Fifty Days of Sin (6 page)

“You’d be surprised what useful
implements I might be carrying about my person,” he counters.

“Now you’re just being weird.
And I don’t much like the other alternative, being deliberately
tripped up.”

“So if I’d done that, you would
have said no, then?” He has a lopsided smile as he asks me.

I gaze at him through my lashes.
“Of course. I do have some self respect.” But I’m afraid that my
face reveals that I’d accept a date with him on any terms at
all.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you
prefer being hit by a car and laid up in hospital for ten days
instead of tripped up. Enjoyed the pain, did you?”

“Oh, it was great,” I tell him
sarcastically. “That’s a bit of a bizarre question, Adam.”

“Well, you should know that I
have a hidden dark side,” he replies.

“Like Darth Vader?” I laugh.

“Yeah – he’s my hero.”

“Really!”

“No, not really. I was just
kidding. I don’t really have any heroes.”

“No-one at all? Not even some
amazing footballer?”

“Especially not some amazing
footballer. No, I suppose there are people I admire, but I wouldn’t
call anyone a hero.”

“Okay, so tell me who you
admire.”

He thinks for a moment. “Duncan
Bannatyne.”

“Oh, the businessman from the TV
show? Dragon’s Den? Why him?”

“Well, he’s done incredibly well
for himself, through sheer hard work, which I admire. And he’s
given something back. I read his autobiography recently. I had no
idea about the work he’s done for charity. He’s worked a lot with
UNICEF. The difference he’s been able to make to so many children’s
lives is pretty inspirational. And there’s no way he’d have been
able to do that if he hadn’t worked so hard and built up that kind
of fortune. So, yeah, I admire anyone who’s successful but
philanthropic, I suppose.”

“That seems fair enough.”

“How about you?”

“Oh, other historians whose work
I’m impressed by. They wouldn’t mean anything to you. Unless – I
suppose there’s one you might have seen on TV if you watch history
documentaries. A woman called Helen Castor; she wrote a book about
women who had positions of power in medieval England fairly
recently, and had her own programme. I can remember watching it and
thinking I’d like to be doing that. She came across as very
intelligent and engaging on screen; and very elegant. She’s a bit
older than me but still very attractive.”

“So while a lot of women dream
of winning the X Factor, the pinnacle of your ambition is to be a
sexy TV historian?” he asks with a smile.

“I’m not sure that’s exactly
what I said, but yes, I suppose a little bit of celebrity would be
quite fun. Although it’s the writing bit that attracts me most, not
the idea of being on TV.”

“Surely you could write too if
you really wanted to, when you’re not lecturing or giving
tutorials?”

“Well, yes, and I have done –
I’ve had four books published. But I suppose my Oxford
contemporaries don’t see the kind of popular history that Helen
Castor has written as sufficiently highbrow. I quite fancy writing
that kind of thing, or even having a go at a novel, but my
colleagues are very elitist. I suppose I care too much about my
reputation to give it a go.”

“Well, personally I think you
should tell your colleagues to get stuffed, and do what you want to
do. I’m hugely impressed that you’ve published four books already,
though. You really don’t look old enough.”

I grin at him. “I’ll take that
as a compliment.”

“You should,” he says sincerely,
looking deep into my eyes. I feel mesmerised by his intense gaze.
“I’m beginning to think you’re a very remarkable woman, Dr
Gardiner.”

I look down, his use of my
surname suddenly reminding me of Michael. I don’t want to think
about the student with a penchant for corporal punishment right
now.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks,
sensing my disquiet, and putting his hand on mine. “I didn’t mean
to upset you.”

“Nothing,” I tell him, looking
him in the eye again. “Nothing important. It wasn’t anything you
said – don’t worry.”

He holds my gaze for what feels
like a long time, still with his hand on mine. The physical
contact, minimal though it is, makes my breath a little ragged, and
I can’t stop looking into his eyes.

The waiter arrives, breaking the
spell, and we order coffee. Now that it’s nearly the end of the
meal, I find that I’m uncharacteristically nervous. The end of the
meal means time to leave, and I know that Adam will drive me back
home.

