‘Wha–?’ he said, and I wanted to kiss him again immediately, in his rumpled, lustful confusion.
‘My ankle. I’m getting all twisted up and it hurts.’
He let out a few heavy breaths before making a response.
‘Shall we leave?’
I misunderstood him for a moment. He was pissed off that I’d complained and wanted to walk away?
‘Come on,’ he said, pushing away his half-drunk pint. ‘I’ve seen more than enough to scribble a paragraph. Let’s get out of here.’
He helped me out of the booth and then, unexpectedly and dizzyingly, swept me up into his arms. The continuing throb in my ankle dulled in comparison with the unmatched thrill of sailing through the dry ice in Crowley’s arms, cutting a swathe through the top-hatted and veiled clientele.
The doormen said goodnight to us at the top of the stairs, and he bore me onwards to the taxi rank while I clung on for dear life, dreading that, at any moment, his arms would give and I’d end up amongst the KFC cartons and trodden-in gum that constituted pavement furniture around here.
We made it on to the smooth back seat of a cab in the nick of time.
‘What’s your address, Foxy?’ he said, sliding in beside me.
‘Rutland Avenue. And what did you call me?’
‘It’s what they call you in the office,’ he said, without apology, having given the cabbie his instructions. ‘Foxy Coxy. Well, the polite ones do.’
‘And what,’ I said, after a pause to register this, ‘do the rude ones call me?’
He gave me a sympathetic smile and rubbed my knee. ‘Ah, I’m sure you’ve heard it all before,’ he said. ‘You’ve lived with that name all your life.’
‘Cocksucker,’ I said resignedly. ‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t,’ he said quickly.
‘Ironic,’ I replied. ‘Given that you’re the only one in a position to know whether or not it’s accurate.’
He smirked.
‘Mm hmm,’ he said smugly. His fingers made a light but devastating return to the back of my neck. ‘If it weren’t for your ankle,’ he whispered into my ear, ‘I’d have found the darkest corner of that bar and had you right there, against the wall.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Can’t resist you.’ He kissed the spot beneath my ear. Dire peril. I loved being kissed there.
‘You managed…pretty well…for six weeks,’ I gasped. The ear-kissing was ongoing and had spread to the delicate skin of my neck.
‘I’m a fool,’ he breathed. ‘I wanted to call you. But…’
‘But?’
‘Thought you’d say no.’
‘Well, what a shit journalist you are, then,’ I said, and he left off the kissing and sat up, blinking madly.
‘Ella!’ he protested.
‘That’s such blatant bull,’ I continued. ‘You’re trained to deal with people saying no to you. And you’re trained to carry on knocking at doors that get slammed in your face. If you’d wanted to see me again, you’d have called.’
He looked away at the spattering of raindrops on the dark window, then back at me.
‘I’m sorry, then,’ he said. ‘And I’ll be honest with you. I fucked you because I fancy you. Nothing complicated about it. And I still do. So…?’