Charlie Glass's Slippers (31 page)

Bad enough that I was struggling to forget about Pal and Lucy. But it’s really, really not ideal, when I was just getting geared up for the prospect of unleashing my inner sex kitten on Jay, to be thinking instead about the huge hug I’d like to give Ferdy. Or about the fact that I’m suddenly a bit choked up, because he went out of his way to think about me . . .

Focus, Charlie
.

I head into the bedroom and into the en-suite bathroom, where I wash the vomity smell off my hands and brush any hint of minted pea off my teeth. Then it’s back into the bedroom. Shoes off, dress off. Deep breath: bra off. Even deeper breath: knickers off. A hasty scrabble in my overnight bag for
the bottle of Tocca’s Cleopatra perfume that I brought for this exact occasion. A spritz all over. A hasty glance in the mirror.

Christ, no, Charlie. Shoes back on! Leg-lengthening, bum-lifting shoes back on.

I put my shoes on. I head to the bed. I sit down. Then I lie down, on my back. This feels, however, far too much like I’m waiting for Galina to come and do dreadful things to my nether regions. I roll onto my side. I attempt a come-hither face. I abandon the come-hither face. I’m just beating myself up for not taking the time to practice a come-hither face when the door opens, and Jay comes in.

He stands stock-still, staring at me, for a long moment.

“Jesus Christ,” he finally says.

Oh, dear God, what does that mean?

Is it good? Is it bad? Is there some element of necessary grooming that has slipped me by? Is my Brazilian wax too extreme? Not extreme enough? Is my spray tan too dark? Is it patchy? Are my breasts simply unrecognizable as secondary sexual characteristics, to a man accustomed to the perfectly spherical globes of Cassia Connelly? Should I have stuck with the safety net of a nice, uplifting bra after all? And if my naked top half is puzzling to him, how in God’s name is he going to feel when he works his way down to my bottom half ?

But just as I’m about to get to my feet, apologize profusely, and offer to take the next train home, a very, very sexy smile spreads slowly across Jay’s face.

“Perfect,” he says, as he starts unbuttoning his shirt with one hand and uses the other hand to close the bedroom door firmly behind him.

chapter nineteen

T
here are quite a
few places I’d rather be at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning than a car-racing circuit. In bed, for example. In bed with Jay, for another example. I’m sure I hardly need to tell you that last night was so unutterably heavenly and amazing that it brought a whole new attraction to the very concept of bed, which—to me, anyway—was hitherto nothing more than a place to watch TV, eat biscuits, and sleep. Hence the fact that I’d rather be back there right now, instead of out here at the side of a kilometer-around racetrack, sipping lukewarm tea from a thermos flask, nibbling a bacon sandwich and wishing A) that I could actually snarf down an entire bacon sandwich; B) then snarf down another one, then another one; and C) that I’d put practicality above glamour, and worn something more comfortable than a pair of Dad’s vintage five-inch wedge espadrilles. Maggie tried these on the other day and couldn’t stop oohing and aahing about how comfortable they are, but an inexperienced heel-wearer like me is already starting to suffer in them. They’re hurting the balls of my feet and going unpleasantly soggy at the toes.

But the good news—though not for Dad’s vintage espadrilles, I guess—is that at least it’s raining.

Nobody else but me, obviously, thinks this is good news.
But then I’m sure nobody else woke up in a cold sweat at five o’clock this morning and dashed to the bathroom for a clandestine half-hour of lunges and squats, just in case the dawn should bring bright sunshine, warm breezes, and the consequent need to put on a dreaded bikini. By half past five, I was conscious of the fact that the light peeking through the curtains might wake Jay up any minute. So I slapped on a bit of tinted moisturizer and gel blusher, zhuzzed my hair up by sticking in a couple of Velcro rollers for a few minutes, and then crept back to bed to arrange myself as prettily as possible against the sheets, in the hope that when he did wake up, he’d continue operating under the delusion that I’m naturally gorgeous (ha!) first thing in the morning (double ha!).

It’s my five o’clock exertions that mean I’m a bit tired right now. Well, that and the fact that I didn’t actually get to sleep until close to three in the first place. Not that I’m complaining, of course—I mean, if there’s a better way to stay up until three than being taken to mind-blowing pinnacles of ecstasy by a man whose sexual technique is surpassed only by his stamina and enthusiasm, then I don’t know about it.

And they were mind-blowing, of course. The pinnacles, that is.

What I mean is that they were
almost
mind-blowing. And would probably have been 100 percent mind-blowing if I hadn’t had that niggling worry about Lucy lodged at the back of my mind . . . and if I hadn’t kept thinking about Ferdy, picking up that Piriton for me and leaving it outside the bedroom . . . and, let’s be honest, if I hadn’t been expending quite a lot of concentration and effort—concentration and effort that might have been better spent enjoying Jay’s expert caresses—worrying that my body was already displaying the unattractive effects of too much lamb navarin and potatoes Lyonnaise. Worrying that at any moment, Jay might encounter some brand-new lump, bump, or stray patch of potato-
induced cellulite that might make him swiftly reassess his earlier “Perfect.” Worrying that, in comparison with his own casual perfection (smooth, tanned skin; beautifully defined shoulder and chest muscles; a real-life six-pack), he might finally notice that I’m not in the same league of Beautiful People he’s accustomed to bedding.

