A Heat of the Moment Thing Read online

  By the time Jim appeared I’d managed a slow cup of coffee and a fast trip to the toilet. I’d also aborted a shower halfway through after the steamy heat brought on another bout of nausea and dotty pre-fainting vision. I felt like something Jules had dragged in. Half-dead and severely pawed over.

  Jim took in the extent of my hangover and literally rubbed his hands with glee. I braced myself.

  “Well,” he chirruped. “We’re up bright and breezy this morning.”

  I gave him a hollow look.

  “Good night, then?”

  “I guess so.” Guess being the operative word.

  “What was the big idea, trying to break into the flat? You guys just about put me into an early grave.”

  “Um—sorry?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  I paused, waiting for the memory to return. It didn’t.

  “I guess not,” I sighed.

  “Repeat after me: my name is Becky Jordan and I am an al—”

  “Ha ha, very funny.”

  “Seriously, maybe you should come to a meeting sometime.”

  I shot him an exasperated look. “Jeez, Jim. It was one night.”

  “Whatever.”

  Great. I already had memory loss and a mammoth hangover to contend with, and Jim wanted to do a one-man intervention on me?

  Forget it. This was just him getting payback.

  I gritted my teeth, closed my eyes, and counted to ten. Twice. Opened them again and sighed.

  “Go on, then. Tell me what happened.” As if he wasn’t about to.

  “I hear a racket at the front of the house,” he said, with relish and plenty of headspin-inducing arm waves, “come out to sort out the burglars, and you and Liz are watching some big fat mama pole-dance her way up the drainpipe.”

  Oh. Yeah, I did remember something like that, now he mentioned it.

  “What was all that about?”

  “Um, I think Sal was trying to open my bedroom window.”

  “What, a storey up?” He shook his head. “Ever heard of using a key?”

  I looked at him blankly. Good point.

  He picked a days-old maltezer off the floor and casually lobbed it into his mouth. A standing catch? How did he do that?

  “Or, hey,” he said, “knocking on the door, even?”

  “We did.” I hesitated. “Didn’t we?”

  He shrugged. “I never heard you.”

  I tried to think. My head pounded.

  “I don’t remember. Does it matter? You probably didn’t hear ’cause you were zoned-out on porn sites.”

  He smirked. “Deflection. Easier than self-reflection.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “So what did you get up to last night?” he asked. “Impressing the boss, were we?”

  I cringed. Probably the opposite. Which was all good, since I needed to keep my distance from Matt.

  But all bad, if I wanted to keep my job. My headache escalated.

  “Hardly. Went out for a few drinks with the staff, got waylaid by a glass or two of bubbles, you can imagine the rest.” Which was what I was having to do.

  Jim cackled. “Good stuff. Shagging your boss on the first date. ’Atta girl, Becs!”

  I huffed up onto my high horse. “I did not. And it wasn’t a date.”

  “Well,” he countered, with his trademark eyebrow waggle, “you told me to imagine the rest.”

  “You’re sick. Sordid.” I sighed, feeling sorry for myself. “Depraved.”

  “You love it.”

  “Hardly. I only live with you as a favour to mankind.”

  “Hey, I’m the one doing the favour. There’s only one drunk slapper around here.”

  “I am not,” I said haughtily, “a slapper. I did not sleep with my boss—or anyone else for that matter.”

  “Not that you remember.”

  It was taking too much effort to stay on my high horse today. I gave up. “I admit to being a champagne addict, and I admit to getting a bit tiddly. Anything else will have to come through my lawyer.”

  And I took my hangover back to bed.

  * * *

  I re-emerged mid-afternoon when Dani rang.

  “What are you up to tonight?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I’m dying.”

  “Oh?”

  “Hungover,” I muttered.

  “Oh. I’m sad. Can we be miserable together?”

  “Sure. Come round. Just don’t expect conversation.”

  “How about a DVD, then? I’ve got The Notebook and Ghost.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” I said, unable to muster any enthusiasm.

  “Or we can hire one.”

