The Aftermath Of You

Chapter Eighteen

My date with Jack started well, though if it weren't for his continuous mentioning of higher interest rates and over-inflation it would have gone a lot better. He told me about his work and all the very funny and very bright people he worked with, and I told him about ... well, not too much really because I didn't think he'd be interested in dating a woman who'd been fired twice in one week, and was suffering from a bad case of alcohol poisoning (I much preferred 'alcohol poisoning' to 'hungover' as it made it sound as though it wasn't my fault).

So I laughed and made all the right remarks whenever he paused for breath. I looked very gamine, Sophie said, wearing her grey t shirt which she'd found in a little op shop in Dunedin that said: "It's better in Benver" with a picture of a beaver on it, and a skirt a size too big so it hung low on my hip bones and just brushed my knees. And big steel cap boots. I felt like an ass but trusted her womanly logic. Sophie had told me that these banker types liked free spirits. When I saw the look of horror on his face I realized Sophie probably didn't know too much about all that.

And then somewhere between me pushing the buttered chicken around my plate and sucking my rice aimlessly, because I was still a bit too sick to hold it down, he thanked me for ringing. And told me that he'd thought of me a fair bit since I'd been staring at him across the huge desk, with (he said) a very wanton smile.

"Like wonton ... a Chinese wonton?"

"Err, no." He twitched awkwardly. "It's just a word that rich people use, wanton not wonton ... like: willful, or reckless."

"Oh, like reckless, as in you thought I might jump on your desk and dance?"

"I must admit it did pass my mind. So what is better in Benver?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I spilt red wine on all of my clothes, so I had to borrow some clothes off Sophie." I lie so easily, I could mingle in war zones.

"All of your clothes? How?"

"A late night party that got out of hand."

"Well, I think you look lovely in whatever you're wearing, be it Brethren Chic, Greek Chic or Poor Chic. Jeez, I'd probably still find you attractive if you were wearing a tent."

As I gazed across into his sparkly blue eyes the thought struck me. I'd never been out with that type of guy before. You know the type. Nice. Really,really nice.

Then he asked for the bill, whipped out his calculator and paid his part of the meal, which was slightly odd, but surely it wasn't as bad as expecting me to pay for all of it. When we left the restaurant, Jack took my hand suddenly and began to kiss me senseless, which would have been very romantic if it weren't for the passersby howling, "Get a room!"

So we did get a room, lit only by one of those red lava lamps. I'm not such a forward woman, but when faced with a very good-looking man with his brown hair neatly ruffled up (and yes, neatly ruffled up is possible) and sparkly blue eyes who knows the difference between SIN and TAN on the calculator, it turns my clothes into liquid and the next thing you know they are in a puddle on the floor.

I don't know what I expected from Jack between the sheets. I hadn't really put much thought into it. I had always hoped that my first time with future life partner would be special. Spontaneous and sexy. Spontaneous being the key word. Maybe while we wandered home from a date, I would casually ask if he would like a cup of tea and when inside we would bump lightly into each other and the next thing you know his hands couldn't be parted from my flesh, and we would be in the midst of some rip-roaring, pulling-down-the-curtains, smashing-a-couple-of-glasses crazy sex.

But Jack Patterson had other ideas completely. He'd left a bottle of champagne in his bedroom, sitting in a silver champagne bucket. The ice had nearly all turned to water but it was still cold. And he had a collection of chocolate body paints at the foot of his bed, along with a set of handcuffs with that tacky leopard print material around it.

"Oh," I said when I saw it.

I felt a little bit silly. I imagine it would be like the feeling you may get when you decide to do the horizontal haka somewhere absurd, let's say in a boat whilst fishing, and the accomplice whips out a condom. Of course you need it - after all, you just want a nooky, not a sexually transmitted disease - but still you'd worry for a few nail biting seconds if they knew you were such a sure thing that they'd come so well prepared.

Jack saw the look on my face, "I'm sorry," he apologised. "I just like to be organised."

But once he opened the bottle of champagne and poured it into a glass beside the bucket, I decided that it was actually a nice feeling - having well-planned sex.