Seductive Viennese Whirl (34 page)

Thanks to my almost non-existent social life and my pay raise, I've actually got money to spare at the end of the month. I've paid off my Visa bill. Everything's hunky-dory. So why do I feel like screaming with boredom?

"Who is he?" says Sten. We're having dinner at Alfred's in New Oxford Street and I haven't touched my oxtail soup.

"What?"

"You've lost about least ten pounds, you've got no appetite and you keep staring out the window."

"There's nobody."

"It's that Alex isn't it? Look, I think it was very forward of you, surprising him at his Schloss and all. You've got spunk, I'll give you that. But when a guy doesn't make a move after a week in the same room with you he's either gay or not interested. Time for a reality check, babe. Now, do you want the spotted dick or the treacle sponge?"

"Neither. I've kind of gone off cake."

"Oh boy, you have got it bad. What you need, doll, is one hot one night stand. Get this guy out of your system."

"You might be right," I say reluctantly. Now where on earth do I find one?

Yours,

Gherkin

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Try and stay focussed

Date: 6 February 2012

Gherkin,

When you said you'd gone off cake I knew that this was very, very serious indeed. In your darkest hours of despair right after your split with Ben you were never 'off cake.'

I don't agree with Sten at all. I don't think Alex is gay, just maybe a bit shy. And I don't think you should forget about him either. You should be making plans to meet him again. As soon as possible! Try and focus on losing the poundage, rather than trawling for another loser guy who will just leave you feeling miserable.

Love,

Egg

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Little drummer boy

Date: 27 March 2012

Egg,

Good news, I am doing really, really well and going to the gym lots. I'm in the middle of one of my marathon cycling workouts, when I see the Weasel. He's a few feet away, on the treadmill, with a six-pack that's just begging to be touched. I don't remember his bod being this hot, but since I've spent more than a year trying to blank out that night we got naked, it's hardly a surprise. I stop pedalling, because my tongue is hanging out of my mouth with lust and getting tangled up in the wheels. Okay, I exaggerate. A little.

"Wow," he says, striding up, flinging a white towel around his shoulders. "You look hot." Not the most original line, I grant you.

In the process of exchanging small talk, I'm surprised to hear Eva's sent him a wedding invite. He fishes around to see if I'm going with anyone, and I pretend I am, although, of course, I don't have a date at all.

"I'm parched," he says. "Do you fancy a drink?"

My head is saying: Run Kate Run, when I hear myself say, "You mean, at the juice bar?"

He laughs like I've just said something hilarious. "No, I mean at a real bar. I could murder a pint."

I figure, what harm can a little drink do? So I say I'll meet him at the entrance, have a quick shower and chat to Doreen while I wait for him. I tell her I'm going for a drink with the Weasel and she's very impressed, tells me she has the worst crush on him. She gets all excited for me and lets me borrow her pink lip gloss and mascara. By the time the Weasel swaggers out I'm all wound up and excited, which leads me to drinking down the first two pints a little too quickly. Since Eva moved out I haven't been imbibing alcohol at my usual reckless rate and my tolerance level is way down. By the third pint I'm feeling very merry. Alex pops into my head briefly, between the third and fourth pints, but I just brush him aside. After my fourth pint the Weasel's suggestion that we take a taxi back to his place seems like a perfectly splendid idea.

So here we are, settled on the sofa chowing down on nachos and salsa, Robert Plant braying in the background, when I spy a bottle of tequila in the liquor cabinet. We start doing slammers and then we keep doing them until we're laughing uncontrollably about nothing, until finally we stop. I'm lying there looking pretty damn slim, in black fitted trousers and a low cut silk blouse. Surely he can't resist me this time, I think, throwing my hair back and raking my hand through it seductively. A mind blowing fuck, just to clear my mind and get me back into the swing of things, that's exactly what I need.

