“Alright, mate! How did you like mixing with the country set? Did you have a good time with Elle?”
“It was… uh… interesting,” replied Sam non-committally.
Keith laughed loudly.
“I bet!”
He rattled around in the kitchen, throwing something that smelled like curry into the microwave. Then he thumped down onto the settee and flicked on the flat screen. His eyes took in the Kindle in Sam’s hands.
“I bet I can guess who got you that!”
Keith snorted but didn’t get a reply. He paused, then spoke seriously. “Listen, mate: I know Elle’s a looker – I mean, she’s stunning – but is it really worth it? It seems like a lot of hard work…”
Sam frowned.
Keith held his hands up, defensively. “Fine, fine. Your choice – and none of my business. Want a beer?”
He tossed Sam a can of lager and flicked through the channels.
“What are you doing tomorrow? I’m meeting up with Wayne and Sylvie and some of the others. We’re going to see in the New Year at the Ram’s Head. You interested?”
“Can’t,” said Sam. “Going to some fancy club with Elle. Don’t say it…”
“My lips are sealed,” said Keith. “Pity though: should be a laugh. And Sylvie’s friend Julie from the Languages department is going to be there – I fancy planting my flag in French soil.”
Sam wondered if it was worth telling Keith that Julie had already shared the information that she was a lesbian. But then again, that would probably just make Keith even keener. Sam smiled to himself and Keith misinterpreted his expression.
“You find your own country to explore, Columbus; France is my territory. Although having met Elle, I guess you must get off on Iceland. Okay, okay! Look, if you get fed up with that fancy club, there’s going to be a lock-in and bacon rolls at 6 am for the hard crowd.”
Sam agreed easily. “Sure. I’ll think about it.”
But by the next, day Sam was more than ready to change his mind and go with Keith instead.
He’d been in the shower when the doorbell rang so Keith had answered. When Sam got back to his room, rubbing his hair with a towel, he found a suit-carrier lying across his bed.
“Er, this just arrived for you, mate,” said Keith, sympathetically. “Elle had it couriered over. I don’t expect you’ll be wearing that to the Ram’s Head.”
Sam stared in disbelief at the starched shirt, black jacket, silk tie, dress trousers and patent shoes. Elle had carefully forgotten to mention any of this when she’d made the arrangements for the evening. Then he sighed. Did it really matter what he wore, if it made Elle happy?
Sensing his mood, Keith backed out of the room and was a good enough friend not to make any further comment.
Sam pulled on the unfamiliar clothes and fumbled with the cufflinks already attached to the shirt. He’d worn black tie to several rugby dinners so at least he knew how to tie one. Well, just about.
He heard the doorbell chime again and voices float down the hall. Wayne and Sylvie had arrived. After a few minutes, Sylvie knocked quietly on his door.
“Hi Sam. Happy New Year. Wow, you look good – very 007. Here, let me help you with that tie.”
She tugged it into shape, then stood back to admire her handiwork.
Sam smiled and gave her a gentle hug.
“Thanks, Sylvie. How are you? Only ten weeks to go now?”
A smile lit up Sylvie’s face and she lovingly stroked her huge belly.
“Yes, I can hardly believe it. Well, I wouldn’t if it weren’t for being the size of a whale.”
Sam laughed. “You look gorgeous.”
“You’re such a liar, Sam! Just because you’ve got the DJ on, you don’t have to come over all James Bond, too!”
“No, I mean it, Sylvie. Pregnancy suits you – and I bet you’ll be a great mum.”
She patted his hand in a friendly way.
“Yeah, well seeing as I’m feeling all maternal, I want to have a word with you about Elle,” she said, in a determined voice. “No, you need to hear this, Sam: I know you don’t want to, but you need to. You let her push you around too much. You’ve got to stand up to bossy women like that: I should know, I’m one of them. But sometimes the way she treats you makes me see red – you’re too… nice!”
Sam shook his head.
“You’re wrong. She’s not like that when it’s just us; it’s when she’s with her friends she’s… different.”
“Hmm,” said Sylvie, unconvinced. “Well, it’s your funeral. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. By the way, how was Christmas?”
She examined his expression and drew her own conclusions.
“Well, I hope you have a good time tonight,” she said. “See you bright and early on Tuesday – staff meeting at 8 am. Have fun!”
