she welcomed Tom
into her, felt him exploring her, felt her own sensations
growing in violence and pleasure, she knew that a small part
of her still held back, watching herself anxiously, afraid of
losing herself entirely, of doing something she could not
quite allow herself.
But he taught her to trust herself and him; taught her to
enjoy herself, literally. In a relationship that was often taut,
pressured, over-demanding, what happened in bed was an
important, easeful thing for them both, an exploration of
one another on every level, still careful, still looked forward
to and savoured, and still, to Octavia at least, a most vital
element in her self-esteem.
But tonight, there was no holding back. He was in her
quickly, and they came quickly too, both of them. It was as
if they were somehow in a hurry, rushing towards pleasure,
grasping for it, as if there was something beyond it that they
both had to reach, that would not wait long for them. She
felt herself climbing into her orgasm, felt it break, sweetly
fierce, felt him follow almost at once; afterwards they lay,
holding each other, breathing hard still, smiling but slightly
surprised by the violence, the urgency that had overcome
them both.
‘I’ll go now,’ he said, as she drifted into sleep, but, ‘No,’
she said. ‘No, don’t, stay with me, I want you here.’
The last thing she heard was his voice saying he loved
her; the last thing she thought was how much she needed
him …
She had not expected to see him in the morning, slipped
out of bed, showered and dressed and got the notes for her
meeting, thinking him still fast asleep. But he appeared in
the nursery, very wide awake, as she kissed Minty goodbye,
followed her downstairs.
‘I’ll see you tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s the Savoy again, I’m
afraid.’
‘I know. Drapers, regional newspapers, right? I’ll be
there.’
‘How did you get on with Carlton?’ he asked. ‘After I’d
gone?’
‘Oh, all right. I have to say it’s a bit of a minefield, Tom.’
‘I know. I can see that. But good about the sponsorship,
surely?’
‘Ye-es. Hope so. Bit loaded. And then he gave me a
lecture about neglecting my children.’
‘I’m sorry about that. I’m sure you were very patient.’
‘I was. Of course. ‘Bye, Tom. Oh, and by the way,’ she
added, turning back into the room, ‘my father wants you to
ring him. He’s got some prospect or other for you.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Tom.
Octavia’s breakfast meeting was at the Connaught; she was
early, but Melanie was already there, drinking orange juice
and coffee like one possessed, glass in one hand, cup in the
other. As always when she suddenly saw her away from the
familiarity of the office setting, Octavia was struck with
great force by Melanie’s rather strange beauty: she was tall,
almost six feet — ‘I look down on most men’ she was fond of
saying — with a strong, fit body, and long powerful legs. Her
streaky brown hair fell below her shoulders in a waving
mass, and her eyes, peering through an over-long fringe,
were a fierce, deep blue. Her nose was rather large, but it
suited her, and her mouth wide and generous. Her voice
was most singular, slightly gravelly in tone, with a South
London accent half worn away by years of contact with the
middle-and upper-class tones of her clients and associates.
She wore clothes with the slightly ethnic look of the
‘seventies, long skirts and elaborately embroidered shirts and
a mass of silver bracelets on her strong brown wrists against
Octavia’s classic chic she looked like some large
exotic bird. Tom Fleming, who tended to like his women
conventional, was surprisingly fond of Melanie, and frequently proclaimed her ‘dauntingly sexy’.
Octavia slid into the seat beside her, nodded gratefully at
the waiter who was advancing on her with the coffee pot.
‘You look rotten,’ said Melanie, looking at her
into her, felt him exploring her, felt her own sensations
growing in violence and pleasure, she knew that a small part
of her still held back, watching herself anxiously, afraid of
losing herself entirely, of doing something she could not
quite allow herself.
But he taught her to trust herself and him; taught her to
enjoy herself, literally. In a relationship that was often taut,
pressured, over-demanding, what happened in bed was an
important, easeful thing for them both, an exploration of
one another on every level, still careful, still looked forward
to and savoured, and still, to Octavia at least, a most vital
element in her self-esteem.
But tonight, there was no holding back. He was in her
quickly, and they came quickly too, both of them. It was as
if they were somehow in a hurry, rushing towards pleasure,
grasping for it, as if there was something beyond it that they
both had to reach, that would not wait long for them. She
felt herself climbing into her orgasm, felt it break, sweetly
fierce, felt him follow almost at once; afterwards they lay,
holding each other, breathing hard still, smiling but slightly
surprised by the violence, the urgency that had overcome
them both.
‘I’ll go now,’ he said, as she drifted into sleep, but, ‘No,’
she said. ‘No, don’t, stay with me, I want you here.’
The last thing she heard was his voice saying he loved
her; the last thing she thought was how much she needed
him …
She had not expected to see him in the morning, slipped
out of bed, showered and dressed and got the notes for her
meeting, thinking him still fast asleep. But he appeared in
the nursery, very wide awake, as she kissed Minty goodbye,
followed her downstairs.
‘I’ll see you tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s the Savoy again, I’m
afraid.’
‘I know. Drapers, regional newspapers, right? I’ll be
there.’
‘How did you get on with Carlton?’ he asked. ‘After I’d
gone?’
‘Oh, all right. I have to say it’s a bit of a minefield, Tom.’
‘I know. I can see that. But good about the sponsorship,
surely?’
‘Ye-es. Hope so. Bit loaded. And then he gave me a
lecture about neglecting my children.’
‘I’m sorry about that. I’m sure you were very patient.’
‘I was. Of course. ‘Bye, Tom. Oh, and by the way,’ she
added, turning back into the room, ‘my father wants you to
ring him. He’s got some prospect or other for you.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Tom.
Octavia’s breakfast meeting was at the Connaught; she was
early, but Melanie was already there, drinking orange juice
and coffee like one possessed, glass in one hand, cup in the
other. As always when she suddenly saw her away from the
familiarity of the office setting, Octavia was struck with
great force by Melanie’s rather strange beauty: she was tall,
almost six feet — ‘I look down on most men’ she was fond of
saying — with a strong, fit body, and long powerful legs. Her
streaky brown hair fell below her shoulders in a waving
mass, and her eyes, peering through an over-long fringe,
were a fierce, deep blue. Her nose was rather large, but it
suited her, and her mouth wide and generous. Her voice
was most singular, slightly gravelly in tone, with a South
London accent half worn away by years of contact with the
middle-and upper-class tones of her clients and associates.
She wore clothes with the slightly ethnic look of the
‘seventies, long skirts and elaborately embroidered shirts and
a mass of silver bracelets on her strong brown wrists against
Octavia’s classic chic she looked like some large
exotic bird. Tom Fleming, who tended to like his women
conventional, was surprisingly fond of Melanie, and frequently proclaimed her ‘dauntingly sexy’.
Octavia slid into the seat beside her, nodded gratefully at
the waiter who was advancing on her with the coffee pot.
‘You look rotten,’ said Melanie, looking at her
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