Chapter 7
DAYNA
‘Well, hello, foxy lady.’ I do my best impression of sultry – somewhere between burlesque and total failure – as I step into Amy’s bedroom.
Her hair is curled across one shoulder and held in place by a crystal slide.
Her make-up has been applied, and from the sweet smell of flowers hitting my nose, I’d guess she’s already perfumed.
But she’s standing in her bra and knickers, holding up two dresses.
She lifts the dresses higher, her head poking through the middle. ‘Hey, yourself. H. O. T.’
I strike the only red-carpet pose in my short black Bardot dress that hugs me everywhere it touches. ‘This old thing?’
‘Those shoes. Heart them.’
I kick back one of my very high-end designer shoes – not great for sustainability but I’m connected to a lot worse things currently. ‘I’ll have broken my ankle within the hour. Go black lace, you’ll look stunning in that.’
Whether it’s down to the bubbles or the company of my best girlfriends, I’m feeling lighter, much happier than I have been in too long.
‘Holy hell, call the fire brigade. We’re on fire in here!’ Rachel appears at the door in a fuchsia mini – more Saturday night club than cocktails and dinner, but she rocks it. She’s busy doing an awful impression of a siren when Teddy and Yvette stop at the door. Teddy is in pristine black tie.
‘Seriously? You’re the best we could get?’ Rachel jibes.
‘Can I escort you, ladies?’ Teddy asks, deliberately ignoring Rachel.
I scowl at him, unmoving.
‘I know you’re not still mad at me. Let’s go.’
Despite myself, my scowl won’t hold, and I hook an arm through his, second wing to Yvette’s first. There’s music coming from the lounge.
The lights are down, and I can see the flicker of firelight.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, a smartly dressed waiter appears, holding a tray of what look like French 75s.
‘Happy birthday, Miss Cross,’ he says, inching the tray a little closer towards me.
‘Thank you, ah…’
‘Stefan. I’ll be taking care of you tonight.’
There’s a whoop from behind me, followed by Rachel whispering, ‘How do I get one?’
I don’t want Stefan to feel uncomfortable, but I also can’t hide my amusement. I cover my smile with my fingers and take a cocktail with my free hand, sipping the tasty blend of champagne, gin and lemon.
I move into the lounge, which has been covered with candles. The long wooden dining table has been set and looks immaculate: white linen, black accessories, silver candelabras, crystal confetti. I take in everything, rotating on the spot. ‘Wow, this all looks?—’
Then my eyes find the most mesmerising thing in the room. Clark’s hair is slicked back in a way that makes me want to drag my fingers through it and mess it up. The contours of his face are illuminated by the soft glowing lights – sharp, devilishly hot.
He’s broken with convention; his dinner jacket is velour. Smooth, rich, modern. My fingers twitch with the urge to run down the fabric, over the taut muscles of his torso. He’s ditched a bow tie in favour of opening the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt.
He sits in one of two high-back chairs by the fire, elbows resting on the arms, a French 75 in one hand. His legs are wide, long and athletic.
I’ve seen the pose before. I’ve crawled between his spread legs and unfastened his shirt, trailing my mouth down his abdomen with each button I popped.
I’ve straddled him in a chair just like that and seduced him, his arms holding my hips, taking my weight, helping me move around him while he was buried deep inside me.
Closing my eyes, I sip the cool liquid in my glass, soothing my suddenly parched throat. A hand grabs my chin, making me open my eyelids. Rachel. ‘It does look fabby, doesn’t it?’ she says while the rest of her face screams at me to pull myself together. To stop mind-fucking my ex.
‘Ah, yes, yep. Does. Yes.’
Well, all the girls are on my side, even if Cupid is firing arrows that conspire against me.
And I hope Cupid was a gynaecologist, otherwise that mythological god has no business causing an effect on my downstairs the way he is.
Despite seeing them less than two hours ago, I kiss the others on the cheek: Matty, Tim, Spencer. Clark stands but doesn’t make a move towards me. We stare at each other, unmoving, awkwardness stretching between us. He flinches, as if he might take a step, but doesn’t.
As if this isn’t already complicated enough for the others.
For the sake of our friends, I stride into the silverback’s cage.
Only, I make the mistake of breathing him in and he definitely doesn’t smell like a primate.
He smells rich, indulgent, intoxicating.
A sinful memory. So much so, I’m forced to steady myself with a hand on his chest, finally making the contact I’m craving.
My fingertips slide down the sleek fabric of his blazer, I swear without instruction from my rational brain.
He bends towards my neck, hand on the small of my back. My body betrays me – or gives in – igniting under his touch. I lean my head to expose the sensitive spot right by my collarbone, remembering the way he can bring goosebumps to my skin, and I think I sigh. Fuck.
‘You said if I tried to kiss you again, you’d slap my face,’ he whispers, the caress of his breath beneath my lobe warm, sensual, dangerous.
‘Call it a weak moment.’ I press my lips to his cheek and linger longer than I should, giving him time to tighten his hold on my waist.
Then I come back to my senses.
‘It’s a shame you’re such a fuck-up,’ I say against his ear.
He pulls back, rolling his jaw, and cracks his neck. Oops, I seem to have wounded the ape’s pride.
We talk for almost an hour, everyone in the group taking a role, laughing and joking.
More than once, I take a moment to just sit back and watch my friends, grateful that they get along, immeasurably thankful that they’re here with me.
Many, many times, I glance to Clark and find his eyes already on me.
Dinner brings with it more joviality and a lot of wine.
