Famous (13 page)

Ohmygod! I thought in horror. I’ve been dribbling down my chin and now he’s going to wipe it off.

But he didn’t. Instead he leaned in and gave me a very quick but lovely soft kiss on the lips.

‘Wow!’ I said, opening my eyes. I had been expecting a brush with a napkin, not with his lips.

He smiled cheekily at me and took another swig of his beer.

The delicious barman brought another champers and beer over to us and announced the bar was closing.

‘What on earth are we going to do?’ asked Alistair, finishing his beer.

‘Well…we could always go back to my place,’ I suggested, smiling sexily, or at least that’s what I hoped it was.

This was not a suggestion I was in the habit of making to a man I had just met. It appeared the champers was significantly affecting my ability to be demure and alluring.

‘Sounds like a brilliant idea to me,’ said Alistair.

And with that we got up from the table, walked outside, and hailed a cab.

Just so you are aware, it was at this very point in time that my life stopped running smoothly, and instead began to career completely out of bloody control. If you had to pinpoint the precise moment that led me to have my arms up the cow’s arse, then it would be this very one.

We were barely inside my front door before Alistair began kissing me ferociously.

Lord, he’s a brilliant kisser, I thought to myself, as I ran my hands through his silky hair and down the back of his neck. Our tongues finally met, but not in that horrible kidnapping-your-tonsils kind of way, more of a tantalising brush, which instantly sent warm ripples hurtling down to my stomach.

We frantically kissed our way onto the sofa, where Alistair expertly managed to keep kissing me and undo the zip at the back of my dress, sliding it off my shoulders and letting it fall down to my hips, leaving me sitting in what was, thankfully, a respectably sexy lacy black bra. I slid my hands up the inside of his shirt, across his smooth chest and down to his belt buckle, very slowly undoing it.

He kissed my neck and ran his tongue along my earlobe, which very nearly sent the flutters out of my stomach and through the ceiling. Then he slid the palms of his hands very firmly down my breasts.

And then down my arms to my hands, expertly lifting me up from the sofa. We stood pressed against each other with him still firmly holding both of my hands down by my sides. I loved it when a man took control of the situation.

‘Are you going to show me to the bedroom? Or do I have to find it myself?’ he asked, a mischievous and very sexy grin on his face.

‘Follow me,’ I said, stepping out of my dress and walking down the hallway. ‘If you dare.’

He dared.

I sat on my bed and watched him unbutton his shirt. It appeared that his chest was not only silky smooth, but also very tanned and muscular. He was no stranger to a gym, I observed, liking what I saw. I couldn’t have picked a finer specimen to break my drought with. His eyes followed mine down to his crotch, and the tell-tale bulge that strained against his jeans. He slipped them off and sidled up to the edge of the bed in his boxer shorts, pinning both of my arms back against the duvet.

‘Now…where were we?’ he asked, his breath hot on my neck.

I woke the next morning to the sound of rustling beside the bed. I opened my eyes a fraction and saw Alistair standing up and putting on his shirt.

‘Off already?’ I asked, looking at my alarm clock. It was only six-thirty.

‘Sorry,’ he replied. ‘Early start.’

‘You’re not kidding.’

‘Thanks for a great night, Sam,’ he said, leaning in to stroke my cheek and give me a lingering kiss on the lips.

‘I’ll see you soon.’

‘Bye,’ I replied, in what I hoped was my very best I’m-still-sleeping-but-aren’t-I-just-the-sexiest-little-thing voice.

He walked out and I heard the front door close behind him. I must have drifted back to sleep because the next thing I knew it was nine o’clock and I was not only incredibly late for work but also, I noted with mounting discomfort, incredibly hung over. I walked into the living room and found my dress hanging off the arm of the sofa, one heel in the kitchen and one sitting beside the front door.

Nothing like a bit of frantic lovemaking, I thought, picking them up.

Although, I suddenly realised Alistair hadn’t left me a card. Or even a phone number for that matter.

Perhaps he wants to play hard to get? I thought. Although that wasn’t very manly.

No doubt he’ll just get my number from Darcy later on, I decided.

There was no doubting the fact I wanted to see him again. He was simply gorgeous. But he didn’t ring me that day, or the day after that. However, when I arrived home from work two days later I received a much more sinister, lovely-life-shattering-into-crappy-little-pieces type of call.

5

‘Is this Samantha?’ asked a strange woman’s voice.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Samantha, it’s Mary Simperington speaking, from the
Daily Telegraph
. How are you?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘Samantha, I’m just ringing to have a wee chat about yourself and Alistair Ambrose.’

‘Who?’

‘Alistair Ambrose. I believe you know him…rather well it would seem.’

‘Alistair Ambrose?’

The name sounded familiar but I was having serious trouble placing it.

‘Yes. I’m just curious to know about your relationship with him.’

What the hell was this woman talking about? I wondered.

The only Alistair I could think of was the one I’d shagged the other night and there was certainly no relationship there. I’d slept with the man, once. Plus, he hadn’t even called me since.

‘And what relationship might that be?’ I asked.

