Crystal Balls (10 page)

Winding up the window, I notice the outline of dried lip-marks on it, the detailed lines on full display like a fingerprint waiting to be traced.

Desperate to escape the filthy vehicle and making a mental note to never use this firm again, I hand over a five-pound note. “Keep the change. Cheers.”

“Ta, love.” His heavy Liverpudlian accent collides comically with his ethnicity.

The cab door swings open unexpectedly and a smooth pristine-white glove reaches in. Startled, I look up to take in a man dressed in black trousers with long grey tails and a matching top hat.
Quickly realising it is the concierge, I take his hand gracefully and swing my legs out, placing both feet flat on the ground, knees together, before allowing him to take my weight and pull me from
squalor to splendour. I feel like royalty.

“Good evening, madam.” He smiles at me with a happy sincerity. “Will you be dining with us this evening?”

By God, this place is amazing.

“Yes, I will. If you could direct me to The Platform restaurant I would be most grateful.” Best behaviour already.

“Let me show you, madam.”

Following him up the granite-paved ramp, I am personally escorted to a set of revolving brass doors turning at quite some speed it would appear. Flashbacks of my playground days suddenly engulf
me and I recall a single moment of standing alone, watching enviously, as my friends tossed two ropes together, in opposing directions. Squealing with delight, the onlookers jumped into the middle,
one maybe two at a time, elevated and spritely, carried along by the high-energy chant of the spectators, clearly demonstrating the skill of tackling two ropes coming at them, one from each side.
But I could never master it, much as I tried. One rope was fine but not two. My legs couldn’t operate that fast but by God did I try hard!

Kate was the skipping champion. She was tiny and thin and bounced around like a pogo-stick on acid. I was constantly tripping. Isn’t it funny how you hold on to certain memories, mostly
the bad ones? The ones where that feeling of failure and humiliation never leave you.

“Excuse me?” I turn in the direction of the concierge.

“Madam?”

“Do you have another entrance, please?” I raise my eyebrows in recognition of the doors. “I’m not too good with these doors at the best of times.” Lifting my leg a
little, I show the impressive shoe heel to the concierge, seeking a degree of empathy.

He bows slightly in a ‘message understood’ fashion and personally escorts me through the doors and into the reception area, pointing out a set of stairs displaying a sign for
The
Platform. Thank God!
The doors themselves weren’t necessarily the issue. It was knowing when to jump and timing the speed they were revolving. I swear I could have been there all
night!

This place is absolutely incredible. I’ve never actually been inside before, although a few months ago Chantelle and I staggered up the main steps trying to sweet talk the doorman into
letting us into the private members’ bar. We failed fantastically.

But tonight, I am a guest of the hotel, and should a handsome gentleman taking me by the hand be an indication of the total experience, then I’d say I’m definitely in for a good
night.

Climbing the stairs, I grip the handrail, already wobbling slightly, thankful that there was no time for the obligatory gin and tonic usually consumed while getting ready.
God, I need to get
back to the gym.
Out of breath, I reach the top stair and step onto a small landing area, heavily carpeted. My feet sink into its deep-red shag pile. A huge brass mirror is on the adjacent wall
and I risk a quick glance before entering the restaurant.

Throwing my head upside down, I ruffle my hair messily before jerking back up at whiplash speed in an attempt to gain as much height and volume as possible. I love that Mark, my stylist, manages
to get it so poker-straight, but it leaves it with no real body and for a hot business date like I have tonight, that simply won’t do.

“Upside down, Miss Harding? How novel!” a familiar voice murmurs close to my ear.

I feel the warmth of his minty breath.

Oh God, how long has he been here?
It isn’t any wonder I didn’t spot him, wearing a body of hair over my face like an out-of-control cavewoman. But I had to mess it up in
order to fix it. It’s a female thing.

“Brian.” My face is flushed and I’m suddenly stuck for words. “Hi.”

Incapable of anything better, I thrust out my hand to shake his, but Brian clearly spots my awkwardness and simply leans forward, kissing me on the cheek.

“Shall we dine, Miss Harding?”

