The Chocolate Lovers' Club

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “Not particularly.” I shake my head. “But I think it’s fair to say that my relationship is well and truly over.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, but he’s smiling.

  “What are you grinning at?”

  “I love it when you’re angry,” he says. “You get two little pink spots on your cheeks.”

  “I do not.”

  “They make you look like a Cabbage Patch Kid.”

  “Fuck off, Aiden,” I say to my boss. Which may not be the typical form of address for one’s superiors, but I don’t care. It’s not very politically correct to tell your personal assistant that she looks like a Cabbage Patch Kid.

  “Look on the bright side,” he continues. “I can make a pass at you now that you’re single again.”

  “Try it and you’re dead meat,” I mutter at him.

  He laughs out loud. “Not all men are crass idiots.”

  “No?”

  “Some of us are compassionate and caring.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You need someone to look after you.”

  “I need no one,” I tell him. Especially not some smarty-pants, smoothy sales manager. “I can manage perfectly well alone.”

  Crush shakes his head. “He must be an idiot if he’s dumped you.”

  “I didn’t say that he’d dumped me.”

  “If you’d dumped him, you wouldn’t be so upset.”

  I hate it when men come over all logical, so I scowl at him.

  He looks completely unperturbed. “I suppose that amidst your trauma, you’ve remembered that it’s the monthly sales meeting this afternoon.”

  “Oh bugger,” I say. Now I’m wishing I’d taken the whole day off I’ll have to sit there all afternoon and take notes, which I can never read back. I hate it when I have to do real work. Normally, I try to make the proceedings bearable by buying one of those great big boxes of scrummy chocolate biscuits from Marks & Spencer which I charge to the company, but today I’ve completely forgotten. We’ll have to do the meeting completely treat free. Oh poo. Even that small crumb of comfort vanishes—no pun intended.

  “We’ll be starting in about five minutes,” Crush says. “The guys are already in the conference room.”

  I tut loudly. Stress at home, stress at work. I wish I was dead. Or, at least, at a health spa.

  “Sure you’re up for this?”

  “Of course. Of course. Why would a little thing like my life crashing around my ears mean that the sales meeting should suffer?”

  He puts his arm round me and gives me a hug—and in a very familiar way for a boss, I can tell you. “Come on,” he says. “No one can tell that your heart is breaking. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  I give him a weary smile.

  “With all that makeup you’ve put on, they won’t guess that you’ve been crying.”

  I hate men. All of them.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE SALES TEAM IS, INDEED, all waiting in the conference room by the time I arrive. So I bustle to my seat and try to look deeply efficient. God, I should get an Oscar for some of the performances I put on in this place. The guys are all sitting around in an informal circle with Aiden at the head near an easel complete with crisp white paper. That means it’s going to be a gentle pep-talk meeting and I relax a little. I don’t think I could have coped with a table-thumping target-achieving tactical roustabout today. If they’ve noticed the lack of treats, no one complains.

  Then “Where are the biscuits?” one of the sales team pipes up.

  I hate him.

  “No biscuits today, chaps,” Aiden intercedes. “Cutbacks. Targa’s thinking of your waistlines—as you should be.”

  There’s a bit of disgruntled tutting. Aiden can be very sweet sometimes. I’ve had bosses in the past who would have blamed me. I make a smile come to my lips and aim it in Crush’s direction and he smiles back.

  While he starts the meeting, I gaze out of the window, looking over the rooftops of London toward the City. The City, where my ex-boyfriend is busy doing what he does best. It’s nearly two o’clock and I’ve heard no word from Marcus yet. Nothing. If I’d broken someone’s heart so spectacularly, at least I’d have had the decency to ring them up the next day and find out if they were okay, or offer some sort of apology for my appalling behavior. I guess it’s just another indication of how little he cares for me.

  Aiden Holby is standing up and is waving his arms around as he talks. I remember that I’m supposed to be writing all this down to circulate to the sales team later, and so I scribble furiously on my notepad until Aiden shuts up and takes his seat again.