She kissed him on the cheek and waddled back down the hall.
Sam stared sourly at his reflection, then turned his back on the small shaving mirror. He transplanted his mobile and house-key into his new jacket and counted the money in his wallet. He’d got £250 out of the cash machine that morning and, after doing the shopping, there was £230 left. God! That ought to be enough for one night out, surely? He hoped so. His bank balance was already on the at-risk list of endangered species. He didn’t want to start the New Year with it extinct.
He walked into the lounge to a bevy of catcalls and wolf-whistles from Keith and Wayne.
“Oh, man! You should see the look on your face!” bellowed Keith.
“You can take my order now,” cackled Wayne.
“Ignore them,” smiled Sylvie. “They’re just jealous because they’re more Brooke Bond than James Bond.”
A horn honked outside. That must be Elle in a taxi. Of course, she wasn’t going to come in and meet his friends.
“Don’t keep her waiting and be careful tonight: the Black Widow kills and eats her mate after boning him,” said Keith, helpfully.
Wayne sniggered and Sylvie threw them an exasperated look.
“Goodnight, sweet lady,” said Sam. “Gentlemen, up yours.”
“Not much of a vocabulary for an English teacher,” Wayne called after him.
Elle was sitting in the cab tapping her foot impatiently. She brightened visibly when she saw how gorgeous he looked in his rented DJ.
For his part, Sam’s misgivings melted away as he studied the low-cut emerald dress peeping out beneath her coat.
“Mmm!” he said, approvingly. “You look unbelievably beautiful tonight. I might just have to check you’re real.”
He kissed her just below her ear and slowly worked his way downwards.
“Behave!” she giggled.
“I don’t think I can,” he murmured. “You’re bringing out my dark side.”
Elle sighed happily and brushed her fingers through his hair.
It was probably just as well that the taxi ride ended when it did, or the cabbie might have had to drive through the fountains at Trafalgar Square to cool them down.
Elle was certainly more than a little pink in the face by the time they got to the swanky private club on Park Lane.
Sam paid the driver and helped Elle out of the taxi. He wasn’t sure how she could stand, let alone walk in such vertiginous heels. Maybe it was something they taught at the expensive school she’d attended.
Taking a deep breath, Sam escorted her into the club. Elle threw her coat to the cloakroom-attendant and was given directions to pass through the double doors into the main room.
Inside, a massive ballroom opened out to display impressive chandeliers, bathing the large, circular tables in a soft light. Each was set for five couples, and grouped in a ring around the walls, with stiff, white tablecloths hanging to the floor. In the centre a space had been cleared for dancing, and Sam could see a band setting up at one end of the long room.
Perhaps three-quarters of the guests had arrived: the men severe in black and white, the women like jewels.
“Yo, Ellie-belly!” shouted a man’s voice.
Elle’s smile looked a little rigid as her eyes followed the direction of the sound.
“Roland, darling,” she said.
“Brought a friend, Ellie-belly?” asked the man, bluntly.
He looked like he’d started celebrating the New Year earlier than everyone else.
“Sam, meet Roland Nash,” said Elle. “He’s our new brand manager. Promises to do great things, don’t you Roly-poly?”
“Hi,” said Roland, shortly, directing most of his gaze to Elle’s cleavage.
He didn’t look at all pleased to see Sam and didn’t offer his hand either, so Sam pushed
his
deeper into his pockets and just nodded.
“We’d love to sit with you, darling,” said Elle, “but I absolutely promised Jamie that I’d talk to his cousin about a job in market research – and I know you wouldn’t have me break my word.”
“Whatever, Ellie-belly, but I’ll be across for a dance later: a slow one.”
Only Sam heard her mutter, “Over my ashes.”
“I think you’ve got a fan there,” he said, both irritated and amused in equal parts at the man’s rudeness.
“God, he’s such a boor!” said Elle. “How we ever landed up hiring him…”
They walked to a table on the other side of the room and Elle introduced him to more of her colleagues. Some of them Sam had heard her mention but this was the first time he’d met any of them. It began to dawn on him that Elle would be working this evening, at least in part. She hadn’t mentioned that to him either.
