A Heat of the Moment Thing Page 5

  I bit my lip, stifling a giggle. His hair was as disastrous as mine—but at least I’d hidden mine under a scarf. Honestly, why did he bother? He should just ditch the toupee and be done with it. So what if people could see his receding hairline?

  We returned with our table’s orders, and Hank used the opportunity to plant himself beside me and murmur beer-y nothings in my ear. Fortunately Liz’s text came through—I’m here!—giving me the perfect excuse to abandon Hank.

  “Back in a sec,” I said, and headed back through the crowd to meet Liz.

  “Hi,” I said. “You made it.”

  “Hi yourself. I figured I could work tomorrow instead.”

  “But tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  She shrugged.

  “You’ll work through your weekend, and you were going to work Friday night?” I shook my head despairingly. “No wonder you’re single.”

  “I’m happy with single. Aren’t you?”

  I didn’t answer. We both knew my leap into career-mindedness was a consolation prize. As opposed to hers, which was totally by choice and just the way she wanted it.

  Liz reached out and gave my headscarf a tug. “Nice. It suits you.”

  “Just as well, ’cause the bald patch doesn’t.”

  We reached the table and I did the introductions. “Everyone, this is my pal, Liz. Liz, this is—” I decided she’d never remember so many names “—everyone.”

  ‘Everyone’ laughed. Liz smiled, but it was her Ice Queen smile, the one she probably used to keep pesky employees at arm’s length. For me, it simply confirmed what I already knew. She had no interest in socialising; she was here purely for me, bless her.

  Sal offered Liz a quarter of her chair. “Here, Luv, take a seat. I’m Sal.”

  After the briefest of hesitations Liz pumped a few more watts into her smile. “Hi, Sal.”

  She attempted to sit but Sal’s ample behind didn’t make seat-sharing easy, so I shuffled my chair closer and gave Liz some of mine, too.

  “Sal’s our receptionist,” I explained, “and font of all knowledge.”

  Sal chuckled. “I’m not so sure about that. But I make sure everyone gets to Friday drinks.”

  Liz, without even bothering to answer, swivelled abruptly to me.

  I cringed. Liz was no socialite but that had been cutting, even for her. She should save it for the boardroom. I frowned my disapproval at her.

  She chose not to notice. “Well? Where’s your ugly boss?”

  My frown became a glare. Man, she didn’t waste time. “Sssh!”

  “Is he here?” She looked up and down the table.

  I sighed and made a face at her. “Yes. Five down, opposite side.” I indicated with my head.

  “Are you going to introduce us?”

  “No.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll ask Sal, then.”

  “No.” I gulped some wine. “Maybe later. Great show of moral support, by the way.”

  She gave me a wink, then turned as Hank imposed himself. She handled him far more expertly than I had, freezing him out and sending him on his way before he’d even extracted her name. With an eloquent glance my way—keep the hell away from him—she turned to Sal again and this time, mercifully, made a real effort.

  I felt a rush of gratitude. Idle chit-chat with total strangers had never been Liz’s thing, yet here she was, supporting me in my big, scary career move.

  And checking out Matt, of course.

  “Thanks for being here,” I murmured in her ear.

  She shot me a smile, and this one was the genuine article, not the least bit Ice Queen, and a reminder of the bond we shared.

  I sipped at my wine. The background jazz gave way to something more upbeat and I relaxed, moving with the music. What a week! New job, new workmates, new scarf . . .

  New boss.

  How old was he, anyway? Mid-thirties, perhaps? What a body! How many of his Recreational Tourism students propositioned him each week? Loads, I bet.

  “Go on,” Liz teased. “You know you want to.”

  I dragged my eyes away from Matt and leaned my forehead on her shoulder. Groaned. “Don’t. This is hard enough already.”

  She surreptitiously sized him up. “He’s not bad, is he?” Then, with a nod of approval, “Yes. Definitely worth breaking your workmate rule for.”

  “Sorry, girls,” said Sal, following our gaze. “He’s off-limits.”

  “Is he married?” I felt a surge of hope. Of course he was married! Good. That was that, then.

  “No ring,” Liz observed.

  “Not married,” Sal confirmed.

  Bummer.

