‘But I don’t understand . . . What are you going to ask of me?’
‘Nothing that’ll make a difference to your precious public image, don’t worry. This is a private game.’
He winked and light began to dawn on Jenna.
‘You mean . . .’
‘Fun and games for Jenna and Jason,’ he said. ‘Let’s start one here. I’ve agreed to come to London and see your gallery friend, so you owe me one and I want to collect. I’m torn, though, between asking you to come over here and give me a proper snog with tongues in front of all those people . . .’
‘I can’t do that!’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s just not professional. Not when we know we’ve got an audience. Outside or in the car, fine. But not in a coffee shop.’
Jason rolled his eyes.
‘That makes me want to do it even more, but all right. Not that, then. Not yet. It’ll have to be the other thing.’
‘What’s the other thing?’ The trepidation in Jenna’s voice seemed to please Jason. He dragged the anticipation out with deliberate enjoyment.
‘I’m warning you,’ he whispered. ‘It’s naughty. Very naughty.’
‘Just tell me. As long as nobody over there knows about it.’
‘Oh, they won’t know. They might guess . . . but they won’t know.’
‘Jason! Cut it out with the suspense.’
‘Go to the Ladies’ and take off your knickers. Put them in your handbag and come back out again.’
‘I can’t do that!’
‘Of course you can.’
‘Jason!’ Her face flamed red, but the idea was more exciting than she could ever bear to admit to him. Just the idea of sitting on that plastic moulded chair with nothing between the gauzy cotton of her skirt and her bare skin . . . That was a point – was the skirt definitely opaque enough? She would have to check in the bathroom mirror . . . but the restrooms would be thronged with people . . . there would be no chance . . .
‘Non-negotiable,’ he said. ‘Do it or we drive straight back to Bledburn. It’s up to you.’
‘You bastard,’ she whispered, looking over again at their growing audience. ‘All right then. I will.’
She took a gulp of her coffee, then stood up and marched, eyes front, out of the coffee shop and towards the toilets.
/>
As predicted, they were busy, even on this workaday weekday. Business-suited women refreshed their make-up at the mirrors while retirees in slacks and polo shirts chatted by the hand-driers. Small children were helped to the soap by crouching mothers and a gaggle of glossy-haired students – Spanish? – giggled and eyed her from a corner.
She ignored them all to find shelter in the nearest unoccupied stall. There was bank after bank of these. It was hardly the most private place for a private moment. She looked up swiftly on both sides to check nobody was peering down on her. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
She put her bag down on the floor and stared bleakly at the poster on the back of the door, asking her if it was possible she might be diabetic.
‘Hope not,’ she muttered, then she raised her skirt until it sat rumpled around her waist and slowly lowered her knickers. It was difficult, in the space available, not to bang her elbows or head as she bent, but she persevered, catching them slightly on one kitten heel before they were all off and ready to be stuffed in her handbag.
She stood up again, keeping her skirt where it was, trying to assess how this made her feel. Vulnerable, she thought, and a bit furtive. She had the weirdest feeling that, even with her skirt back down, there would be some tell-tale sign on her face, some giveaway.
‘No, there won’t,’ she whispered to herself. She smoothed the skirt back over her bottom and thighs. Oh, how different it felt now against bare skin. It wasn’t skin tight, but it was fitted enough that the fabric would rustle and whisper against her naked curves with each step she took. And what about between her legs? What if she couldn’t keep herself . . . dry? The skirt’s pale colour would show anything up.
Better focus on not getting too excited, girl, she thought. Who knew what a telephoto lens might pick out?