Sweet Deception (2 page)

It was hard to believe he was only thirty, a mere five years older than me. The contrast between us couldn't have been greater. I didn't need a mirror to tell me how I looked—I'd had enough mornings like these to know that I had mascara
and eyeliner smeared round my eyes, and my bleached hair was sticking up all over the place. I no doubt resembled something even the cat wouldn't bother to drag in.

With a strength I was surprised I could muster, I forced myself off the bed and stood to face him, my arms folded across my chest. “You could've knocked.”

Irritation at being woken, and the pounding in my head, put me on the defensive. But if I was hoping he might apologise, I clearly had no chance. He looked just as furious as I felt.

“And you could have answered the door. I've been ringing that wretched intercom for twenty minutes.”

“Yeah?” I affected a bored look. “Well maybe you should've taken the hint and left.”

“Oh, no, Charlotte.” I winced at his use of my full name—only he and my family ever called me that these days. To everyone else, I was Charlie. “Not today. It's your parents' thirty-fifth wedding anniversary party. You're going, even if I have to drag you there, kicking and screaming.”

I didn't doubt that he would, so I wisely kept my mouth shut. I felt too fragile to be getting into one of our arguments this early in the day.

Richard cast a quick glance around my room. I could sense his disapproval, and I felt a twinge of guilt at the state of the place. Lindsay and I were lucky enough to live in a top-floor warehouse conversion in the heart of Shoreditch.
Even though the area's relentless gentrification meant it was no longer considered cutting-edge, it was still a decent enough area for going out, with lots of good bars and clubs. Our flat was pretty impressive, too—it had double-height ceilings, exposed brickwork and original iron beams. Obviously under normal circumstances the apartment was well out of our price range, but luckily for us a school friend of Lindsay's owned the place, and when his lucrative banking job took him to Hong Kong, he'd let us stay here for a fraction of the market price—I suspected because he had a crush on my friend. We'd repaid his generosity by completely trashing the place.

My room was by far the worst. Dirty plates and mugs were scattered across every surface; it was impossible to see the polished concrete floor with all the clothes strewn over it; and there were two used condoms on the bedside table. Oh, well—at least Richard should give me points for practising safe sex. It still amazed me, my instinctive sense of self-preservation—no matter how drunk I was, I always managed to insist on taking proper precautions.

Richard's eyes finally settled on the naked man in my bed—taking in his long, greasy hair, the piercings and tattoos.

“And who might this be?” Richard made no effort to disguise his distaste. It didn't bother me in the slightest. I'd never made any attempt to hide how I lived my life, and
while this might be the first time he'd been so directly confronted with it, I didn't give a damn if he had a problem with it. If anything, I hoped this might make him stop coming round. It wasn't that I didn't like Richard, I just resented his interference in my life, and went out of my way to remind him of that every chance I got. It had become a game—whenever we saw each other, I'd try to push his buttons, being deliberately rude and ungrateful, and he'd do his best to ignore me. One day I was sure I'd find his Achilles' heel and get him out of my life for good. Until then, I'd just have fun goading him as best I could.

I followed his gaze to my unwanted bedfellow and shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Richard's nose wrinkled at that, which was exactly the reaction I'd been trying to elicit. In fact, I knew exactly who the tatted guy in my bed was. It had come back to me now—his name was Gavin, and he was the lead singer in a band that'd played at the bar a few times. But it amused me to try to shock calm, unflappable Richard.

My bed-mate was by now wide awake and struggling to sit up. His eyes were wide with apology and fixed firmly on Richard. “Aw, shit. I didn't realise she had a boyfriend, mate.”

“He's not my boyfriend,” I said automatically.

“And if I was, you wouldn't still be in that bed. Trust me. Mate.”

Richard's silky-smooth voice belied the threat behind his
words. I could see Mr. Rock Band swallow, hard, and I bit back a smile. Richard might act and dress all corporate, but at six foot three and 180 pounds of pure muscle, it was clear he wasn't someone to pick a fight with. Even if you didn't know he had a black belt in tae kwon do.

