Champagne Kisses (29 page)

Wearing a midnight blue princess-style flowing dress with plunging neckline, I felt quite the part for such an ostentatious occasion.

Even some of the guys had gone to great lengths to get into the spirit of things by wearing dinner jackets. Normally hacks are a stubborn breed and wear the same smelly clothes wherever they go, but this time they’d made an effort, which suggested everyone was up for the craic.

During our starters, a very whiffy pork terrine, we were treated to musical clues for the pending murder.

It was almost painfully camp, but truly hilarious. Aongus the head waiter pranced around the long tables like a singing Poirot on acid, teasing us with details of unsolved murders which had taken place in the castle in years gone by and urging us to look out for any suspicious activity.

Unfortunately what followed was a greasy roast chicken dinner, which tasted of the pewter plates it was presented on. And despite taking extra care, I clumsily managed to splatter my lovely dress with stains.

But I wasn’t overly bothered. The red wine had a strong acrid aftertaste but it was more consumable than the food, so I was happy to be out, and loving the whole spectacle.

Although Jacub had paid me little attention all evening I wasn’t giving up hope, and timed a toilet break perfectly to bump into him in the corridor. Just as planned, I managed to collide with him as I walked out of the dining room. The only problem was that he was carrying a large chalice of mulled wine: before I knew what was happening I had dipped both my boobs in the hot vino bath, totally finishing off my special dress.

‘Ohmigod, ohmigod!’ I yelped, as the wine started to scald its way through my bra.

Mortified, Jacub quickly placed his wine on a sideboard and grabbed some cloth napkins from the dining room. Without thinking, he immediately started dabbing me down. I stopped wriggling and started smiling at him.

‘My apologies,’ said Jacub, as he took a large step back, even more embarrassed. ‘You have beautiful breasts – I mean … I hope I didn’t burn you. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.’

‘You are forgiven,’ I said, giving him a naughty drunken pout.

‘I’m so sorry again. Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘You can escort me to my room, please so I can change my dress. I’m nervous of these cold corridors
now
, knowing of all the old souls that still haunt them.’

Without hesitation Jacub offered me his arm and we spun around and started in the direction of the bedrooms.

‘You have no reason to be worried, Miss …’

‘Valentine, but call me Eva.’ Maybe it was the vinegar wine but all of a sudden his eyes seemed more sparkly, his ears looked decidedly edible and his chest, which was directly in my eyeline, looked more impressive. His jacket, I had now decided, was more Friday night Jonathan Ross than
Playboy
attire.

‘Of course, Eva,’ he smiled. We walked the rest of the way in silence, our arms still linked, the sexual tension building. By the time we reached my room we had shared nothing but a few lustful looks.

As I rooted for my key, Jacub stood awkwardly, probably trying to decide what to do or say.

‘Would you like to come in and help me drink my welcome gifts?’ Drunkenly, I stared him straight in the eye.

‘Emm, er, I don’t think that would be appropriate. I must get back to my service.’

Out of nowhere I sprang back into old diva mode. It was totally out of left field and I didn’t see it coming. Nor did Jacub, bless him.

‘Fine,’ I hissed, as I hastily opened my door and slammed it shut behind me, ‘thanks for nothing.’

Once inside I cursed my stupid temper. I had just
been
childishly rude to an utter gentleman. Why did I never learn?

I was about to fling myself on the bed in a huff when there was a knock at the door.

I hoped it would be Jacub on the other side, and it was.

‘Miss Valentine—’

‘Listen, I’m really sorry,’ I butted in, ‘I’m just a little drunk. I get really stupid sometimes.’

‘But I just wanted to say—’

‘Jacub, ignore me. Honestly. I saw a come-on where there wasn’t one. I had too much to drink. Go do your thing and forget about me.’

My self-pity stank, but Jacub seemed forgiving. ‘You are very beautiful,’ he whispered. His polite words caught me totally off guard.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You are very beautiful,’ he repeated, ‘I wanted you to know that.’

‘Oh. Thank you …’

‘I’m afraid I must go now,’ explained Jacub, almost sounding regretful.

‘OK.’

And before I shut the door he had walked back off down the corridor.

