Page 37 of One Summer Weekend
Chapter Eleven
When the sandwiches were made, I excused myself and went to pack my things, taking the opportunity to write down some of what Midge had told me. Not that I enjoyed facing up to my flaws – although it served as a reminder to contact Judy, one of Coaches for Growth’s associates, for some professional supervision.
I’d just finished my notes and was rummagingin my suitcase for the cropped trousers I’d worn yesterday, when Jack came in. I straightened up instantly. ‘Very nice,’ was all he said, looking me up and down.
My throat felt inexplicably dry. ‘Actually, I’m about to take them off.’
‘Your legs?’
Nervous giggle. ‘No, silly. My shorts. I can’t wear these on the train.’
‘I don’t see why not. They’d certainly brighten someone’sday.’
I flushed, awkward as a teenager. But it was the opening I wanted, and my gaze held steady. ‘It’s like a replay of our first meeting, isn’t it? You eyeing me up and making personal comments. Perhaps, back then, I over-reacted because I bought into your playboy image. But apparently your media campaign was just an act, to put Karina off.’ Deep breath. ‘I don’t know about her, but ithadmefooled – you were a condemned man as soon as I started my research. Even worse, I brought my prejudices to that first meeting. I owe you an apology, so,’ – another deep breath – ‘I’m sorry.’
His eyes widened. ‘Apology accepted. Some of the things you said and did – they make more sense now.’ A rueful laugh. ‘Believe it or not, it was quite a challenge to organise a different womantwo or three times a week, especially for me.’ A flash of that wide, wicked grin. ‘I’m more of a rifle than a scatter gun – I like to identify the target, take aim,thenfire.’
A sudden intensity in the air; I groped for a way to defuse it. ‘Interesting metaphor. Maybe we should explore it at our next coaching session.’
‘Why not now?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
Maybe my eyes gave him a different message, because he moved closer. The edge of the bed trembled against the back of my knees. I waited – the butterfly on the point of a pin; except … No, I couldn’t – I wouldn’t – play the part of a victim. Not this time.
He said, soberly, ‘I know how you kiss when you want to say thank you. I wonder how you kiss when you want to say sorry?’
‘Let’sfind out.’ I framed the words, but no sound came. And, in any case, words were redundant … We sank as one onto the bed, in a kiss that was startlingly slow and deliberate and tender; yet it wasn’t long before it began to build towards something else. We rolled over, mouths still fused, so that his hands could discover unhindered the loosening of my clothes. In an almost leisurely fashion, he reachedunder my shirt to play with the clasp of my bra, a tease to my growing impatience. Then, at last, he undid the hooks, and his warm fingers skimmed my bare skin to claim my breasts—
The trill of a phone. My phone. My work phone, with its special ring. Just the wake-up call I needed!
He broke off the kiss to say, ‘Don’t answer it.’ It was almost a plea.
But I scrambled off thebed before he could stop me, pulling my shirt down and myself together. ‘It’s my boss, it must be urgent.’
‘Urgent?’ His tone sharpened. ‘On a Sunday?’
‘I’m still working, remember?’ It was a reminder to myself as much as to him. I grabbed my phone from the kitchen counter and turned my back on the bed; more of a statement to the man lying there than an attempt to keep the conversationprivate. ‘Yes, Stuart?’
‘You sound out of breath, Alicia. Hope it’s not an inconvenient time.’
‘Not at all.’In fact, Stuart, you’ve just saved my life. What the hell was I thinking, letting Jack Smith hit on me?I swiftly suppressed the thought that I’d been a willing – no, anactive– partner.
‘Good. I’m leaving for the airport shortly – a week of golf in Portugal, remember?– but I’ve got a favour to ask. You know that international conference in London next weekend?’
I recalled reading about an inaugural event for some new life coaching organisation or other, a passing reference on our online bulletin board. Life coaching was, of course, a related field to executive coaching; but its focus was more personal and – in my experience, at any rate – its practitionerswere less likely to follow a professional code of practice. My mind teetered back three years to that New Age-style course I’d taken in California, the chance meeting on the last day in the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, and all that followed. Because the chance meeting had been with one of the life coaches from the course; and not just any coach, but Troy Randall Travers – the most handsome,the most charismatic and the one who, towards the end of the course, seemed to have eyes only for me.Oh, definitely more of a rifle than a scatter gun – and I still had the scars to prove it …
‘Alicia, are you still there?’
My mind swerved back to the present. ‘The conference next weekend – what about it?’
‘They’ve booked Judy for the Saturday, a session about transferring learningfrom the executive coaching world. Unfortunately, she’s just been rushed into hospital with appendicitis – the operation was straightforward enough, but she’ll be out of action for a few weeks.’ This got my full attention. So much for that reminder I’d just written myself! I would just have to wait until she was better; I certainly wasn’t going to bare my soul to any of the other supervisorson Coaches for Growth’s payroll.
Stuart went on, ‘So I wondered …’ I waited while he floundered towards the inevitable question. He cleared his throat. ‘Could you take her place?’ A pause; then, his voice squeaky with discomfort, ‘Please?’
I considered my answer carefully. It was tempting to refuse – on the basis that he couldn’t reasonably expect me to work two weekends in a row.There were several other factors to weigh up, however. For a start, Judy had a reputation for choosing quality over quantity in terms of her speaking engagements, which meant that the conference would be worth attending. And then, even though – given my lack of personal commitments – I was probably the only coach free at such short notice, doing Stuart this favour would give me some extra bargainingpower as and when needed. Last but by no means least, being fully occupied next weekend might help me to forget the events of this one.
‘All right, I’ll do it,’ I said at last. ‘Can you send me all the details and copy in Celia?’ I heard the bed creak behind me; before I could escape, Jack’s arms were round me, hands clasped loosely under my breasts. A gesture of solidarity, I sensed, ratherthan a sexual overture; and all the more powerful for it. Yielding to one last role play, I leaned back against him and continued, ‘And forward any notes Judy’s given you about her talk – I’ll have a look on the shared drive as well, once I’m back in the office tomorrow. Oh, and Stuart?’ It was as if I didn’t want the call – or the embrace – to end.