  “Yours will do. I’ll make Jim go for curries.”

  “Yay!” she said. “Saturday night in with my sister.”

  So much for being single and living it up.

  Needless to say, Jim disappeared into his room when he saw the DVD titles, but not before he’d suggested a threesome instead.

  Dani looked like she’d swallowed a fly. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

  “Okay,” he conceded, “I get it. You don’t like to share. Me neither. Come on then, get your toosh upstairs and I’ll give you a quickie before the DVD starts.”

  He strutted out the door. “I’m horny, you’re horny, wanna toot my horn for me?”

  We hurled abuse up the stairs at him then settled on the couch with our curries.

  “Your house-mate’s a creep,” said Dani.

  I laughed. “He’s all talk.”

  What I’d give to see her call his bluff. She’d chew him up and spit him out.

  Dani produced a bottle of wine and popped the cork. I eyed the shiraz with trepidation.

  “Hair of the dog,” she said. “It’ll be good for you.”

  “You think?” I took a tentative sip. It tasted like medicine; maybe it really would have health benefits.

  “How’s your new job?” she asked.

  “Mmm.”

  Her eyebrow shot up. “Mmm good or Mmm bad?”

  “A bit of both.”

  I told her about Sharon’s scary colour-coded files. “Everyone says she’s a brilliant lecturer.” I chewed my food, tasted nothing. “All I’ve heard is how much everyone loves her, what a natural she is, how much she’ll be missed. I hate her.”

  “I bet you love her files, though.”

  “Every time I look at them I just hate her more. How will I ever fill her shoes?” I forced down some more curry. “Does this taste like cardboard or is it just me?”

  “It’s just you.”

  “Hey, you’ll never guess who else I met.”

  “Who?”

  My hangover receded while I delivered the big news. “The guy who saved me at the pool.”

  She frowned, fork halfway to her mouth. “What? You had to be saved? You didn’t say it was that bad.”

  Not that she’d given me the chance.

  Her eyes glowed. “That’s just so romantic.” She put down her still-laden fork. “Is he hot?”

  I grinned. “As sin.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Matt Frobisher.”

  “He even sounds hot. So have you . . .?” She leaned forward, like a reporter sniffing out a front-page story.

  My grin dissolved. “No.”

  I reached for my glass and took a sip. Shuddered. Sipped again. “He’s my boss.”

  The reporter slumped back, disappointed. “And?”

  “I made that mistake once. I won’t be the fool twice.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I get it.” She picked up her fork again. “He looks good but he’s a social disaster?”

  “No!”

  “Arrogant? Dull? Cross-dresser?”

  If only.

  “No, he’s fantastic.” I sighed. “But he can be someone else’s fantastic. I’m not interested. Not while he’s my boss.”

  “But why would you hand him over to anyone else? That’s nuts. No, masochism!”

&
nbsp; I folded my arms. “I’m not going there. It’d just end in tears. He’s not worth my job.”

  “Hey, Becs, if I were you—”

  “Well, you’re not,” I snapped, my headache returning with a vengeance.

  I repositioned myself somewhere closer to horizontal, a cushion behind my head. Looked across at Dan, who had a constipated look on her face, and felt guilty.

  “Aw, sorry, Dan. I just need paracetamol.” I made do with a mouthful of curry. “Let’s talk about something else. How’s work?”

  Her fork made patterns in the food. “Okay.”

  I watched her re-load her fork and wondered if she’d ever get around to actually taking a mouthful. No wonder she’s so skinny. I knew better than to comment.

  “You’re coping okay with the whole work-Ex thing?”

  Dani gave a tight smile. “I guess. I have to, really. He’s a major client so I either suck it up or hit the dole queue.”

  Which just proved I was so doing the right thing by not getting involved with Matt.

  Her eyes welled up. “I need this job. I’m skint as it is.”

  Actually, her bonus alone would probably keep a small African nation in food for a year, but now wasn’t the time to argue the point. Even I could see her work-hard play-harder lifestyle demanded large and frequent cash injections.