Waiting, I suppose you could say, for the other shoe to drop.

Still, despite
all this, sex with Jay really was pretty great. It’s just that, given my lack of sleep, and my five o’clock attempts to work off that lamb and potatoes Lyonnaise through a rigorous round of squats and lunges (not to mention several dozen step-ups on the side of the bath), I could probably have done without the fact that he woke up all eager for an encore at six. So I’m just a bit . . . well, knackered, is all. And a tiny bit sore. And I think I might have pulled a muscle in my hamstring. Though whether from the five a.m. bathroom workout or from my Olympian workout, at many different angles, with Jay, I couldn’t possibly say.

Jay, though—who, like I’ve said, turns out to have the stamina of an ox—is looking none the worse for his own exertions. But then, he’s a hell of a lot more experienced at certain kinds of exertions than I am. And of course, he’s in his absolute element out here on the racetrack, surrounded by cars.

Lucy—unsurprisingly—is too hungover to get out of bed this morning.
Dying
, she texted me, about half an hour ago, followed by a second text saying
Just had hideous flashback did Jay really carry me to bed last night and did I really throw up in front of him???
When I replied in the affirmative, she texted back
OK. Flashback confirmed. Dying a bit more quickly now.

“Okay there, gorgeous?”

Jay is coming over from where he’s been peering into a BMW’s engine alongside Pal. As for Pal, he’s studiously ignored me so far this morning, a fact for which I’m eternally
grateful. I’m less grateful for the fact that Ferdy appears to be ignoring me, too. He barely even muttered good morning on the driveway this morning, hasn’t yet managed to look me directly in the eye, and is now busying himself tinkering with his own engine. I’m not quite sure what the problem is, especially seeing as everything was so much better between us yesterday. Maybe he’s annoyed that I haven’t thanked him for the thoughtful gift of the Piriton. Or maybe it’s more to do with Jay: the pair of them have been circling each other like wary rhino since we all arrived at the track this morning, holding polite-but-barbed conversations about everything from the prevailing weather conditions to—I’m not exaggerating—the best condiment to serve on a bacon sandwich.

On the basis of our thawed relations yesterday, however, I’d go and ask Ferdy if everything is okay were it not for the fact that I’m curtailed by the presence of Honey. She’s latched herself onto me this morning, pulling a bit of an all-girls-together act and being far less morose with me than she was last night. She’s actually linked an arm through mine as we’ve stood around near the racetrack’s prefab clubhouse, watching the guys tinker with their cars, and keeps letting out little squeaks of terror every time one of them gets behind a wheel and starts up an engine, or slams a hood, or adjusts a wing mirror.

“Fine,” I tell Jay now, keen to show that I’m interested in his greatest passion in life, and that I’m just as lusty and zesty and up for anything out here as I was in the bedroom. “Great, in fact!”

“Not me,” Honey breathes. “I just find all this fast-car stuff absolutely
terrifying
! You boys are all so
brave
!”

“Or stupid, more like,” Jay says. “But hey, I’m all about equal-opportunity stupidity. Don’t you girls want to have a drive, too?”

Honey squeals and cowers behind her croissant, and
I’m just trying to work out a way of saying no that will still make me sound lusty and zesty and up for anything when Jay reaches out a hand and takes mine.

“You can’t say no,” he says, “you do realize?”

“Oh, I wasn’t about to! Well, if I
was
, it’s only because I—”

He’s leading me away from Honey and over to the blue MG that’s parked right next to Ferdy’s Jag. “Do you like her?”

“It . . . I mean, she’s lovely.”

“She’s yours.”

“She’s . . .
sorry
?”

“She’s yours.” He laughs at my startled expression. “To keep, Charlie. To do with, in fact, whatever you wish. I mean, obviously it’d be nice if you actually drove her. But if you just want to park her outside your flat and use her to push up property prices, that’s fine by me, too.”

I stare at him. Over on the grass verge, I can see Honey staring at him. To my right, I can see Pal staring at him. And to my left, I can see—okay, I can feel—Ferdy practically busting a gut with the effort of not staring at him.

“Jay . . .”

“
I couldn’t possibly
is not an acceptable answer,” he tells me.

“But I—”

“Don’t know how to thank me? Charlie, sweetheart, it’s only a little MG. I’ve got two more exactly like it in my working garage down in Kent. There’s no need for thanks. Though if you really, really insist,” he adds, putting both arms down on top of my shoulders and pulling me towards him, “I can probably think of one or two ways you could thank me . . .”

There’s a sudden loud bang from my left, as Ferdy slams his car hood shut with more force than is probably strictly necessary.

