Chapter 3
Damian | Edinburgh, present day
Why on earth did I ask out a patient? What the hell possessed me? I could leave now, and she’ll never know I was here.
I’m sitting in a speakeasy cocktail bar but my thoughts are anything but ‘easy’ about this situation.
I’ve arrived early enough that leaving is still a possibility.
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. Standing her up is a dick move, I tell myself.
You asked her out, now you have to go through with it.
So I force myself to stay where I am. Part of me is curious to see if Florence shows up, and I haven’t been on a date in ages, though I’m not sure what we’ll have in common.
For something to do, I flick through the black art deco menu with its eclectic assortment of cocktails while glancing surreptitiously at the entrance every five seconds.
I usually don’t have any issue with beautiful girls who lie in my chair with their pearly whites on display.
They’re patients. Off-limits. I most certainly never ask for their phone number at the end of an appointment.
But Florence just smiled, shrugged, and typed it into my phone as if it happened to her all the time.
Our text conversation that night went off without a hitch.
I asked if she was free on Friday. She replied right away, said that she was, and suggested The Brief Encounter, this bar in Stockbridge.
I roll back my shoulders and check if my hair gel is holding.
Just play it cool. Maybe get yourself a drink for something to do. That’s an excellent idea.
At the bar, I order a dram of Glenlivet and down it in one. It tastes like caramel fire as it slides down my throat, and my ears start burning, then my chest. But my nerves remain on edge.
‘Another please,’ I say, and the barman looks amused.
‘Hard day at work or a hot date?’
‘Both,’ I mutter, slinking back to the table, clutching my refill.
I’m three sips in when Florence appears, poised in the doorway, scanning the room. Looking for me.
Holy hell, she’s even prettier than I remember.
I have but moments to observe her before she notices me hidden away here in the back.
Her flowing jet-black hair, large violet eyes, and pale skin are a striking combination.
The dark-purple lipstick is a new addition; she wasn’t wearing that when I was inspecting her teeth.
She has on a high-necked white blouse, a long ruffled purple skirt, and a black fur coat that doesn’t seem fake.
On anyone else, clothes like that would look hideously old-fashioned, but she’s tall enough and gorgeous enough to pull it off.
Anyway, I like that she has her own look: Victorian goth.
Her eyes lock on mine; she smiles, and a shiver runs lightly down my spine as she walks over. That same floaty feeling I had at the end of her appointment washes through me. Like I’m not in control of my thoughts. Like I’m going to do or say something ridiculously inappropriate in her presence.
Get a grip, Damian, I tell myself sternly, clutching my Scotch glass so tightly it’s liable to shatter. It’s just one date, and nothing’s going to happen. Especially not what your dick is hoping for.
‘Hey, Dr Rhodes.’ Florence grins at me, shrugs off her coat, and swings into the banquette beside me. ‘Sorry I’m late, bus issues.’ She pulls her long black hair forward over one shoulder, and I breathe in the scent of dried roses. It smells like nostalgia.
Reluctantly, I drag my eyes from her to glance at my watch. It’s 7.06 p.m.
‘You’re not late,’ I say. ‘I was way too early.’
She crosses her legs and smiles properly at me. God, I’m a sucker for good teeth and hers are almost perfect, apart from a slightly twisted left lateral incisor.
‘I’m usually early too,’ she says. ‘You know what they say, the early bird catches the wriggly worm.’ She arches a dark eyebrow suggestively, and I almost choke on the mouthful of Scotch I’ve just taken.
I swallow painfully as my brain processes the fact that she’s openly flirting with me.
And that I don’t have any condoms ... Wait, why am I even thinking like that?
Even if I am attracted to her, we would need to go out on a few dates at least before anything physical happened.
I’m not the kind of guy that has one-night stands.
I prefer to wait and see if there’s relationship potential there first. It’s a rigid rule for me.
So I’m not going to have sex with someone I just met.
‘What do you want to drink?’ I rasp, trying not to let any of my inner turmoil show as I slide the menu over to Florence.
‘Hmm, let’s see.’ She peruses the menu thoughtfully, tapping her plump lower lip with a long purple fingernail.
I stare unabashedly, my cock twitching in my jeans. So much for not thinking about sex.
‘I think I’ll have a Bloody Mary.’ She winks at me conspiratorially, but I don’t get the joke.
‘Right. Back in a tick.’
I saunter up to the bar to order, feeling more confident now that she’s here. It could also be the two drams of whisky—I’m slightly fried.
‘Can I get a Bloody Mary and a large glass of water? Thanks.’
The barman smirks. ‘Pacing yourself, mate?’
I don’t think he should be commenting on my drinking habits, but he’s right. What if I need to perform? Stop it, Damian. You are not having sex tonight.
‘Something like that,’ I reply with a thin smile.
Florence is busily messaging someone on her phone and smiling to herself when I head back to the table, carrying the drinks, and my chest tightens in alarm.
I knew it, she’s way too pretty not to have other options.
Or maybe she’s got a boyfriend and is considering this a ‘just friends’ type of date?
‘Here you go.’ I place the red aromatic cocktail in front of her, trying not to show I’m bothered.
‘Thanks.’
We clink glasses and say ‘slainte’. She eyes my drink of choice curiously but doesn’t comment.