  “But there’s a rumour—”

  “He’s gay.” Liz laughed. “Of course he is.”

  Gay? After the way he’d looked at me this week? No way.

  “What’s the rumour?” I asked.

  Sal leaned closer. “Apparently he’s a die-hard commitment-phobe. Long-term for him is a couple of weeks.” She glanced his way, then back to us. “Mind you, I know plenty of women who’d take the fortnight.”

  Commitment-phobe, eh? So that electric looked we’d shared was nothing more than flirtation? A sudden thrill hit my groin. Bring on the flirtation!

  Whoa. Hold it right there.

  It had been a look, that’s all. A look. I needed to rein myself in. Now. No fantasies. No lust. He was my boss, remember? My boss.

  * * *

  Ten-thirty, and only five of us remained. I glanced over at the next table where Matt and some young, nubile thing looked like they were solving world poverty.

  She glanced at her watch and sighed. “I really need to go.” She stood. “’Night, folks.” Then, to Matt, “Thanks for listening.”

  Was there anyone who didn’t love this guy?

  “Come and join us, Matt,” said Sal, indicating an empty chair at our table.

  He smiled and came over.

  Liz tap-tap-tapped on my foot before giving him the benefit of her warmest, iceberg-melting smile. Her eyes as she glanced my way were full of mischief. My stomach lurched. I bit my lip. Friendly Liz was way more dangerous than Ice Queen Liz.

  “Hi. I’m Liz. Becky’s pal. And you must be . . .?”

  “Matt,” he said. “Matt Frobisher.”

  “Ah.” She grinned. “Scary boss.”

  He raised an amused eyebrow and drank some ale. “Me? Scary?”

  “Hardly,” I said, with a scowl for Liz.

  She leaned close. “Then how come you’ve been avoiding him all night?” she murmured.

  “I’ll tell you what’s scary,” said Sal, “is how fast my wine keeps disappearing.”

  I looked at her empty wine-glass, then my own half-full one. Which had I been drinking from? Oops.

  “Matt,” said Liz, her head to one side, “you look very familiar.”

  My heart leapt into my throat and tried to hammer its way out. No, no, no! I gave my soon-to-be-ex best friend a sharp kick under the table.

  “Ow!”

  “Do I?” He turned to me, his eyes twinkling with knowledge.

  Damn him! I tried to avoid his gaze but my eyes betrayed me and magneted back to his.

  “Yes,” said Liz, rubbing her bruised leg.

  Matt raised an amused eyebrow at me. I grabbed my glass and gulped down the rest of my wine.

  “Where from, though?” Liz mused with a cultivated frown.

  She swung back to me. I gave a nervous start.

  “Don’t you think he looks familiar, Becky?”

  Damn her, too! I shot her a desperate look.

  She gave me a smooth, get-yourself-out-of-this-one smile.

  “Um . . .” I didn’t know what to say.

  His eyes creased at the corners. “We had this conversation the other day, didn’t we?”

  He leaned back in his chair and grinned at me. Waiting. I felt like a butterfly impaled on a specimen board.

  Typical. Every time I lied, it always came back to bite me.

 
“Well,” I stumbled, “I don’t think I recognise you . . . but maybe I’m wrong.” I had to raise my voice to be heard over the people at the next table, who were now belting out the chorus of the DJ’s song. I glanced their way, relieved. Freddie Mercury would be turning in his grave, for sure, but any distraction had to be a good one.

  Matt leaned close. “They’re playing your song.”

  I blushed. The Great Pretender. He grinned and raised his glass to me.

  Bastard.

  “Have you seen ‘We Will Rock You’?” Sal asked. “It’s unbelievable.”

  “I loved it,” said Liz.

  “I haven’t been yet,” I said.

  “Me neither.” Matt’s gaze remained on me.

  “You have to see it,” said Sal.

  Liz nodded her agreement. Sal launched into ‘remember that scene when . . .’ mode. Matt and I looked at each other and shrugged.

  I cast about for something to say. “I—I guess we should see it. It’s had rave reviews.”

  He looked amused. “Is that your way of inviting me?”

  “No! I mean . . . well, I guess we could . . . I hadn’t really thought . . .”

