Love to Hate You (17 page)

“And is that not to your liking?” I ask, starting to get a little annoyed. Honestly, I've had enough of niceties for one day.

“It's that place that I cannot abide. I can't wait for Ian to resign and start working in one of the many family businesses. He would be spoilt for choice.”

If someone else had put forward the possibility of Ian resigning, I would have jumped for joy, but now, in front of this presumptuous man, I'm suddenly no longer sure of anything.

“That's enough, grandfather,” Ian interrupts us. “Jennifer is my guest and as such I'd like her to be treated with the greatest respect.”

His warning is clear. “Of course, of course. I don't know why I got so carried away. I apologize, Miss Percy – the topic of my grandson's career always makes me very agitated.”

I get the feeling that it's actually knowing that his orders are not blindly executed that bothers him, but I decide to keep it to myself. “Don't worry, our exchange of views was most interesting,” I re-assure him.

Ian and I nod to him and head towards the drinks.

“Well, I can't say that you don't speak your mind,” he says, laughing and offering me a glass of wine.

“As if you didn't know me” I say, knocking it back in one gulp. I may have looked strong, but I'm slightly in shock. “I'm starting to seriously think that you have asked me to come here not to fight off your suitors – because you can manage them by yourself – but to prove something to your family. Something like 'either you respect my choices and stop interfering or I'll marry someone who doesn't let herself get pushed around'. I'm here as a kind of threat. Or maybe better, say, as a warning.”

Ian looks at me for a moment and then bursts out laughing. “I'd never considered that possibility, but now that I think of it, it might be interesting—”

“It's obvious that you
have
thought about it unconsciously. I understand that this environment has probably affected your brain, but don't underestimate yourself, dear,” I say mockingly.

“Can we can have a drink, and try and raise our self-esteem?”

“Sure, but isn't that what we've already been doing?” I hold up my empty glass in demonstration.

“Let me tell you a secret: on pompous occasions like this, you can never drink too much. Always too little.”

“Yes, but I'm already a bit tipsy,” I note with a hint of alarm.

Ian starts coming out with the type of wisdom typical of those who are well into their cups. “Never mind, we'll run away when we're drunk” he replies, with an unconcerned shrug.

To be honest, the idea of running away from this nightmare is quite tempting.

“How about some fresh air?” he suggests, pointing to a door across the hall.

“Come on, I want to go for a walk around the gardens like the heroine of a regency novel!” I say enthusiastically. It seems that I went over my personal alcohol limit quite a while ago.

Ian gives me his arm again and leads me into the garden, which is lit up and beautiful, although cold.

I must be shivering a little because Ian realises it and is already taking off his jacket to cover my shoulders.

“I don't need that,” I protest, unconvinced.

“You're basically naked,” he notes. And in fact I feel much better wrapped up in his jacket, which is still warm from contact with his body, so I decide not to complain too much.

“Okay, if you insist. But I'm only doing it to keep you happy.”

“And there was me thinking that annoying me was your life's goal.” Ian is a lot more relaxed now that we are away from his family's eyes.

“You're right, a lot of strange things have been happening lately. American banks going up in smoke, developed countries going practically bankrupt, the US credit rating in danger and, to top it all off, me not wanting to annoy you. There must be something in the air.”

Ian laughs as we stroll through the garden.

Suddenly, he tenses. “Katie at twelve o'clock” he whispers.

The young lady in question is wearing a flame red dress that doesn't go unnoticed, even in the dark. Has she
only
got red dresses, I wonder?

“Do you want to talk to her?” I ask, trying to work out how to quickly change direction.

“Not on your life,” says Ian. For once, we're in total agreement.

“She's seen us,” I say, noticing the decisive way she's marching right towards us.

“I have a plan,” he whispers in my ear, pulling me closer.

I somehow have the impression that I'm not going to like this plan.

“I'm going to need a bit more collaboration than last time,” he says seriously. And when he firmly lowers his mouth onto mine, I don't have time to be surprised.

