One Thing Leads to Another
‘That dress is invitingly short,’ he had said to her, smirking and looking up and down her legs. Red with embarrassment and anger, Jessica had not been able to think of anything to say, so shot him a look of contempt instead. ‘Although, of course, I’d much rather see you without any dress on at all.’
Then he had winked, the doors had opened and he’d waited for her to walk out before following after her. He’d not actually touched her or been aggressively abusive, but Jessica had felt degraded and foolish, and to her horror had not been able to help imagining him writhing around on top of her, dribbling lustfully. Too disgusting; so she tried to picture lying on a Bermudan beach to erase the image.
Working for an advertising firm with progressive ideals meant that no member of staff had their own desk; instead each employee at Farrow and Keene had a trolley and a locker, a lap-top and a mobile phone. Having been forced to arrive early as she was suddenly frantically busy, despite feeling in a bean-bag mood, Jessica had settled down on one of the most coveted spots in the building. Then there had been the contretemps with Richard Keeble, and she had only just arrived back at her work-station when Rob turned the corner and appeared beside her.
Older than her by four or five years, Rob was a senior account executive whom she had initially quite liked; she had certainly been flattered that he had so obviously developed a crush on her. He was also much taller than her – always an important consideration – and she thought him reasonably pleasing to the eye. Ever since splitting up with Ed eight months before she had remained more or less single. She’d had a few flings, but nothing serious, and so when six weeks before Rob had asked her out for a drink, she’d accepted. He’d hardly bowled her over, but he had made her laugh and she’d quite enjoyed herself. Emboldened, he had then asked her out to dinner. Knowing the implications, Jessica had accepted – after all, he was offering to take her to Sartoria.
They had drunk good wines, followed by liqueurs, before going back to his flat in Notting Hill. By now quite drunk, she got into the cab with him, and he started to kiss her, gently at first and then hard and urgently. Vaguely aware that his style of snogging was a little aggressive for her tastes, she broke off. But by then they had reached his flat, and headed straight for his bedroom. Slightly cursing her drunken lack of self-control, she found herself looking up at his face, now etched with grim concentration, while he humped up and down on his black-sheeted bed.
That Saturday morning she made a quick escape. She hated mornings at the best of times, but on this occasion she had a persistently throbbing head and was disgusted with herself for letting things go so far the previous night. The last thing she wanted was any sort of conversation. So, making her excuses, she told him she had to drive down to her parents and that she’d see him next week.
Monday had been fine – not too awkward at work, and he had discreetly invited her back to his flat for supper. Although still a bit unsure about how she felt, she decided to go. From there the relationship moved forward, but not at all as Jessica had imagined. The first week found her liking him more and more, and she thought she might even want to go out with him properly – certainly his love-making seemed calmer. But then he became a bit … well, wet. He would say anything to please her and was no longer witty or interesting. When she began an argument – mainly to get a rise – he would simply acquiesce. She started avoiding him at work and finding excuses not to see him in the evening or at weekends. Eventually, she had realized that although he must have got the message, he had obviously chosen to ignore it, and so took him out for a drink and told him that any brief fling they might have had was over. He’d looked absolutely distraught, but then that wasn’t her fault. He would get over it; and she’d make sure never to become involved with anyone at work again.
After that he’d been away for a couple of weeks, but since coming back had continually tried to sit next to her at work. As a result, she’d taken to deliberately coming in later than him, which had meant having to put up with the worst workstations. That morning, though, she’d had to arrive early and Rob had yet again made a move to sit close by, until she’d warned him in no uncertain terms not to. She hadn’t seen him again until later after her meeting. He briskly sidled past her and dropped a note into her lap. She glared at him, but he was already walking off again with his back to her. She unfolded it and read:
Darling Jessica,
I know you think I was being a bit wet with you, but I swear I just wanted to make you happy. Now I know that’s not the way, I will be much more how I was when we first started going out. I know we can be great together, if only you could know how happy you make me! Please don’t ignore this – write back and let me take you out tonight and we’ll start again all over, with the new improved me.
Rob
Pathetic! Passing notes was the sort of thing schoolkids did. She felt exasperated. Her instinct was to ignore it and simply tear it up. But then she thought that perhaps resorting to his level was the only way to get through to him.