I take several gulps of water to clear my head, which is suddenly fuzzy as fuck, while she takes a small sip of her Bloody Mary and places it back on the table.
I know I shouldn’t ask who she was messaging, but the question is burning a hole in my brain. Do you have a boyfriend? Do you have a boyfriend?
‘Do you know the history of the Bloody Mary?’ Florence says conversationally. ‘It’s quite interesting.’
I shake my head. ‘Nope.’
‘Well, Bloody Mary was the nickname given to Mary Tudor in the sixteenth century because when she became queen, she burned over 300 Protestants at the stake.’ Florence twirls the swizzle stick around in her drink.
‘So it was named after her?’
‘No, it originated in Paris in 1921, thanks to a bartender, Fernand Petiot—or Pete, as he told me to call him. He had Americans visiting his bar with their canned tomato juice and Russians fleeing the revolution, bringing in vodka. One night, someone wanted a hangover cure. So he mixed them together, added some spice, and voilà! It was a match made in heaven.’
She smiles at me and takes the tiniest sip of her drink. The ruby liquid merely moistens her lips. For all her talk about Bloody Marys, she doesn’t seem that keen about drinking her own.
‘You seem clued-up. Do you have a history degree or something?’ I ask.
She hitches a shoulder and smiles. ‘I’m just interested in learning about the past, and I read a lot of historical novels. What about you? Do you read?’
‘Ah, yeah, I’m mainly into horror and Gothic fiction.’
Florence perks up. ‘Oooh yes, me too. The darker and spookier, the better.’
A somewhat competitive discussion ensues on different titles, but I have to concede defeat.
She’s read far more than I have, and I’m impressed by the way she can condense a plot into two or three sentences, essentially plucking out the heart of the story and making me intrigued to read it.
I make a note on my phone of several books to download later on.
Our conversation flows easily. As well as being attractive, Florence is intelligent, witty, and confidently flirtatious.
It’s early days, but she’s ticking all the right boxes for me, which is surprising.
It’s only when I’ve excused myself to use the men’s and running through what we’ve said (being a dentist, I have a good memory for small talk) that I realise she’s said something a bit off.
Florence made it sound like she knew the guy who invented the Bloody Mary—‘Pete, as he told me to call him,’ she’d said.
But she would have to be over 100 years old now if she knew him back then.
I chuckle a little to myself as I finish and zip up my jeans.
A slip of the tongue. She’s so into her history that she’s imagined herself there in Paris. That’s quite endearing.
Returning from the men’s, I see Florence’s glass is now empty, and she’s twirling a lock of her black hair around her finger. I slide back into the booth, and she leans towards me, our shoulders nearly touching. ‘You were thirsty after all,’ I say teasingly.
‘Always,’ she replies with a low husky chuckle. A swoony feeling and a strong desire to kiss her slide through me. My inner debate fires up again.
I really like her. Should I suggest coming back to mine? But we’ve only just met, it’s too soon.
My stomach muscles tense painfully with indecision, and it feels like I’ve eaten rocks.
Then I hear Florence’s voice saying, ‘Relax, Dr Rhodes.’ I glance at her, and she says, ‘There’s no need to stress.’
But she must be speaking really softly as I can’t see her lips moving. Still, it’s nice that she’s trying to put me at ease.
‘OK,’ I say, and she gives a small chuckle.
A warm glow—a bit like the whisky, but without the burning—spreads over my torso, and there’s a soft persistent pressure on my upper back, like fingers massaging my shoulder blades.
But when I look down, her hands are in her lap.
Weird. I close my eyes, not analysing for once and enjoying this sudden relaxed state.
I usually operate on a medium to high level of anxiety, partly because of how I'm wired and partly due to a traumatic experience from a few years ago. Even after visiting my therapist, I can’t remember feeling so loose, so devil-may-care.
Those two glasses of Scotch must really be kicking in.
Florence slips her hand onto my thigh underneath the table and lets it rest there lightly. I like that a lot. It suggests she’s interested too, and I’m all for women making the first move. Her mauve lips touch the edge of my ear, and I shiver involuntarily.
‘Sooooo do you want another water?’ she whispers. ‘Or do you want to come back to mine?’
Her hand moves higher towards my groin. ‘Definitely yours,’ I whisper back, not bothering to disguise my eagerness.
‘Excellent,’ she says, lightly nuzzling my earlobe. I stifle a moan as my cock stiffens. Florence giggles softly as if she knows exactly what’s happening in my jeans right now.
Hardly knowing what’s going on, except that I have a desperate need to be alone with her (and preferably without clothes), I rise and she hands me my coat, which I fold and place strategically over my crotch.
The barman gives me a wink and a thumbs up as we head downstairs, out of the bar, and into the cold night air, which slaps my cheeks hard; I start to think practically. This is really happening, Damian. You’re going to hers. You need a condom. Why the fuck didn’t you bring a condom?
At this point, I don’t really care where she lives. She could stay in Fife, for all I care, as long as there’s a Sainsbury’s in the vicinity.
Florence loops her arm through mine as we head to the bus stop. ‘By the way’, she says, ‘in case you’re wondering, I live in the Old Town. There’s a Sainsbury’s down the road, and I don’t have a boyfriend.’