The First Mistake(38)

Thomas couldn’t help but laugh as he went to pet him. ‘But he’s the cutest dog I’ve ever seen.’

‘Don’t be fooled,’ I said. ‘He lives up to his name – cockapoos can be ruthless.’

‘He’s not one of those territorial dogs, is he?’ asked Thomas, in between planting kisses on my lips. ‘The type who won’t let you go into the bedroom with a man – no matter how hot he is.’

‘He can be, but he should be all right with you.’

Thomas smiled as his hands wandered onto my behind, pinching it.

‘Ow,’ I laughed, swiping him round the shoulder.

‘So, shall we test your theory?’ he asked, as he began to unbutton my jeans.

‘No,’ I said, playfully pushing him away. ‘We’re going to eat first.’

‘Aw, seriously,’ he whined, sounding like a disgruntled little boy. ‘Can’t we just . . .?’

‘No, absolutely not. If I keep choosing sex over food, my mother will wonder what’s happened to me.’

‘You’d tell your mother something like that?’ he asked incredulously.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the horrified look on his face. ‘No, I meant she’ll notice that I’ve lost weight.’

‘Oh, right.’ He dipped his finger into the béchamel sauce in the pan.

‘Honestly, you’re worse than the kids in my class,’ I remonstrated, swatting his hand away. ‘Will you just behave yourself for a minute and get the wine out of the fridge.’

‘I’ve got something to ask you,’ he said later, as he tucked into my homemade lasagne.

‘Mmm,’ I replied, though I wasn’t really listening – too busy concentrating on whether the pasta sheets were cooked enough.

‘I’m in the middle of setting up a deal with a really important client.’

‘O-kay,’ I said, hesitantly, wondering how that could possibly have anything to do with me.

‘He’s coming over to London next month and it’s important that I create the right image. I need to present myself correctly, you know?’

I wrinkled my forehead as he pressed on. ‘It would just help my cause if he could see that I have a girlfriend and that I’m a serious guy.’ My expression went from one of confusion to one of surprise, but although I thought I knew where this was going, I still wanted to hear it from him. ‘I just wondered if you were free to, you know, come with me.’

‘Are you asking me to be your trophy girlfriend?’ I said, having to stop myself from giggling, though I don’t know whether it was from embarrassment or excitement.

‘It’s okay, if . . . you know, you don’t want to. I understand.’ He looked at me with doe eyes, like Puss in Boots from Shrek.

‘Don’t pull that one,’ I laughed. ‘I’d love to come. What do I have to wear? Do I need to be a slutty girlfriend or a posh bit of totty? Oh, can I be like Vivian Ward in Pretty Woman! All the gear, no idea.’

He looked at me as if I was completely mad. ‘You can just be you,’ he said, before smiling and adding, ‘You won’t be needing to coax any slippery suckers out of their shells.’

He knew the lines from my favourite film! I think that might have been the moment I began to fall in love with him.

As the weeks passed, I began to feel more comfortable around Thomas and dared to be confident that we had something special going on. Walking hand in hand into the restaurant to meet his business associate seemed like the next big step, and I felt dizzy with excitement, conscious of other diners watching us as we followed the ma?tre d’ to our table. A good-looking man with olive skin and dark smouldering eyes stood up as we approached.

‘Mr Rodriguez, good to see you. This is Miss Russo.’

Mr Rodriguez took my hand and brought it up to his lips. ‘Very pleased to meet with you.’

‘Likewise,’ I said, looking furtively around for his ‘better’ half.

‘Alas, my wife has been called away,’ he said. ‘So, I’m afraid it’s just me this evening.’

I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or not. There was a shred of relief that I didn’t have to make superficial small talk, but that then meant I would have to listen to their business dealings.

Thomas looked at me, as if to say sorry, and ordered a bottle of Laurent Perrier Rosé.

As it turned out, the conversation was actually very enlightening, and if nothing else, I felt my social standing had been elevated somewhat just because I now knew the difference between a Meursault and a Petit Mouton.

‘Who knew wine could sound even better than it tastes?’ I said, as we just made it onto the 23.50 from Waterloo. It was the last train from London to Guildford, so everyone was packed in like sardines, with Thomas and I pressed up against each other.

‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ he said, his face belying the fact that his hands were surreptitiously travelling up under my lace top, and into my bra. ‘I hope you weren’t too bored.’

I closed my eyes and a breath caught in my throat as his fingers deftly teased my nipples. If it wasn’t illegal I would have gladly let him take me there and then, regardless of who was watching.

‘N-no, I mean it,’ I managed. ‘I found it really interesting.’