The effect? Jemima is absolutely right. Brad is well used to creating effects, and well versed in creating seduction scenes. Jemima may think he’s a superb cook, that he’s doing all this for her, but Brad has done this many times before. And what is he cooking? He is starting with goat cheese, placed perfectly on a round slice of walnut bread that has been lightly toasted, warmed in the oven, and drizzled with walnut oil and a hint of lemon juice, all resting on a bed of lettuce. For the main course he is preparing chicken breasts marinaded in rosemary and garlic, served with butternut squash and a selection of fresh vegetables, and for dessert he has created an exotic fruit salad with fat-free ice cream to go with it. Not perhaps the most adventurous menu, it’s true, but remember that this is a man obsessed with keeping the calories down, and truth to be told it’s a wonder the goat cheese got in there at all.
Brad isn’t a marvelous cook, but he has six marvelous recipes that he brings out over and over again. He carefully notes which he has served to whom, just in case he makes the terrible mistake of serving the goat cheese twice in a row. Luckily, he hasn’t had to worry about this with Jemima.
Admittedly, he hasn’t gone out of his way like this for a while, and we shall discover the reasons why later on, but for now let us see whether the effect is working . . .
“You know what I can’t believe?” says Brad, chopping carrots and courgettes—or zucchini as he calls them—into julienne.
“Hmm?” I’m feeling more than a little bit woozy, the champagne combined with jet lag is having a complete knockout effect, but I can’t seem to stop drinking it, anything to calm my nerves.
“I can’t believe that someone like you doesn’t have a boyfriend.”
“Well.” I sway ever so slightly on my stool. “I can’t believe that someone like you doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
Brad smiles. “How did I know you were going to say that?”
“Kismet?” I say sarcastically, instantly regretting it, because I didn’t mean to be sarcastic, it just kind of came out. I mean, what was I supposed to have said? But Brad, thankfully, seems to have missed the sarcasm.
“Yeah!” he says enthusiastically. “Kismet! I’m a big believer in fate, what about you?”
Okay, we can talk about this. This is something we have in common. This is good. Maybe we’ll find hundreds more things we have in common, maybe there is a foundation there on which to build something different and special. God, I hope so.
“Absolutely,” I say. “I do believe in fate, but I also believe that we control our own destinies, and I’m not sure which I believe in more. I think that mostly I believe that life is a bit like a tree, and that there are several branches we could take. I think that’s where the controlling our own destiny bit comes in. If we choose a certain branch then our life will go one way, and fate will throw things at us from then on.”
Brad nods his head sagely. “So,” he ventures after a pause. “Do you think that this is fate?” He puts his glass down and looks at me very intently.
“I certainly believe there’s a reason for us meeting.” God, can you believe how cool I sound? “And I’m sure that everyone comes into our life because they have something to teach us.”
“So what lessons do you think you could learn from me?” A hint of a raised eyebrow, a touch of flirtation in his voice?
“How about I tell you tomorrow morning?” Well done, Jemima, finally I’ve had enough champagne to give me the confidence to flirt.
“How about I give you your first lesson now?” Brad starts moving towards me, and, stupid cow that I am, I jump up in a panic.
“Let’s eat first,” I say brightly. “I’m sure I’ll be in far more of a learning mood once I’ve had some food. Anyway I’m starving, mmm, this looks delicious. I never realized you could cook too, you kept that very quiet. So, is the food ready?” Shut up, Jemima. You’re making a fool of yourself. I shut up.
Brad laughs and reaches over to ruffle my hair. “You’re funny, JJ, did you know that?”
“It has, er, been mentioned in the past.” What? Does he think that all blonds are brain dead? I resist the urge to say something even more sarcastic, but I suppose I can’t hold this against him. I mean, he hardly knows me, and I can’t blame him for jumping to conclusions, for not knowing what I’m like, whether I’m funny or not. “Well, the food is ready,” he says. “Why don’t you light the candles while I bring it out.”
