laughed.
“I eavesdropped on a conversation between Deidre Palmer and that prick in Social Science, Charlie Page. Well, not exactly a conversation, Deidre was doing her usual thing and telling Charlie what she thought of him.”
They both laughed. Roger Davidson could not believe what was happening. He had Patricia Patel in his car, they were chatting and she was laughing along with him. And he was driving her back to her place. “Oh bloody hell,” he thought to himself.
Remarkably there was a parking space right outside Patricia Patel’s house. He followed her in. As he looked round, he could see that she had managed to put her stamp on the place. The lighting was subdued, a flick of the switch and the voice of Melody Gardot was drifting through the lounge room. The walls were dotted with prints of Richard Young nudes.
Patricia had disappeared into the kitchen while Roger was absorbing his surroundings. She returned with two glasses and a bottle of Alsace chardonnay.
“Coffee is too much trouble. You’ll like this,” she said as she poured two generous glasses. “So, what do you think of my little home?”
“I like it. It’s… different.”
“Not quite Felicity’s style?”
Roger smiled. For a few moments they stood there in silence, sipping their wine and admiring the Richard Youngs. For Roger Davidson, if ambivalence needed a definition here it was. It was late and he was sharing a wine with a woman he would give anything to be with. But he knew Felicity was at home waiting for him. He had to go. Patricia Patel was experiencing no such ambivalence.
“Come, I’ll give you the tour.”
She showed him around the downstairs rooms but he was not really paying too much attention to her patter. By now both of them were well aware of the game that was being played. Neither of them gave a shit about the bathroom tile designs she was describing. Patricia stepped into her bedroom and declared.
“And here is Madame’s room.”
For a split second Roger found himself thinking of the Hall of Mirrors in the Palace of Versailles. But only for a split second. Patricia Patel’s bedroom was dominated by mirrors. The built-ins had mirrors and the mahogany dressing table boasted a large mirror. Roger almost expected to see mirrors on the ceiling.
Patricia took a swig of her wine, placed her glass on the dresser and stood for a moment staring at the chaos of perfumes and jewellery boxes and make-up. She looked up into the mirror and saw him staring at her.
She turned, slowly. She moved towards him, as if she had all the time in the world. She took his glass and placed it on the dresser alongside hers. Again she stared at her things. She turned slowly, staring at the floor. She took her time, lifted her gaze, and stepped forward to him, to be only inches away. After staring into his eyes for several moments she closed hers and just very slightly leant her head to the right.
Roger stepped towards her, gently placed his hands on her cheeks. Their lips met, not in a torrent of passion but delicately, their mouths just touching, then moving back and just touching again. Their mouths opened and their tongues met. Again, not strongly, not physically but with the utmost tenderness. Roger Davidson had not experienced anything as erotic as this in all his life.
She broke off the kiss and stepped behind him. She removed his jacket and placed it on a chair. Again standing behind him, she began to undo his tie. He looked down as her fingers dextrously did their work while she watched him in the mirror. She placed her left arm around his waist while her right hand expertly undid the buttons of his shirt. She reached up to kiss the side of his neck. She moved her hand under his open shirt and found his nipple. She started squeezing, first gently, then tighter and tighter. Roger suddenly turned, took her in his arms and again they kissed, though there was nothing gentle about it this time.
There was no carefully, choreographed Hollywood love scene going on here; it was hurried, untidy. They clumsily undressed each other and as they fell on to the bed, she drew her legs up as if to trap him.
The real world had ceased to have any meaning for Roger Davidson. There was only this world, the world of Roger Davidson about to make love to one of the most beautiful women he had ever known. And she wanted him. With both their hearts pounding, he slowly lifted himself off her, taking his weight on his outstretched arms.
He leaned over, placed his lips on hers and once again all was gentleness. Their tongues touched. His lips moved away and he proceeded to kiss the left hand side of her neck. She lay there longing for him to take control. He eased himself down and gently kissed her breasts, working his tongue on her erect nipples. By now she was gently sighing as his kisses slowly made their way to her thigh.
He paused and ran his fingers up and down the inside of her legs, slowly, deliberately, bringing them ever higher. She had her eyes closed, hoping against hope that he would use his tongue. He kissed the top of each thigh, gradually bringing the kisses closer and closer to where she longed for them. He then found her wetness and slowly and gently ran his tongue up and down. He did not hurry, he wanted her to savour what was happening. Soon it was too much for her, she groaned and pulled him down on her…..
…..They held each other in a vice-like grip for what seemed like an eternity……..Eventually….
……“I have to go,” he said at last.
“I know.”
He kissed her one more time. He took himself to the side of the bed, stood up and began to dress. Not for one second did they take their eyes off each other. He pulled his jacket on, stepped into the doorway, looked at her one more time and then headed for the stairs.
The car seemed to drive itself. Roger Davidson found himself on Manchester Road heading towards the County Ground. He turned left and took the slower route home through Gorse Hill along Cricklade Road.
“My god, I’ve just had the most unbelievable sex with Patricia Patel. Fuck! How did this happen? Oh Fuck, what do I say to Felicity about being so late.”
He was at the Crossroads in no time, turned into Beechcroft Road and up into Merton Ave. The house was in darkness. He made his way upstairs as quietly as the creaking floorboards would allow. He checked on Rebecca; she was gone to the world. He stepped into his bedroom. Felicity stirred.
“Where have you been Roger,” she asked sleepily, “you’re normally back much earlier than this?”
“A few of us went for a drink afterwards, and somebody had car trouble, so we hung around until the RAC came along.”
Barely awake, Felicity asked, “Whose car was it?”
He hesitated. “Oh, Barry Wentworth’s.”
“Wow, he and Cynthia won’t be pleased; they only bought that new two weeks ago. Give me a kiss. I’m tired.”
Roger leant over and kissed her cheek. Felicity closed her eyes and pulled the bedclothes up. For a split second she sensed something, a smell? In a few seconds she was heading back to the world of sleep.
Patricia Patel stepped out the shower, put on her bath robe and stepped over to her dresser. She finished her wine, stared into the mirror and smiled.
CHAPTER FIVE
