Read Online In Bed With Lord Byron by Deborah Wright - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deborah Wright
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reminded
myself that I was free and single, but doubt still writhed in my stomach. That’s the trouble with fantasies coming true: reality is always slightly frightening. Anticipation intensifies and
enriches emotions, but reality seems to smooth them out into a kind of blank bewilderment. Then I saw the desire in Nigel’s eyes and Anthony was forgotten.
Well, for a minute, anyway. As he kissed me, I felt taken aback by his style. Anthony and I had always shared soft butterfly kisses which deepened into something more sensual. Nigel was strong
and forceful, grabbing the back of my neck and pulling me in close. I closed my eyes and something clicked and I sank into the mood. I ran my hands through his hair and it was just as luscious as
I’d imagined.
Beep-ding-a-dong-a-ding,
his mobile sang.
He broke off and said, ‘Hello?’
I watched, breathless and indignant. Couldn’t he switch the damn thing off?
‘OK . . . yeah . . . sure . . . right . . . I’m sure she’s fine . . . lovely . . . come on, be good . . . OK.’ He put it down and rolled his eyes and cupped my face.
‘Who was it?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘Nobody.’
He cupped my face in his hands and carried on kissing me.
Five minutes later, his mobile rang again.
‘Oh, Jamie – for God’s sake! OK . . . yes, yes . . .’ I was taken aback by the emotion in his voice. ‘Sure, I’ll come home, I’ll come home right now.
OK, sure, Daddy’s coming . . . yep, OK.’ He pressed the red button. ‘Sorry, I have to go.’
‘Back to your wife and kids?’ I said furiously.
‘No – there is no wife. Just a kid, from my last girlfriend. He’s four. It’s a bit complicated. I got him a babysitter tonight, but he hates them . . .’ He looked
tired – the way he had done the morning I had asked him out – and suddenly a lot of things fell into place. He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a sob of frustration
and buried his face in his palms. My heart went out to him.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘We can meet another night. Don’t worry, it’s cool . . . I understand . . . it’s fine . . .’
‘It’s not fine. It’s crap. I bet you’ll never buy a
Daily Telegraph
off me again. I bet you’ll upgrade to
The Times
from that fat geezer across the
road,’ he said, shooting me a sidelong glance, and we both laughed.
Out in the hall, he tried to kiss me goodbye, but it felt strange, so I turned it into a peck on the cheek. He looked hurt, but I said another warm goodbye and ‘I’ll see you
again,’ even though I knew that I wouldn’t. Somehow it just didn’t seem like it was meant to be.
After Nigel had gone, I sat staring at the dinner table, watching the candle melt into a disfigured stump, dripping fat wax tears on to the lacy cloth. I was so upset, I barely
even noticed Lyra jumping on to the table, whiskers bristling excitedly. I felt utterly flat with disappointment. I’d been expecting a night of wild passion, a perfect rebound fling, but
reality had given me a sharp slap around the face, slamming me back down to earth. Why couldn’t life be like the movies for once? I thought indignantly. Why couldn’t it end in
fulfilment and a sensual, low-lit bedroom scene and then happy ever after? Why did it always have to be full of cross-purposes and anticlimaxes and plot threads left dangling, never to be tied
up?
I got up, shoving away my chair, and went to the window, gazing out at the London skyline, a necklace of amber lights hanging in the indigo sky. An aeroplane sparkled a gold trail through the
dark. I felt envy burn in my heart as I imagined people with lives a hundred times more glamorous and exciting than mine travelling to exotic places I might never see before I died. Or maybe I was
just being overly romantic again; maybe they were on a package holiday to the Costa del Sol and would end up in a cheap hotel, getting drunk and sunburnt, before returning to the same old jobs,
marriages and
myself that I was free and single, but doubt still writhed in my stomach. That’s the trouble with fantasies coming true: reality is always slightly frightening. Anticipation intensifies and
enriches emotions, but reality seems to smooth them out into a kind of blank bewilderment. Then I saw the desire in Nigel’s eyes and Anthony was forgotten.
Well, for a minute, anyway. As he kissed me, I felt taken aback by his style. Anthony and I had always shared soft butterfly kisses which deepened into something more sensual. Nigel was strong
and forceful, grabbing the back of my neck and pulling me in close. I closed my eyes and something clicked and I sank into the mood. I ran my hands through his hair and it was just as luscious as
I’d imagined.
Beep-ding-a-dong-a-ding,
his mobile sang.
He broke off and said, ‘Hello?’
I watched, breathless and indignant. Couldn’t he switch the damn thing off?
‘OK . . . yeah . . . sure . . . right . . . I’m sure she’s fine . . . lovely . . . come on, be good . . . OK.’ He put it down and rolled his eyes and cupped my face.
‘Who was it?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘Nobody.’
He cupped my face in his hands and carried on kissing me.
Five minutes later, his mobile rang again.
‘Oh, Jamie – for God’s sake! OK . . . yes, yes . . .’ I was taken aback by the emotion in his voice. ‘Sure, I’ll come home, I’ll come home right now.
OK, sure, Daddy’s coming . . . yep, OK.’ He pressed the red button. ‘Sorry, I have to go.’
‘Back to your wife and kids?’ I said furiously.
‘No – there is no wife. Just a kid, from my last girlfriend. He’s four. It’s a bit complicated. I got him a babysitter tonight, but he hates them . . .’ He looked
tired – the way he had done the morning I had asked him out – and suddenly a lot of things fell into place. He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a sob of frustration
and buried his face in his palms. My heart went out to him.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘We can meet another night. Don’t worry, it’s cool . . . I understand . . . it’s fine . . .’
‘It’s not fine. It’s crap. I bet you’ll never buy a
Daily Telegraph
off me again. I bet you’ll upgrade to
The Times
from that fat geezer across the
road,’ he said, shooting me a sidelong glance, and we both laughed.
Out in the hall, he tried to kiss me goodbye, but it felt strange, so I turned it into a peck on the cheek. He looked hurt, but I said another warm goodbye and ‘I’ll see you
again,’ even though I knew that I wouldn’t. Somehow it just didn’t seem like it was meant to be.
After Nigel had gone, I sat staring at the dinner table, watching the candle melt into a disfigured stump, dripping fat wax tears on to the lacy cloth. I was so upset, I barely
even noticed Lyra jumping on to the table, whiskers bristling excitedly. I felt utterly flat with disappointment. I’d been expecting a night of wild passion, a perfect rebound fling, but
reality had given me a sharp slap around the face, slamming me back down to earth. Why couldn’t life be like the movies for once? I thought indignantly. Why couldn’t it end in
fulfilment and a sensual, low-lit bedroom scene and then happy ever after? Why did it always have to be full of cross-purposes and anticlimaxes and plot threads left dangling, never to be tied
up?
I got up, shoving away my chair, and went to the window, gazing out at the London skyline, a necklace of amber lights hanging in the indigo sky. An aeroplane sparkled a gold trail through the
dark. I felt envy burn in my heart as I imagined people with lives a hundred times more glamorous and exciting than mine travelling to exotic places I might never see before I died. Or maybe I was
just being overly romantic again; maybe they were on a package holiday to the Costa del Sol and would end up in a cheap hotel, getting drunk and sunburnt, before returning to the same old jobs,
marriages and
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