Jane O'Reilly - Indecent...Nights

‘Did you see anything you wanted on the board?’ he asks, and the words nail me to my chair.

‘I…er…it’s hard to know.’

‘Would it be wrong if I ordered for you? I’ve always wanted to order for a woman.’

I almost do a double take, but I say it’s fine. Of course I say it’s fine, although my inner feminist has a total tantrum. I take a packet of sugar from the little china pot in the middle of the table and fiddle with it as he joins the queue at the counter. I hold my breath, wondering what on earth he’s going to choose. He doesn’t have the faintest clue what I like. It could be something really awful, like beetroot or, god forbid, egg.

He comes back with a meatball sub.

‘I could kiss you,’ I say, as he pushes the plate towards me.

His head jerks up, and his gaze locks on mine. The only thing I can tell from his expression is that I’ve said something very, very wrong. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ he says.

My heart almost stops beating. My mouth tastes suddenly horrid. Of course it’s not a good idea. Kissing is too intimate, too close. It has nothing to do with what we’re doing. But now I’ve opened the idea up in my head, I can’t get away from it. I stare at his mouth, and I think how it felt on my breast, and I start to melt on my chair.

‘Thing is,’ he whispers, ‘I’ve got an erection.’

‘Oh.’

He blushes. Oh god, he’s blushing. ‘If I kiss you I’ll really need to fuck you, and I’ve got to be back at work in twenty minutes.’

The waitress comes over with our coffees. She sets them down then gives Tom a curious look that lingers a touch too long. Something occurs to me then, something that I’d not bothered to think about until today. I mean, he isn’t stereotypically good looking. He’s quite tall, but what with the constant big-brain-heavy-head stooping thing, he makes himself look shorter. And then there are the awful clothes. Everything is dorky and nondescript and beige, like he went into Marks and Spencer’s and bought exactly what was on the mannequin. And his hair. Combed back and tidy. No one wears their hair like that. No one.

But the bad posture can’t hide those hands. The clothes can’t hide the thick neck. The hair can’t hide the fact that everything about him screams I’m a dirty fuck . And clearly, I am not the only female on the planet to have noticed. I’m trying to get my head around this realisation, trying not to melt so much that I leave a wet patch on my chair, when I sense movement next to our table.

‘Hello,’ Tom says.

‘Hello,’ says the voice, familiar and strained and female. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well. Are you all set for our appointment on Thursday?’

‘Paul assures me he’s kept all the invoices this time.’

‘Excellent. There’s nothing more frustrating than a lost invoice.’

These two know each other? That explains the friendly greeting at the studio yesterday. Tom’s hand finds mine under the table, pulls it towards him and places it firmly between his legs. I choke down my mouthful of sandwich.

‘Hello,’ she says to me.

‘Hi,’ I manage, still not looking directly at her. This woman has seen a photo of Tom’s cock.OK, so he’s seen photos he shouldn’t have too, but in this particular scenario, she’s ahead, points-wise. Or maybe I am. He is hot and hard against my palm. ‘How is everything?’ I ask, my enthusiasm completely over the top.

‘Fine,’ she says, far too brightly. Her eyes are huge, rimmed with lashings of black eyeliner. She’s wearing a smart black suit, the same kind that Amber wears to work at the estate agent’s. In fact, now I’m looking more closely, she’s wearing the same badge on her lapel.

‘Look, I hope this isn’t out of order,’ she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, ‘but I was wondering if I could have a word with you. In private.’

‘Absolutely!’ What did I say that for? Why didn’t I make some excuse? Whatever it is that she wants to say, it can’t be good. I try to remove my hand from Tom’s crotch without making it obvious that that’s where it is, get up from the table and follow her outside.

She pounces on me instantly. ‘I want to know who that woman was in the photo we saw yesterday.’

Wow. Shit. Wow. ‘I…er…’

‘I wouldn’t ask,’ she continues, her voice dry and squeaky, ‘but I’m sure Paul knows the woman. He won’t tell me who she is. That has to mean that he’s fucked her at some point. Probably fucked her quite a lot, actually, knowing him.’

I start some waffle about client confidentiality, though it seems a bit late for that now, and I am clearly going to be awarded hypocrite of the century. She folds her arms, tosses her perfectly straight hair over her shoulders. Then she gives me a wobbly smile. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I should have thought about that before I asked. I let my emotions get the better of me.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say. ‘Are you really sure he knows her, anyway?

I can see Tom through the glass, watching us. He’s sitting inside with a hard on under the table. I know what it feels like to be fingered by him. God, I want him to finger me now. I’m trying to focus on what she’s saying, to feel some sympathy for her, but all I can think about is him being all controlled and polite and dorky, only now I know that isn’t him. It isn’t him at all. Tom Hunt, quiet accountant by day, porn star by night.

I force myself to focus. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I say. ‘I should never have shown you that picture in the first place. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

‘No.’ She lifts her head. ‘I’m glad you did. I don’t want to cause any trouble. I want to make that clear. I just…’ She blinks, rapidly, and then says ‘I don’t mind Paul sleeping with other women. Provided he doesn’t do it without me.’

Certain things start to fall into place. I don’t know why it took me this long to figure it out. I’ve been doing what I do for too long to still think that everyone wants or needs a conventional sex life. But I don’t know where the line of right and wrong is in this situation. ‘And you’re sure that Paul knows the woman in the photo?’

She nods. ‘Beyond a shadow of a doubt. She was…’ She smiles then. ‘Pretty unforgettable.’

Something else slots into place in my mind. Paul is Amber’s boyfriend. Victoria is the woman he proposed to, pissing Amber off so much that she dragged Tom Hunt into my studio, dropped his pants and sucked him off. And I took pictures of it. Pictures she intends to use to get back at Paul, only Paul has already seen one of them, as has Victoria. Who is standing in front of me, begging me to tell her who the woman is.

There are not enough degrees of separation in this scenario for me. ‘OK,’ I say to her. ‘Look, give me a chance to talk to her. I’ll pass on what you said. And I’ll give her your number. But I can’t promise anything.’

Then I turn on my heel. I don’t want to say that I run back inside, but that’s the dictionary definition of what I do. I feel like the walls are closing in, like the part of my life I have kept quietly secret for so long has suddenly become as exposed as the people I’ve photographed.

And then I see Amber.

Sat at my table.

With Tom.

And Paul.

I blink a million times, as if that will somehow clear the picture, but it doesn’t. My heart beats so hard I feel sick, the whole place swamped with noise but at the same time shockingly, terrifyingly silent.

Amber waves and calls me over. She’s placed herself between Tom and Paul. Both of them are gawking at her cleavage. To be fair, I’m gawking at it too. It’s difficult not to, what with it resting on the table like that, right next to a half-drunk cup of coffee.