  Crush winks at me and gives me an encouraging smile. Mr. Aiden Holby has very nice eyes, actually. Now that I’m a single person again, I’m going to have to reacquaint myself with this flirting lark. I cross my legs and try to think seductive thoughts. A little fling might be just the thing to get over Marcus. I don’t normally agree with office relationships, primarily because I’ve never had one and I hate those bitches who shag their bosses and thus look forward to going to work every morning. That can’t be right, can it? But I might make an exception, just this once.

  One of the sales team is on his feet telling us all we need to know about some new software product that’s coming onto the market. Blah, blah, blah. I try to give his spiel my full attention, but I can’t concentrate. He uses all kinds of technical terms and I’ve no idea what he’s talking about. Crush looks over at me again and smiles. I wonder if anyone else in the office has noticed that there’s a certain chemistry between us? Not that I ever gave him any encouragement when I was with Marcus. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of infidelity and would never put anyone through that. But now I’m single …

  I swing my leg a little jauntily and wet my lower lip with my tongue ever so slightly. An amused smile plays at my mouth. Crush meets my eyes. He raises his eyebrows and directs his gaze to my leg. I have on killer heels and maybe Crush has a foot fetish, because he’s certainly giving them a lot of attention. His eyes have gone all saucer-shaped. My smile curls further. I’m glad I’ve got trousers on as I do believe that my boss, Mr. Aiden Holby, is mentally undressing me. I have to say there’s a certain frisson running down my spine. This is a wonderful tonic for the brokenhearted. I angle my body toward Crush and mirror his position. Isn’t that how you tell someone you fancy them? Not that I do. This is just a bit of fun to liven up a dull sales meeting.

  The sales rep is droning on … I know I’m going to regret this later, but I lean back in my chair and give a flick of my cute haircut as I let my leg swing higher. And then I see what Crush is smiling at. But it’s too late. I put on my trousers in such a catatonic state this morning that I didn’t notice that yesterday’s knickers were stuffed down my right trouser leg. They’re now around my ankle, draped over my shoe, but the pendulum is already in full motion and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. With a final swing of my leg, my lilac lacy knickers fly off my shoe and sail across the room, stopping the sales rep right in the middle of his pitch.

  Crush dives out of his chair and catches them before they hit the floor. “Howzat!” he shouts in the style of ace cricketer Freddie Flintoff A deadly hush falls across the meeting. “Nice shot.”

  Every ounce of blood in my body rushes to my face.

  “Thank you, Lucy,” he continues. “Your enthusiasm is much appreciated. I thought it was only aging rock stars who had knickers thrown at them.”

  The sales team erupts with laughter and I know that the best way to diffuse this would be to laugh myself, but I can’t as I’m perilously close to crying. Crush winks at me again and then stuffs my knickers into his jacket pocket and gives it a pat. I could die. If the sales team giggles any more, I will die.

  After that, the meeting descends into chaos as no one can concentrate. I hang my head in shame and pretend to be taking copious notes so that I can let my hair fall forward and
hide my humiliation behind it. Fifteen minutes later, and Aiden gives up on trying to get sense out of anyone.

  “Let’s call it a day,” he says. “I’ll give the rest of the notes to Lacy … sorry, I mean Lucy … to circulate to you all.”

  More sniggering ensues. My nickname in the office will now surely be Lacy Lucy. I almost want to tell them to call me Chubby Cheeks. This day cannot get any worse. I’m going to go to the top of the building and hurl myself off

  Everyone else makes toward the door as I pretend to be tidying things up. Perhaps I could stay in here for the rest of the afternoon if I tried. Perhaps I could stay in here for the rest of my contract with Targa. Perhaps I could just leave and never have to face anyone ever again. Risking a glance up, I see that everyone has now left the room. Everyone but Crush. I ignore him and carry on doing nothing. Eventually, he clears his throat. “Ms. Lombard.”