  Crap.

  “Sure,” I amended, being very adult. “If you want to. Why not?”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Why not, indeed.”

  “Do you go to the theatre much?”

  “Not often. I’ve usually got enough drama going on in my own life.”

  O-kaaay. Next topic.

  Um . . .

  We must be able to talk about something. But—what?

  He relented. “Cats is my all-time favourite. What about you?”

  “Les Mis.” I gratefully took his lead. “It’s amazing. I couldn’t get into Cats.”

  “No? Cats is far more original, though, don’t you think?”

  As we chatted I began to relax. Sal was right: he was easy to talk to, and disagreeing with him became a bit of a game.

  He was a die-hard Manchester United fan; I told him football was over-rated. He loved Spain; I preferred Italy. He despised politics; I said it was a necessary evil.

  “You’re determined to disagree with me, aren’t you?” said Matt.

  “Of course not.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  My lips twitched. “Oops.”

  And so it continued. He thought Ozzy Osbourne was certifiable; I argued he was brilliant. We laughingly agreed, either way, Sharon Osbourne was a financial wizard. Matt couldn’t wait to head off to Europe for a ski holiday; I offered to carry his bags.

  Oh shit. Why had I said that?

  “I might just take you up on that.” He grinned, and I felt a nervous flutter in my belly. “Speak any French?”

  “Um . . . does ‘Bordeaux’ count?”

  He laughed. “It’s a good start.”

  Actually, Bordeaux wasn’t a good start. There was nothing good about Bordeaux. Bordeaux was what Mickey and I had been drinking ‘that’ night. Bordeaux all over my shirt. Mickey all over me. Me all over the boardroom table. My love-life all over the office noticeboard.

  Anything French with the boss—any boss—was a bad, bad idea.

  Matt picked up a beer-mat, inspected it and put it back down. “So, Becky-with-the-scarlet-scarf,” he drawled. “Why do you think Liz recognises me?”

  Just like that. I felt winded.

  His mobile phone beeped, diverting his attention, thank God. Too stunned to frame a response, I watched his fingers flick over the keypad.

  He snapped his phone shut and looked up, then reached over and fingered my headscarf.

  “I like your hair,” he murmured. “Don’t hide it too long.”

  My face flamed. I opened my mouth but the words jammed in my throat. I closed it again, a goldfish in need of a bowl.

  He leaned back in his chair, propping one foot on a nearby chair.

  This wasn’t good. In fact, it was really really bad. I should go.

  But my body refused to move. My breath hitched. I was an elastic band, stretched to snapping-point.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  How could he sit there so darn relaxed? I hated him.

  “W-well what?”

  “Are you going to admit you recognised me or—” his eyebrow twitched up “—do I have to drag it out of you?”

  I gulped. “I don’t see how y—”

  “How many laps do you swim?”

  “Forty.”

  He grinned, and I realised how easily he’d trapped me. Damn him! Again.

  “Uh-oh,” I said, “gotta go to the ladies’.”

  That’s right, Becs. Run. Excellent.

  I stood and felt a sudden whoosh of light-headedness.

  Matt straightened in his chair, reached out a helpful hand. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded, steadying myself against the table. “Back in a minute.”

  I smiled, then turned and made my way towards the toilets. Uh-oh. Shifting floor. How many drinks had I had?

  No idea. Bad sign.

  I wove and bumped my way to the ladies’, lurched into the nearest cubicle, and collapsed gratefully onto the toilet seat.

  In the background the relentless doof-doof-doof of the music competed with the Friday night crowd. Each doof was a nail driving into my skull. I slumped back against the cold stability of the toilet cistern and closed my eyes. How had I become so drunk so fast? I hadn’t even been feeling tipsy.

  Well. Maybe a little.

  I took a deep breath, and another. Maybe I should go home. Yes. Good idea. Shouldn’t let Matt see me like this . . .

  * * *

  Laughter at close quarters.

  I groggily opened my eyes, gazed around in confusion, registered where I was. The toilet? Nightmare.

  Was that a face beneath the cubicle door? How strange. I tilted my head to one side and frowned. It was a face. A one-eyed face, squashed like a soft-toy between floor and door. The face grinned and disappeared.