We finish up a game of Who Am I? over port and cheese.
Teddy was the author of the sticky note on my forehead.
I should have known, without having to ask any questions, that he’d have written Drop Dead Fred, our favourite movie growing up.
Unbelievably, and I suspect thanks to Pinotage, I didn’t guess it right.
Stefan comes to clear the table and tell us that the hot tub is ready.
I nip upstairs and slip into a black all-in-one: backless with a thick halter strap, the two pieces of material coming down across my breasts and meeting at my navel, held together by a gold bar just below my cleavage.
I didn’t know Clark would be here when I packed it but I’m not sorry I brought it.
Outside, the others are already in the tub. Faking courage I don’t have, I drop my towel and take my skimpy swimwear into the steaming bubbles as quickly as I can. I take the last free seat, cursing silently as I slide into the space between Clark and Matty.
‘Okay, time for a game of Never Have I Ever,’ Rachel announces, bobbing into the middle of the tub.
There are protests that we’re too old for the game but ultimately, we’re all feeling the effects of alcohol and maybe feeling nostalgic for university days, so we go with it.
‘Someone hand Dayna a drink, please. When it’s your turn, you come into the middle, and you tell us something naughty, minxy.
’ She shimmies her breasts as she speaks, clearly affected by wine.
‘Right. I’ll go first. I have never… had sex in a hot tub. ’
‘Bullshit!’ I shout.
She opens her mouth wide in protest, then she laughs and drinks. ‘Tim, you’re up,’ she says.
‘I can be if you like.’
‘Seriously? That’s your line?’
Tim laughs as he takes up position, winking with his pectoral muscles as he does. ‘I have never… had sex in a garden shed.’
I practically spit out my drink.
‘Why would you have sex in a garden shed?’ Yvette asks.
Tim shrugs.
‘Bullshit,’ Amy says. ‘It has to be bullshit.’
‘No bull,’ Tim says triumphantly, and Amy takes a drink. ‘I don’t know, man, I guess it’s the tools or something,’ he explains to Spencer as he retakes his seat.
Spencer goes next, with sex on a beach in Belize.
Matty goes with blow-job in a Porsche, at which I can’t help but roll my eyes.
‘I’m up? Okay.’ I move into the middle. ‘First, I am thirty years old, I can’t believe I’m playing this game.’
I receive a loud chorus of boos.
‘Okay, okay. I have never… had a threesome.’
‘True!’ Amy squeals, her volume increasing with each sip of champagne. ‘Although I can believe two guys would want you at the same time.’
Clark waits until I’m back in the sanctity of my seat before he takes his turn. When he gets to the middle, he dips his shoulders under the water and drags a hand back through his wet hair. He might as well have raked his hand over my naked body for the effect it has on me.
He watches me, probably sensing how my body is reacting to him, his lips curving up slightly. Such a small move, you’d have to be paying him close attention to notice.
‘I have never made love all night. The kind that takes over you. And you don’t tire of it, you keep going until you forget everything except just the two of you, until your legs go weak, until sweat runs between you and your lungs forget how to breathe.’
‘Bullshit!’ Amy shouts. ‘No man can go all night.’
My eyes sting, burnt by memories of him, us, those exact feelings. But if he knew what I knew, if he’d felt what I felt, how could he end it?
I contemplate charging out of the tub. Leaving, the way he does right after someone has declared how they feel.
But I stay, and remind myself that he probably spent nights just like that, more nights than we ever did, making Constance’s legs and heart turn to jelly, making her mind blank as the most profound orgasms ripped through her body.
I don’t know who wins. I drink regardless.
I try to muster smiles and laugh in the right places through another two games, but it’s fiction, all of it, because what I really am is pissed off.
At the man sitting next to me, at the way he can get under my skin so easily and spread like a disease.
Angry at the whole damned situation. Above all, pissed off that I can’t stop thinking about his naked body so close to mine, and that I can’t stop everything south of my waistline from aching to be satisfied by him.
The way he feels inside me, grinding against me, and yes, going at me all fucking night.
Teddy and Yvette are first to say goodnight, sometime around midnight.
We shuffle to wish them sweet dreams. As Clark sits back down next to me, his leg presses against mine.
It’s an intentional move, I’m sure. Like the yawn and stretch in the cinema by a fifteen-year-old boy on his first date.
But his touch sets off sparks in me, it ignites passion deep in my bones.
I don’t want it, or rather, I know I shouldn’t want it, but no one has ever held me, sated me, the way Clark has.
I’ve never felt the need to be desired and taken by anyone as fiercely as I have with Clark.
His leg presses harder, more deliberately. He’s talking to Spencer but his hand moves tentatively to my knee.
I can’t. I won’t.
I grab his hand beneath the water and squeeze his fingers hard, the same way I’d wrap my fist around a stress ball to vent frustration. ‘You’ve had too much to drink,’ I grate through my teeth. I tell the group I’m going to my bed so I can rise early and get in a full day on the slopes.
Spencer, of all people, throws daggers at Clark, which makes me wonder whether he saw the altercation, then he hugs me and tells me not to let the bed bugs bite.
As I climb the stairs, I know the bed bugs won’t bite but something else will have to if I’m going to put out the flames between my legs.
I close the bedroom door and lean my back against it. Dropping my towel, I draw my hands over my stomach, up to my breasts. When I close my eyes, I see him. His hands, his mouth taking my nipples.
I slip my fingers down to where I want him and feel just how much my body has been driven wild by him tonight.