Sweet Temptation (29 page)

Then, at the beginning of December, on a day so cold I had thermal underwear on
and
a granny shawl over my knees, I got a call.

‘Lauren?’

I gulped. I’d know that voice anywhere. Obviously, though, so as not to come across as a mad stalker type, I pretended I didn’t.

‘Yes, this is Lauren speaking. How may I help you?’ I said brightly, hoping my voice wasn’t trembling.

‘I don’t know if you remember me . . .’ He had to be kidding. Like I could have
forgotten
? ‘. . . but it’s Joe Smith here. I was one of your clients back in the summer and then met someone . . . but it hasn’t worked out. So I was wondering . . .’ He cleared his throat nervously.

‘Ah. You’d like to go back on our books? Of course,’ I said, feeling so hot with excitement that I half expected my thermal knickers to spontaneously combust. ‘Why don’t you come in for a chat and I can show you some of the ladies’ profiles we’ve got currently.’

‘Great,’ he said. ‘I’d love to.’

‘
YES
!’ I shouted, leaping up and punching the air after I’d put down the receiver, having arranged a time for him to come in the very next day. It would mean three back-to-back appointments, which I didn’t really like to do, but the sooner I got Joe Smith back in my sights, the better. Serena the dolly-bird was history – what a result. Now I just had to pick photographs of my least beautiful clients to show him, and with a bit of luck he’d turn that liquid gaze upon me and say, ‘Actually, Lauren . . .’

Oh
yes
.

I barely slept that night, trying to decide what on earth I should wear. Definitely not big thermal pants and a granny shawl, for starters. The problem was, half my clothes were too big for me these days, and I’d been so mad-busy with work that I hadn’t had a lot of time to buy replacements. There were my pre-fat clothes, sure, that I’d worn back when I was with Brendan, but . . . surely I couldn’t get into those yet?

At two in the morning, when I still couldn’t get to sleep for images of a buff, naked Sexy Joe Smith sliding insistently through my mind, I ended up throwing off the covers, switching on the bedside lamp and whipping through the contents of my wardrobe to find all my size twelve to fourteen stuff at the back. Probably won’t fit, Lauren. Don’t get carried away, I told myself.

All the same, my heart was leaping like an overexcited salmon as I plucked the hangers from the rack and laid them on the bed. Ahhh . . . that gorgeous dark green White Stuff dress I’d worn on my first date with Brendan – a lovely winter dress with its long sleeves and thick jersey material decorated with a pale flower print. I hadn’t worn that for a long, long time; hadn’t been able to squeeze my fat ass into it for donkey’s years, you could say. But now . . .

I held it up against my body, draping it over my flannel pyjamas (hey, you can wear what you want when you sleep alone every night), and looked at my reflection in the mirror. Oooh, I’d forgotten just how pretty it was, how confident I’d felt wearing it as I stepped out to meet Brendan for the first time. It gave great cleavage too, this dress. Brendan had barely been able to look me in the eye the whole evening.

Oh, sod it, I was going to try it on – I couldn’t stop myself. Even though it was Baltic cold and the middle of the night. I just needed to know.

I yanked off my pyjama top, shivering as the freezing air hit my bare chest, and pulled the dress over my head, hardly daring to breathe as the material slithered down my body. I turned to look at myself in the mirror . . . and gasped.

Wow. It fitted again. It actually bloody fitted me again. Okay, so it looked a bit kooky worn with pyjama bottoms – I kicked them off hurriedly, barely noticing the goose pimples that were springing up all over my bare legs – but . . . Wow.

I turned to look at myself from the side and tried to get a back view over my shoulder. ‘Look at
me
,’ I whispered to Eddie, who was curled up at the end of the bed. His ears were pricked into cross furry points at all this unexpected midnight activity, and he was doing his fiercest not-happy cat scowl. I didn’t care. ‘Really, Eddie,
look
,’ I urged him excitedly.

Last time I’d tried to put this dress on, I’d almost bust the seams at the waist and along my arms, and my flab had bulged through the material in unsightly lumps. I’d pulled it off in horror, but the disgusting image had seared itself onto my retinas.
What a blob you look, Lauren!
I’d thought, hanging the dress up again and shoving it miserably to the back of the wardrobe.

That had all changed now. The blob was no more. Thanks to all my salsa dancing, my arms looked toned and lean in their jade-green covering, and the rolls of flab that had strained the stitching around the waist had vanished. With a pair of high heels, a big chunky necklace and a few blasts of Chanel No. 5, I was going to look a million dollars tomorrow.