So I duly do what I’ve been told, and when Brad walks in, holding two plates, he flicks a switch by the door with his elbow and plunges the room into darkness, all except for the two candles on the table and the flickering light of the log fire.
“That’s better,” he says, sitting down.
“Much,” I agree.
“Now I can hardly see you,” I add. It’s a joke, that old sarcasm just won’t stay down tonight, and once again I thank my lucky stars that for Brad, being (a) American, and (b) Californian, sarcasm is as alien to him as Marks & Sparks knickers.
“Oh,” he says, sounding wounded. “I’m sorry if I disappoint you.”
“No, Brad,” I appease him, daring to place a hand on his, “I’m joking. British humor. Sorry.”
“Right,” he says, attempting to laugh but failing. Never mind, a man this beautiful could never believe that someone wasn’t interested in him for long, and he’s almost instantly back to his usual self.
We make small talk during the goat cheese salad. We start laughing together in the interval between the hors d’oeuvres and the main course, and by the time the chicken’s on the table we’re starting to relax, and I can’t speak for Brad, but I’m definitely beginning to feel that we might well have something here.
“So what are you looking for in a relationship?” I venture eventually, numerous glasses of champagne having given me more than a hint of Dutch courage.
“What am I looking for? I’m looking for someone who’s honest, sensitive, feminine. Someone who isn’t necessarily into having a career, who’d be a great wife and mother.” He pauses at this point and gazes into my eyes, and it feels really, I don’t know, really intense, and after a few seconds which feel like a few hours I start to feel really uncomfortable, so I look away.
“I want someone who makes me laugh, who enjoys the good things in life, who has integrity and depth.
“I want someone . . .” Oh God, just how long is his list going to be? I mean, I expected a couple of pointers, not an hour-long monologue about his expectations. Stop it, Jemima, stop being so negative.
“. . . who’s self-aware, who is open to loving and being loved. And I need someone who looks great; who looks after herself, who doesn’t drink or do drugs, who is slim, and fit, and healthy.”
Strange, that, or am I just being difficult? How come he kept telling me what he wanted and then finally told me what he needed? Is there a difference? Maybe, maybe not. Is this important? Maybe, maybe not. Whatever, right at this moment I’m too damn busy trying not to fall asleep at the table to worry about it anymore. I am soooo tired and, exciting as this is, as gorgeous as he is, I really don’t think I can keep my eyes open for too much longer.
Brad finishes his litany, and finally, thankfully, he notices my drooping eyelids.
“Oh you poor baby,” he says gently, “you’re tired.”
I nod, because quite frankly I don’t think I can speak. The combination of alcohol and tiredness would definitely make my words come out all wrong.
“Why don’t I put some decaf coffee on, we can sit by the fire while you drink it, then you can go to bed.” I nod again, gratefully this time, and on surprisingly (or perhaps not) unsteady feet I walk over to the fire and pretty much collapse in front of it.
Brad goes to make the coffee, and when it’s ready he sets it on the coffee table behind me. He sits on the floor next to me, and strokes the hair out of my eyes. I know I should feel nervous, in any other circumstances I’d probably be throwing up, but I’m way too far gone to feel nervous, to wor
ry about what to do, what to say. I just sit there and find myself concentrating on his hand, his big, strong hand softly brushing the hair out of my eyes, then stroking my cheek, and finally resting on my chin.
“C’mere,” he says softly, and I don’t have the energy or, to be honest, the inclination to resist. I mean, please, here I am in this unbelievable house in Los Angeles, LOS ANGELES! with this stunning man and I’m supposed to say no? I don’t think so. And anyway, I’m curious, I want to know how it would feel to lie next to someone this beautiful. I want to know what his skin would feel like, taste like, what it would be like. Let’s face it, the brief interludes I’ve had in the past haven’t exactly been anything to write home about. But this would be more than something to write home about, this is moviemaking time, this is so unreal I almost feel as if I’m in a film. Even the way he gently cups my chin as his face moves closer and closer to mine feels as if it’s happening in slow motion.
