Rejection of My Life. The End of the Universe. ‘Lambert, no, I can’t do this,’ he gasped suddenly. ‘I can’t. I promised myself … I …’ A gurgling noise came out of his throat as if he were in the process of hanging himself, rather than in the process of having his manhood liberated from his jeans.
‘Don’t be fucking ridiculous,’ I hissed. ‘We’ll both die if we don’t. I order you, John MacAllister, to TAKE ME
NOW
.’
John stared at me with a sort of crazed desperation. ‘I can’t, Charley. If it went wrong and I lost you from Salutech I’d be totally buggered. I can’t take that risk.’
‘I’ll RESIGN,’ I yelled. ‘IT DOESN’T MATTER. DON’T DO THIS. I BEG YOU, DON’T DO THIS!’
John was panting. ‘The thing is …’ he said vaguely, eyes crossing, ‘The thing is, we’re making you director of comms. Across everything. Brands, corporate, internal.
You got the job, Lambert –
Oh, Christ, I want to be inside you
. You’ve got a while to get it all running smoothly and then you’ll be starting the biggest drug launch we’ve ever staged. I cannot start sleeping with you now, of all times.’ In desperation he took a handful of my hair and scrunched it. ‘Aaargh,’ he added.
‘What do you MEAN I got the job?’ I croaked. ‘You can’t just announce that! You need to offer me a financial package and then I’ll get back to you and then – Oh, God, what am I saying, who
cares
? That’s tomorrow. This is now. Please. I beg you. Stop doing this to me. To both of us.’
John looked at me for a few more anguished seconds, then pulled me back, ramming me down on his lap and kissing me hard, stopping only to pull my dress off over my head. I wriggled, gasping, feeling an outlandishly strong, hard MacAllister between my legs, and moved in so he could take off my bra. He reached round to undo it, burying his head between my breasts. He definitely bit one of my nipples but it didn’t hurt. At all. I began to lose myself. It was finally happening. My privates had gone completely barmy and volcanic, full of pulsating molten lava. Soon they would not be private. Soon they would be filled with John. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! At last!
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ It was a scream. A high-pitched scream. ‘And all the saints!’
Was it me? No. I had not just said that. Was it John? No. John was frozen, his head still between my breasts, hand on the back of my bra strap.
Slowly, I looked round. The door was open. A woman of around Granny Helen’s age was standing at the door wearing a black dress with a white apron. She had a little
white hat thing on her head and was carrying a bucket. She looked like she might drop dead of a heart-attack.
I looked back down at John, who had become the CEO of Salutech Pharmaceutical once more. He couldn’t meet my eye.
It was over.
As, I realized, with great irritation, it was now. John had his hand in mine and was looking at me in the exact same way he’d looked at me that night. But I was swaddled in nylon, my Temple of Lady buried behind a wall of plaster and bandage, a coterie of fierce nurses, the sick and injured metres away. There would be no sex. No passion. Just the agony of John’s hand in mine and the possibility of absolutely nothing further until a later date.
As I tried to douse the Furnace of Hope in my chest – not to mention the one in my gynaecological parts – it began to dawn on me that physically I was feeling terrible. I had no sensation in my left leg, my throat was still on fire and I was freezing cold. John swam before me for a few seconds.
‘Charley? Are you OK?’
His face was a lot closer to mine. I could smell toothpaste and a very light, delicate man perfume. (Toothpaste? Scent? Surely significant?) ‘Yes,’ I said weakly. ‘I just suddenly felt tired. I … I think I need to sleep.’
Offer to hop in and spoon me
, my eyes implored.
John put his hand on the side of my face. ‘I’m going to bugger
Yvette Hines, Monique Lamont