God, he smells amazing. As he places his masculine palm on the small of my back, I feel his warmth penetrating my body. My spine tingles with the discharge of his energy and my loins work
overtime. Guiding me gently, never losing that physical contact, he ushers me to a table marked
Reserved
and graciously pulls out the chair, holding an assertive hand up to the waiter and
declining his assistance. Ensuring my comfort takes priority, then Brian takes his place opposite and suddenly I am overcome with emotion. Him, this place, the contract, it’s all too much.
What the hell is happening in my life for me to be sitting in the Merchant Hotel, listening to the City’s most eligible bachelor ordering a bottle of Bollinger’s La Grande Année
1997?

Undoubtedly, my success is fast-growing in terms of business performance, particularly for such a young company. But it’s certainly not at a level in keeping with this place, although I
could really get used to a life like this. It’s typical – after years of being single and having no money, just like the bloody buses, everything seems to come at once. But who’s
complaining? Right now, it feels like it’s a case of frantically grabbing whatever I can and stocking up. You never know, the next bus might break down or the timetables might change without
warning.

The waiter deftly removes the foil and wire and firmly grips the cork, twisting only the bottle, expertly. A muted pop sounds and I watch, drooling, as he pours the contents into long slender
flutes.

I wait impatiently for the bubbles to die away.

“Here’s to us!” I smirk then.

Brian, eyebrow raised, questions me. “Us, Miss Harding?”

Knowing full well the game I’m playing, I feign innocence. “Yes, us. Our business relationship and its success.” An angelic expression sweeps across my face but behind it lurks
the devil in disguise, working out my next
double entendre.
“What did you think I meant, Brain?” I lean forward into the table, enjoying this game of ‘catch me if you
can’, my breasts perched on the crisp linen tablecloth, my hands and wrists coloured by its stark whiteness.

“I’m not a man of assumption, Miss Harding.” He raises his glass towards mine. “Certainly not with a woman of your calibre whose presence flatters me greatly.”

Keep talking.

Chink!

Holding the glass by its long delicate stem and eager to display the art of fine dining etiquette, I take a sip of champagne, noting its lavishness, feeling its expense and I roll my eyes with
pleasure as it slides down my throat, massaging it as the bubbles explode. Encore! By God, you can tell this stuff cost the earth – it takes you on a return trip to heaven and back in a
millisecond. That’s what I call value for money. Someone else’s money, of course!

“Mmmm . . . exquisite . . . but such extravagance for a simple business meeting,” I quip slyly.

“What did you expect? Beer?” he laughs. “I never drink beer.”

“Seriously?”

“Never.”

Weird. But impressive.

“Brian, haven’t you forgotten something?” I ask coyly.

“And what might that be, Tina?”

That’s the first time he’s used my name this evening.

“The agenda!” I laugh raucously, attracting the attention of affiliated diners. Two sips and I’m already feeling giddy. And horny.
Don’t give it to him on a plate,
Tina. Make him work for it.

The view tonight is sensational. Before me I take in this virtual statue of a man, muscular in build and striking in profile. I mentally undress him with my vivid imagination, feeling our lips
lock together, longing to feel his manliness vault up against my frame. In short, I’m gagging for it. It’s been too long.

“Madam, are you ready to order?”

Shaking as he strokes the soft flesh of my inner thigh, fingers expertly removing my lace . . .

“Tina, do you need a little more time?”

“What? Erm.” My face burns with embarrassment. “No, no. I’m ready, thank you.”

“Kate,” I whisper. “It’s me. I’m in his house. Oh my God, you should see it!”

Tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, I plump up my lips with a dab of collagen crème. “No, I’m not going to sleep with him. Maybe a kiss or something – but by
God is he drop-dead gorgeous!” I lift my dress with one hand, checking the stocking tops are in battle position, armed and ready for attack. Or better still, defence. “I’d better
go. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Bye!”

Washing my hands, I remove a smudge of lipstick from my teeth and squirt a final measure of Euphoria on my neck and down my cleavage after hoisting it up a little. My stomach feels rather
bulging after such a wonderful meal. Divine in taste but lacking a little in quantity, but made up for by copious amounts of alcohol, filling the gap perfectly though leaving me feeling a little
bloated. And a little drunk.
Pure indulgence.

