Loch Lomond #2
I cleared my throat, wondering if this was the worst idea in the world.
Now I’d spend the whole day thinking about what might happen later instead of focusing on shooting this footage.
And then, what if I spent the evening wafting around my room with a full face of make-up on, wearing something casual yet alluring, only to be crushingly disappointed when he didn’t, in fact, knock like he’d said?
Because men – well, people generally, actually – were unreliable, weren’t they?
If my own dad could cancel plans to see me at a moment’s notice, I was pretty sure a guy I’d known for less than a day could do the same.
‘Twenty-seven,’ I said.
‘Twenty-seven,’ he repeated.
‘Will you remember that?’ I asked, wondering whether I ought to offer him a pen and the corner of my script.
‘I think so,’ he said, grinning at me.
It was just after eight-thirty when I heard a knock on my door.
I really hoped it was going to be Aidan and not Tim asking me to write another script.
It would be just my luck, and of course I was already stressing that Aidan had changed his mind and wasn’t going to show and I knew I’d be absolutely gutted if he didn’t.
I was wearing a short, denim skirt and a spaghetti-strap top and a chunky cardigan I loved because if you angled your body a certain way, it would slide seductively off one shoulder.
If he didn’t come, it would all have been for nothing.
I opened the door in a casual manner, as though it didn’t matter to me either way who was on the other side of it.
To my great relief, it was Aidan, looking dazzling in the doorway dressed in blue jeans and a striped shirt, open at the neck.
I didn’t notice what he had on his feet.
‘Come in,’ I said, standing aside, giving the room a quick visual once-over, although I’d already done that several times.
I’d arranged the room in a way I thought looked inviting – my book on the bedside table, my earplugs and eye mask out of sight, my laptop open on the desk, MTV playing on the hotel’s TV, some hip-hop track making it look as though I had cooler taste in music than I actually did.
He came in, closing the door behind him.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting,’ he said, nodding at the laptop, which was open on the script I’d been trying to write. We were shooting in Luss the following day. Tim thought it would really suck in the American viewers (of which I didn’t think we had many, but of course didn’t bother saying).
‘I think I’m done for the day,’ I said. ‘Drink?’
He nodded. ‘Sure.’
I flung open the minibar, crouching down to look inside. ‘What do you fancy? Beer? Wine?’
‘I’ll grab a beer.’
I pulled out a can of Brew Dog for him and a pre-mixed gin and tonic for myself. I could sense him watching me, which made me move in a jerky and unnatural way. I needed to relax, and hopefully a drink would help.
‘You lucked out with your room, I see,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a lake view.’
I nodded, handing him the beer and opening my can. I ought to pour it into something. You couldn’t really swig gin and tonic from a can, could you?
‘Just a sec,’ I said, disappearing into the bathroom to grab a glass.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror when I was in there and paused for a second, tightening my ponytail and smoothing down the fluffy hairs around the hairline that drove me constantly mad.
When I got back out, he was standing near the end of the bed.
I put my glass on the side, poured the gin and tonic into it and took the biggest swig known to man.
I took my time, partly scared to turn around, carefully putting the glass back down.
I felt him come up behind me. He put his hands on my stomach, pulling me into him.
It felt dangerous and delicious all at the same time.
‘I’ve been thinking about this all day,’ he said softly, kissing my bare shoulder.
I reached out behind me, my fingers disappearing into the velvety softness of his hair.
He carried on kissing me, on my neck, on the top of my spine, and on the point I loved most, just behind my ear.
I groaned and turned to face him. He wrapped his arms around me, kissing me on the mouth now, so hard I could barely breathe, his teeth grazing my lip, his tongue filling my mouth.
My cardigan slipped off my shoulders and I shook it onto the floor and then, as if in one smooth, continuous movement, he hooked his fingers underneath the hem of my vest, pushing it up over my breasts, the palms of his hands skimming over them as he swept it over my head.
I, in turn, undid the button of his jeans, lowered the zip, pulled them down over his hips.
I stroked the inside of his thigh, trailing my fingers higher and higher up.
Everything felt urgent: his breath coming in ragged bursts, me whispering into his ear.
‘This feels really good,’ I said.
His hands slid under my skirt, his thumb, warm and insistent.
‘I want you so much,’ he said, pushing me back onto the counter.
‘Do you?’ I asked, pulling at his jeans, forcing him to kick them off, doing the same with my underwear.
We moved to the bed. I lay down on my back, cushioned by the tartan throw and the world’s softest duvet, the faint sound of chatter and music floating up from the restaurant below. He lowered himself on top of me.
‘Are you feeling out of control yet?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely,’ I said, laughing lightly.
I closed my eyes, letting myself feel every single sensation as he put his hands on my knees and gently pressed them apart.
Afterwards, we lay star-shaped on the bed for ages, holding hands and chatting. It felt like the start of something.