He turned his attention back to me, his gaze sweeping over my kimono and dishevelled appearance. “I take it you're not intending to attend lunch looking like that?”

“Of course not. Give me fifteen minutes to have a shower and get ready.”

“You have five. We're already late.”

He didn't need to bother adding that it was my fault we were in that predicament. Earlier that week, when he'd phoned to arrange to pick me up, we'd agreed that I'd be outside, ready and waiting, when he arrived. Personally I thought he should have known better than to expect me to be so willing.

“Fine.” I wasn't about to argue with him, but I had no problem teaching him a lesson for being so inflexible. “If that's how you want it . . .”

Before he could figure out what I was about to do, I loosened the tie on my kimono and slipped it from my shoulders, letting it drop to the floor so I was standing there stark naked.

Perhaps it wouldn't have been such a statement if I had the kind of boyish figure that fashion models possess. But
instead I had Jessica Rabbit curves, which I'd given up trying to hide a long time ago. Even Richard, the master of self-control, couldn't help letting his eyes linger on my 34C breasts a second longer than he should have. I watched his jaw tighten, which was pretty much the biggest reaction I ever got from Richard, and then he averted his eyes.

I crossed the room, walking deliberately by him, and started hunting in my drawer for underwear.

“Jesus, Charlotte,” he muttered.

I turned back to him, affecting an innocent look. “What? I'm just getting ready, like you asked.”

His scowl deepened. “I'm not in the mood for your games today. I'll wait downstairs in the car for you. Be there in five minutes, or I'll come back up and drag you out.”

He swept from the room before I had a chance to reply.

Once he was gone, Gavin let out a long sigh of relief. I started at the sound—I'd almost forgotten he was there.

“Wow.” He shook his head. “That's one tightly wound asshole.”

“Tell me about it.” I turned back to my underwear drawer, selecting the only clean bra and panties left in there. I put them on with my back to Gavin, but he didn't seem to get the hint that I just wanted him to shut up and quietly disappear from my life.

“Well . . .” he drawled, and I felt a wave of exasperation. Why was it that men felt obliged to make conversation with
their one-night stands? I blamed all those movies that suggested women got upset if a guy didn't automatically start proposing when they slept together. I forced myself to face him. Gavin had on what I presumed was the most polite expression he could manage. He scratched his head a little, looking beyond awkward. “I guess I should get your number or something. Maybe we could hang out sometime.”

“Yeah.” I spoke with exaggerated seriousness. “We should totally do that. Maybe go for dinner and a movie. We could hold hands and everything.”

“Huh?”

It took all my willpower not to laugh at his obvious confusion. It was clearly his looks rather than his quick wit that had attracted me last night.

“Look,” I said, as I wriggled into a denim miniskirt and pulled on the cleanest white tank top I could find. “Let's not pretend last night was anything other than what it was. We got drunk, I invited you back to my place, and we shagged. To be perfectly honest, I can't remember much about the whole evening, but I'm guessing that we both got what we wanted out of it. So, as far as I see it, that's pretty much the end of our involvement.”

I couldn't help enjoying the look of astonishment on his face. He obviously wasn't used to the women he bedded behaving this way.

“So you're saying you're happy with what went on last
night. You don't want anything else?”

Ten out of ten for catching on quick. I'd obviously picked up the equivalent of a dumb blonde.

“That's exactly what I'm saying,” I said with exaggerated patience.

He looked at me with the kind of undisguised admiration that should be saved for whoever cures cancer. “You know something? You're a really cool girl.”

“Yeah? My parents will be so proud.”

I reached for my biker boots, my footwear of choice, but then noted the sun streaming through the Velux windows that lined the ceiling. It was late September, but it looked more like mid-summer, and so I slipped on a slightly grubby pair of cream pumps instead. I dug through the pockets of the jeans I'd had on last night, found my purse and keys, and chucked them into the busted-up faux leather bag I took everywhere.