Will he kiss
me, and what will it be like? Will he come in? Will I feel his
hands on my body, touching me where I like to be touched? I have
been fantasising about what Adam looks like without his clothes for
weeks now. Am I about to find out? Oh, how I would love to make him
hard; how I long to touch his erection and see the desire in his
face as I start to give him pleasure. How I want him to touch me
down there, where I’m getting wet with anticipation already, and
feel him inside me for the first time.
Oh,
Adam.

At last we do leave – after a
slight tussle over the bill, which I eventually allow him to pay on
the agreement that I’ll be paying next time. We go back to his car
– his rather lovely car, a sleek silver Mercedes SLK – and soon
we’ve pulled up outside my house. He gets out and opens the door
for me. Ever the gentleman.

“Thank you,” I smile up at him.
“And thank you for a lovely meal.”

“I should thank you, for your
company,” he replies. He walks me to the front door. “Well,
goodnight,” he says, and puts his hand to my cheek, softly touching
my face. Then he lifts my chin and kisses me, oh so gently, on the
lips. My head reels a little, and I don’t think it’s just because
of the wine.

“Would you like to come in?” I
ask, breathless.

“I would really, really like to
come in,” he answers. I smile radiantly. But then he continues,
“But I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

I can feel my face fall. “Don’t
you?”

He still has
hold of my chin, and he moves closer, kissing me again. This time
he lingers longer, and as my hand rests on his chest both his arms
go around me. His lips part and I feel his tongue silky-smooth
against mine, and my body tingles all over as I feel him let go,
giving in to his desire for me, anchoring his hand in my hair to
pull my face firmly towards him and kissing me hard now, his other
hand reaching down the base of my spine to caress my bottom – oh,
so close to where I want his hand to go,
please, Adam, please touch me there
–
but then he pulls away, still holding me but moving his hands to my
back.

“No. Not yet,” he says with a
small rueful smile. “It’s not long since you got out of hospital.
You need to heal properly.”

“I have healed properly,” I
complain, and then I’m annoyed at my tone of voice. It sounded
rather more desperate than I intended, like a wail of protest. But
it’s true – I couldn’t have done what I did with Michael on Tuesday
night if I wasn’t better.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he
replies. “Believe me, I want to come in. But I think you need a
little more time,” he concludes firmly.

I can see that arguing isn’t
going to get me anywhere, so I try to give in gracefully. “Okay,”
is all I can manage. I’m Adam’s senior but right now I feel like a
pouting teenager being told what to do by an older, wiser man.

He smiles at me, and gives me
one last – brief, chaste – kiss. “Goodnight then. Thank you for
tonight. I had a fantastic time. I’ll get in touch and we can do it
again soon, okay? Would you like that?”

“
Yes. I’d like
that.” He waits until I’m safely inside my front door, and then
he’s gone.

Seven

Sunday, 1 April

“
GOOD HEALTH,”
SAYS KATHY AS SHE raises her half pint of lager in a
toast.

“Yes, here’s to your good
health, Justine, we’re all glad to see you recovered,” agrees
Melanie.

I smile and look around at my
friends. There are nine of us sitting around the big solid oak
table, gathered in this old-fashioned pub for Sunday lunch. Two
meals out in two days – I’m going to be putting weight on again,
especially as I’ve chosen the roast lamb and it’s turned out to be
a huge plateful with thick gravy. It’s tasty though, so I can’t see
myself leaving much at the end of the meal.

“Thanks... it’s so good to see
all of you,” I tell them sincerely. “It’s been ages since we all
saw each other together – what is it, eighteen months?”

“Nearly two years, I think,”
says Simon, sitting to my left.

“Well, that’s far too long!” I
exclaim. “Maybe we can all get together without me having to walk
in front of a car next time?”

We all resolve not to leave it
so long next time and I attack the large pile of roast potatoes on
my plate again. Really, we should make the effort more and I hope
we will be better at it in future. Almost all of the people round
the table with me are friends that I studied with originally, here
in Oxford. Kathy and Melanie have been my best friends for years.
Ever reliable, they both visited me in hospital and came round
afterwards to cheer me up when I was stuck at home.