  When I force myself to look up at him, he’s holding my knickers in his hand. “I believe these are yours.” He holds out my underwear. And not in a discreet bunch. Oh no. He holds my knickers out by the sides and dangles them right in front of his face like one of those masks worn by Arabian women in harems. He flutters his eyelashes at me above them. “This doesn’t mean we’re engaged,” he says coquettishly

  “I have knickers on,” I tell him curtly.

  He shrugs. “Shame.”

  My jaw tightens further. “That’s last night’s pair.”

  “Good. Care to offer a more detailed explanation?”

  “No. I just wanted you to let the sales team know what the real story is.”

  “If only I knew,” Crush says with a grin. “But you can be safe in the knowledge that we’ll be discussing your frilly bits on many and varied occasions in the future.”

  I flush furiously and snatch at my underwear, grabbing it from his hands. It feels warm from his touch. “That’s the closest you’re ever going to get to my knickers,” I tell him.

  Aiden walks away, laughing softly. “Hey, Gorgeous,” he shouts over his shoulder. “Those pink spots are back.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE KEATING HOUSE HOTEL STOOD in its own grounds by the edge of Lake Coniston, nestled deep in the surrounding woods. The journey had been hell due to a proliferation of roadworks and “sheer weight of traffic” as they kept announcing on the radio bulletins, and they’d arrived much later than Chantal had imagined. Jeremy had been good company on the way up, gossiping with her, regaling her with stories of previous jobs that he’d undertaken for the magazine, other journalists that he’d worked with. He hadn’t eaten more than his fair share of the chocolate slab, which was a good quality in a man. She’d also found out that he wasn’t married, but he was living with a younger woman who already had a child from a previous relationship. Doomed to failure, obviously. Jeremy Wade would do very nicely for tonight, she’d decided. Very nicely indeed.

  It was gone seven in the evening by the time they found the hotel and checked in. Chantal failed to persuade Jeremy to join her in the hotel’s pool for a quick dip before dinner. He had e-mails to attend to, he’d said. So did she, but they could wait. It was harder to stay slim as she got older and she had to put the work in to make sure that she kept pace with her chocolate consumption. They’d agreed to meet in the bar for a drink before dinner at 8:30 P.M. So Chantal had taken herself off to the spa to swim alone. There was plenty of time for them to get it together. After all, they had all night.

  The pool was quiet. A couple of overweight businessmen ploughed through the water, panting heavily as they completed their laborious lengths. A young, giggling couple were making out in the Jacuzzi. One guy sat alone on one of the loungers reading a copy of the Financial Times, a white towel slung round his neck. He was handsome, toned, and he looked up as Chantal came in and gave her an appraising smile. She returned it and then dived in, arms high, slicing through the water. A dozen lengths of front crawl later and she knew that he was still watching her, could feel his gaze on her bare skin. If strangers like him couldn’t take their eyes off her, then why was it so hard for her own husband to appreciate her sexuality? Chantal shook the thought away, along with the drops of water on her skin, and levered herself out of the pool. Taking her time to dry herself, she looked over again at the guy on the lounger.

  He lowered his newspaper. “You’re a strong swimmer,” he said.

  “Used to be,” Chantal conceded. She’d been on the swim team at high school. “Not anymore. Don’t get the time to practice.”

  “You looked good to me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you here for a few days?”

  “Just tonight.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Business,” Chantal answered.

  “Me too,” the guy said. “Are you dining alone?”

  “I’m here with a colleague.”

  “Shame,” he said with a smile and a shrug of his shoulders.

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “Shame.” But it wasn’t a shame, not with what she’d got planned for Jeremy Wade.

