Fifty Days of Sin Page 5

  “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 ar
e 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.

  “You’re not very open minded when it comes to other people’s likes and dislikes,” I chide him. “Mel can watch what she wants at the cinema, she doesn’t need your approval!”

  “Well at least her taste in films isn’t as bad as yours, Justine,” he retorts. “I can remember being round yours one night at university and you made me sit through Moulin Rouge on DVD.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” I laugh.

  “Ugh. It was the longest two hours of my life. Just sitting there waiting for it to finish.”

  “I had no idea I made your life such a misery at university,” I smile at him. “Why do you still put up with me if I’m such a nightmare?”

  “Glutton for punishment,” he shrugs.

  Finally it’s time to go, and Hannah and Roger drop me off at my house, giving me a lift in their prehistoric Vauxhall Astra. Hannah is driving and I don’t miss the opportunity to harangue Roger for doing the stereotypical thing by having a few beers while his wife has to stick to Diet Coke. “Good point,” he tells me, “but frankly, as I’ve got three pints inside me now, I couldn’t care less.”

  “Don’t worry, Justine, we take it in turns,” Hannah assures me. “He hasn’t got me totally under the thumb yet.”

  “I’m glad to hear it!” I reply.

  “Besides, I’m doing everyone a favour really,” adds Roger. “You know what she’s like after a few. The last time she was drunk she insisted that I take a glass of water up to the little men who live in the roof.”

  “I don’t remember a word of it, Justine. I think Roger’s making it all up.”

  “Sorry Hannah, but I don’t find Roger’s version of events hard to believe at all,” I laugh. “You always were a total fruitcake.”

  I thank them for the lift and we say our goodbyes, then I’m back inside the house. I kick off my boots, pick up the newspapers and curl up on the sofa with a big pile of Sunday supplements. Flicking through, I find it hard to concentrate after the wine and last night’s frustration.

  I hear a message tone on my phone. Excited, I wonder if it’s Adam. Perhaps he wants to come over? Oh, how I would love to see him. But it’s Kathy, saying how glad she was to see me better and what a nice meal it was. Smiling at the thought of how lucky I am to have good friends, I connect to the internet and put a post on my Facebook wall saying what a great time I had – complete w
ith a smiley face.

  Wow, that alcohol really must have gone to my head, I think, as I look at what I’ve just posted. I’m a history lecturer at Oxford University, for crying out loud - as a rule, I’m rather too sensible for smiley faces. In truth, those of my colleagues who know that I use Facebook are scathing enough as it is, just because I use social networking media. I usually just tell them that it’s my way of keeping an eye on what my students are getting up to. If they knew about the smiley face I’ve just posted I’d probably be a laughing stock.

  I’m leafing desultorily through a magazine, hardly looking at it as my mind whirls with the thoughts of what I’d like Adam to do to me, when I hear the doorbell. I go to answer it; it’s Michael.

  “Hi, come in,” I say, surprised to see him. He doesn’t normally turn up without contacting me first to see if it’s okay – but I don’t want to turn him away. He is smiling, and kisses me once he’s inside the house, but he looks slightly apprehensive. He takes off his trainers. I’ve told him to do this a hundred times before, as he’s forever treading mud on my beige carpet. “Well done, I’ve finally got you housetrained.” I take him through to the kitchen to make a hot drink.