Heads I Win Tails You Lose. Lynne Fox

Heads I Win Tails You Lose - Lynne Fox


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a decidedly dull lot down the generations!’

      He smiles, leaning back in his chair, so obviously comfortable in his own skin. He seems faintly familiar; something about him is chipping at the edge of my mind. Perhaps he reminds me of Mick, my policeman boyfriend; similar build and self-assurance which are probably what makes me find him extremely seductive.

      ‘My name is Amelia, by the way.’ I inflect a slight rebuke into my tone that he hasn’t already enquired but he glides over it, not the least perturbed.

      ‘Peter, Peter Everard,’ he inclines his head slightly, his fingers lightly touching his breast bone, as if bowing.

      I can’t help but smile and ignoring his flippancy ask,

      ‘So, you’re here working. Do you live far away?’

      ‘Coventry; we have a small satellite office there.’

      ‘I’ve never been but I understand it’s a lovely city. Have you always lived there?’

      ‘No, I grew up in Dorset.’

      ‘Really, whereabouts?’

      I keep silent as to my own childhood connections with the area.

      ‘Near Dorchester but we moved when I was about sixteen.’

      Peter looks at his watch.

      ‘I didn’t realise it was quite so late and I, for one, need my beauty sleep; got an early start in the morning.’ He makes a poor attempt at stifling a yawn. ‘May I walk you to your room?’

      Why do I feel that he’s deliberately avoiding any further questions?

      ‘Of course.’

      As we walk along the hotel corridor he rests his hand gently on the small of my back. His touch is feather light yet it seems to go through me like an electric charge and it takes all my willpower to stop at a chaste goodnight kiss.

      He touches my cheek, ‘I did mean what I said earlier, you are very beautiful you know.’

      I smile my acknowledgement of his compliment and unlock my bedroom door.

      Standing before the full-length mirror I appraise my image. What an asset my beauty has proved to be over the years. I turn this way and that, admiring the curves of my well-proportioned breasts and hips. There’s nothing voluptuous or brazenly sexy about me but I’ve perfected an elegant femininity of movement and posture that suggests an inherent sensuality that men seem to find compelling. I allow myself a surreptitious smile; will men never learn not to judge a book by its cover?

      I prepare for bed knowing that I really do need to get some sleep but the coincidence of the closeness of our childhood homes coupled with the strange impression of familiarity and my sixth sense that he was deliberately avoiding personal detail, causes me a disturbed night.

      Next morning is crisp and clear, encouraging me to put my doubts to one side for a while; instead I might as well turn this trip into a mini holiday and tour some of Sheffield’s art galleries.

      By the time I return to the hotel my feet are aching and my senses are in overload from the many and varied works of art I’ve been contemplating. I take a lovely long soak in the bath and apply tasteful yet understated makeup. I wish I’d packed something a bit more elegant to wear but at least I have with me the obligatory ‘little black dress’ so that will have to do.

      When I enter the hotel bar Peter is already there, in conversation with the bartender. His smile of welcome is sincere, tinged it seems with a slight feeling of relief which gives me an unexpected thrill as he places a proprietorial hand on my shoulder. ‘Amelia, what would you like to drink?’

      There’s a group of four men sitting round a table to the left of us and I notice their glances of appreciation in my direction. I see Peter notices it too and subtly places himself in their line of vision, staking his claim to me; men are so territorial!

      I allow myself to be shepherded to a table in the corner and take a sip of Pinot Noir.

      ‘I’ve booked a table in the restaurant for eight; I hope that’s OK with you?’

      ‘That’s fine.’

      Peter is handsome; I can appreciate that more now that I’m not as tired as I was the previous evening. His eyes are a dappled hazel with flecks of gold. He has slight stubble that is expertly shaped emphasising his jaw line, definitely the work of a Turkish barber and full, sensuous lips that readily smile. I find my gaze fixed on their movement as he makes small talk, heightening my anticipation for the rest of the evening.

      ‘How has your research been going? Have you traced any more of your ancestors?’

      I snap out of my reverie, take an enormous swallow of wine and force myself into the present, ‘Not well, really. Hit a bit of a wall I’m afraid so I used it as an excuse to indulge my interest in art.’ By way of explanation I add, ‘I teach art history so I’ve spent the day traipsing round art galleries.’

      ‘I consider that an excellent use of your time,’ approval is evident in his tone, ‘when I’m in London I often spend my lunch-hours in the art galleries or museums.’

      ‘Which is your favourite?’

      ‘Oh, I think the National Gallery, so many different styles under the one roof.’

      ‘Yes, I agree but for me it’s got to be the National Portrait Gallery. I can spend hours just gazing, trying to get a sense of the person behind the paint.’

      ‘Ah, a soul searcher; I can see I shall need to be careful what I say.’

      I allow myself a slight smile; indeed you should, around me.

      ‘Excuse me, sir, madam, your table is ready.’ The waiter stands politely back and motions us to follow, directing us to a table in the far corner. The restaurant curtains are drawn against the dark December night, the subdued lighting enhanced by candles on each table, giving the illusion of intimacy. There are enough diners to create a comfortable atmosphere, their conversations merely affording a pleasant backdrop of murmurings to our own small talk.

      We concentrate on the formalities of wine and food choosing and sit back, our eyes meeting as we contemplate each other. A one night stand would suit me fine but I’d like to know a little more about this man before I take him into my bed. That slight feeling of familiarity is still there.

      ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

      Peter looks slightly uncomfortable; I can’t imagine why.

      ‘No, no I don’t. Do you?’

      Shall I admit that I had a brother once? No, I’m not in the habit of sharing Matt with anyone.

      ‘No, like you, I’m a one and only.’

      ‘That doesn’t surprise me, you’re quite unique.’

      Peter raises his glass in salutation as I smile my delight at his compliment.

      ‘Where did you move to?’

      Peter looks confused so I explain,

      ‘You said you moved from Dorset when you were about sixteen.’

      ‘Oh, yes, so I did. Nearer to London, better work prospects for my father. How about you, have you moved around much?’

      ‘Like your father, I’ve only ever moved for work reasons.’

      We linger over our meal, conversation minimal but much conveyed by suggestive looks and body language so that, by the time the meal is over, anticipation and sexual desire between us is palpable.

      Peter lifts up our second bottle of wine to the light.

      ‘All gone I’m afraid. Would you like a brandy or some coffee?’

      I remove my shoe under the table and run my stockinged foot up his calf.

      ‘Actually, I think


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