  NOW SHE WAS DRESSED AND ready for dinner. She’d packed a slinky black dress in her overnight case. Low-cut, backless, slit to the thigh. A little obvious, but she only had tonight. This wasn’t the time for a slow seduction. It was going to be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am opportunity. She’d brought all her jewelry too and took time to clip on her sparkling one-carat diamond earrings—a present from Ted at Christmas. He’d probably sent his assistant out to buy them. But that was being ungrateful—he was a very busy man and she loved them anyway. Next, she slipped on her bracelet—another row of twenty-six diamonds. Her watch was a gold Rolex. The pendant she finally fastened at her neck was a solid gold ingot set with diamonds. All of them presents from her husband. She couldn’t fault his taste or his generosity with money. It was only his body that he rationed.

  The only jewelry that she did remove was her wedding and engagement ring; the latter was a sizable rock too. She slowly slipped them off and put them on the dressing table. Call her old-fashioned, but it didn’t seem right doing the dirty deed with her rings on her finger. Okay so it was a token nod toward morality but it was better than nothing, she reasoned. The bed had already been turned down for the night and there was a gold-wrapped chocolate lying on the pillow. She tore off the foil and popped the chocolate into her mouth. Bland, minty but who cared? It was chocolate nevertheless and she didn’t want to see it go to waste.

  Chantal regarded herself in the mirror. Brittle and beautiful, she concluded. A lethal combination. Still, she was ready for some action—so she picked up her purse and headed down for dinner.

  JEREMY WAS ALREADY AT THE bar when she arrived. “Wow,” he said as she approached. “You look fabulous.”

  “Thanks.” She slipped onto the bar stool next to him.

  “I feel a little underdressed.”

  Chantal took in his black jeans and his gray cashmere sweater. The scent of his aftershave was sharp, like freshly cut limes. He looked like a man who’d made an effort. “You look just fine to me.”

  “I took the liberty,” he said, holding up a champagne flute. She was beginning to like this man more by the minute.

  “Perfect.” The bartender poured her a glass.

  “To Style USA,” Jeremy proposed.

  She clinked her glass against Jeremy’s. “To us.”

  “We don’t have to be at the house until ten o’clock tomorrow. I thought we could let our hair down a little tonight.”

  “Funny,” Chantal said. “That’s exactly what I had in mind.”

  The dinner was sublime, the company all she could have hoped for. They’d finished their coffee and though she was in a hurry to get Jeremy into her bed, she’d still taken the time to nibble her way through all of the delicious after-dinner chocolates—a few more minutes would hardly make a difference—and now it was crunch time.

  “Let’s go through to the bar for a nightcap,” Jeremy suggested.

  “I have
a bottle of champagne chilling in my room,” Chantal said. “We could go there and be more cozy.”

  There was a moment of hesitation in Jeremy’s eyes, then he said, “Right. Let’s do that.”

  She left the restaurant and he followed. They waited for the elevator, standing self-consciously in Reception. Once inside, Barry Manilow treated them with a serenade of “Copacabana” and she pressed the button for her floor. Chantal reached out and took Jeremy’s hand and drew him to her, feeling the heat of him through her thin dress. His heart was banging against his chest. She tilted her head and searched for his lips.

  Jeremy drew away from her. “You know,” he said, “I don’t think that I can do this.”

  Chantal felt panic rising in her. Don’t let this be.

  He let go of her hand. “I’m in a relationship.”

  “So am I,” she said. “I’m married.”

  “Then it’s not right.”

  “No one will know.”

  “I will,” he said. “I’m sorry, Chantal. You’re a very attractive woman, but …” Jeremy chewed at his lip.

  The lift stopped and the doors opened. “Well,” she said, “I guess this is good night then.”

  “If this were a different situation,” Jeremy said, “if I were in a different place, then I wouldn’t hesitate.”

  “Fine,” she said tightly. It was hard not to show her disappointment. The evening had all gone according to plan. Until now.

  “We had a wonderful evening.”

  “It didn’t need to end right now.”

  “Good night.” Jeremy gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “Good night.”

  She stepped out of the lift and stood forlornly in the hall. Jeremy pressed the button for another floor and the doors started to close. He gave her a small, uncomfortable wave.