  I set aside my plate, sat up and reached over to clasp her hand. “Dan, it’s okay to feel sad or stupid or angry or reckless or anything you damn-well like. You’re grieving. It’ll take time.”

  “I refuse to grieve over that jerk,” she said with venom.

  “But you’re human, and you’re hurting. Don’t expect to get over him instantly. It doesn’t work like that.”

  She looked at me with her sad, sad eyes and I wished I could take on her pain so she didn’t have to feel it. Which was silly, of course, because she was a grown woman making her own decisions and living her life exactly the way she wanted.

  “How about a holiday, hon? There are some great last-minute deals to the Mediterranean just now.”

  She shook her head. “Work’s too busy. And what would I do, apart from lie on a beach all day?”

  Lying on a beach all day sounded just fine to me. “Okay, well, maybe you should get some counselling. Have you had any before? No? No harm in trying.”

  “So you think I’m losing my mind?”

  “No! Not at all. I just—”

  “Forget it. I’m not doing counselling. Why would I tell a complete stranger all my problems?”

  I could have explained precisely why, but she wouldn’t have listened. “Or . . . I know! Let’s take a kickboxing class. We get to spend time together, we get fit, and we get dangerous. Any more jerks and we’ll kick them into submission!”

  She fell about laughing. “Kickboxing? For God’s sake, Becs, I’m fine.” Her laughter faded to nothing. “Truly. I’ll just keep away from his side of town for a week or two . . .”

  She gulped at her wine, avoiding my eyes, then leapt up and busied herself with putting in a DVD. “Come on, then, let’s see some Patrick Swayze love.” She grabbed the remote and pushed ‘play’. “I wouldn’t mind someone like him in my life.”

  “He’s dead,” I said flatly.

  “He was dead in Ghost, too. But if that’s not love I don’t know what is.”

  I allowed myself a moment’s fantasy. Matt, hanging around T&T, singing at the top of his voice until someone—Sal, probably—tuned in and let him use their body so he could have at least one snog with me.

  Problem One: Matt would be dead. I didn’t fancy that.

  Problem Two: I didn’t fancy a snog with Sal, either.

  Problem Three: I didn’t do personal relationships with SSW’s. Dead or alive.

  So there it was. We could watch soppy movies all weekend but it wouldn’t change a thing. No Patrick Swayze for her, and no Matt Frobisher for me.

  Chapter Eight

  “It’s a beautiful Monday out there, folks. London’s turned into a tropical paradise . . .”

  I lay half-awake, listening to the radio, thinking about the day ahead. A tendril of memory whispered across my mind. A remembered dream? Something from my past? I struggled to hold onto it.

  The memory solidified and my stomach did a nasty flip. Flashback.

  Little Tuscany. Hell. Friday night. Wide awake now, my heart clunking against my ribs, the scene replayed. Me, drunk as a skunk, everybody’s best friend. Deep in discussion with Sal, spilling my soul, ’fessing up about Matt. Sal listening avidly, excitement in her eyes.

  I hauled myself into a sitting position and rubbed a hand over my face. Gazed into the middle distance, trying to get it all clear in my head. What had I told her, exactly? The swimming accident? Trying to track down his name and number? Oh no. Had I told her about all my x-rated fantasies? Would I? No, no, no! I couldn’t possibly have been that stupid.

  The images kept coming. Sal, a consoling arm around me, engrossed in the drama of it all. Me, maudlin with the drink, latching onto her reassuring words as if they were gold. Sal buying more champagne. “This’ll help you forget, Luv.”

  Blast. It all felt too real.

  I dragged myself in to work and scuttled out of the lift, past Sal’s desk. She wasn’t there, thank goodness.

  What would she do? Keep it to herself? Or—more likely—have a field day, gossiping to all and sundry about Matt’s latest stalker?

  I ducked my head and hurried down the corridor. Sure, she was nice, but I didn’t know her well enough to be telling her all my secrets. Cripes. What if she told Matt?

  I increased my pace. Well. Clearly I would have to kill her.