I must have drunk too much, because I feel my head actually spinning. I cling to him so as not to fall down, close my eyes and let myself go. My conscience is put to rest by the idea that with Katie this close, the kiss really needs to be convincing, so when his mouth presses on mine and his tongue pushes its way into my mouth, I can't help but let him do it. There's a short moment of hesitation in both of us, but it soon passes: I open my mouth with sudden conviction and surrender myself completely.

A few minutes must have passed, because once we open our eyes, there's no trace of Katie. She has evaporated into thin air. At the sight of our performance she must have thought it was wise to keep going.

At least this kiss made sense, I reflect resignedly, feeling as though my body were waking from a long hibernation. It was a pretty outrageous kiss, I think with a blush. Generally, I'm not the kind of person that kisses like that, and I'm pretty sure that my last long kiss dates back to secondary school.

Ian appears to be reflecting as well, because for a few minutes neither of us dares say anything.

“Hmm—” is my only comment. Not very original, but my brain seems to have abandoned me due to the lack of oxygen.

“Yeah,” agrees Ian, as if a bizarre form of non-verbal conversation were taking place between us.

“I think we might have drunk too much,” I speculate, hoping to play down the effects of the kiss.

But in my head rages the dangerous thought that I'd so like to kiss him again. What's the
matter
with me?

“Obviously,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets, perhaps to overcome the temptation to touch me again.

“What time is it? It's probably late, maybe we'd better to go to sleep,” I suggest, thinking about an escape plan.

“Go ahead, if you want,” he says, without looking at me. “I'm going to stay out here a little longer.”

It is evident that separating seems an excellent idea, so I agree before something makes him change his mind.

“Ok, then. Good night,” I say, while giving him back his jacket and then I set off back up the path from which we arrived.

“Good night,” I hear behind me. I'd like to turn round again, but it's better to just keep going. Far better.

“Jeeennyyyy…”

I wake up suddenly, trying to work out where the voice is coming from.

The bedroom door slams, loud enough to wake the dead, and in the darkness of the room I hear a thud: someone must have just fallen over.

Wide awake, now, and quite worried, I turn on the light next to the bed and see Ian lying face down on the precious antique carpet. When he eventually left the garden, he must have carried on drinking.

I get up and rush over to help him.

“Come on, Ian, give me your hand, let me help you up.” He doesn't seem to hear, so I shake him, but all I get for my pains is an agonised groan.

“Serves you right,” I say, feeling no pity at the sight. “Drinking until you got yourself into this state… well done… very grown up of you.”

Ian manages to raise himself slightly from the carpet. “You'd have got drunk too if you were in my shoes—” he mutters, “… if your grandfather was always going on about the same bloody things to you—”

“Well at least I now understand why you don't visit your family very often. At this rate, you'll be dead of cirrhosis before you turn forty,” I comment in annoyance.

Ian actually manages a chuckle, but it's one of those ugly, drunken ones that makes him sound stupid.

“Don't be mean,” he begs, as he sits up.

“You deserve it,” I say, but at the sight of his suffering face, I relent and hold out my hand again, and this time he grabs it. Only to sit there like a cabbage, staring down my pyjama top at my cleavage.

“Have you had a good look?” I ask in a shrill voice.

“It makes me feel better,” he says, and finally decides to climb to his feet. But he doesn't keep his balance for long.

Very inelegantly, I manage to drag both of us over to the bed, and we fall onto it loudly.

“You're totally pissed,” I say in surprise. He mumbles something unintelligible. “Ian, you're still wearing your dinner jacket – you can't go to bed with that on,” I say.

“Oh, yes I can—” he sighs, closing his eyes.

“Come on, I'll help you,” I say, starting to take off his jacket.

He tries to collaborate as much as he can, but it's still hard work. I try to ignore the strange feeling in my fingers while I unbutton and remove his shirt. He has a perfect body, but I knew that already: clothes don't fit like a glove unless you've got a decent frame to hang them on.

