The Swap. Various

      Playdar

      Lisette Ashton

       These two aren’t players. You’re wasting your time with them.

      Sophie read Rob’s text message, struggling not to reveal any telltale sign in her facial expression. The effort of maintaining a poker face, she knew, made her features appear haughty and long. It was not an attractive look and she tried to lose it as quickly as possible. But the expression was clearly there long enough for Philip and Angela to notice.

      ‘Is there a problem?’

      She glanced up from her mobile towards Philip as he raised the concerned question. He had a shaved head and a smile that suggested mischief and danger. His muscular physique was squeezed into a pale casual suit. His whole image was the stylish and exciting persona of a relaxed Englishman abroad.

      Beside him, his Barbie-blonde wife, Angela, tilted her head. ‘Is everything OK?’ she asked. ‘You were frowning.’

      ‘Everything’s fine,’ Sophie assured them both. ‘I was just trying to think of the right way to respond to this idiot I’m dealing with.’ She waggled the phone to indicate the idiot she was referring to, and then comforted them with a reassuring grin before typing and sending her text message response.

       These two swing like a shithouse door in a thunderstorm. I’ll put money on it.

      ‘You must be quite the businesswoman back in the UK,’ Angela observed.

      Sophie shrugged. ‘I do all right. What about you two?’

      Her phone gave two beeps. An incoming text message. She held up an apologetic finger to silence Philip and Angela while she read Rob’s response.

       £500 says you don’t get to screw Philip before the end of the day. These two don’t swing. They’re too straitlaced.

      As usual, it was a perfectly punctuated text from her husband. It included apostrophes of omission and a postgraduate vocabulary. Sophie felt confident the word ‘straitlaced’ was not included in the predictive text package on his Nokia. She thought most men who weren’t Rob would try to put a hyphen in the word. His correctness with language was an essential part of his character.

      She typed her reply with the practised ease of a veteran texter.

      Call it £1K if I can get you with Angela. I say these two swing.

      Rob’s response came back in seconds.

      It’s a bet.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Philip said. ‘We’re distracting you from your business.’ He made as though he was about to get up and leave.

      Sophie put out a reassuring hand. ‘No. Please. That’s the last text I’m sending this evening. I’m all yours now.’ She was delighted to see Angela flush on hearing the comment. Sophie flashed her most disarming smile for the couple, as though the statement had been made in all innocence.

      Her playdar, she knew, was 99.9% accurate. Maybe higher. It had never failed her so far and taking the money on this bet with Rob was almost guaranteed. Angela and Philip, she felt certain, both lived the lifestyle. They were both players.

      ‘Rob should be back with our drinks in a moment and I promise you I won’t be talking business for the rest of the night.’ She met Philip’s eye and said, ‘If I go back on my word, you can take me over your knee and spank my bare backside as punishment.’

      Angela stiffened.

      Sophie could see the woman’s hand fall to Philip’s thigh and squeeze. Philip’s smile widened. Angela’s nails were painted a wanton scarlet. Her hand was so close to Philip’s groin that Sophie could almost feel his excitement.

      ‘With that sort of assurance,’ Philip told Sophie, ‘I’d be a fool to leave.’

      Rob returned with a tray of drinks. He didn’t bother making eye contact with Sophie. The bet was on and there was no point in either of them labouring the point or running the risk of spoiling the evening’s fun. And, it was clear to Sophie, Rob was desperate to have Angela.

      He complimented Philip’s wife on her necklace: a series of princess-cut diamonds on white gold. His fingers lingered dangerously close to her cleavage as he boldly examined the piece. He leaned closer and Sophie saw his fingertips brush against the blonde’s décolletage. She could imagine the heat of his breath was warming the blush of Angela’s cleavage.