It took me a while for it to register that the last forty-eight hours hadn’t been a dream. I went to my room and looked at the bed. I’d made it when I got up on Saturday, but the quilt was creased and the pillows weren’t straight. And it was small. The view out of the bedroom window was straight onto the street. If the light was on in the room across the street, I could see right into their bedroom. And no doubt, they could see in to mine. How could I ever invite him back here? I’d be ashamed. I made myself a cup of tea and caught up on some much needed sleep while I waited for Jane to arrive home.
Jane was concerned for me. Why hadn’t I phoned? Was I feeling any better? Was there anything I needed from the shops? Sheepishly I told her I’d not really been ill. Bit by bit I told her the story of my weekend. He was like the animals in the battery advert, I told her, the ones that went on and on while the animals with lesser batteries wilted by the wayside. She was amazed; happy for me and envious. When was I going to see him again, she asked? And then my bubble seemed to burst. We had made no arrangements to meet again. Was that just a consequence of the rushed departure or was that it? I agonised over it for an hour or more, certain that it had been nothing more than a bit of fun for him. Fun with a willing, naive and co-operative partner.
Jane answered the door when the bell rang and called through for me. McTavish was standing at the door with the biggest bunch of red roses I had ever seen. There must have been at least fifty. I opened the envelope and read the hand-written card. “If you bring these with you now, we can make love on a bed of rose petals.” It would be a waste of such beautiful roses, but the sentiment was exactly what I needed. I asked McTavish if he could wait while I gathered a few things. He replied that those were his instructions. I have never packed so quickly. Jane fetched what I needed from the bathroom while I packed some clothes for work the next day.
McTavish pressed a button and the door to the building opened. At floor 5, the door opened automatically. Crispin swept me into his arms, lifted me off my feet, kissed me, and carried me into his apartment. I’d wrapped my legs around his waist so he wouldn’t drop me, one hand holding my overnight bag, the other the roses. “Oh,” I exclaimed as I realised we weren’t alone. Sitting at the breakfast bar was a man, the same age as Crispin, but a good eight inches shorter. He was sturdier than Crispin, but not fat, and he his dark hair was cut very short.
“George, Rusty. Rusty, George,” he made the introductions. “I’ve known George since uni.”
“Rusty eh? I could give you a complete body rub with oil and check everything’s in working order, if you’re interested.” I was aware of him sizing me up and mentally undressing me. I took an instant dislike to the man. But if he was a friend of Crispin’s, then I would try and be polite. Fortunately I didn’t have to respond as Crispin assured him everything was in good working order. “So you’re the minx that monopolised Crispy all weekend?” His smile was closer to a smirk than being friendly.
“Crispin is his own man,” I replied far more pleasantly than I felt he deserved. “It was his choice not to go out.”
“Of course he is. In the circumstances, I’d have done the same thing. I gather you are hot.” It was a bit of a shock to realise that they’d been discussing me, and apparently in some detail. Of course, I’d discussed my love life my best friends. Women do that. Telling Neeta how good Jake was had contributed to my problems with them, but I’d always thought men didn’t. Or not in the same way.
“Look, sweetheart,” Crispin broke in, “George and I’ve a bit of business to finish. Won’t take more than five minutes. Why don’t you go into the bedroom and make yourself comfortable?” As I turned to go, he called to me and handed me the roses.
“Remember, sweetheart,” George called after me, “if he can’t keep it up, you’ve only got to give me a bell. I’m available 24/7 and you won’t be singing like the Rolling Stones. I guarantee satisfaction.” I shuddered at the thought of him anywhere near me as I shut the door.
Crispin apologised that they hadn’t completed their business before I’d arrived. I was about to criticise George’s comments, which I thought were totally inappropriate, when Crispin told me what a laugh he was. I modified my complaint. “Don’t you think he was a bit near the knuckle?” I asked. Apparently, that was George. And he meant what he’d said. In the past, he’d stolen at least three of Crispin’s girlfriends, yet Crispin still thought he was ‘a great chap’. “Well, here’s one woman he won’t be stealing,” I promised. Crispin decided we’d wasted too much time discussing George. We’d spent too much time talking.
We made love on a bed of rose petals. It did seem a waste, but he promised to send me some more the following day.
We woke early the next morning. Crispin hadn’t mentioned it the previous night, but he had an early morning meeting. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he told me as McTavish drove him to work. “I can’t see you for a few days. I’m off to Barcelona. Not sure when I’ll be back. Could be any day. Or I might have to stay over the weekend. I’ll give you a call from the airport. McTavish will drop you off where you want to be dropped.” And he was gone.