“Help yourself to tea, coffee and whatever we have in the fridge,” I said, as I made my way out the door. It was meant to be a good exit line, but it seemed to throw Gavin even further.

“What? You mean, you don't mind me staying here once you've gone? That's a bit trusting of you.”

“Not really. If you even think about disturbing my flatmate, she'll stab you in the eye, and”—I gave a pointed glance round the room—“if you can find something worth
stealing in here, then you're more than welcome to it.”

The intercom sounded then, Richard's way of letting me know that my five minutes was up. I popped briefly into the bathroom, deciding he'd rather I took the time to brush my teeth and gargle some mouthwash than have me breathe stale alcohol fumes all over him for the two-hour drive.

Once I'd finished, I made the mistake of looking in the mirror above the sink. Panda eyes stared back at me. Why couldn't I ever remember to take my make-up off? I ran a hand through my bleached hair. I was still getting used to it. I changed the colour every few weeks—I'd been everything from bright pink to ebony-black. Platinum-blonde wouldn't have been my choice, but I'd told Lindsay to surprise me, and she had. If my skin had been more tanned, maybe it would have looked tartier—but the white-blonde against my Casper-the-Friendly-Ghost colouring gave me an emo, edgy look, and made my eyes look an even more unnatural cornflower-blue than usual.

A wave of exhaustion washed over me, which had nothing to do with how little I'd slept last night. I so wasn't prepared for this day—lunch with my parents and two hundred of their closest colleagues and friends. I could just imagine my mother's face when she saw me—her trouble-making youngest daughter, the university dropout who worked in a bar—turning up hung-over and in a ridiculously tiny miniskirt, amongst a sea of over-achievers in floral dresses and
suits. Ah, being the black sheep of the family was always a fun role to play.

I took a deep breath, mentally shaking myself out of my moment of self-pity. Then I grabbed some face wipes and stuffed them in my bag, sprayed on a liberal amount of deodorant that I feared still wouldn't mask the smell of fags and booze, and headed downstairs to see what the dreaded day would bring.

I emerged from our flat and ran down the five flights of stairs to the ground floor. My hand trailed against the roughness of the exposed brickwork walls as I went. I could have done without all the jolting around, as my head was still pounding, but it was the quickest way to the bottom. There was a lift—one of those old service elevators, lovingly restored—but at this time on a Sunday morning, it would be experiencing peak-time use, as the other occupants headed out for a leisurely brunch.

Downstairs, in the small lobby of the building, I found Richard sitting on the antique leather Chesterfield couch, waiting for me. A well-groomed brunette sat next to him. It didn't take a genius to figure out that this was his latest girlfriend. He was a serial monogamist, and he definitely had a type—they were all conventionally beautiful, intelligent . . . and somewhat bland. Posh Pashminas, as Lindsay and I liked
to call them. The kind of Home Counties girls who spent their whole life doing the right thing, without ever questioning if it was what they really wanted—they went on skiing holidays; knew how to scuba dive; enjoyed the theatre; had probably taken a year out to travel to India. All before completing a degree at one of the “good' universities and finding a prestigious graduate job in London—law, banking or management consultancy—to tide them over until they could get married.

To me, they were perfectly boring, their lives devoid of any real passion. To Richard, they made the perfect girlfriends.

I cast a look over his latest. She was model-tall and slender, with chocolate-brown hair that fell in Kate Middleton waves around her shoulders, presumably the result of a professional blow-dry this morning. She rose with Richard, and I took in her tailored cream dress that fell demurely below the knee. She was perfectly attired for a late-summer luncheon party. This was the kind of daughter my mother longed for. She was probably only a couple of years older than me, but next to her, I felt like a teenager again.

She greeted me with a friendly smile, and held out her hand. “You must be Charlotte.”

“Charlie,” I corrected automatically, ignoring the hand. That threw her. She glanced over at Richard and frowned, obviously upset about having got a detail wrong. That was
the other thing about his girlfriends—they were all perfectionists and over-achievers.

“Oh, right, of course. Charlie. It's lovely to meet you at last.”