Jay grins, and holds the MG’s door open for me. “Go on. Hop in, Charlie—see how you feel behind the wheel. Then you can have a little spin around the track, if you fancy. At
your own pace. I won’t be offended if you want to stick to a safe speed limit.”

I can hardly say no, can I? Not when I want to show Jay that I’m lusty and zesty and up for anything.

This really isn’t the moment to confess that I’m pathologically afraid of fast cars, given the fact that my mother was mown down by a sports car that was doing sixty in a thirty zone.

“Okay!” I smile back at Jay. “I’ll give her a . . . a whirl.”

“Excellent!” He sees me safely into the car, then spends a moment or two going over the basic controls before shutting the door behind me and heading over to finish troubleshooting Pal’s BMW engine.

I’m too astonished by Jay’s sudden gift to do much except sit here with my mouth open, which is why I’m glad when my mobile suddenly rings inside my jeans pocket. I grab at it and answer before checking who it is that’s calling.

“Hello?”

“
Unnnggghhhhhh
.”

It’s Lucy. Oh,
God
, it’s Lucy!

I still haven’t worked out what I’m going to say to her about Pal yet. If, indeed, I’m going to say anything at all. I mean, I know I should. If you find out that your best friend’s boyfriend is a cheaty, sleazy scumbag, then you’re pretty much
required
to tell her.

I’m just not sure if it’s the same requirement—if, in fact, it’s advisable at all—when the newest target of your best friend’s boyfriend’s cheaty, sleazy, scumbaggy ways is you.

But thank God for all that booze Lucy put away last night, because I think it’s perfectly permissible for me to stall a little while longer while she’s under the influence of such a rotten hangover. Even if I do pluck up the courage to tell her the truth about Pal, it will almost certainly be less disastrously received if she’s not suffering from a headache and a churny stomach at the same time.

“Hey, Luce . . . how are you feeling?”

“Like the hangover fairy came in the night, cleaned my mouth out with sandpaper, and stuffed my entire head with cotton wool.” She emits another groan. “I’m so sorry, Charlie. I’m so sorry about all this.”

“
You’re
sorry?”

“Of course. I ruined dinner. I made an idiot of myself.”

“You did no such thing!”

“Pal said it was all seriously embarrassing.”

“Pal’s a . . . Pal’s wrong.”

“Charlie, your boyfriend had to carry me upstairs before I vomited all over his dining room table! Which is another thing I’m sorry about, by the way.” She emits a third groan. “It can’t have made for the most romantic of evenings for you and Jay.”

“It was fine, Luce, I promise you.”

“So . . . you
did
have a romantic evening, after all?” Lucy has perked up by a good 15 percent; I can practically hear, in her voice, that she’s shuffled herself upward a bit on her pillows. “Charlie! Did you do it? Did you have sex with him?”

“I . . .” Despite the fact that Ferdy has gone over to speak to Honey and isn’t standing right next to his car anymore, I wind my window up. “Yes. I did.”

“Oh, my
God
. And how was it? Was it incredible?”

“Yes. It was incredible.” I shove my sun visor down, to block out the fact that Honey has just wound her arms around Ferdy and is kissing him as if he’s about to go off to war, rather than do a couple of circuits around a racetrack. “Well,
he
was incredible. And he seemed to have a great time, which is the main thing.”

“And you? Didn’t you have a good time?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely! Yes!” I realize that I’m inadvertently repeating my main phrase from last night. “Everything was just . . . just brilliant. I mean, it was quite hard work at times, obviously. Quite . . . er . . . challenging.”

“Challenging?”

“Well, Jay’s obviously very athletic . . .”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, not at all! It’s just that obviously, when that athleticism translates into the bedroom . . .”

Lucy giggles. “Oh, now, that can’t
possibly
be a bad thing!”

“Right. It’s not. It’s a great thing. Of course it is. And I’m sure when I get a bit more . . . you know . . .”

“Limber?”

“Exactly! And put in a few more hours on the training front . . .” I break off, because Ferdy has stopped being mauled by Honey and is walking back to his car. “Look, can I come and find you later, Luce, when we’re back at the house? I’ve got to do some driving now.”

“
Driving?
But I thought you were just going to watch . . .”

I hang up, guiltily, on Lucy, slip my phone back into my pocket, and wind down my window, so I can have a chance to speak to Ferdy before he gets into his car.

“Hey!” I say, and then, when he doesn’t hear, I repeat it. “Hey!”

He glances over his shoulder, gives a brief nod, and then gets into his car and shuts the door without actually saying anything.

I’m almost as stunned as I was five minutes ago, when Jay gave me this car.

Except along with the stunned feeling, there’s a pissed-off feeling as well. I gesture at him to wind down his window and, clearly feeling he can’t actually ignore this direct request, the way he’s just ignored my
Hey
s, he complies.

“Yes?” he asks, once his window is rolled down. “Did you want some help with your car or something?” he asks, by way of clarification.