HE STAYED FOR breakfast. He told her he liked to start the day with bacon and eggs so she ran to the corner shop and bought bacon because she had none in the house. She gave him orange juice and coffee and a mountain of wholemeal toast which he spread with strawberry jam, telling her he preferred marmalade. He sat in her new kitchen, which was big enough for a kitchen table, in her white towelling robe, its arms too short for him, its shoulders barely containing his broad back. ‘What are you doing tonight?’ he asked as he finished off the last piece of toast. 'Dinner. Business dinner.’ It was half true. ‘Oh.' She was delighted that he looked disappointed. Though they had quite sensibly agreed there was no future in their relationship and that their motives were purely carnal, she was glad he wanted to exercise his carnal desires at every opportunity. ‘So what about Saturday?' she suggested. ‘I was going to tell you about that.’‘Go on.’ ‘You know that photo-shoot you told me a
The guests all appeared to know where to go. They filed through a door at the back of the sitting room into a large dining room, its walls decorate with a collection of Chinese Imari plates. The vast mahogany dining table had been laid with what the Victorians called a cold collation. There was a whole salmon in aspic, a glass bowl full of crevettes — their tails hanging over its edge, several dozen oysters, plates of salami and cold meats, as well as potato, tomato, green and pasta salads. There were silver sauce boats filled with mayonnaise, cocktail sauce, and vinaigrette dressing, and baskets full of a variety of different breads. At the far end were a selection of desserts, glazed strawberry and raspbe tarts, a concoction of meringue and chocolate, and a huge mound of profiteroles as well as a crystal bowl of fresh fruit salad. Several bottles of red and white wine had been opened and stood next to sparkling solid silver cutlery, white crockery, crystal glasses and starched linen
THE PHONE RANG twice before she picked it up. ‘Hello?’ ‘Clare?’ It was Bridget’s voice. ‘Yes.’ ‘Are you busy?” ‘No.’ ‘Have you eaten?’ ‘No. I thought you were going home today?’‘I stayed over. I’m scheduled on a flight on Sunday afternoon. Would you have dinner with me?’ Clare would have liked to say no. ‘Of course.’ ‘Pick me up in half an hour.’ Having dinner with Bridget Goldsmith was not Clare’s first choice for a Saturday evening. Her first, second and third choice would have been Gary Newby, especially after last night. What she had seen may not have excited her directly but it had left her with a desperate yearning for sex; not sex in general but sex in particular, sex with Gary. Going to bed with Gary, with all his energy and power, and his simple, uncomplicated sexual needs, would wipe away the slightly disorientated feeling she’d had all day. Like Alice, after inhabiting the world behind the looking glass, she found the real world distinctly odd. After everything
‘Let’s go then. Have you seen Gary?’ for once he turned to look at Clare. ‘Gary?’ Just the sound of his name sent a shock-wave down to her sex. Clare was clearly in the same state as Bridget. ‘Yeah. He called me about ten. Said he was coming over.’ ‘Here?’ Clare said in disbelief. She couldn’t believe her luck. ‘Yeah.’ ‘Who's Gary?’ Bridget asked. Her fingers were drawing delicate patterns on the top of Malcolm’s hand. ‘A friend of mine,’ Clare told her. ‘Another viscount?’ Malcolm laughed. ‘Gary’s a prince among men but he ain’t no lord. We’re both from the other end of the social ladder. We went to school together.’ ‘Well, I haven’t seen him,’ Clare said. ‘Perhaps he’s upstairs.’ Clare looked puzzled. ‘In the flat. He’s got a key,’ Malcolm explained. ‘He can use it whenever he likes. Come on, let's go and see.’ They got up. Malcolm grabbed a passing waiter. ‘Have the booze sent up, there’s a good boy,’ he said. 'Certainly, Mr Furness.’ The waiter collected the bottle f
In the small hours, watching as the first tendrils of light found the gaps in the curtains at her bedroom window, she experienced a whole panoply of emotions. Anger. Disgust. Excitement. Regret. She went from being angry with herself for not having turned and walked out of Malcolm’s loft as soon as she’d seen what was going on, to being so sexually excited at the memories of what had happened that her whole body came alive, her nipples stiffened, her sex moist. She experienced disgust and revulsion at what she had seen — at what she’d allowed herself to participate in - followed instantly by regret that she had not done more, that she had not had the courage to take the black stripper or pursue the desire she had felt to see if the experiment with Liza could have been repeated with Angela. She regretted, more than anything, that she’d told Gary she was tired and wanted to go home alone. It was all very confusing and lack of sleep didn’t help. She couldn’t work out whether she was an
Synopsis:Struggling painter Clare is bored with her boyfriend and tempted by the charming Steve. So when his wife asks her to paint Steve's portrait, Clare finds herself indulging in some passionate studies of both her model and her client . . .Chapter 1BEAUTY ARTICLES IN glossy magazines always say that the best way to match a foundation to your skin is to try it out directly on your face, rather than on your wrist where the skin is, quite simply, a totally different colour. It’s a great theory, Clare thought, applying the rules of Max Factor to the medium of Monet, as she daubed a little more paint on to her model’s cheeks. He twitched nervously — and excitedly, she hoped, since it wasn’t the cheeks of his face that she was trying to match. ‘That’s cold,’ he complained. ‘Perfect,’ Clare exclaimed, ignoring her model’s little moans. She dashed back to her canvas with palette in hand and added another sweeping stroke to her latest nude. They were selling like hot cakes. Flying ou
THE DRAGON GALLERY was just about the best place to have your work displayed in town, next to the new Tate of course. It was near enough to that more famous gallery to ensure a steady flow of customers who were slightly more interested in art than average and therefore slightly more willing than average to pay for it. Graham, the gallery owner, greeted Clare with that grin of his that always made her queasy. He held out the money from the sale of her paintings in a brown envelope and moved it backwards as she reached for it, forcing her to topple forwards so that her nose ended up buried in his sleeveless maroon jumper. ‘Oops,’ he exclaimed, helping Clare regain her balance by pushing her upright by the tits. Clare brushed herself off, snatched the money and tried to laugh light-heartedly. She couldn’t afford to have him put up his commission for the sake of a little painful flirtation. She counted out the money. ‘Don’t you trust me?’ he asked, slipping an arm around her squirmmgs
‘DO YOU WANT to come to Graham’s party?’ Clare asked Daniel as she slicked on another layer of deep plummy lipstick. ‘I feel that I’ve got to go because Graham has been so good about taking my paintings but it’ll just be full of people from the art society talking about their children’s piano lessons and mortgages and...’ Daniel was already shaking his head. A thrill of excitement raced through her. She was going to the party on her own. ‘You look very pretty,’ Daniel said as he wandered into the bedroom. Clare smiled her thanks, feeling a little guilty over the effort she had been making. But she didn’t have anything to feel guilty about, she reminded herself . . . yet. ‘Shall I help you do that up?’ Daniel began to button up the back of Clare’s long red silk dress. It was stunning, but not in an obvious way, clinging tightly to the contours of her breasts and her waist before flaring gently out in a sweep of fabric that reached her ankles. She felt covered and yet revealed. The fe