Melanie has brought her
boyfriend Carl, who seems lovely, despite being disconcertingly
odd-looking – tall, gangly and ginger. Kathy’s younger brother Matt
is here too, along with his very young, very pretty blonde
girlfriend Kelly. Kathy and Matt are touchingly close, despite her
being four years his senior, and she brings him along to a lot of
our get-togethers.

Simon is another of my Oxford
friends. He studied history like me, and has a ferocious intellect;
we used to vie with each other to be the best student in our year.
I have to admit that he probably beat me to that accolade.

That leaves Hannah and Roger,
who are recently married; Roger is one of my exes. Although I
hardly ever think about the times we had together, I occasionally
glance at him and some image from the past flashes into my mind.
Like the day he took me roughly – but very pleasurably - on the
floor of his room, pinning my arms to the floor; or I remember
gazing into his eyes as he caressed my breasts, or looking down at
him as he trailed kisses down my body, past my navel and further
down south.

These mental images are a bit
disconcerting, and I try hard to keep my thoughts on a decent
subject. It’s hard, though, when I’m feeling frustrated because all
I’ve had from Adam so far is a kiss.

Sometimes, too, I catch Roger
looking at me in a strange way and I wonder if he suffers from the
same kind of flashbacks. Oh well, it’s all water under the bridge
now.

“Hey, guys, do you realise we
haven’t yet discussed the hot topic of the day?” asks Melanie. I
grimace. I know what’s coming.

“Of course!” Simon takes up the
theme. “Just exactly how many guys are you shagging at the moment,
Justine?”

I cock my head to one side and
pull a face. “Two.”

“Two?” he parrots,
incredulously. “Only two? That must be a record.”

“I did have a period of
normality when I started out with my first ever boyfriends,” I
point out. “I didn’t always have more than one at a time. So no,
two is not a record. One is my record. In fact none is my record,
as there have been times when I’ve been single.”

“Yes, but what is your other
record? Six?”

“Six!” echoes Kathy. “Honestly,
Simon, you are terrible. It’s four, you idiot.”

“Yes, it is four,” I confirm.
“But right now it’s two. I guess the accident slowed me down.”

In fact, I’m not even sure if
two is right – the only one I’m really sleeping with is Michael. I
haven’t been to bed with Edward for weeks, and the last time I saw
him, we parted and went to bed alone. And Adam certainly doesn’t
count.

They carry on teasing me about
my unusually low number of concurrent boyfriends. Normally I don’t
mind in the slightest; I enjoy being a walking, talking example of
an alternative sexual lifestyle that challenges the ingrained
assumption that society still manages to cling to, that a woman
should content herself with one man at a time, even if that’s not
what she wants. I’m proud of my unusual lifestyle choice. But today
I’m keen to get off the subject and finish.

Last night’s dinner with Adam
was much more like the start to a normal relationship than my usual
style. Complete with worrying about what outfit to wear,
butterflies in my stomach, and ending the evening with no more than
a kiss. Yes, it was really rather a nice kiss – but it was just a
kiss all the same. Perhaps I’m just grumpy because I’m not used to
having to wait to get a man into bed.

Going to bed alone last night
while Adam went home has had a profound effect on me. I was hung up
on him before, but now I really can’t get him out of my head.
Images of our meal together keep replaying in my mind, and more
than anything, I am constantly thinking of his passionate kiss last
night, the feel of his body pressed against mine, his tongue
exploring my mouth and his hand reaching down to caress my behind.
I’m not normally someone who gets sexually frustrated – so now that
I’m suffering, I’ve got it really badly.

The waitress comes to ask if we
want pudding, but after last night’s chocolate pot and having
polished off such a large plate of roast lamb and all the trimmings
I decide against it. Instead I enjoy my wine while some of the
others tuck in to various cheesecakes, tarts and ice creams. The
conversation has turned to everyone’s plans for the next few
weekends, and Simon is mocking Melanie’s taste in films. She’s
managed to get Carl to promise to take her to the Cameron Diaz film
“What to Expect when you’re Expecting” at the cinema next Saturday.
Simon, who thinks it will be awful, tells her that she might as
well throw her money in the bin.