“The trousers,” Ian reminds me.

No – I'm
not
taking off his trousers. “Only if you undo them yourself,” I say, my voice rising. I'm
not
putting my hand
there
. At the thought of it, though, I am suddenly overcome by a wave of abnormal heat.

“Prude,” he mumbles, accusingly, but then somehow manages to get them undone. He holds up first one leg and then the other, and I pull them off.

I know I shouldn't be looking, but I just can't take my eyes off him: he's wearing a pair of tight boxer shorts. Oh God. I'd better keep my mouth shut.

“Come on, get into bed,” I say.

He does as I tell him and, after covering him up, I grab my pillow and am all set to head off towards the sofa when a strong hand grabs me and a moment later I land on Ian's bare chest with a squeak of pure amazement.

“What are you doing?!” I ask in terror.

“Shhh—” he says, pulling me closer.

“Ian, you must have got me mixed up with someone else,” I say, trying to wriggle free, but he has a very strong grip for someone who's almost unconscious. “Ian!” I snap again, starting to get really upset now.

“Will you keep still?” he whispers in my ear. I'm getting goose bumps, and it's really embarrassing.

And lying there in his arms, completely lost, I realise that I have neither the physical nor the psychological strength to leave, so I just give in and close my eyes.

“Good girl. That's better.” He must have sensed my surrender.

Within a few minutes his breathing becomes regular and light. He must have fallen asleep. Despite the alcohol, his skin smells wonderful, and all my senses are wide awake. It feels as though every single cell in my body is incredibly alive.

This isn't good. I try and force myself to think about something else, but it's so difficult.

“You'll pay for this,” I say softly to the zombie sleeping blissfully next to me, its arms around me. And finally, after what seems like an eternity, I too am able to relax enough to fall asleep.

*

What a nightmarish weekend, I'm thinking, when the sound of someone knocking loudly on the door awakens me abruptly.

“Ian!” I hear a voice call from the other side of the door.

I only met her yesterday, but Ian's mother's voice is already unmistakable. He doesn't seem to have heard it, though, and he is still fast asleep, clutching me tightly. The scene is nothing short of grotesque.

“Ian,” I try to wake him up and free myself. “Ian, your mother's here!” I say, but I get no answer.

From outside, the voice gets louder.

“We'll be right there!” I shout, desperately, and then, with a jab of my elbow, I manage to escape from his grasp. The body next to me lets out a gasp of pain.

“Sorry, but you just wouldn't wake up”.

Ian finally opens his eyes. His face is greener than I've ever seen it, and the colour really doesn't suit him, I reflect. Not without a hint of anger, after having been put through the most absurd twenty-four hours of my life.

He tries to sit up, but after a few seconds a wave of nausea overcomes him.

Better and better.

Still clad only in his boxers, he jumps out of bed and races into the bathroom. Great! So
I'll
have to deal with mother.

When I open the door I try and force myself to look as natural and calm as I can. It would probably be better not to upset Lady St John. Her green eyes are wide open and worried, and her hair is oddly mussed.

“Good morning, Jennifer” she says, almost hyperventilating.

“Good morning,” I reply, letting her in. “How is Ian?” she asks, scanning the room in search of her precious son.

The answer comes in the form of a strange noise from the bathroom. Lady St John turns visibly pale.

“Not too well?” she ventures.

“Not really,” I admit. What else can I say?

“Do you want us to come in and help you?” I shout through the door to Ian.

“No!” he answers immediately. And if he'd said yes, I swear I would have sent in his mother.

“Well, at least he still has the strength to answer,” I say, trying to cheer up his mother.

“And what shall we do now?” she asks worriedly.

“Wait for him to come out?” I say, at the risk of sounding sarcastic.

“No, I mean what shall we do with my father-in-law. Last night he had another argument with Ian, and now we're behind schedule too. They're all waiting for Ian.”

The sounds that emerge from the bathroom in the meantime aren't really particularly encouraging.