But instead of leaning forward and brushing his lips against mine, he says, "I know we got off to a bad start but I've thought about you a lot. I think you're very sweet."
Sweet?
I'm not sure I want to be called sweet. Sexy, bawdy, horny, hell, I'll even take voluptuous at a pinch. But
sweet
, it makes me feel like I'm a little girl who he wants to look after. He strokes my cheek. "And I love the fact that we're both creatives."

"Hmm," I mutter. "Dealing drugs, very creative." His fingers stop stroking. Why couldn't I have kept my big mouth shut? Shut up Kate. Do you want a shag or not? And then I end up digging myself in a bigger hole. "Not that I condemn it or anything, live and let live, that's my motto."

"Who told you I was dealing?" he snaps, withdrawing his hand and crossing his arms.

"No one," I say, because now that I've blown the whole evening it just remains for me to bury myself in the hole I just dug. "I saw you handing over some powder to Poppy at the gym. And unless she was baking a cake and just happened to need a bag of icing sugar …"

"All right," he says, throwing up his hands. "You got me. But I haven't dealt since then. Scout's honour." "Whatever. Look, thanks for the tequila but I think I'd better be going."

"So soon?" He looks devastated and jumps up. "But I wanted to show you my drums." He walks to a dark corner of the room, flicks on a lamp and sits down behind a pretty fancy looking drum kit. "These past few months have been something of a voyage of discovery for me."

"Oh yes," I say, putting my feet up on the sofa. "And what did you discover?"

"That drumming releases the same kind of adrenaline as coke. It's amazing. You should try it sometime." I'm about to suggest another way of releasing adrenaline, but he's already picked up his drumsticks and is bashing away. He's actually pretty good, drumming along to ‘
Stairway to Heaven.
' He's really putting his back into it, sweat is pooling on his forehead, and dripping down his face, as he picks up speed in time with the record. It's right at the end of the song, where there's just a bit of wailing and drums pounding, leading to a great big climax.

Then this crazy idea comes to me that I'll just take all my clothes off and stretch out and when he's finished drumming he can just get right to work on me. So I do. The song ends and he's sitting there panting away, saying, "Wow, that was great." Then he looks over at me and says, "Oh my God, you look amazing. Roll over." It's more of a command really, and it thrills me. I'm eagerly anticipating what he's going to do. Maybe a trail of hot kisses down my spine? That would be nice, very nice. So I do as he says.

But instead he starts drumming on my calves. Lightly, teasingly, he uses the sticks all up my legs. This isn't some sadomasochistic torture, it's actually quite sensual, if a little off the wall. He makes the skin there feel all prickly and tingly as he moves the sticks up over my bum and taps his way up and down my back.

"Can I roll back now?" My voice sounds croaky because I'm very badly turned on.

"Sure," he says. "You know, I really love drumming."

So I roll over and I figure he's going to put his sticks down and maybe use his tongue or his fingers instead, but it's like the sticks are glued to his fingers. He just can't put them down, and keeps pitter-pattering all down my breasts, and stomach and, oh Jesus, I don't think I can take much more of this. "Close your eyes, babe, and just relax," he whispers, so I follow his orders as his drumming increases in pace on the tops of my thighs. Then abruptly he stops and the sticks clatter to the ground, followed by a soft bump on the ground, which I figure is his belt buckle as he disrobes. I lie there impatiently, ready to feel his hard body settle on top of mine, when I hear some heavy breathing. Well, clearly he's just so excited about the prospect of sleeping with me, is my first thought. But the breathing sounds like it's coming from the floor, so I open my eyes because I'm getting a tiny bit impatient.

I look down to see the Weasel lying there, still fully clothed, looking innocent as a baby. A sleeping baby. I don't believe it. Once is bad luck, but twice is … is, well, words fail me. While I'm pulling on my clothes, the Weasel continues his blissful slumber. Maybe he suffers from narcolepsy, I think indignantly, suddenly stone cold sober.

I'm just about to leave when I remember the knickers I left at his house the last time I was here. I go into his bedroom and start rifling through his drawers, wondering if there's a chance they might still be there. But his drawers are mostly filled with tiny clear bags of coke. Some scales for weighing out the stuff. So many different coloured jars of pills, it's like stumbling into a candy store. Stopped dealing, my foot. I eventually find the knickers, crammed behind some handcuffs.

