I know it my shoes, zip-up top, belt and jewellery are piled in a heap to one side and he hasn’t lost an item of clothes.
‘You are a hustler,’ I say. ‘You were shelling out match-sticks left, right and centre but since we’ve been playing for clothes you haven’t lost a hand.’
He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and smiles at my charge; proud rather than chastised. ‘I win, again,’ he mutters, laying down his superior cards.
Bugger, now I’m in real trouble. Skirt or vest top? Shedding either is going to leave me very exposed. I offer thanks to the cellulite god for not having sent that plague my way just yet (it’s due on tomorrow’s bus no doubt, now I’m thirty) but in the meantime I could probably risk taking my skirt off and not scaring him. But, my knickers! They are cheap, faded, big and blue. Not worthy of an outing. I dressed in such a mood and hurry this morning I never considered wearing any cute panties. What a mistake. My mum is always saying make sure you wear decent underwear, you never know what might happen. Mind you, I think she’s on about me being knocked down by a bus rather than being bowled over by Scott Taylor. I could just throw in my hand, call it a day, cite Adam as an excuse. I pick up my bottle of water and take a sip to buy time while I decide what to take off. Scott stays silent and doesn’t hurry me. His very silence is driving me wild with desire, how can that be? This is all very wrong and yet I don’t want this to end. I giggle, nervously.
‘You are biting your lip,’ says Scott.
‘I do that when I’m nervous,’ I admit. I hope the lip-nibbling is provocative rather than creating the impression that I’m entering a gurning competition.
‘Shit, you’ve drawn blood.’ His face instantly floods with genuine concern. ‘Fern, Christ, it’s not that serious, keep your top on. It’s a game.’ He leans close and carefully but firmly smudges his thumb across my lips; he shows me the smallest drop of blood on his thumb and then sucks the blood clean away. It is the most erotic gesture I have ever been fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of.
Good God, I’ve died and gone to heaven.
I quickly glance towards the security guy but he’s seemingly oblivious to our floor show. He’s reading a tabloid and has his back towards us. In a flash I put my hand up my skirt and drag off my baggy blue knickers. Triumphant at solving the immediate dilemma of which garment to shed, I fling the knickers to one side and say firmly (and I hope, very sexily), ‘Deal again.’
I’m not a vain girl but I’m not stupid either. He has the most enormous boner straining at his jeans. Result. I win the next two hands in quick succession. Scott Taylor can’t concentrate on anything other than me because I’m knickerless!
‘I think we should call it a day now,’ I say as he starts to unbutton his jeans.
‘Really?’ He pauses, fingers on his fly buttons, ready to snap and tug if I give the word.
‘Really,’ I say with quite some reluctance. On the one hand there’s nothing I’d like more than to be buck naked with Scott Taylor. It’s the stuff fantasies are made of but I can’t go any further. I shouldn’t. I mustn’t. The room is hot and red and the plumes of smoke hang in the air, creating a vibe similar to that of the nightclubs of old. I can taste sin. It’s delicious. But can I stomach it? I don’t think I can.
But then.
He moves a fraction closer and our lips are just centimetres apart. If I kissed him now, he’d kiss me back. I know he would. It wouldn’t mean anything, I realize that it’s just the sort of thing rock stars do, but he would kiss me. Which would be fantastic, wouldn’t it? What a story. What a way to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. That single kiss would snatch me from the jaws of normality. For just a moment I’d spit back at the ordinariness that suffocates my days. If I kissed this rock legend I would at least have something to tell my grandkids when I’m a wizened and ugly old woman. I lean a smidgen closer too.
Grandchildren.
Adam.
Fuck.
Adam!
I pull away from Scott a moment before our lips mesh.