Why couldn’t I have fancied one of the journalists? I wouldn’t have to ask one of them twice to share a free bottle of wine. It would have been a wham, bam, thank you ma’am, one-night-stand that I’d regret in the morning, but at least I wouldn’t feel guilty about
wanting
casual sex. Journos don’t do guilt. It’s a forbidden gene in our shallow business.

Philosophically thinking that being shunned wasn’t the end of the world, I changed out of my soiled dress back into the casuals I had arrived in and texted Maddie, who I knew would be still awake with Woody. I then retouched my make-up and headed back down to the group before they started wondering if I was the surprise murder victim.

As I made my way down the grand staircase adorned with moth-eaten tapestries and portraits of tyrannical-looking men and women, I was greeted by an unfolding drama.

At first glance I could see several people pacing around frantically on their mobiles, while a couple of ambulance men wearing fluorescent jackets ran through the reception towards the dining room carrying large black cases.

It was a much bigger production than I had expected; it was very authentic.

I walked back into the dining room. All I could see were shell-shocked faces everywhere. Still drunk, I started to laugh at how seriously everyone was taking the murder mystery but all I seemed to evoke were evil glares.

On closer inspection I saw Alfie, one of the older broadsheet journos, lying on the ground looking very pale and bloated. Was he in on the gig, or had something happened to him for real?

I looked for the girls, to hear what had happened
since
everyone around me seemed so panicked, but they were nowhere to be seen. Jacub was also conveniently missing. Poor bloke probably ran out of the castle crying sick to the management.

In the midst of the commotion I did manage to grab our singing waiter Aongus, but I had to walk and keep up pace with him as he wasn’t prepared to slow down for a chat.

‘Some sort of nut allergy,’ he blurted before rushing on to the kitchen.

Nut allergy? Surely that wasn’t part of the mystery weekend?

Not knowing quite what the etiquette was in such situations, I poured myself another glass of burgundy-coloured petrol and sat down in a corner. There were already too many people interfering and taking up space, the best thing I could do for Alfie was stay out of his way so the professionals could attend to him.

Poor guy, I’m sure the only drama he thought he’d be witness to was death by chocolate mud pie and a bad actress slumped over a writing table leaving a crucial clue.

Just as I emptied my glass, the situation began to calm down.

With Alfie
en route
to Nenagh hospital, our stressed-out hosts huddled in a corner for a pow-wow and then returned, suggesting we rejoined the evening where they’d left off.

‘It would be a shame to spoil the fun for everyone,’ explained Aongus, trying to sound upbeat.

The response, ‘Yesss, Alfie’s an awful selfish fucker tryin’ to upstage the show. Less carry on,’ echoed around the room, from an even drunker journo than me.

As a displeased rhubarb murmuring grew, Aongus asked for hush and encouraged us to move into the drawing room again for after-dinner drinks beside the fire. Clearly no one had told Aongus that the more alcohol you serve journalists, the uglier an evening gets. I reckon he was probably hoping we’d all get so drunk we wouldn’t be able to remember how disastrous the venture was, and would write up our stories based on their glowing press release.

Although we were never going to restore the gaiety of the start of the evening, a level of joviality conquered. But no matter how hard I tried to get back into the groove, I had peaked too soon.

Quietly removing myself from a Cluedo moment of trying to solve whether it was the Butler or Colonel Mustard who bumped off Mrs Richardson the castle’s cleaning lady, I slipped back upstairs to climb into bed. Unable to stomach any more drink, the idea of a night’s sleep without the boom of a newborn’s cry in the next room was most appealing.

I hoped Kirsty and Melanie would not come back till late, when I’d be in such a deep sleep that they wouldn’t disturb me.

I was just slipping into an old Rolling Stones T for bed when the antique phone beside my bed rang.

I wasn’t going to answer it as it couldn’t possibly be for me, but out of sheer curiosity I had to.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, it’s Jacub.’

‘Who?’

‘Jacub. I walked you to your room earlier.’

‘… Oh, Jesus, Jacub sorry, I wasn’t expecting … I mean, hi. Sorry.’

‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

‘No, not at all, I’ve only realized there was a phone in the room. Is everything OK?’

‘I was wondering if you were OK. You left without saying goodnight.’

‘Yeah, I just got tired. It’s been an eventful night.’