Their table filled up quickly, and noisy laughter soon spilled out across the room. All but two worked in advertising: Phil was a dentist with his own practice in Harley Stree, and Jacob did something strange in statistics. Neither had much interest in talking to a teacher from Kidbrooke.
Then Marcus, head of PR, made a suggestion.
“Why don’t we all throw in a ton and just get the bar to keep the drinks coming?”
“Better make it two,” said Larry, in the nasal twang of New Jersey.
The others agreed and to Sam’s horror, each of the men threw £200 on the table. The women’s purses stayed closed. Feeling slightly sick, he followed suit. He really hoped Elle had money for a taxi home because otherwise he’d be carrying her; there was no way she could walk in those shoes.
Sam sighed: his next pay cheque was still some weeks away. He’d be eating tinned spaghetti for the next month unless Wayne and Sylvie decided to take pity on him and invite him for dinner. He knew he couldn’t count on Elle to cook anything for him; he strongly suspected that the oven in her smart Islington town house had never been used.
If the men chose to ignore him, Elle’s female colleagues, on the other hand, were very keen to get to know Sam.
“How fascinating!” cooed Miriam, known in the agency as ‘Mim’. “When I think of teachers I always picture Robin Williams in… what was that film?”
“ ‘Dead Poets Society’,” said Sam, automatically.
“That’s it: ‘Daddy, my daddy’!”
“You’re so random, Mim! That’s ‘The Railway Children’,” snorted Rebecca. “You mean, ‘Captain, my Captain’.”
“Who’s right?” asked Mim, knocking back her fifth Manhattan.
“You are,” said Sam to Rebecca. “ ‘O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done’: it’s Walt Whitman.”
“God! A man who can recite poetry – what a turn on! You’re so lucky, Elle!” cried Mim.
Elle looked pleased and leaned possessively against Sam’s chest.
“You know, that makes me think,” said Rebecca. “The ad we’re doing for the French tart perfume – instead of having boring old Lakmé playing in the background, why don’t we have a man reading a poem?” She looked at Sam. “That would be so sexy!”
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” said Elle, grudgingly. “We could look into that when we’re back in the office on Tuesday.”
“Let’s look into it
now
,” said Mim, her eyes on Sam. “What poetry would you recite – if you wanted to seduce a woman?”
Elle narrowed her eyes but Mim ignored her.
Sam smiled.
“It would have to be Byron,” he said. “After all, he was the original mad, bad and dangerous to know.”
“Tell me more!” said Mim, her eyes gazing into his, unblinkingly.
“Even
you
must have heard of Byron,” said Elle, waspishly.
“Don’t be a spoilsport, Eleanor,” said Mim. “I just want to hear what your divine boyfriend says to seduce the ladies.”
“Huh,” said Rebecca, “ ‘Get your coat, you’re pulled’ usually works for you.”
“What about it, Sam?” said Mim, ignoring the comment.
Sam didn’t have to think for long. He leaned back in his chair and half closed his eyes, remembering the words:
“
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
”
When he looked up the whole table was staring at him, open-mouthed.
“Omigod!” choked Mim. “That’s… that’s just…”
“I think he’s just solved our ad problem,” whispered Rebecca.
Elle looked incredibly smug. She pretended to ignore the impressed stares and put her hand on his knee.
“Do you want to dance, darling?” she said.
Sam nodded and stood up, holding out his hand to her.
“Oh, that’s
so
not fair,” moaned Rebecca. “He dances, too!”
Sam led Elle out to the dance floor and she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.
“You were wonderful, darling!” she said, breathing into his chest.
“Happy to be of service,” he murmured.
“Later!” she giggled, tightening her grip.
By 11.30 pm the table was flooded with champagne, and Sam was feeling more than a little light-headed. The party hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected: the conversation more general after the first hour, and the meal above average.
Elle hadn’t wanted to dance much; Sam could tell her feet were killing her, although she’d rather chew off her left arm than admit it. Instead, she flung herself into his lap and insisted that he smudge her lipstick. He knew better than to oblige and instead laid a trail of soft kisses along her bare shoulders.
“Ah, Eleanor,” a voice interrupted them.
“Oh, Crispin!” said Elle, looking up and sounding rather embarrassed, an unusual tone for her.
Sam figured this must be Crispin Fowler, Elle’s boss and one of the three CEOs.