'Well, it's all true,' she says. Finish off the vodka. 'Frank and I have an understanding.' She runs her hand through her hair as she says it. Smiles. Fuck.
'You sleep around and he doesn't mind?'
She laughs. 'That's about it, although it's not that one-sided. He's spending the night with some Malaysian tart in Gleneagles.'
The face betrays something as she says it.
'Sounds as if it bothers you.'
She shrugs.
'Why should it?' Then, 'Well, maybe you're right. It's funny. I do it often enough to him, but sometimes I think he's driven me to it.' Could be about to get the marriage history. Usually I'd take this opportunity to go to the toilet and hope they'd changed the subject by the time I got back; but this I want to hear. She disappoints.
'Sorry, I won't bore you with that.'
'I don't mind.' A sensitive, new man.
'Some other time, Thomas,' she says, shaking her head. 'I want to relax and enjoy myself tonight.'
The fire crackles, the music trundles along, all string quartets and harpsichords. There is a semi-uncomfortable silence between us. Want to break it, but I haven't the faintest idea what to say to her. Stare once again into the depths of the flames, because when I look at her I'm back in her office on a warm day in late summer, and I can't look her in the eye.
'I think about that day a lot too,' she says. 'I was surprised how much I enjoyed you looking at me.'
I manage to look her in the eye this time too. The elephant in the room. I hadn't actually realised it was an elephant, but then maybe that's what elephants are when they're in a room.
What in the name of God am I thinking?
She stands, slightly discomfited by my continuing silence and says, 'Get you another drink?'
Beginning to realise that maybe she's as uncomfortable as I am. You get impressions of people and usually it's more extreme than the reality. We're all made from the same mould, that's the cliche I'm pointing to. Some guy might be an idiot but he probably won't be too much more of an idiot than you are yourself. It's just how he comes across. Same for every cool bastard, every comedian, every Neanderthal. Every foible, every personality trait is magnified under the eyes of the rest of humanity, when underneath we're not really that different. And so it might just be with Charlotte Miller. Strong, sometimes bruising exterior, all the better for climbing up the ladder and putting men in their place; but underneath she's not that different from everyone else.
Here we go. Hutton, the classical fucking humanist.
We stare at each other, the back of my throat tingles and goes dry. Hand her the glass, our fingers touch. Feels like electricity stabs through me. Decide the signs are right and to go for it. She's only human, same as the rest of us, and she hasn't asked me down here to discuss whether Thistle'll ever get back into the Premier League. Stand up, imagine myself as James Bond — before he got brainwashed by the Russians, or whatever it was that happened to him.
My head is about a foot away from hers, we stare at each other. My mouth waters. She smells glorious and I fight the urge for this to start in a frantic passion. I lean forward and kiss her lips — hardly any pressure — and taste the wine in her mouth.
I run my fingers down her neck as we kiss and I feel her shudder, and then down her back and I slip them inside the silky material until my hands are resting on her buttocks. Absolutely beautiful soft skin, perfect shape to be caressed by two desperate, needing, wanting hands. Our kiss becomes more passionate, her arms are round my neck, and I squeeze those fantastic butt cheeks, moulding them, caressing them. God, I'm so hard, so damp, my cock pressed against her. I can't wait to feel her, to slip my hands between her thighs to see if she's as damp as I am, so I move my hand round, feel the touch of her neatly shaved pubic hair, and then run my fingers down over her pussy and ease two fingers quickly inside her. She's soaking, as desperate for it as I am, and at the touch of my hand she gasps and thrusts herself against me, her mouth wide, her tongue all over me.
*
Five o'clock in the morning, Christmas Day. Driving back into Glasgow. Just spent my best night with a woman in a long time. Got a disgusting warm feeling, which points to me being moderately in love. That's usual, and it'll pass. No chance of blundering into marriage this time. The best I can hope for is a rematch but even that can't be sure. I'm fully aware that the next time I see her it'll be like it never happened, and I'm liable to get my face punched in for being crap at my job. But for the moment I'm content to bask in the glow of post-absolutely phenomenal sex. Body like a twenty year-old, breasts you could lick ice cream off for weeks without getting fed up, a tongue on her like a knife and a technique honed over decades of experience. Spectacular.
Tongue like a knife? That sounds wrong.
Drive through Glasgow, wishing the roads were always this quiet. Haven't given all the other things going on a thought all evening, and now they start to intrude. Bloody murderers, dinner with Peggy and the kids, what to do about Bathurst. Kicking myself for being so stupid as to double date on Christmas Day. Don't know what to do. Overnight Bathurst has dropped from the sexual wish list. Women of my own age or older from now on, and banish all thoughts of young constables twenty years my junior.
Pull up outside the flat just after five-fifteen. Tired, but feeling pretty cool. First night in a long while that I haven't drunk too much, although had I been stopped by a zealous young police constable in the last half hour I would still have been in trouble.
Up the stairs, let myself into the flat. Two and a half hours sleep and then a frantic fifteen minute rush to get to the station in the morning. At least the roads will be quiet. Wondering whether to tell Taylor about my evening, but knowing I won't.
Walk into the bedroom, yawning. Don't turn on the light. The curtains are open and the street lights fill the room with dull orange light, dark shadows. Am in the process of undressing when I notice there's a woman lying on top of the bed. Fully clothed, but undoubtedly a woman.
13
Early Christmas morning. He lies awake. Imagining he hears sleigh bells outside, can see the snow on the ground. Thinking of Christmases past, the presents he never received.
Jo never gave him a present. He'd wondered for a while if that was why she'd dumped him when she had. One week before Christmas. A long time ago now, it seems. Was it last year, or the year before? So much in his head. So much work, so many tortured and difficult lives. So much of an effort not letting everyone in on the secret.
She didn't dump him to avoid buying a present though. That would have been too stupid. She had plenty of money. She dumped him because she was getting plenty of sex elsewhere.
He'd loved her, he'd cared for her. He'd bought her presents, lots of presents. Took a silver necklace along to their first date, let her know right from the start that she was on to a winner. He listened, he always listened. Let her do what she wanted. Let her breathe. Gave her space. He massaged her head when she had a headache, bought her dinner when she was hungry; he sent her flowers every day. Every day.
She had thrown that back at him the last time they talked. As if it wasn't a good thing. She was fucking other guys while he was sending her flowers, yet he was the bad guy? She was fucking other guys while he was waiting outside her house with a box of chocolates, yet he was the bad guy? She was fucking other guys while he was leaving ten romantic messages on her phone every night, yet he was the bad guy?
At first he'd wondered if he'd been the problem, if he'd been the one to blame. Yet that was absurd. The notion was absurd. He had given her everything. Everything. He had given her wild flowers every day. Every fucking day. And she'd fucked her way through entire rugby teams worth of men.