  But what would that solve? He’d still know, and he’d still be my boss.

  Fine. I could kill him, too.

  Assuming Sal had blabbed to him. Which she might not have.

  I reached my office, threw the key in the lock and leapt inside, whipping the door shut behind me. I leaned against the door, feeling very Get Smart-ish. Matt. Must not see Matt. I turned and snuck a quick peek through the glass—nothing, nobody—then quickly snaked an arm out to slap up my ‘back in an hour’ sign. Snipped the lock for good measure. There. Now, if I hid in here all day, I might just manage to avoid him.

  Which left just one problem: I was trapped.

  I dropped my bag on the floor and sat at the desk, berating myself. Stupid lush. What had I been thinking? Drinking to put myself at ease was one thing, but drinking without food for hours on end until I fell in a sodden heap on the floor—that was quite another.

  And Matt. How could I explain myself to him? What must he think of me? How could I even look him in the eye?

  Was Jim right? Did I have a drinking problem?

  For goodness sake! Of course not. I had an off-switch. I’d just chosen not to flick it, that’s all. But I could if I wanted. Any time. No problem.

  Besides, Jim had been kidding. He didn’t really think I needed AA.

  I logged on to my computer and watched it grind to life. Saw Jim’s face when I’d faced him Saturday morning, the expression in his eyes belying the lightness of his words. Maybe he did think I needed AA.

  Fine. If my idiot house-mate was going to go all hyper-sensitive on me, I’d just have to show him he was wrong. Moderation it was. Whatever. I’d be so utterly moderated he’d wish he’d never mentioned it.

  The phone blinked red at me. My first ever voicemail at T&T, which should’ve been exciting, but Ms Moderation didn’t do excited; not when she was miffed with her house-mate.

  I reached for the handset then hesitated, suddenly dry-mouthed. What if it was Gary, delivering a verbal warning?

  “Hi there, Rebecca Jordan,” said a smooth male voice. “Charlie Hollingworth here. Remember me?”

  I gripped the receiver tight, my blood pumping loud in my ears. Not Gary. Worse. I’d buried that name fathoms deep in my past.

  “I was thinking we should catch up, talk about old times,” Charlie continued.


  Catch up? Old times? He must be kidding. I was about as likely to enjoy his company as I would Hannibal Lecter’s.

  He rattled off his number, but I was fourteen again, and hurting. The day after my first date—my first date ever—and Charlie does far worse than kiss and tell. He puts it about that I’m a terrible kisser. A terrible kisser with dog breath. How will I ever live it down? Despair. Disillusionment. Soul-deep shame.

  “Call me.”

  Well, I wasn’t fourteen anymore and I’d long gotten over my shame. Had he gotten over being an arrogant, chauvinistic ass? Not likely.

  I erased the message, but that didn’t stop it replaying over and over in my head. Why, after all these years, would Charlie Hollingworth suddenly be phoning? Surely I’d had enough scuzzballs for one lifetime, without one of them coming back for seconds?

  How had he found my work number, anyway? I hadn’t been at T&T long enough for them to even update the website.

  More disturbed than I wanted to admit, I turned to my computer and scanned my emails, looking for something to cheer me up.

  I stared. An email from him, too? Wasn’t he being rather . . . persistent?

  I shook my head at my own paranoia. He was probably making sure I’d got his message.

  I got it, all right. Delete.

  I scrolled on down, stopping at one from Liz. ‘FW: Personality Test—identify your perfect man!’ With the inevitable one-liner, “Worth a look.”

  Far more worthy of a look than Charlie Hollingworth. Quizzes were fun, and harmless. I pressed print.

  Then gasped. No! Not the communal printer! Shite! I desperately tried to cancel the print-job but it was too late; the bloody thing had printed. Great. Now I would have to unlock my door and walk all the way down the corridor, past hundreds of offices, Matt’s included, to pick it up.

  What if I just didn’t collect it?

  Not an option. Someone else would see it, and it had my name on it, and the fallout from that just didn’t bear thinking about.