Rob [she wrote],
Can’t you see that by writing that ridiculous message you are being totally pathetic? I will never ever in a million years go out with you again – I’m sorry but it’s the truth. But please just leave me alone, or else I might have to take this harassment to a senior level.
Jessica
Being firm was the only way to deal with him and her annoyance with Rob and men in general renewed her disgust with Richard Keeble. Picking up her phone, she dialled his number.
‘Richard? This is Jessica Turpin.’
‘Oh, hi, Jessica, what can I do for you?’ came the reply.
‘I just want you to know that if you ever speak to me again like you did this morning, I will not be answerable for the consequences. I hope that’s clear. Goodbye.’
She put the phone down and returned to her screen with a sense of satisfaction. Maybe she had over-reacted, but it was important to nip these things in the bud. She had been far too lax with Rob and look what had happened there.
Lying on the sofa that evening, Jessica looked at the long length of her legs extending from her tiny black skirt, which in that position was even more revealing than normal. They were pretty good legs, she had to admit; she was lucky, especially as her mother was so small. All the same, she wondered whether maybe she should buy a trouser suit or two. The day’s events had upset her more than she’d imagined. And would she ever find someone she wanted to go out with for more than a few months? The longest relationship she’d ever had was with Ed and that had only been for a year. No one else had ever made it to the six-month mark. Why did all her boyfriends become so jealous and possessive? It was so tedious and so predictable, and made her feel that emotionally she hadn’t progressed from her teenage years. Admittedly, Rob had never exactly set her heart on fire, but she hadn’t expected him to crumble quite so quickly. She desperately hoped she would find someone to fall in love with, but sometimes seriously doubted it would ever happen. Perhaps she set her sights too high, expected too much. Perhaps she should ring Ed again. But then, even he had become a boring stay-at-home. And as soon as her ardour for him had started to cool, he’d turned into a drooling love-slave. Jessica sighed and turned back to her magazine. Really, it was too much, it really was.
chapter three La Vita è Bella
Leaving Geordie drilling rawl-plugs into the wall, Flin vowed to do his ‘bit’ towards decorating the house in the evenings the following week, and headed off towards Victoria and the train that would take him to Sussex and his destiny. He’d not been sure what to wear, and so had taken Jessica’s advice and decided on very dark brown jeans and a white cotton shirt. Simple and understated. And he was pleased that she had approved of his new haircut.
‘I’ve never seen it so short – very George Clooney and rather sexy, actually,’ she told him soothingly.
‘I think you look a complete prat – trying to be trendy just isn’t you,’ was Geordie’s contribution, although Flin ignored the remark. After all, Geordie had the worst dress sense of anyone he knew, whilst Jessica always appeared the epitome of style and elegance. He didn’t think he was particularly vain, but when Jessica approved of something, he took note. He wondered what Poppy would be wearing, and what her house would be like. It was bound to be stunning. And was this the start of something big? He had a good feeling, he really did.
Standing on deep and sumptuous gravel, Flin was paying the taxi when the front door opened.
‘Flin! You made it! It’s so good to see you!’ said Poppy, skipping over to welcome him with a delicate kiss on the cheek. With chestnut locks now loose and slightly dishevelled about her shoulders, and bits of grass on her bare feet, Poppy appeared a vision of simple loveliness. Leading Flin through the house to the garden, she eagerly told him who else was coming, who was here already, and what fun they were going to have. At this, Flin felt a wave of apprehension sweep over him. He had thought of nothing but seeing Poppy again, but now he was here, he felt suddenly shy. Just what was he doing here amongst all these strangers? Could he really expect to end up in the arms of someone like Poppy? He was beginning to think that he’d made a colossal mistake accepting the invitation. But it was too late for that: in the garden, a few people were milling about by the stream and Poppy gleefully led him over. A Pimm’s was thrust into his hands and introductions made. Flin had never been very good with names. Someone had once taught him a fool-proof method of how to remember who was who, but he’d forgotten that as well. On this occasion he logged a Sally and a Duncan but forgot who everyone else was. But if he worried about being left to fend for himself, he needn’t have done. Poppy suddenly looped her arm through his and asked him to tell her everything that was going on in his life, much to his delight. He started jabbering away enthusiastically, whilst she laughed and clung onto him as though he was quite the most important person in the whole world. Resisting the urge to continue talking about nothing but himself, he then asked her about her last sixteen years. They were now facing the back of the house.
