Страница 42 из 72
'We'll have a good time again.' Gently he lifts my chin until I'm looking straight at him, 'I
promise, Emma.'
He leans forward and this time there's no hesitation. His mouth lands on mine, sweet and firm.
He's kissing me. Jack Harper is kissing me on a park bench.
His mouth is opening mine, his stubble is rough against my face. His arm creeps around me
and pulls me towards him, and my breath catches in my throat. I find myself reaching under
his jacket, feeling the ridges of muscle beneath his shirt, wanting to rip it off. Oh God, I want
this. I want more.
Suddenly he pulls away, and I feel as if I've been wrenched out of a dream.
'Emma, I have to go.'
My mouth is prickly wet. I can still feel his skin on mine. My entire body is throbbing. This
can't be the end. It can't.
'Don't go,' I hear myself saying thickly. 'Half an hour.'
What am I suggesting? That we do it under a bush?
Frankly, yes. Anywhere would do. I have never in my life been so desperate for a man.
'I don't want to go.' His dark eyes are almost opaque. 'But I have to.' He takes my hand, and I
cling onto his, trying to prolong contact for as long as possible.
'So… I'll… I'll see you.' I can barely talk properly.
'I can't wait.'
'Neither can I.'
'Jack.' We both look up to see Sven at the gate.
'OK,' calls Jack. We stand up and I discreetly look away from Jack's slightly strange posture.
I could ride along in the car and-
No. No. Rewind. I did not think that.
When we reach the road, I see two silver cars waiting by the pavement. Sven is standing by
one, and the other is obviously for me. Bloody hell. I feel like I've suddenly become part of
the royal family or something.
As the driver opens the door for me, Jack touches my hand briefly. I want to grab him for a
final snog, but somehow I manage to control myself.
'Bye,' he murmurs.
'Bye,' I murmur back.
Then I get into the car, the door closes with an expensive clunk, and we purr away.
SIXTEEN
We'll take it from there. That could mean…
Or it could mean…
Oh God. Every time I think about it, my stomach gives an excited little fizz. I can't
concentrate at work. I can't think about anything else.
The Corporate Family Day is a company event, I keep reminding myself. Not a date. It'll be a
strictly work occasion, and there probably won't be any opportunity at all for Jack and me to
do more than say hello in a formal, boss-employee ma
more.
But… you never know what might happen next.
We'll take it from there.
Oh God. Oh God.
On Saturday morning I get up extra early, exfoliate all over, Immac under my arms, rub in my
most expensive body cream and paint my toenails.
Just because it's always a good thing to be well groomed. No other reason.
I choose my Gossard lacy bra and matching knickers, and my most flattering bias cut summer
dress.
Then, with a slight blush, I pop some condoms into my bag. Simply because it's always good
to be prepared. This is a lesson I learned when I was eleven years old at Brownies, and it's
always stayed with me. OK, maybe Brown Owl was talking about spare hankies and sewing
kits rather than condoms, but the principle is the same, surely?
I look in the mirror, give my lips a final coat of gloss and spray Allure all over me. OK.
Ready for sex.
I mean, for Jack.
I mean… Oh God. Whatever.
The family day is happening at Panther House, which is the Panther Corporation's country
house in Hertfordshire. They use it for training and conferences and creative brainstorming
days, none of which I ever get invited to. So I've never been here before, and as I get out of
the taxi, I have to admit I'm pretty impressed. It's a really nice big old mansion, with lots of
windows and pillars at the front. Probably dating from the… older period.
'Fabulous Georgian architecture,' says someone as they crunch past on the gravel drive.
Georgian. That's what I meant.
I follow the sounds of music and walk round the house to find the event in full swing on the
vast lawn. Brightly coloured bunting is festooning the back of the house, tents are dotting the
grass, a band is playing on a little bandstand and children are shrieking on a bouncy castle.
'Emma!' I look up to see Cyril advancing towards me, dressed as a joker with a red and yellow
pointy hat. 'Where's your costume?'
'Costume!' I try to look surprised. 'Gosh! Um… I didn't realize we had to have one.'
This is not entirely true. Yesterday evening at about five o'clock, Cyril sent round an urgent
email to everyone in the company, reading: A REMINDER: AT THE CFD, COSTUMES ARE
But honestly. How are you supposed to produce a costume with five minutes' warning? And
no way was I going to come here today in some hideous nylon outfit from the party shop.
Plus let's face it, what can they do about it now?
'Sorry,' I say vaguely, looking around for Jack. 'Still, never mind…'
'You people! It was on the memo, it was in the newsletter…' He takes hold of my shoulder as
I try to walk away. 'Well, you'll have to take one of the spare ones.'
'What?' I look at him blankly. 'What spare ones?'
'I had a feeling this might happen,' says Cyril with a slight note of triumph, 'so I made
advance provisions.'
A cold feeling starts to creep over me. He can't mean-
He can't possibly mean-
'We've got plenty to choose from,' he's saying.
No. No way. I have to escape. Now.
I give a desperate wriggle, but his hand is like a clamp on my shoulder. He chivvies me into a
tent, where two middle-aged ladies are standing beside a rack of… oh my God. The most
revolting, lurid man-made-fibre costumes I've ever seen. Worse than the party shop. Where
did he get these from?
'No,' I say in panic. 'Really. I'd rather stay as I am.'
'Everybody has to wear a costume,' says Cyril firmly. 'It was in the memo!'
'But… but this is a costume!' I quickly gesture to my dress. 'I forgot to say. It's um… a
twenties summer garden-party costume, very authentic…'
'Emma, this is a fun day,' snaps Cyril. 'And part of that fun derives from seeing our fellow
employees and family in amusing outfits. Which reminds me, where is your family?'
'Oh.' I pull the regretful face I've been practising all week. 'They… actually, they couldn't
make it.'
Which could be because I didn't tell them anything about it.
'You did tell them about it?' He eyes me suspiciously. 'You sent them the leaflet?'
'Yes!' I cross my fingers behind my back. 'Of course I told them. They would have loved to be
here!'
'Well. You'll have to mingle with other families and colleagues. Here we are. Snow White.'
He shoves a horrendous nylon dress with puffy sleeves towards me.
'I don't want to be Snow White-' I begin, then break off as I see Moira from Accounts
miserably being pushed into a big shaggy gorilla costume. 'OK.' I grab the dress. 'I'll be Snow
White.'
I almost want to cry. My beautiful flattering dress is lying in a calico bag, ready for collection
at the end of the day. And I am wearing an outfit which makes me look like a six-year-old. A
six-year-old with zero taste and colour-blindness.
As I emerge disconsolately from the tent, the band is briskly playing the 'Oom-pa-pa' song