Out of the blue a repeat thought passes through my veins, stopping me cold and numbing my body. Again. “
The person who is destined to be your soul mate is all around you. Your paths
will cross soon . . . if they haven’t already!”
It’s been staring me in the face all along. It was so close to me I was touching it but couldn’t see it clearly, until
now.

Leaning against the granite sink, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, reminiscing about every time we’ve met. The tingling, the excitement, that feeling in my solar plexus that makes
me hyperventilate until dizziness hits. The physical reaction down south merely at the thought of him.

I think about this evening when his hand was against my back and how desperate I was to spin around, to feel his palm pressed against my breast, to allow his fingers to peel back the black lace,
brushing my hardened nipples, squeezing the tips before taking the full breast in his open mouth, feeling its warmth and wetness, surrendering to a languorous tongue-bath.
How could I have been
so blind?
The chemistry has been there from the start and it’s been reciprocal.

My legs feel a little weak at the prospect of what I am suddenly planning for the rest of the evening, but my reflection staring back reminds me that from head to toe I am perfection,
cosmetically that is. There is nothing much I can do about my freckles but, strangely enough, they’re not bothering me too much tonight. Not since I was a child have my bare legs been on
display, no matter how tanned, and while the thought of their exposure tonight causes me a little insecurity, I can think of plenty of distractions to ease the burden.

Brian sits alone on the white leather sofa holding a champagne flute, watching the fire burn romantically as the rain pelts against the window frame. Operatic tunes sound through the stand-alone
speakers, low in volume but loud enough to gauge the passionate but alien words of the singers predictably declaring their undying love. Or rather
dying
as is so often the outcome.

The room is minimalist and typifies every man’s perfect bachelor pad. It plays home to a cinema-sized wall-mounted TV sitting above the fireplace, and a compact music system with endless
speakers carefully placed in various angles of the room. Real boys’ toys! On the solid floor, polished to precision, lies a huge white rug, immaculate and uninviting.

I tip-toe into the lounge, conscious of damaging the floor but determined not to lose my killer heels. I nestle down close to Brian. Very close.

“I won’t ask what took you!” He laughs, leaning closer, inhaling deeply.

Oh God, please don’t come any closer. Okay, do. Yes, do!

“You smell wonderful, Tina.” His head sinks into my hair, inches away from my tingling neck, and he gently takes a handful of it, savouring its boutique like a vintage wine. This is
all too much for a girl who hasn’t seen more than her Rampant Rabbit for God knows how long.

Brian pulls away, turning to retrieve my drink, and as he hands it over our hands touch and we freeze. With two hands practically clutching the same glass, we stare into each other’s eyes
– his wild with lust and mine desperate to witness the sight of his muscular chest, to run my fingers over it, stroking it, teasing it and giving a clear indication of the level of expertise
awaiting.

“God, you’re sexy, Miss Harding!” he pants breathlessly.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” I wink, taking the glass from him, placing it on the floor away from us.

I sexily kick off my shoes and, lifting my legs, draw my feet onto the sofa. The deliberate motion causes my dress to slide up a little, revealing more thigh.

I take Brian’s hand and boldly place it on the soft denier and like a puppet I control his every move. Holding firm, just above his wrist, with my eyes never losing his, I slide his hand
up very slowly, inch by inch, teasing him. I let out a loud groan as his fingertips touch my bare flesh and try to stop myself from taking his hand and thrusting it deep inside my pants.
Slowly,
Tina. Make him beg for it.

Brian, unable to control himself any longer, suddenly makes a plunge for my lips. His strength topples me over and, no longer in control, I lie helpless on my back as he regains full
authority.

“Are . . . you . . . okay . . . Tina?” His words are broken up between gentle kisses on my neck and I arch my back, feeling the wetness of his tongue flicking expertly, wishing he
would make his way down my body with accelerated speed. I feel a wetness ooze below, ready for him, and as his body leans more heavily against mine I note his hardness and the smell of his
manliness, desperately wanting to feel him deep inside of me.