And finally those perfect lips are on mine, and he’s kissing me, and I would go into more detail but I’m, quite frankly, slightly embarrassed. I mean, it’s never happened like this before, it’s never been this slow, or gentle, or lovely, if you want to know the truth.
And I don’t feel the way I’ve felt before. I don’t want to do it with the lights off, or lying flat on my back so my stomach’s almost flat, because now it is flat, and I don’t have to feel self-conscious, or worry that he’s not going to be able to do it because my size will turn him off.
Now, wonder of wonders, I’m semi-naked with a man who’s bigger than me! His chest is bigger than mine! His arms are bigger than mine! And, more to the point, what a chest! What arms! Oh my word, I thought bodies like this only existed in the pages of magazines. Look at these pecs, look at these biceps and triceps and everythingceps.
And then all our clothes come off (and I don’t even mind!), and I’m watching him as he does things to me that no one has ever done to me before, and after a while I have to close my eyes because I’m seriously embarrassed, but a little while after that I stop being embarrassed because this unbelievable feeling suddenly starts spreading throughout my whole body, and the next thing I know he’s lying on his back, inside me while I rock on top of him, and I’m screaming the whole house down. I don’t even know where this scream is coming from, all I know is that it sounds guttural, animal, and I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to. Which I don’t, because this is so gooooood. Mmmmmmmmm, this is so gooooood.
“That was incredible.” Brad rolls on to his side and gazes at me, planting soft butterfly kisses down my cheek.
“That. Was. Incredible!” I murmur, still trying to come to terms with what just happened. I think I just had an orgasm! For the first time in my life I know what all those magazines have been writing about, and, while I’m feeling wonderful, I also feel a bit shellshocked by the whole thing, it was just so amazing, and so unexpected.
“No, I mean, that was seriously unlike anything I’ve experienced,” says Brad.
You think? What about me? I’ve never experienced anything so completely deliciously mind-blowing in my entire life.
“I know,” I say, before I suddenly get hit with this irrational thought that he’s going to think I’m cheap, I hardly know the guy, after all. “You don’t think I’m cheap do you?” I say, before I can help myself. “I mean I don’t usually do this, I never usually do this. This isn’t like me at all . . .”
“For someone who never usually does this,” he says, taking my hand and curling it up inside his masculine palm, “you’re awfully good at it.”
I laugh, for he’s put me at my ease. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he says. “And I also know that you’re not the kind of girl to take lightly. This was one of the best nights of my entire life.”
“Mmm,” I say, really falling asleep now. “Me too,” I just about manage to murmur, and that’s as far as I can remember.
Brad very gently picks her up—can you imagine anyone picking up Jemima Jones a few months ago—and carries her to bed. He bypasses the spare room completely, and tucks her up on the left side of his huge king-sized bed. He pulls the bedcovers up and tucks them under her chin in case she gets cold from the air-conditioning, and Jemima murmurs and turns over, still fast asleep.
“Thank you, God,” Brad whispers as he kisses her softly on the nape of her neck. “Thank you for making her so perfect,” and with that he goes to the bathroom to take a shower.
Chapter 19
“Morning, sleepyhead.”
I peel open my eyes, which is a hell of an effort, I can tell you, and for a split second I’m completely disoriented. Where am I, who’s talking to me? And then I remember and as I shield my eyes from the sunlight streaming in through the blinds I remember that this beautiful man standing at the side of the bed is Brad, and that last night we made love, and that it was the greatest experience of my life to date.
He sits on the bed and I drink in his looks, the fact that even in a T-shirt and running shorts and sneakers he looks positively delicious, and he leans over to kiss me good morning, and I keep my lips sealed tightly shut because I’m so worried about having morning mouth when he smells so clean, so masculine, so sexy.
“What time is it?” I venture when he leans back, out of breath shot, as it were.
“Nine o’clock. I didn’t want to wake you so I just went out for a run.”
“Jesus, nine o’clock? I never sleep till nine o’clock.”