‘OK, but you must let me show you round Pepperfield. After all, we left Salisbury to come here,’ she said, confirming his belief that large houses with one word for a name develop distinct personalities. And, of course, the house was stunning. It seemed to Flin, as Poppy led him from the flagstoned hall, through rooms and along creaking corridors, that every aspect of Pepperfield exemplified wonderful taste. Modern art vied for wall space along with contented-looking family portraits.
‘It’s wonderful, Poppy,’ he told her as they paused to look at some murals, apparently painted by a famous artist who had been friends with her grandmother.
She rested an arm on his shoulder. ‘I love it. I’m so glad we moved all those years ago. Can’t imagine us not living here now.’ She smiled at him, and Flin felt increasingly lustful for the girl who had years before made his life a misery. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go back outside.’
At half past midnight, Poppy and Flin lay against the gazebo at the end of the garden. The brilliant almost-full moon was reflected in the stream; surrounding them were the chalk downs, dark, gently curving and ancient. Between long drags on their cigarettes and lingering sips of their wine, they gazed up at the stars trying to spot constellations that neither of them knew anything about. ‘Doesn’t the Plough look amazing tonight?’ Flin said without really having the faintest idea what the Plough looked like.
‘Wow, look at that shooting star!’ Poppy said.
‘Where?’
‘Missed it.’
The setting was perfect and Flin watched his cigarette smoke drift up into the windless night air. Already seduced by the house and setting, Flin looked down at Poppy, her head in his lap. She looked lovely. It seemed to Flin as though they were held there in a glow of poetic beauty.
‘It’s a good job Mark can’t see us now,’ she suddenly said.
‘Mark?’ asked Flin, alarms ringing.
‘My boyfriend,’ she replied flatly, taking another drag on her cigarette. Flin’s heart sank. By her behaviour towards him, Flin had assumed she was single. He should have known things were going too well.
‘Oh,’ he said, not knowing quite what to say.
‘He’s on a cricket tour,’ she said by way of explanation, and then added, with barely concealed contempt, ‘with all his mates.’
There was a pause and Flin, not wanting to lose the moment, daringly started stroking her hair.
‘Hmm, that’s really nice,’ said Poppy, smiling contentedly, her eyes closed. ‘Do you fancy a fuck?’ she said suddenly.
Startled, Flin felt momentarily wrong-footed. ‘Yes, actually, that would be just marvellous,’ he replied, his heart quickening rapidly. What did he care if the ground was really pretty dewy and hard? Turning her over, he gently laid her on the grass and kissed her, carefully lifting her knee-length cotton dress to reveal legs of cool silk skin. This was turning into one of the best and most exciting nights of his life, and Flin felt his ego being massaged to new heights. The whole scenario seemed to him so unlikely – it was the sort of thing he used to read in the letters at the back of Men Only that did the rounds at school. He was also – and who could blame him? – truly struck by the beauty of the scene: the moon and stars above them, an owl calling in the trees nearby, the gentle gurgle of the babbling brook and the smell of damp, summer grass. Her face seemed magical. He loved looking at the pale outline of her neck and shoulders, creamy light against the dark blue of her skin in shadow, which was rising and falling with her quickening breath. He felt earthy and manly, Mellors with his Lady Chatterley, enveloped in the smell of the damp grass and soil. D. H. Lawrence would have approved.
Afterwards, it suddenly seemed cooler and they were soon back inside the house. A tender kiss and Poppy floated tantalizingly upstairs, the moment gone for ever. But as Flin settled down on the sofa, his mind was positively humming. Was that it? Tomorrow, would she act as though nothing had happened? Could her current relationship survive this? Or was his liaison at the gazebo nothing more than a one-night stand? Having gone over the same thoughts without progressing further for about the thirty-eighth time he finally drifted off to sleep.