I blew my reflection a kiss. The old Lauren was back in business, and it felt bloody marvellous. ‘Nice to see you again,’ I said to myself.

Then I carefully hung up the dress and went back to bed, falling asleep almost straight away, with a big Cheshire cat smile on my face.

‘Hello there, Joe. How are things?’

He kissed me on the cheek, his hand lingering on my back for a few seconds. It felt fabulous, as if that was where his hand belonged. For a wild moment I wished I’d squirted some superglue there so he could never take it away again. He looked particularly handsome, in an olive-green collared shirt under his black Harrington jacket (I’ve always loved those) and dark jeans that clung to his perfect bum. Not that I was perving at it or anything.

‘Good, thanks,’ he said. ‘Well, you know, hectic at work as usual, but . . .’ He was staring at me, as if seeing me properly for the first time. ‘You look different, Lauren,’ he said. ‘Have you lost weight?’

Oh! Ten points to Joe for observation.

‘Yeah, I think I’ve lost a few pounds,’ I said casually as I led him to one of our interview rooms. I brushed an imaginary crumb off my dress, my heart pounding as we walked in there together. I’d really made an effort. I’d blow-dried my hair so that it fell in shiny copper waves around my shoulders, and I was wearing a glam jet necklace that looked great with my green dress and black skyscraper heels.

‘Can I get you a coffee? Tea?’

He was still staring. This was going like a dream.

‘Really, Lauren,’ he said, eyes flicking all over my body. ‘You’re looking hot.’ He coughed quickly, as if catching up with himself suddenly. ‘Sorry. Bit inappropriate,’ he mumbled.

‘Not at all,’ I said flirtily, twinkling my eyes at him. ‘In fact . . . you’re not looking so bad yourself. Now . . . did you say coffee?’ I knew he hadn’t said any such thing, but he was looking at me so intently I suddenly needed a distraction.

‘A coffee would be great, if you don’t mind. Cheers.’

‘Of course. Do have a seat. I’ll get my assistant to make us some,’ I said, leaving the room and wondering if he was looking at my bottom. I hoped so. It had got a lot perkier with all the salsa dancing, and the high heels I was wearing gave it an extra wiggle as I walked. I rushed along to Patrick.

‘Patch, be a darling and bring us a couple of coffees, will you? Please? And I’ll buy you a beer after work?’

I wouldn’t normally ask Patrick to do menial stuff like coffee making, but I didn’t want to mess things up with Joe either by trying to carry two boiling beverages on my power-stilettos. There was sure to be a horrible scalding disaster, knowing my luck. And so far everything else had gone so damn promisingly: I’d managed not to end up resembling Barbara Cartland when I’d done my make-up, the green dress still looked stunning (it hadn’t just been a dream), I’d got to work without laddering my tights or twisting my ankle on my heels, and Joe had actually called me
hot
, for goodness’ sake! There was no way I was going to let a skin wound spoil the party.

Patrick raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment, other than with a mildly reproachful ‘Coming up, boss.’

‘So,’ I said, once I was back with Sexy Joe. I was sitting very demurely, one leg crossed over the other, hands on my top knee. The interview room wasn’t large at the best of times, housing a single desk, two chairs and a PC, but today it seemed even smaller than usual. Intimate, you could say. And . . . whew! Was it me, or was it warm in there? I could smell Joe’s spicy aftershave and it was making me feel quite swoonsome. ‘You said things hadn’t worked out with you and your ex. Was there a specific reason for the break-up? Sometimes, if you can pinpoint what went wrong, what was missing in the relationship, it can help find you a more suitable partner.’

Yeah, and let’s have a good old bitch about Serena during the process
, I thought cattily.

As it turned out, there was quite a lot wrong with Serena, according to Joe. She’d stopped making an effort, he complained. I thought he was talking about their sex life, but it turned out he meant her appearance. ‘She got lazy,’ he said, as Patrick walked in with a tray of coffee and biscuits. ‘It was like she felt she didn’t need to bother about herself once we’d got together. She stopped shaving her legs. She even forgot to shave her
pits
once, it was disgusting.’ He looked appalled at the memory. ‘And she’d slob about on the sofa in these saggy old grey tracksuit bottoms in the evening.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s not very sexy, is it?’

‘No, of course not,’ I said. I made a mental note to burn my flannel pyjamas. ‘Thank you, Patrick,’ I added meaningfully, as he was still hanging around earwigging.

‘What about her personality?’ I asked, once Patrick had left the room. ‘Was she all you’d hoped for there?’