“That’s because you’re never jet lagged.”
I want to get out of bed and brush my teeth, wash my face, make sure my makeup isn’t all over the place because I can feel already that my skin is gritty, that I definitely didn’t wash it off last night, but I can’t get out of bed because I don’t appear to be wearing any clothes, and, slim as I may now be, walking around naked in front of someone I hardly know—despite the fact we have been as intimate as any two people can be—is not an experience I think I can deal with right now.
I wipe my fingers under my eyes, hoping to remove any stray mascara or eyeliner that may have worked its way down there during the night, and smile at Brad in a way that I hope he’ll find sexy.
“So what are you in the mood for this morning?” he says, and I think about my morning mouth and then I think, screw it, and I pull him down towards me and kiss him. Properly. Tongues and everything.
I didn’t think it could get better than last night. Really, I thought I’d hit the height of orgasmic experiences, but today, this morning, in the bright sunlight of day, it was even better. Warmer, softer, funnier. I never thought you were supposed to talk during sex, at least, I’ve never said anything before because it always brought me back to where I was, and made me feel almost shameful. But Brad and I talked to each other this morning, very gently. Before, during, and after. And we laughed, which was a complete revelation, because before today I’ve never thought sex was supposed to be funny. Not that it was ha, ha, funny, just intimate I suppose, and maybe that’s what was such a revelation for me.
“Jesus,” says Brad, lying back on the bed, breathing heavily. “You really are something, JJ.”
I lean over him, my hair trailing over his face as I kiss him softly on the lips, slowly coming to terms with the idea that this man is mine. At least for the time being.
“So now what?” I say, wondering how we’re going to spend the rest of the day.
“What do you mean?” says Brad, with a panicked look on his face, and I start to laugh because I realize he thinks I’m asking “now what” about the relationship.
“What are we going to do today?” I say.
“Oh. Right. Well, I have to check in to the gym later on this afternoon, but how about this morning we go for breakfast then maybe Rollerblading?”
“That sounds fantastic,” I say, trying not to let on that I lied about Rollerblading and that I’ll probably make a complete fool of myself. But then again, Rollerblading is the perfect exerci
se to keep my thighs slim and toned. “But can I work out at the gym later on?” Rollerblading, I’m afraid, isn’t enough to keep the guilt at bay.
“Sure you can,” says Brad. “In fact, this afternoon there’s a spinning class which you might enjoy.”
“Spinning?”
“Yeah,” he laughs, seeing I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. “It’s cycling on the spot, but real fast. It’s kind of a killer but you feel great afterwards.”
“Maybe,” I say, because, although it does sound great, I think at this stage I’d rather stick to what I know.
We get up, shower, and climb in Brad’s car, and he takes me for a short drive around Santa Monica, just to give me a feel for the place, and, driving along, with his right hand resting on my left leg, I am truly in heaven.
There seem to be hundreds of people milling around, and, although some of them are beautiful, quite honestly I’m surprised at how ordinary most of them are. I somehow expected all of Los Angeles to look like something out of a film, but for every gorgeous person there seem to be ten more who aren’t.
“That’s Third Street Promenade,” says Brad, pointing to a cobbled street lined with shops and restaurants. “It’s famous in Los Angeles for the street performers, especially on the weekends.” As we stop at the lights I can hear Frank Sinatra playing, very loudly, and I can’t figure out where it’s coming from.
“Hang on,” says Brad. “You gotta hear this,” and he parks the car round the corner and takes my hand as we walk down to where the music’s coming from.
In the middle of the street is a man in his sixties. He’s wearing a fedora, a black jacket, and a bow tie. He’s holding on to a microphone and swaying slightly while crooning along to the huge Karaoke machine that sits behind him. It’s all Frank Sinatra, and what I can’t believe is that this man sounds more like Frank than Frank himself. Everyone milling past seems to stop, at least for a few seconds, before leaving with smiles on their faces, and the bucket resting on the ground in front of him is slowly filling up with dollar bills.