Babyville Page 0,56
the heavens here. And Mark is the lawyer. Not just on the legal team, the head of the legal team. As I said. The lawyer. Someone I am bound to come into regular contact with, but even though I know I could handle it, could he?
He is also living with, and trying for a baby with, Julia, who seems to be extremely popular and well respected. Christ, I like her myself. Hmmmm. I look at his arm: strong, tanned, just the right amount of sun-bleached hair. Sexy.
Not tonight, Josephine.
I raise an arm and signal for Shelley, ordering a large bottle of sparkling mineral water.
“I see you're pinning your hair back up,” Mark says with a wry smile. “Clearly my powers of persuasion aren't as good as I thought.”
I shrug. “Another time they might have worked, but I'm still new. I still need to impress.”
“You don't think you've impressed already?”
“I don't know. What do you think?” Oh God. Insecurity. Never a good thing to show a man you're insecure, because men, basically, just don't do insecurity.
“I'm impressed.” He doesn't look at me as he says this, and I sigh, because I could so easily be drawn into this man's web, but I won't. I can't.
“And I'm leaving.” I give him a smile that I hope conveys my regret.
“That's a good idea,” he says, scraping his chair back. “I ought to get home too.”
“Where do you live?” We're standing on the corner of St. Martin's Lane, my coat huddled around me, both desperately searching for cabs. Needless to say, the only ones we see are already taken, and, rather like a mirage in the desert, I keep thinking I see an orange light driving toward me. But I am wrong.
“Belsize Park. You?”
“Gospel Oak. Just up the road! We'll share a cab.” It's a statement, not a question. Then silence.
“Should we walk up there? It looks more promising.” Mark gestures up another street, as a taxi, probably taken, disappears round the far corner. I take it as a good sign and nod, as the two of us walk off side by side. The lust has, thank God, very definitely cooled since leaving the restaurant. I'm cold and I'm tired, and all I can think about right now is curling up in the back of a lovely heated cab, and going home to bed.
I pull the coat tighter and look down at the pavement, tottering along, wishing I had worn more comfortable shoes, when I'm aware that Mark has stopped. I stop too. I look at him, barely registering the look of sheer longing in his eyes, when—and I swear to you I still don't know exactly how this happened—I find myself locked in his arms, kissing him as if my life depended on it.
I wish I could describe it better: the passion, the lust, the fire. What I can tell you is that I feel as if I'm melting into him, clinging on to him for my sanity, both of us drowning in this incredible intensity.
We pull apart, eventually, and look at each other, eyes wide with shock.
“I'm sorry,” he says, and I'm about to reassure him, to say “Don't be,” when he kisses me again, and this time, when we break apart, he pulls me into an alleyway.
Let me say this: I am not the sort of girl who has sex in alleyways. I have never been turned on by the thrill of being caught, or being seen, or in fact being anywhere other than an extremely comfortable bedroom. Or living room. I am a creature of comfort, and like to plan things accordingly. I have seduced many men, and I have done it with silkily smooth legs achieved with an Epilady (disgustingly painful but worthwhile), with black stockings and garter belts (so cliché, but effective nonetheless), and with champagne and flattery (guaranteed to get me just about anywhere I want to go).
What I have never done is what I am doing now. Pressed up against a brick wall in a dark alleyway lit by a single, dull streetlamp at one end. The other end. Mark's mouth is all over me. My face, my neck, my collarbone. Rough, wet kisses that leave me gasping, eyes glazed over as I slide my hands under his jacket, pull his shirt out of his trousers, desperately pull it up until I can feel his hot skin under the palms of my hands.
He tears my shirt open, and I gasp as he moves his lips down