Love Lies

He is absolutely bloody gorgeous.

Besides his strength, and height, and dirty grin and soul-searing eyes, he has broad shoulders that reduce to a neat stomach, slim hips and the cutest bum. Anyone who has ever read a copy of Heat magazine knows that his weight and level of fitness tend to fluctuate depending on how much boozing he’s doing at the time, but right now I’d put money on him having stomach muscles taut enough to climb up. He is wearing a pale grey T-shirt and some battered, low-slung jeans that threaten to slip – that is part of the allure – no socks or shoes. I’m not normally a feet sort of girl. I couldn’t tell you what Adam’s feet

‘It’s hot in here,’ I comment pathetically.

Scott stares at me and holds my gaze. ‘Isn’t it,’ he murmurs. I know, know, know that he’s a practised seducer. He is sort of Don Juan, Casanova and James Bond all at once. Of course, he will have looked at hundreds, perhaps thousands, of women in exactly the same way as he’s looking at me now. And I know, know, know that should make him less desirable –

But it doesn’t.

‘Have you ever played strip poker?’ he asks, flashing me his famous flirty-flirty grin.

‘No. And I don’t think I’ve ever been asked to, least not since I was about thirteen,’ I laugh, nervously.

What a daft, obvious thing to suggest. How ridiculous. Like I’m going to fall for that. I have a boyfriend; it’s inappropriate to even imagine that I might consider it. A live-in boyfriend. We are practically married.

Practically.

We’re not married, are we? We’re not even engaged. And this flirtation with Scott is just a bit of fun, it doesn’t mean anything. It isn’t going anywhere. Anyone would do the same. Kill for the chance to. No one is going to get hurt by this bit of fun. Playing strip poker would just be more fun; a lot more, maybe. It’s not serious. Besides, he’s bare-footed, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, add in boxers (assuming he’s not commando); that’s just three items of clothes. I’m wearing pumps, a vest top, a skirt, a zip-up top, knickers, bra, belt, earrings and about a dozen bangles – plus I’m pretty damn good at cards.

‘It’s a laugh,’ he says with another filthy, bold, irresistible smile. He speaks with great certainty and a hint of challenge, and his words slosh my common sense clean away. I’m high on his presence and the crazy red room; even though I haven’t been drinking I feel as drunk as a sailor.

‘OK, deal.’

11. Fern

We are evenly matched but I stupidly lose my advantage every time I consider the possibility of seeing Scott Taylor in his undies. It is a real possibility because he’s not afraid of showing his crown jewels (there are a number of websites that prove my point here – by displaying photos of him flashing his bits), plus he often shows his ass to the press if they’ve irritated him. My distraction makes me careless and hasty in my betting decisions. He seems to be able to keep a clear head and plays a ruthless game. Before I know it my shoes, zip-up top, belt and jewellery are piled in a heap to one side and he hasn’t lost an item of clothes.

‘You are a hustler,’ I say. ‘You were shelling out match-sticks left, right and centre but since we’ve been playing for clothes you haven’t lost a hand.’

He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and smiles at my charge; proud rather than chastised. ‘I win, again,’ he mutters, laying down his superior cards.

Bugger, now I’m in real trouble. Skirt or vest top? Shedding either is going to leave me very exposed. I offer thanks to the cellulite god for not having sent that plague my way just yet (it’s due on tomorrow’s bus no doubt, now I’m thirty) but in the meantime I could probably risk taking my skirt off and not scaring him. But, my knickers! They are cheap, faded, big and blue. Not

‘You are biting your lip,’ says Scott.

‘I do that when I’m nervous,’ I admit. I hope the lip-nibbling is provocative rather than creating the impression that I’m entering a gurning competition.

‘Shit, you’ve drawn blood.’ His face instantly floods with genuine concern. ‘Fern, Christ, it’s not that serious, keep your top on. It’s a game.’ He leans close and carefully but firmly smudges his thumb across my lips; he shows me the smallest drop of blood on his thumb and then sucks the blood clean away. It is the most erotic gesture I have ever been fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of.

Good God, I’ve died and gone to heaven.

I quickly glance towards the security guy but he’s seemingly oblivious to our floor show. He’s reading a tabloid and has his back towards us. In a flash I put my hand up my skirt and drag off my baggy blue knickers. Triumphant at solving the immediate dilemma of which garment to

I’m not a vain girl but I’m not stupid either. He has the most enormous boner straining at his jeans. Result. I win the next two hands in quick succession. Scott Taylor can’t concentrate on anything other than me because I’m knickerless!

‘I think we should call it a day now,’ I say as he starts to unbutton his jeans.

‘Really?’ He pauses, fingers on his fly buttons, ready to snap and tug if I give the word.

‘Really,’ I say with quite some reluctance. On the one hand there’s nothing I’d like more than to be buck naked with Scott Taylor. It’s the stuff fantasies are made of but I can’t go any further. I shouldn’t. I mustn’t. The room is hot and red and the plumes of smoke hang in the air, creating a vibe similar to that of the nightclubs of old. I can taste sin. It’s delicious. But can I stomach it? I don’t think I can.

But then.

He moves a fraction closer and our lips are just centimetres apart. If I kissed him now, he’d kiss me back. I know he would. It wouldn’t mean anything, I realize that it’s just the sort of thing rock stars do, but he would kiss me. Which would be fantastic, wouldn’t it? What a story. What a way to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. That single kiss would snatch me from the jaws of normality. For just a moment I’d spit back at the ordinariness that suffocates my days. If I kissed this rock legend I would at least have something to tell my grandkids when I’m a wizened and ugly old woman. I lean a smidgen closer too.

Grandchildren.

Adam.

Fuck.

Adam!

I pull away from Scott a moment before our lips mesh. Bloody hell, what am I thinking of? I have a boyfriend. A boyfriend of four years who I’ve always been absolutely faithful to. I can’t snog a man just because I’ve been playing cards with him for two hours and I have no knickers on. What in the world am I doing with no knickers on? Hot flushes of shame rush through my body, overwhelming the feelings of lust that have dwelt there all morning. How have I allowed this to happen? Why haven’t I had any control? A fantasy figure is my birthright. A flirtation is understandable. An affair is downright nasty. I’m not nasty – although I am a disgrace! Being with Scott has made me forget Adam even exists. That’s terrible. OK, this morning Adam disappointed me horribly, we clearly have a lot to talk about and sort out, but I can’t just rush off and kiss another man. Even if the man is Scott Taylor. Even if it is my birthday. Even if…

His lips are rose pink, plump cushions. Slightly fuller lower lip. Cheeky. Up-turned. Tempting. I feel myself edging towards him again.

No! There are no even ifs. It’s clear cut. I have a boyfriend. Adam. I have Adam. I have to pull away. ‘It’s my birthday today,’ I blurt suddenly, jarring my head away from his. I don’t know why I say this, a desperate attempt to break the tension I suppose.

‘Happy birthday,’ says Scott, jumping up and moving quickly away from me.

I fight a fleeting feeling of disappointment. What did I expect? That he’d demand I kiss him? That he’d be in the slightest bit regretful that we didn’t play tongue tennis? How stupid. The man probably never had any intention of kissing me; it was probably all in my imagination in the first place. Or if he was going to kiss me it obviously meant nothing to him. No more than sipping on his water bottle – an impulse to quench.