How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(41)

I want you.

And I know this is it. I move towards him, my hands on each side of his face. Then his hands are on my hips as he lifts me onto his lap. He pulls me in closer so I’m straddling him, before sliding a hand underneath my Missoni top and pulling it over my head. My fingers are trembling as I begin to unbutton his shirt but the feeling when we’re actually skin to skin is so incredible. And we shed our clothes, bit by bit, kissing and biting the newest part of exposed flesh, until we’re there. Naked. And he pulls me down, making me gasp as I sink onto him and dig my nails into his back. And we fuck right there on my sofa.

Charlie ends up staying the night and we have sex three more times before he leaves around lunchtime the next day.

‘One of the perks of being the boss,’ he says as he kisses me goodbye.

‘Ooh, The Boss. I like that.’

‘I’ll call you later. I’ve got plans for you.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

I stretch out in the bed, luxuriating in post-coital bliss, when my phone beeps. It’s Hen reminding us she’s booked a table at Zuma for lunch. I’d forgotten we’d all planned to meet today and am tempted to cancel.

Although I’m excited that I’ll get to tell them about Charlie and all the sex I’m having for once.





33


ZUMA, KNIGHTSBRIDGE

‘But there must be something wrong with him?’ Maisie’s sipping on iced water, attempting to stay as sober as possible for her date with Rupert later.

‘Not one that I’ve discovered so far,’ I say. ‘Can we stop coming here by the way? If I have to eat another bloody edamame pod I think I’ll die.’

Hen does the thing with her eyes where she rolls them so far back into head that all you can see are the whites and she looks possessed.

‘There must be something.’ Her eyes are back in place now but narrow.

‘I just told you, edamame pods.’

‘You know what I mean, Kitty.’

‘It’s still early days,’ I say. ‘We’re still on our best behaviour around each other.’

‘I bet you haven’t even had a poo at his place yet.’

Tor and Maisie laugh.

‘Is that the bar now?’ Tor says. ‘Whether you’ve had a shit at his place? Stop it, girl, you’re going to give me pre-age wrinkles.’

‘But have you?’ Hen’s determined.

‘Why is it with anyone else, you all want to know the sex details but with me, you want to know if I’ve pooped at his? What is wrong with you all?’

They’re laughing now.

Hen actually has a point that isn’t one I’m happy to confess to these women. Lifelong friends or not, women are piranhas when they smell blood.

‘We’ve been seeing each other for about five minutes and I’ve not actually been to his yet,’ I say. Quietly into my wine. ‘Now can I just tell you about the sex?’

Hen’s brows move at least an inch up her head, which, considering her dedication to keeping the Botox trade in roaring business, is impressive in itself.

‘Excuse me?’ She picks up an empty Champagne flute from the table and points it in my direction. ‘Could you repeat what you told the table just then, Miss Collins? You’ve not been to his?’ She says it like she’s in Line of Duty or something.

‘No,’ I confess, mostly to my glass again. ‘But it’s not that big a deal, my place is here, it’s amazing, all my things are there. My people are here. We can walk home from most places. Which is romantic,’ I say as Maisie pulls a face. ‘And there are four separate loos in my apartment for those of you so concerned about pooing. Plus, it’s still super early days. We’ve only been on like three dates.’

‘But why wouldn’t he want you at his?’ Hen’s found her bone and she won’t drop it without a fight. ‘You know all that Englishman crap is his castle stuff. Why’s he keeping his drawbridges oh-so-tightly up?’

‘Maybe he’s got flatmates. Urgh.’ Maisie shudders and I give her bare ankle a quick kick under the table.

‘Ow. Bitch.’

‘We used to be flatmates. Was I “urgh” too?’

She laughs. ‘No! You were the best. I mean apart from the knife obsession, which is a bit weird for a ‘vegan pacifist’. But we were like kids or something. It was party central and none of us had jobs then.’

‘None of us have jobs now,’ Tor muses.

‘Who lives with roommates in their thirties? Unless they’re like super poor. I know he turned his back on all that money from his dad. Is he really poor? He doesn’t look like a hobo. And he always smells good.’

‘Wow. Thanks for your very concise summary, Maisie. He doesn’t have roommates though.’ Well, none he’s mentioned. I suddenly have images of half-naked Zooey Deschanel and Megan Fox in New Girl fighting for space in the bathroom in my head. ‘I’m pretty sure he hasn’t got flatmates.’

‘I bet he has terrible interior design and is all embarrassed because your place is all swishy,’ Maisie says.

‘Oh Jesus,’ Tor gasps. ‘Imagine if you walk in and he’s got one of those New York skyline prints on the wall.’ She shudders and knocks the rest of her drink back in one. ‘I think I’d rather see a MAGA poster.’