He looked blank for a moment. ‘Personality . . . Yeah, that was okay,’ he conceded. ‘Oh, but the worst thing was seeing her without her make-up on. Bloody hell. It was like something out of a horror film.’

I laughed, but it was a fake laugh. I was starting to feel kind of sorry for Serena, in all honesty. Wasn’t the woman allowed to chill out once in a while and veg on the sofa with her slap off and her joggers on? Clearly not.

‘The thing is, Lauren,’ he said in that sexy deep voice of his, leaning forward. I was glad to be sitting down because this closeness sent me giddy. ‘The thing is, I just want perfection. I want the lot. Beauty, brains, companionship, fun . . .’ He grinned, his eyes full on mine. I was starting to feel breathless and faint, and my insides were fluttering. ‘Someone like you, basically.’

His words took a second to register in my brain. ‘Someone . . . like me?’ I echoed.

He reached over the desk and took my hand in his. He had big rough chef’s fingers, a firm grip. Oh. My. God. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t feel it too?’ he said hoarsely. ‘There’s something between us, isn’t there? I just find you so bloody attractive . . . I can’t believe I never noticed it before.’

My insides had turned to mush. Soup, even. Was this actually happening? Sexy Joe Smith, holding my hand and telling me he fancied me . . . Surely it had to be a dream. Any minute now I’d wake up and Eddie would be standing on my head, his little pink bum-hole in my face. ‘I . . .’ I gulped, face flaming, trying to think of something powerfully witty or flirtatious. Something that would seal the deal. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I replied in a strangled voice instead. And then, in case he changed his mind, ‘Yes,’ I blurted out. ‘Yes, I can feel it. The thing between us, I mean.’ Oh God. Did that sound like the worst kind of double entendre or what?

He smiled. ‘Then . . . can I take you out for dinner one night? We can get to know one another better. Yes?’

‘Yes,’ I breathed in wonder. ‘Oh yes.’

I was in a daze after he left, unable to quite believe what had happened. He had a night off on Saturday week, apparently, and he said he’d book us a table somewhere nice. His treat. He’d be in touch really soon.

I kept pinching myself, but I still hadn’t woken up. Who would have thought it? I mean, who? Sexy Joe actually wanted to take me for dinner! Sexy Joe had called me ‘hot’ and ‘attractive’ – fact. I had heard him with my very own ears. Christmas had come early all right. There was never going to be a better present than
this.

‘Well, I think he’s an arse,’ Patrick said dismissively. ‘The way he spoke about his ex, like she was a Barbie doll, for God’s sake! Vile.’

‘Ah, but I bet there was more to it than that,’ I retorted quickly. ‘He probably only said that stuff so he didn’t have to go on about how boring and brainless she was.’

‘Hmmm,’ Patrick said, not looking convinced. ‘I don’t trust him. You watch yourself.’

I rounded on him, annoyed that he was putting such a dampener on everything.

‘I thought you wanted me to get off the shelf,’ I reminded him tartly. ‘What about your Mystic Meg boyfriend-by-Christmas prediction?’

‘Yeah, but not with him,’ he countered. ‘I just . . . I don’t want you to get hurt, Lauren. That’s all.’

I gave a hard laugh. Another fake laugh, in fact. I was getting good at them. ‘Me, hurt? Don’t be silly,’ I told him. ‘And it’s only a date! It’s not like he’s asked me to marry him or anything.’

The intercom buzzed just then with my next appointment, so I was able to extricate myself from the conversation. I shook off Patrick’s words – he was just jealous, I told myself. Jealous of me landing a date with Sexy Joe. I couldn’t blame him, really. Who wouldn’t be?

Luckily, not everyone had been so downbeat about my date. Jess and Maddie had been far more excited for me.

‘Oh my God, that’s
so
fab,’ Jess had whooped the following Monday evening. We were in the Feathers after the FatBusters weigh-in as usual, and I’d just filled her and Maddie in with all the juicy details. ‘He sounds well lush!’

‘And Simpsons is
nice
,’ Maddie sighed enviously. ‘Lovely food, and very classy. My mum took me for lunch there a few years ago and it was one of the most delicious meals I’ve ever had.’ She elbowed me. ‘
And
it’s got “rooms”.’

‘Rooms?’ I echoed, not following her.

‘Yeah,
rooms
,’ she repeated with a saucy wink. ‘So make sure you pack your toothbrush in your handbag on Saturday night. If you get on like a house on fire, he might just take you for a nightcap upstairs. If you know what I mean.’