I lift the handcuffs out, feel the weight of the metal in my hand. So the Weasel really is into all that stuff he talked about while we were playing tell me your fantasy on the phone. So, how about I make his dream a reality. How about if I show him how I really am the ultimate dominatrix?

I giggle as I walk over to the Weasel. Thank God I've been working out as much as I have, else I'd never have been able to drag him across the floor over to his beloved drum kit. He doesn't wake up as I snap one handcuff around his wrist and snap the other handcuff round the metal bar beneath the seat. I pull out the tiny key and put it in my purse.

Half way across London in a taxi I start to feel guilty. I'm wondering if I should go back and unlock him. But I can't, I'm too excited, with bubbles of anticipation bursting in the pit of my stomach. I can hardly wait to get home, kick Eva out of bed and tell her all about it.

A fraction of a second it hits me. Eva isn't at home. And then I feel miserable again.

When I phone her this morning she laughs her head off about what happened between me and the Weasel, but it's not the same as having her here face to face. And visiting her isn't the same either. When I'm up at Glynverstowe, I just felt lonelier than ever. There are always so many guests there that we hardly get a moment alone together.

She asks whether I've heard from Alex. I say that I've forgotten all about him, and she laughs and says that's a likely story.

I quickly switch the subject to her wedding, which takes place next Sunday. Eva's decided to go the whole hog and have an Indian wedding. Well, a sort of Indian wedding, the sari-style gowns were created by hot young designer, Paula Pilot.
Harpers & Queen
have already written a rapturous article about Eva's film debut, although
Captive Heart
is not even out in India yet, let alone the UK. All the guests are being asked to wear Indian inspired designs. She's already sent me my bridesmaid's dress, robin's egg blue, made of raw silk and embroidered with little mirrors and flowers. Even three months ago I might have looked like a sausage in a skin in it, but now it fits perfectly.

My weight loss is something to be proud of, in any case, if not my attempt to keep the Weasel's attention by becoming a human drum.

Love,

Gherkin

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Good for you

Date: 28 March 2012

Darling Gherkin,

I am so, so proud of you for slimming down. As for your temporary loss of sanity in regards to drummer boy, the less said the better.

Love,

Egg

Ms Kate Pickles

96B Trumble Road

Camden

London NW1 3BX

England

4 April 2012

Dear Egg,

It's been hard to get through the last week, because I keep thinking about the dress, hanging in my closet, waiting to be slipped on. I imagine how everyone will look at me, when I walk up the aisle behind Eva. How all the single men will make a beeline for me at the reception. How I'll only take a little sip of champagne so I don't end up red faced and puffy eyed like I usually do at weddings.

Ever since Sparky found out the wedding's Indian themed she's been banging on about a purple kaftan she bought in 1973 that she thinks would be just perfect. Since I don't think Eva will relish having a Teletubby-shaped blob marring her wedding snaps I decide to take Sparky to M&S at lunchtime in an effort to get her to buy an alternative outfit. She zooms around, magnetically attracted to everything with a high nylon content, clashing colours and pussycat bows. In the end, I practically have to straitjacket her into a flowing pastel green dress with a navy paisley print, which looks vaguely Indian. I also get her to purchase a matching handbag, shoes and hat, because I can't risk her picking them out herself.

On the walk back I start thinking that maybe there's a whole new career out there for me, as a personal shopper, maybe at Harvey Nichols. I see myself, leading geriatric women around the place, picking out their stuff and then being treated to lunch at the Fifth Floor Restaurant. I'm making a mental note to ask Sten if he knows anyone in the Personal Shopping department, when I realize Sparky's been babbling on for quite some time with a dopey grin on her face. She's always grinning dopily these days, ever since Demetrios left Mykanos to move in with her. She dumped her mum in an old people's home on the way to pick him up at the airport. Well, why not, I say. I think she deserves some happiness after putting up with fifty odd years of living with the old bat.