I ever wanted to make any money.'
'Ugh,' said Jane, relaxing a little. 'Well, I certainly wouldn't buy it.'
'Shock value equals publicity value apparendy,' Tom said. 'Frankly, I'd rather write a bonkbuster. I see you've got quite a collection.'
So he'd noticed the Jilly Coopers after all. Tom grinned as Jane poured him another glass of Moet foam with a wobbling hand.
'Yes, of course. I can see the plot now.' Tom stared theatrically at the ceiling. 'Impecunious writer takes flat for a few weeks above beautiful blonde who lives in basement with boyfriend who doesn't realise how lucky he is.' He paused. 'Writer meets girl over romantic dinner, falls in love but has to leave for New York the next morning.'
Jane buried her reddening face in the champagne.
She'd read about sexual tension before, although all it had meant with Nick was that she wanted it and he didn't. But here it was now, the real thing. The air between Tom and herself felt thick with energy. Jane imagined a white flash of electricity if she touched him, like the opening credits of the South Bank Show. By now, Nick had receded to the far outback of her mind. Not waving, not even
61
drowning. Not, for the time being, at all.
She stole a glance at Tom from under her triple-mascara'd lashes. He had all the careless glamour of one of those singlet-clad models in the Calvin Klein ads, except that Tom's seemed genuinely effortless. His hair had obviously not seen a comb for at least a day and his jeans were ripped at the knee. The most convincing testament of all to his lack of vanity was the T-shirt proclaiming 'Some Idiot Went To London And All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt'.
'I always wondered who actually bought those,' Jane said, breaking the crackling silence,
Tom looked down at his chest, surprised. 'Got it from a jumble sale,' he said. 'Quite like it, actually. I find the implication that people come back from London laden with exotic gifts unobtainable elsewhere rather romantic really.' He grinned.
'Er, would you like to eat?' Jane asked. After all, it was the whole point of the evening. Wasn't it?
Tom nodded politely. 'Love to. But can we talk a bit more first? I find it practically impossible to have a conversation over food. I'm always shoving my fork in my mouth at the exact time someone is asking me a question/
It was amazing. He wanted to talk to her. Jane racked her brains to recall the last time she had had a proper conversation with Nick. Or, come to that, the first time.
'We were talking about my bonkbuster, I believe,' Tom said lightly, igniting a Marlboro and gazing at her from between the slits in his narrowed eyelids. 'Now, where had we got to?' He stared at the ceiling again. 'Ah yes.' He blew a sequence of perfect smoke rings. 'Writer comes down for dinner with beautiful blonde, falls in love, but realises that as he is going away next morning and she has
62
a boyfriend, it can never be.' He stopped, pulled a face and looked at Jane. 'Pity.' It was impossible to tell if he was serious. Nevertheless, disappointment flooded her.
'So.' Tom slipped from the armchair on to the floor and crawled across the rug to where Jane perched on the edge of the sofa. He looked into her eyes, took her face in his hands and touched her lips with his. 'So he steals a kiss anyway.' Jane's back locked rigid with excitement.
With a light finger, Tom traced the outline of her cheekbones and lips before slowly, deliberately, lowering his mouth again to hers.
Jane's brain flew round her cranium like a flock of disturbed sparrows. He couldn't do this to her. But, as his tongue gently slid between her acquiescent lips, she felt very glad that he had.
'Do you do this to everyone you've only just met?' she stammered as he came up for air.
'No, of course not. Anyway, we've met before.'
'What about your girlfriend?'
'Don't have one.' He was lying, Jane knew. So the girl on the stairs had been his agent, had she? 'More to the point, what about your
'Ugh,' said Jane, relaxing a little. 'Well, I certainly wouldn't buy it.'
'Shock value equals publicity value apparendy,' Tom said. 'Frankly, I'd rather write a bonkbuster. I see you've got quite a collection.'
So he'd noticed the Jilly Coopers after all. Tom grinned as Jane poured him another glass of Moet foam with a wobbling hand.
'Yes, of course. I can see the plot now.' Tom stared theatrically at the ceiling. 'Impecunious writer takes flat for a few weeks above beautiful blonde who lives in basement with boyfriend who doesn't realise how lucky he is.' He paused. 'Writer meets girl over romantic dinner, falls in love but has to leave for New York the next morning.'
Jane buried her reddening face in the champagne.
She'd read about sexual tension before, although all it had meant with Nick was that she wanted it and he didn't. But here it was now, the real thing. The air between Tom and herself felt thick with energy. Jane imagined a white flash of electricity if she touched him, like the opening credits of the South Bank Show. By now, Nick had receded to the far outback of her mind. Not waving, not even
61
drowning. Not, for the time being, at all.
She stole a glance at Tom from under her triple-mascara'd lashes. He had all the careless glamour of one of those singlet-clad models in the Calvin Klein ads, except that Tom's seemed genuinely effortless. His hair had obviously not seen a comb for at least a day and his jeans were ripped at the knee. The most convincing testament of all to his lack of vanity was the T-shirt proclaiming 'Some Idiot Went To London And All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt'.
'I always wondered who actually bought those,' Jane said, breaking the crackling silence,
Tom looked down at his chest, surprised. 'Got it from a jumble sale,' he said. 'Quite like it, actually. I find the implication that people come back from London laden with exotic gifts unobtainable elsewhere rather romantic really.' He grinned.
'Er, would you like to eat?' Jane asked. After all, it was the whole point of the evening. Wasn't it?
Tom nodded politely. 'Love to. But can we talk a bit more first? I find it practically impossible to have a conversation over food. I'm always shoving my fork in my mouth at the exact time someone is asking me a question/
It was amazing. He wanted to talk to her. Jane racked her brains to recall the last time she had had a proper conversation with Nick. Or, come to that, the first time.
'We were talking about my bonkbuster, I believe,' Tom said lightly, igniting a Marlboro and gazing at her from between the slits in his narrowed eyelids. 'Now, where had we got to?' He stared at the ceiling again. 'Ah yes.' He blew a sequence of perfect smoke rings. 'Writer comes down for dinner with beautiful blonde, falls in love, but realises that as he is going away next morning and she has
62
a boyfriend, it can never be.' He stopped, pulled a face and looked at Jane. 'Pity.' It was impossible to tell if he was serious. Nevertheless, disappointment flooded her.
'So.' Tom slipped from the armchair on to the floor and crawled across the rug to where Jane perched on the edge of the sofa. He looked into her eyes, took her face in his hands and touched her lips with his. 'So he steals a kiss anyway.' Jane's back locked rigid with excitement.
With a light finger, Tom traced the outline of her cheekbones and lips before slowly, deliberately, lowering his mouth again to hers.
Jane's brain flew round her cranium like a flock of disturbed sparrows. He couldn't do this to her. But, as his tongue gently slid between her acquiescent lips, she felt very glad that he had.
'Do you do this to everyone you've only just met?' she stammered as he came up for air.
'No, of course not. Anyway, we've met before.'
'What about your girlfriend?'
'Don't have one.' He was lying, Jane knew. So the girl on the stairs had been his agent, had she? 'More to the point, what about your
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