
 
I followed him inside and into his kitchen, the mirror image of mine, except much more full of actual cooking equipment and food. With his free hand he pulled a biscuit tin from the cupboard and plonked it on the table. ‘You make tea,’ he said, and took the peas off his face.
 
It shouldn’t be true - I had never been attracted to the rough-and-ready sort - but Hugh with bleeding knuckles, a swollen lip and a blackening eye was so sexy that I couldn’t do anything for a minute but try to remember to breathe.
 
And he was angry at me again, and this shouldn’t be true either, but God that made him sexy, too.
 
Was it his anger that had suddenly made him attractive to me? Had I noticed him as an alpha male for the first time? Like a character in one of my books . . . maybe Detective Inspector Becker in
Cuffed and Collared,
or The Boss in
Temporary Secretary.
 
I’d have to make the Chancellor alpha. Maybe there should be a villain - maybe the selfish, beautiful Minister of Internal Affairs. She could get one of her henchmen to beat up the Chancellor to teach him a lesson for spurning her, but he could fight back.
 
I licked my lips, imagining for a moment how Hugh’s bruised lip would be hot and coppery-tasting with blood if I were to kiss him.
 
No. How the
Chancellor
’s lip would be, when
Lucy
kissed him.
 
‘I’m aware that I look like a bloody piece of meat, you don’t have to rub it in by staring.’
 
I snapped back to reality. ‘Sorry. Thinking about my book.’ I put on the kettle and took a deep breath.
 
‘I really am sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m taking you for granted. I always take you for granted. I’m glad you tried to beat up a stranger because he looked sort of like a guy who got me pregnant by mistake.’
 
‘Thank you.’
 
‘You have to promise me one thing, though. If we do find the real George, you can’t whip out a shotgun and try to make him marry me.’
 
Hugh paused in the act of putting a generous pile of brownies on a plate. ‘Hold on. Are you considering marrying him?’
 
‘Well, if I do, you and your shotgun will be the first to know.’
 
He didn’t look amused.
 
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t even know his name.’
 
‘But you’re attracted to him.’
 
‘He’s attractive.’
 
‘And you must have liked him.’
 
‘I hope I did.’ I thought about it. ‘Yes, I did.’
 
‘If you find him and he wants to be part of this child’s life, and if you like him—’
 
‘I can’t even think about that now, Hugh.’
 
‘I’ll think about it instead,’ he said grimly, and closed the biscuit tin with a snap. ‘You want to like him, don’t you?’
 
‘It would make things easier.’ I took a brownie and bit into it. As usual, it was delicious, but the twin distractions of Hugh annoyed and Hugh sexy stopped me from appreciating it fully.
 
This was wrong! It was a huge helping of wrong with wrong sauce and extra wrong for dessert. Was it because of my book? Pregnancy hormones?
What?
 
‘I mean, maybe this is sort of fate,’ I said, trying to force my brain into a more acceptable direction. ‘George and I will meet again and find out we really like each other, and this pregnancy will bring us together. It might all turn out rather well.’
 
He shook his head. ‘I always thought you lived in a dream world, and now I know it’s true. Guys like that aren’t the marrying kind. They’re the one-night stand kind.’
 
‘And you should know, I suppose.’
 
‘Eleanor, I have never once slept with a woman and then disappeared. Nor got her pregnant.’
 
‘Hugh,’ I said, ‘I want this baby to have a father. Are you going to argue with me about that?’
 
‘No. But—’
 
‘So help me find him. Nobody at the pub knew him and the football game didn’t work, now we need another strategy.’
 
He picked up a brownie. ‘I have no idea how you find someone whose name or address you don’t know. Maybe put a personal ad in the paper?’
 
I shuddered. ‘God, how embarrassing. What would it say? “Can the person who had sex with me on the eighteenth of September please get in touch because I’m going to have your child”?’

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