  “That’s her.” A giggle. “She’s plastered.”

  Scrabbling in the next cubicle. Then, above me, a voice. “Becky Jordan, what are you doing?”

  I looked up. “Liz?”

  “You can’t sleep in there. Stand up.”

  “I din’ feel sho good.” I did my best to push myself upright, and the cubicle wall did its best to help.

  “Hey,” said Sal, “unlock the door.”

  I slid the bolt across. The floor tilted dangerously. She pushed the door open. Liz disappeared from above and materialised behind Sal.

  Wow. Three people could fit in a toilet cubicle? Oops—four, if you counted both Lizes. We all spilled out.

  “Freedom!” I cried. Right before my legs buckled under me.

  “We’ll have to carry her,” said Sal.

  “No,” I protested. “I’ll walk.”

  “Really? Funny.” Liz didn’t laugh.

  Sal hauled me up by an elbow. “Grab an arm, Liz. I’ve got this one. She’ll manage if we hold her upright,” Sal added, as if I weren’t even there.

  We lurched out of the restroom and through the throng.

  Matt.

  Oh shit. I’d die if he saw me like this.

  I looked furtively towards our tables, ready to Stop, Drop and Roll if I spotted him.

  So far so good.

  “Quick,” I muttered. “Get me outta here.” And hurriedly made my escape.

  Chapter Seven

  I woke up slowly. No change there.

  What had changed was that someone was using a pickaxe to beat a hole in my head. From the inside out.

  I groaned, rolled onto my back and assessed the damage. Lower limbs in working order. Toes accounted for. Left arm—oops, trouble there—a dead weight. Right arm fine, fortunately. Stomach very much the worse for wear. Oh God, dry horrors beyond belief, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and twice its normal size. Vile taste in mouth—yuk. Nasty brewery smell clinging to me, and if even I could smell it I must be reeking. Memory�
�not sure. Head—not good. Refer to pickaxe comment above. Today would be tough.

  I opened my eyes. Rats. Contacts still in. Gritty to the point of pain. On the upside, by some miracle I’d made it back to my own bed. I lurched into a sitting position, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and registered my lack of clothes.

  Shite. I glanced frantically around, and spotted the small pile of clothes neatly arranged over the back of my chair. Crap. No way could I have folded those clothes; not in the state I’d been in. I probably couldn’t fold them like that sober.

  Who had undressed me? I held my head in my hands, wishing the throb would ease. Jo, maybe? Eeeuww—Jim? Oh no—Matt?

  My palms grew sweaty. I felt sick. Not Matt. Please don’t let it be Matt.

  I forced myself to focus, to think, to find even a sliver of memory. But—nothing. I couldn’t even remember climbing the stairs, let alone undressing and crawling into bed.

  My heart lurched. Bed. I had slept alone . . . hadn’t I?

  I turned, like a prisoner facing the firing squad, and checked the pillows. Only one side had that slept-in look. I sagged with relief.

  Okay, forget it. Somehow I’d made it home, and somehow I’d made it to bed.

  I cautiously stood and waited for a stomach rebellion. Nothing happened so I reached for my dressing gown and slippers and crept—for the sake of my head rather than Jim—to the toilet and then downstairs. No sign of Jim in all his morning acerbic glory, thank goodness.

  Strong black coffee, that’s what I needed. Instant; I couldn’t wait for the plunger. As for Jules, the cat-food would have to wait. I ignored his accusing glare and walked through to the living room. Then we slumped at the table, my coffee and me, and tried to remember.

  Clearly I’d had far too many champagnes. I remembered talking—flirting?—with Matt, and being bundled into a taxi. I had a vague recollection of struggling to find my keys. No matter; I was inside now.

  But I wasn’t kidding myself. It mattered. Please, please, please don’t let it be Matt who put me to bed.

  Who else had I made an exhibition of myself with? I sipped my coffee, feeling exceptionally seedy and more than a little sorry for myself. Hell, I’d only been at T&T a week! Any good impressions I’d made would’ve been well and truly un-made by last night’s exploits. What had I been thinking? That I was fifteen or something? I was a stupid, overindulging, pissy old tart who deserved everything that was coming to her.