‘Oh.’

‘Is there anything else?’

‘I was hoping I could spend a little time to talk with you.’

‘If you like, but should you not be dipping someone else’s boobs in mulled wine?’

‘Hemm, sorry again, no, I’m free now.’

‘All right, where are you now?’

‘I’m lying on my bed.’

‘Where are your quarters?’

‘The next floor up …’

‘So basically you’re on top of me now?’

‘Ha, very good, yes I am.’

‘Soooo, how does it feel?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘How does it feel to be on top of me?’ ‘Oh yes, very nice … Em, so what are you doing now?’

‘I’m just lying on my bed, all alone.’

‘Em yes, and what are you wearing?’

‘Aren’t you the naughty boy, what do you think I might be wearing?’

‘Well, I think you would look very nice in your underwear.’

‘Really? And what colour underwear would you like to see me in?’

‘I think maybe red, or white – no, definitely red.’

‘Well, aren’t you the lucky boy, Jacub. It just so happens that I am lying on my bed with nothing else on except my red lace bra, and my small red thong.’

‘Thong?’

‘Panties.’

‘Ohhh …’ I could hear him starting to breathe quite heavily on the other end of the line. Without warning, my evening had once again turned around.

Was this phone sex? I’d learned from previous occasions that I wasn’t very good at talking dirty. I just hoped my Polish pal was able to take the lead. As I waited for him to speak again, I could just hear some sort of disturbance, then ‘Hello Eva?’

‘Yes, what ya doin’?’

‘Sorry, I was just making myself more comfortable.’

‘Are you comfortable now?’

‘Yes, very. Can I ask you to describe yourself?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I just thought you might be able to tell me what you are doing, or feeling.’

Feeling randy, I decided to go for broke with my
dirty
talk. I’d never see this bloke again, so if I was crap I wouldn’t have to face the mortification.

‘You know, it’s very hot in here, Jacub. I think I might have to take my bra off.’

‘How would you do that?’ he asked lustfully.

‘Well, I’d have to sit up on my bed, arching my back and carefully undo the delicate catch at the back. Then I’d slowly slip my two hands up over the straps and slide them down over my shoulders … Then with a light shaking movement I’d ease my red semi-see-through bra over my breasts and down across my nipples.’

‘What do your nipples feel like?’

‘They’re haaaard,’ I panted. ‘And they’re pert. And a beautiful dark brown colour – do you like dark pert nipples, Jacub?’

‘Oh, very much.’

‘And what about you? What are you wearing right now?’

‘I’m not wearing anything.’

‘And are you touching yourself?’ My confidence had grown with my desire.

‘I am stroking my penis. But I imagine it is with your hand.’

‘And how am I doing that?’

‘With long strokes, and then …’

‘And then what? Would you like me to lick it?’

‘Oh, yea’us …’

I was about to offer up some more words of motivation when—

‘
Tak, tak, tak … O moj boze … Ja pierdole … Ja pierdole
.’ He’d clearly started orgasming in Polish.

Disappointed that there was very little satisfaction in it for me, I made the swift apology that someone was coming into the room and hung up the phone. He rang back immediately, but I ignored it. Instead I lay back in my lush four-poster bed and invented a romance between myself and the Irish rugby captain Brian O’Driscoll.

Over dinner one of the girls had mentioned that she met him in a club one night and found his bulging biceps under a tight black T a real turn-on. I had never fancied him myself, but I could appreciate her anecdote of a beefy rugby player. So since I was already turned on, I thought I might as well have a happy ending like Jacub.

Although I started off picturing the BOD grabbing my breasts from behind with his meaty hands, fingering my nipples and kissing the back of my neck, by the time he had worked his way around to face me, he had miraculously morphed into Piers Morgan.

Stripped of his dark trademark suit, Piers was wearing nothing but an expensive crisp white shirt with its high collar open, exposing just a little of his tanned bare chest. And he looked very happy to see me.

But although I had always secretly fancied him, his cheeky smile wasn’t working for me this time, so I pictured Gordon Ramsay, Jonny Wilkinson and even Vinny Jones before I settled on Michael; my
bad-assed,
cocaine-sniffing slut of a man, Michael. Well, my once upon a time Michael.