At 6.03 a.m., he woke up on the sofa with itchy eyes, a pounding head and a mouth that felt as though it had been in the Sahara for a week with no water bottle. Sun poured through the open curtains in the drawing room. It was another beautiful English summer’s day, and Flin, aware that thoughts of further sleep were useless, decided to walk up to the downs above the house. After a couple of pints of water and some Aquafresh had considerably improved his mouth situation, he was sure fresh morning air would clear the eyes and head. And so it proved.
Up on the downs, his feet sodden by the dew, he found the view everything he had imagined it would be. The sun broke through the morning haze of the valley below, a sylvan carpet encased by soft-curved hills of chalk. Droplets of dew covered the anthills and he marvelled at a prospect so fresh and succulent and green. He breathed in deeply, the pure, cooling air cleaning his nostrils and lungs. All his anxious thoughts had disappeared. Whatever the future held in store, nothing could take away his wonderful evening the night before. Smiling, he thought about the pleasure he would gain from reporting back so positively to Jessica and Geordie. Even at twenty-five, he still felt ridiculously competitive with Geordie and this pact had made him more so. He didn’t know why; it wasn’t as if relationships were a question of one-upmanship, but it had simply always been like that ever since they were young.
When he returned and went into the kitchen to make a much-needed cup of tea, Poppy was already there.
‘Where have you been so bright and early?’ she asked, kissing him casually on the lips.
‘For a walk on the downs. It was fantastic, absolutely beautiful up there,’ he told her as she poured him a mug.
‘How brilliant of you,’ she responded, then added, ‘I adore it here, and I love it when other people love it too.’ Then someone else came in and they were no longer alone. As more people woke, Poppy held court, organizing teas and coffees, and never tiring of putting in more toast, croissants and brewing more hot drinks. She was a perfect host, Flin thought, admiringly, so charming to everyone – including him but not especially so, as though nothing had ever happened at all.
She had affectionately kissed him goodbye, but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be hearing from her again, and admitted as much to Jessica and Geordie when he arrived home later. Geordie was still fiddling about with power drills and planks of wood, and Jessica was painting in a pair of old dungarees, yellow emulsion already covering her hands.
‘So, I think we will still be a house of singletons for a bit longer,’ he told them as Geordie passed him a paintbrush.
‘Oh, well, never mind, darling, I’m sure it’s for the best,’ said Jessica. ‘You certainly don’t want to get caught up in some sordid love triangle. Much better you fall in love with someone who’s unattached. Take it from me.’
‘I agree,’ said Geordie, ‘and now you’re playing catch-up with the painting, so get stuck in.’ Flin reluctantly obliged, lamely slapping paint onto the sitting-room walls, but all the time his mind thinking furiously about Poppy and whether she might, after all, call again.
Tiffany wanted to know all about the party when Flin arrived back in the office the following Monday; she had lived Flin’s eager anticipation of the week before and was dying to know the outcome.
‘Sounds to me like you had a pretty successful time: a party at a great house and a night of hot passion,’ she laughed after Flin had given a detailed account of his weekend’s events.
‘As one-night stands go, it was pretty good,’ Flin admitted with an air of wistfulness not lost on Tiffany.
‘Well, you never know.’ She smiled consolingly at him from her perch on his desk. Flin wondered why he didn’t see more of Tiffany out of office hours – they had lunches together and sometimes went for drinks after work, but so far that had been it – clearly a work friendship only. He supposed they had separate friends, but even so he felt he should ask her over to supper one night now he was in the new house. Or perhaps they would have a house-warming party and she could come to that. Conscious he’d done rather a lot of talking about himself recently, he asked about her weekend. She’d gone to a big party to say farewell to one of her friends who was going back to Australia, and then – and this had been the best bit, she laughed – she’d gone to the Tower of London on Sunday. ‘It was fantastic,’ she effused, ‘and I loved seeing all the inscriptions in the cells. You just don’t get that kind of history back home.’
Flin hadn’t been there since he was a child. As a teenager, you didn’t come up to London to go to museums – you came to hang out at Camden Lock and to see the Cult at the Brixton Academy. And since he’d been living here, sightseeing hadn’t really occurred to him; there always seemed to be something else to do.
