One Thing Leads to Another. Jamie HollandЧитать онлайн книгу.
out with you again – I’m sorry but it’s the truth. But please just leave me alone, or else I might have to take this harassment to a senior level.
Jessica
Being firm was the only way to deal with him and her annoyance with Rob and men in general renewed her disgust with Richard Keeble. Picking up her phone, she dialled his number.
‘Richard? This is Jessica Turpin.’
‘Oh, hi, Jessica, what can I do for you?’ came the reply.
‘I just want you to know that if you ever speak to me again like you did this morning, I will not be answerable for the consequences. I hope that’s clear. Goodbye.’
She put the phone down and returned to her screen with a sense of satisfaction. Maybe she had over-reacted, but it was important to nip these things in the bud. She had been far too lax with Rob and look what had happened there.
Lying on the sofa that evening, Jessica looked at the long length of her legs extending from her tiny black skirt, which in that position was even more revealing than normal. They were pretty good legs, she had to admit; she was lucky, especially as her mother was so small. All the same, she wondered whether maybe she should buy a trouser suit or two. The day’s events had upset her more than she’d imagined. And would she ever find someone she wanted to go out with for more than a few months? The longest relationship she’d ever had was with Ed and that had only been for a year. No one else had ever made it to the six-month mark. Why did all her boyfriends become so jealous and possessive? It was so tedious and so predictable, and made her feel that emotionally she hadn’t progressed from her teenage years. Admittedly, Rob had never exactly set her heart on fire, but she hadn’t expected him to crumble quite so quickly. She desperately hoped she would find someone to fall in love with, but sometimes seriously doubted it would ever happen. Perhaps she set her sights too high, expected too much. Perhaps she should ring Ed again. But then, even he had become a boring stay-at-home. And as soon as her ardour for him had started to cool, he’d turned into a drooling love-slave. Jessica sighed and turned back to her magazine. Really, it was too much, it really was.
Leaving Geordie drilling rawl-plugs into the wall, Flin vowed to do his ‘bit’ towards decorating the house in the evenings the following week, and headed off towards Victoria and the train that would take him to Sussex and his destiny. He’d not been sure what to wear, and so had taken Jessica’s advice and decided on very dark brown jeans and a white cotton shirt. Simple and understated. And he was pleased that she had approved of his new haircut.
‘I’ve never seen it so short – very George Clooney and rather sexy, actually,’ she told him soothingly.
‘I think you look a complete prat – trying to be trendy just isn’t you,’ was Geordie’s contribution, although Flin ignored the remark. After all, Geordie had the worst dress sense of anyone he knew, whilst Jessica always appeared the epitome of style and elegance. He didn’t think he was particularly vain, but when Jessica approved of something, he took note. He wondered what Poppy would be wearing, and what her house would be like. It was bound to be stunning. And was this the start of something big? He had a good feeling, he really did.
Standing on deep and sumptuous gravel, Flin was paying the taxi when the front door opened.
‘Flin! You made it! It’s so good to see you!’ said Poppy, skipping over to welcome him with a delicate kiss on the cheek. With chestnut locks now loose and slightly dishevelled about her shoulders, and bits of grass on her bare feet, Poppy appeared a vision of simple loveliness. Leading Flin through the house to the garden, she eagerly told him who else was coming, who was here already, and what fun they were going to have. At this, Flin felt a wave of apprehension sweep over him. He had thought of nothing but seeing Poppy again, but now he was here, he felt suddenly shy. Just what was he doing here amongst all these strangers? Could he really expect to end up in the arms of someone like Poppy? He was beginning to think that he’d made a colossal mistake accepting the invitation. But it was too late for that: in the garden, a few people were milling about by the stream and Poppy gleefully led him over. A Pimm’s was thrust into his hands and introductions made. Flin had never been very good with names. Someone had once taught him a fool-proof method of how to remember who was who, but he’d forgotten that as well. On this occasion he logged a Sally and a Duncan but forgot who everyone else was. But if he worried about being left to fend for himself, he needn’t have done. Poppy suddenly looped her arm through his and asked him to tell her everything that was going on in his life, much to his delight. He started jabbering away enthusiastically, whilst she laughed and clung onto him as though he was quite the most important person in the whole world. Resisting the urge to continue talking about nothing but himself, he then asked her about her last sixteen years. They were now facing the back of the house.
‘OK, but you must let me show you round Pepperfield. After all, we left Salisbury to come here,’ she said, confirming his belief that large houses with one word for a name develop distinct personalities. And, of course, the house was stunning. It seemed to Flin, as Poppy led him from the flagstoned hall, through rooms and along creaking corridors, that every aspect of Pepperfield exemplified wonderful taste. Modern art vied for wall space along with contented-looking family portraits.
‘It’s wonderful, Poppy,’ he told her as they paused to look at some murals, apparently painted by a famous artist who had been friends with her grandmother.
She rested an arm on his shoulder. ‘I love it. I’m so glad we moved all those years ago. Can’t imagine us not living here now.’ She smiled at him, and Flin felt increasingly lustful for the girl who had years before made his life a misery. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go back outside.’
At half past midnight, Poppy and Flin lay against the gazebo at the end of the garden. The brilliant almost-full moon was reflected in the stream; surrounding them were the chalk downs, dark, gently curving and ancient. Between long drags on their cigarettes and lingering sips of their wine, they gazed up at the stars trying to spot constellations that neither of them knew anything about. ‘Doesn’t the Plough look amazing tonight?’ Flin said without really having the faintest idea what the Plough looked like.
‘Wow, look at that shooting star!’ Poppy said.
‘Where?’
‘Missed it.’
The setting was perfect and Flin watched his cigarette smoke drift up into the windless night air. Already seduced by the house and setting, Flin looked down at Poppy, her head in his lap. She looked lovely. It seemed to Flin as though they were held there in a glow of poetic beauty.
‘It’s a good job Mark can’t see us now,’ she suddenly said.
‘Mark?’ asked Flin, alarms ringing.
‘My boyfriend,’ she replied flatly, taking another drag on her cigarette. Flin’s heart sank. By her behaviour towards him, Flin had assumed she was single. He should have known things were going too well.
‘Oh,’ he said, not knowing quite what to say.
‘He’s on a cricket tour,’ she said by way of explanation, and then added, with barely concealed contempt, ‘with all his mates.’
There was a pause and Flin, not wanting to lose the moment, daringly started stroking her hair.
‘Hmm, that’s really nice,’ said Poppy, smiling contentedly, her eyes closed. ‘Do you fancy a fuck?’ she said suddenly.
Startled, Flin felt momentarily wrong-footed. ‘Yes, actually, that would be just marvellous,’ he replied, his heart quickening rapidly. What did he care if the ground was really pretty dewy and hard? Turning her over, he gently laid her on the grass and kissed her, carefully lifting her knee-length cotton dress to reveal legs of cool silk skin. This was turning into one of the best and most exciting nights of his