‘Well…you did leave Pure on Tuesday night with him, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

Bingo. So she did mean that Alistair then.

‘And you did go home with him?’

‘Well…yes…to my home. Why?’

Who was this woman? His mother? God, I really hoped not.

‘Well…you do know Alistair is married, don’t you? With his third child on the way.’

‘Married?’

Ohmygod! It’s his wife! God help me!

‘I take it you’re not an avid sport watcher then?’ she asked.

Sport? What on earth was she on about?

‘No. Why?’

‘Football in particular?’

Football?

‘No. Definitely not.’

‘Perhaps you should follow it a bit more closely, my dear.’

What the hell was she talking about? What did me shagging Alistair have to do with football?

‘Anyway, I just rang to say that when you’re willing to talk to the papers I’m offering you an exclusive front-pager.

Your own story.’

‘My
story
?’

It appeared this woman wasn’t his wife. Or his mother for that matter.

‘That’s right,’ she replied. ‘And before you ask, yes, we are prepared to pay a significant sum. Providing you don’t talk to anyone else of course.’

‘Talk to anyone else?’

‘Any of the other papers, love. They’ll all be after you now.’

‘After me?’

‘Anyway, you can reach me at the paper. Give me a call when you’ve had a chance to think it over, and we’ll talk dollars.’

I hung up, my jaw gaping, as I stared at the receiver. What in God’s name was happening here?

I attempted to collect myself and dialled Mands’ number with my shaking hands.

‘Tell me you know who Alistair Ambrose is?’ I gushed.

‘Alistair Ambrose? You mean the footballer? Captain of the national team?’

‘Oh God,’ I moaned. ‘Do you know what he looks like?’

‘Phwoar! Course I do! Sexy, saucy dark stallion that he is. Why?’

‘Because…because I think I might have shagged him.’

‘YOU shagged
Alistair Ambrose?
Ohmygod!’

‘Possibly. Does he have olive skin and green eyes?’

‘Yes.’

‘About six foot?’

‘A little over I think.’

‘Dark, silky brown hair with sun streaks?’

‘Tick.’

‘Perfect white teeth.’

‘Spot on. The man is sex on sticks.’

‘Oh. Dear. God.’

‘Christ. Was THAT the Alistair you were going on about?’

‘It would seem so.’

‘You lucky cow! And you didn’t know who he was?’

‘No.’

‘Bloody hell Sam! I know you have no interest in sport, but it’s Alistair Ambrose. How can you not know who he is? The man’s famous, for God’s sake!’

‘Well, I knew the name. I just didn’t know what he looked like.’

‘Well, now you do! Rather well too.’

‘Yes, it would appear so. Thank you.’

‘Shit Sam! He’s married and he’s got kids and, hang on, I think his wife’s pregnant!’

‘I know.’

‘You know?’

‘A woman from the
Daily Telegraph
just rang me.’

‘What did she want?’

‘An interview.’

‘Did you deny everything?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘You mean you told her you shagged him?’

‘No…not exactly…but she knew I’d taken him home with me.’

‘How the hell did she know that?’

‘I have absolutely no idea.’

‘Bet it’s those bloody paparazzi stalkers. They never leave the poor footballers alone. Hell! What are you going to do?’

‘Christ knows.’

‘Alistair Ambrose, I don’t bloody believe it!’

‘Trust me,’ I replied. ‘Neither do I.’

‘Well…hopefully she was the only hack who got a whiff and the rest will leave you alone.’

‘Oh God, I really hope so.’

‘Bloody hell! What a wanker! Cheating on his poor wife like that.’

‘Mands please!’

‘Sorry, guess that kind of makes you the other woman, doesn’t it?’

‘Oh great! Now I’m a marriage-wrecker.’

‘No you’re not, dolls! You didn’t even know who he was. He’s the asshole! I thought he was such a nice bloke too.’

‘So did I.’

‘Oh you poor thing. What crap luck!’

‘Appalling.’

‘I’ll be straight round after work for hugs. And wine.’

I arrived home from work to find both Mands and Lizzie already sitting in my kitchen, having let themselves in with their keys. Lizzie was opening a bottle of wine. They took one look at the state of me and promptly embraced me in a four-armed hug cocoon.

‘He had no bloody wedding ring on!’ I cried, collapsing onto the sofa.

‘I know. I know,’ comforted Mands, rubbing my back.

‘How the hell was I supposed to know?’

‘You weren’t dolls, you weren’t,’ they chorused.

‘Bloody hell!

‘Yes,’ they agreed. ‘Bloody hell.’

It was Lizzie who was supposed to shag married men, not me. In thirty-three years I had managed to avoid doing just this (or to my knowledge anyway). It’s fair to say I wasn’t high on morals, but not shagging married men was one of them. And I was proud of it. Now it looked as though all of my good work had been in vain.

The next morning I woke to my alarm, as per usual, and for those fleeting few seconds of lovely un-realisation, I was under the impression it was just another morning. That I would get up, have a shower, get dressed, and drive to the office. And that I hadn’t shagged Alistair Ambrose, the married captain of the national football team. But then I came to.