Her heart and mind racing, she used her back to open the door. Focusing her attention on not spilling the water, she didn’t look up until the door had clicked shut behind her.
She was too late again.
In front of the glacial Christmas tree, Rachel was trying to consume Charlie. Her arms were wrapped around his neck and she was pressing her whole body into his. Becky couldn’t tell if Charlie was pulling her towards him or holding her up. His hands were on her thighs, gripping her pencil skirt, which had ridden up above her knees, exposing a ladder in her tights. Charlie was characteristically silent, while Rachel sounded as though she was enjoying her meal.
Becky found herself at a total loss. She doubted there was an accepted protocol for this specific situation. Should she cough politely? Drop the drinks and scream? Vomit noisily all over the floor?
Her unlikely saviour was Virgil, who barrelled out of the hall, slamming the door against the wall. ‘Ah, Becky!’ he boomed, bouncing towards her. ‘Have you seen …?’
His voice withered into a strangled croak as Rachel came up for air, startled by his entrance. She giggled and hid her face behind Charlie’s tie. Meanwhile Charlie had his hands full keeping her vertical.
Virgil sniffed, tweaked his immaculate cuffs and turned his back on the couple. Taking Becky’s hand, he lowered his voice and said, ‘Becky, I would be delighted to accept your invitation for the ball.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘Thank you. I’m sure you’ll excuse me.’ Virgil stared dead ahead as he barged back into the hall. Hopefully the bartender had a bottle of gin going spare.
As the door slammed behind him, Becky closed her eyes and hoped she was on the verge of waking from a bad dream. But when she opened them she was greeted with the sight of Rachel teetering towards her. Charlie scampered along in her wake with his arms extended, ready to catch her, as if she were a child who’d recently had her training wheels removed.
‘Ms Watson!’ Rachel bellowed. ‘You are everywhere! Do you work here too?’ She pointed at the glasses of water in Becky’s hands. ‘Perhaps waitressing?’ She giggled and jabbed a perfectly manicured finger at Becky’s clothes. ‘Or perhaps the cleaning staff?’
Charlie rolled his eyes and seized Rachel’s elbow. Her response was to lay a hand on his chest, stroke him a few times and burst into giggles again. ‘Pushy, pushy Ms Watson. Always hard at work. Although, I guess this scullery outfit is your idea of party wear!’
‘Right, that’s enough,’ said Charlie as he manhandled her towards the door. ‘Get your things. I’m taking you home.’
Rachel widened her eyes. ‘Ooo! Lucky me!’
‘Please. Get your things.’ He gave her a final push into the reception.
Becky sipped her water while the lovers’ tiff was in progress, then dumped the glasses on the floor by the wall. When she straightened up, Charlie had turned back to her and was running a hand down his face.
Trying to ignore the lipstick smeared around his mouth and his bedraggled tie, Becky put on her cheery voice. ‘Well, you know for sure she likes you now, right?’
Charlie frowned and shook his head, blinking.
What was the matter with him? Maybe his first real kiss with his muse hadn’t lived up to his imagination. She was fairly sure the Rachel in his dreams wasn’t plastered and falling over. Or maybe he was upset they’d been interrupted?
Whatever was going on, Becky decided she’d had a lucky escape. The last thing she needed was to give Charlie and Rachel more reasons to laugh at the staff. Anyway, it was getting late and time to go home to the one man who would always love her. The drive would also give her twenty minutes for some cathartic, sweary ranting.
‘I really should get going.’ She pulled a tissue out of her bag, held it out to Charlie and circled a finger around her mouth. ‘You might want to wipe that.’ She pressed her lips together as Charlie grabbed the tissue. Taking the opportunity to have a good look at his face she realised what was different about his eyes. ‘You’re wearing contacts too!’
He blinked, opening and shutting his eyes slowly as he dragged the tissue over his top lip. ‘They’re murder. Itchy.’
‘Mine too! I’ve left my glasses in the car so I can take these bloody things out as soon as I’ve left here.’
‘I wish I’d thought of that. I’ll have to wear mine until I get home. And that’s going to be later than I’d hoped.’
Of course. He was taking Rachel home now.
She shuddered and got back on topic. ‘But if you know they irritate you, why did you wear them?’
‘Rachel said I should.’
Becky gave him a curt nod and handed over his jacket. Of course. Stupid question. ‘Right. I’ll let you get back to it. See you soon.’
As she crossed the lobby she heard Rachel cackling as she careered out of the hall and into Charlie’s waiting arms. Her and all her bloody brilliant ideas.
Given the eventful day behind him, Charlie was expecting the muse to visit his dreams that night.
Her appearance was the same as ever. She was again wearing a white shirt and betrayed no emotion as she gazed past him towards an infinite horizon.
Charlie had carried the baggage of the day into the dream studio. He itched with irritability and impatience.
Lunging for a tin of paint, he threw its cobalt contents at her, then hurled the empty container to the other end of the building where it bounced off the wall with a satisfying clatter.
As the paint ran down her arms and dripped onto the floor, she smiled. Not a mischievous or meagre smirk, but a generous grin. She stepped forward and seized his hands, interlacing their fingers and letting the colour ooze between them.
All nerves gone, he kissed her with the fire which had built up during months of frustrating restraint. He found she was supple but irreducible; her soft skin was a thin cover for the flint beneath and she pushed back at Charlie with a strength greater than her size.
He had closed his eyes and expected her to be gone when he opened them; instead, a bed had materialised behind her and she drew him onto its inviting white sheets, staining them blue as she slid to the centre.
She encircled his waist with her legs and used her feet to encourage him towards her. His excitement increasing, he smoothed her hair from her face and kissed her again. Although sticky with paint, her fingers were deft, making quick work of his shirt buttons. Meanwhile, he skimmed his hand along her thigh, daring to venture beyond the shirt hem border.
Around them, the cool white air turned a damp and dewy red. Charlie’s blood crackled with energy. Every nerve ending burned under her touch and, as the temperature continued to climb, he became aware of a single bead of sweat tickling its way down to the base of his spine.
In their first awkward moment, she was unable to open his fly. He took his eyes away from her long enough to complete the task and when he looked up she was gone.
Crouched on his hands and knees, Charlie roared. He pummelled the mattress until he was out of breath and dropped onto his back. He stared up at the skylights until his breathing slowed. He could still smell her scent: a subtle, fresh fragrance which rippled around him.
When the perfume had dispersed, he realised he was no longer lying on a bed. The material under his fingers was too taut and tough to be a sheet. Intrigued and suspicious, he rolled onto his knees.