‘Have you been to the Natural History Museum?’ he asked her, suddenly remembering how he’d marvelled at the enormous dinosaurs when he was little.
‘No. Is it good?’
‘Brilliant, as far as I remember. I’d love to go again and see whether the dinosaurs really were that big.’
‘There’re dinosaurs?’ said Tiffany, clapping her hands together excitedly. ‘Well, let’s definitely go one day. It’d be fun.’
‘OK, you’re on,’ agreed Flin. But before they could discuss it further, Martina was yelling at them for the weekly department meeting, and they headed off without ever fixing a date.
By the middle of the week, Flin was convinced his weekend foray would be nothing more than a pleasant memory. But then, out of the blue, Poppy phoned. Tiffany took the call and put her through to him, saying in conspiratorial tones, ‘I think it’s her.’ Firstly she apologized profusely for not ringing earlier and then asked him over to her flat. She’d cook him supper and they could watch a film or something. His spirits soared. She was coming back for more. Perhaps in those two days she had even cleared the way with Mark.
Jessica preached caution. ‘Now don’t go blindly rushing in like normal – you know what you’re like.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ Flin assured her. ‘It’s just a bit of a laugh.’
‘Well, that’s fine, but don’t go falling madly in love with her until the boyfriend’s out of the way, that’s all I’m saying. Otherwise it’ll only end in tears.’
‘Clearly he’s on the way out though,’ Flin told her, ‘otherwise she wouldn’t be asking me over for a little one-to-one at her place.’
Jessica and Geordie both gave each other knowing looks, but Flin had little time for such cynicism. They were just jealous because he was making such good progress in the competition. This new romance with Poppy was fun and he was going to make the most of it. Spontaneity bred excitement and made life interesting.
Arriving at Poppy’s mansion block on Prince of Wales Drive, Flin felt his pulse quicken with anticipation. Someone was leaving the main front entrance, so he walked straight in without calling on the intercom. At the top of the third flight of stairs he arrived at the door of her flat and knocked firmly, causing the unlocked door to open slightly.
‘Hi, Flin?’ came a voice from within. ‘Sorry, I’m in the bath. Come in and talk to me.’ Her hair was bunched up out of the way, but almost everything else was immersed in a mountain of bubbles. Her feet and ankles were resting on the taps and two nipples, very erect, were also making a point of their existence. ‘Mark’s working late tonight and won’t be coming over, so you’ve got me all to yourself. Give me a kiss.’ So that was clear: Mark was not out of her life yet. But seeing her reclining in the bath Flin thought it fairly apparent what her immediate intentions were.
Once out of the bath she put on nothing more than a silk dressing gown which periodically revealed tantalizing amounts of bare flesh – a breast emerging as she bent over, or a full stretch of thigh when she sat down – perhaps deliberately, but more than anything proving she was a woman at ease with her body and comfortable with having it admired. From the bathroom Flin followed her into the kitchen where she handed him a very chilled bottle of white wine to open. Producing two glasses, she then proceeded to knock up a bowl of pasta, chatting all the while.
There was so much to talk about, and every story seemed fresh and new. She made him laugh and, equally importantly, she laughed at all his jokes too. Having finished the pasta, they moved from table to sofa, and then seamlessly to the floor, where she was lying against him and he was at last doing interesting things with her breasts with one hand and stroking her head with the other. Flin was vaguely aware of a clock striking at least ten when the dressing gown finally slipped away and all the teasing glimpses merged into a whole. He was lying back against the sofa, still dressed, looking up at an incredibly beautiful, slender and totally naked body, her tousled hair hanging forward as her hands were tugging determinedly at his belt buckle. He wanted to savour the moment, so that when he was old and grizzled and had not been with a woman in years, he would be able to think back and remember this completely. Unlike under the gazebo, where their love-making had necessarily been urgent, they now had time to explore each other’s bodies and make every stroke, lick and thrust long and meaningful. As Flin finally shuddered and stiffened, Poppy also tightened with pleasure and then, hugging him tighter in her arms, covered him in kisses. Bliss.