How the hell was I going to eat? I was so strung up with excitement I could barely keep still. I strutted in front of the mirror, running my hands up underneath my hair and pouting like a trademark vamp. I had never seen myself this way before. Was it the way Jasper saw me?
For a moment, I was convinced that all this was some kind of delusional fever dream. Then I looked at the clock, saw that it was nearly eight, and scampered, shoeless, down to the dining room.
He sat alone at the head of the table. He was dressed to kill in black tie, every hair in place, perfectly composed.
I stopped in the doorframe, wanting to see his reaction to my outrageously rude outfit.
He looked up and smirked, then rose and walked towards me.
His pace was so leisurely, so relaxed that I forgot to feel intimidated. Then he picked up my hand and sniffed my fingertips and the impulse of pleasurable fear kicked back in. He was so unpredictable. Anything could happen.
Having sniffed them, he put my fingers in his mouth, one by one, giving each a sharp little suck.
‘Mm,’ he said, once this ritual was done. ‘You’ve been a good girl, haven’t you?’
I put my damp fingers to my lips, unable to speak, u
ntil he encouraged me forward with a hand between my shoulder blades, escorting me to the table.
‘Are you always so well behaved?’ he asked, pulling out a chair for me.
I sat down. My bare bottom sank into deep velvet pile, easing my residual soreness.
‘I’m not a hellraiser, if that’s what you’re asking.’
He sat down himself, his own seat at the head of the table, at right angles to mine. He had put a serving cloche between us, as if this were a banquet, minus the waiting staff. A bottle of champagne stood in an ice bucket. Both the cloche and the ice bucket were sterling silver and I leaned forward, looking for the hallmark.
He seemed to enjoy my scholarly interest, lifting the champagne bottle with a clatter of ice.
‘Yes, they’re genuine,’ he said. ‘This bucket’s Edwardian. From Tiffany’s. You’re really into all this, aren’t you?’
‘Of course. When I was six years old I told my mother I wanted to be one of the experts on Antiques Roadshow.’
‘That’s cute.’ He smiled and poured me a glass of champagne. ‘And is that still your ambition?’
‘I’m not sure I want to be on TV,’ I admitted. I sipped at the champagne, trying to remember the last time I’d had any. When I graduated, possibly. Anyway, I wasn’t used to it and the bubbles went up my nose, making me splutter like the sex goddess I’m not. ‘I don’t think I’m the type.’
‘Why not?’
‘You have to get your hair done all the time and have spa treatments and, oh, you know, the pressure to look impeccable all the time …’
‘Not on Antiques Roadshow, surely. Besides, you’re very attractive.’
‘Oh, don’t.’
‘Don’t what? You are. Hasn’t anybody ever told you?’
‘Only my creepy third-year tutor.’
‘What, seriously? What about your boyfriends?’
‘No, we weren’t … into that kind of thing. You know, compliments about physical appearance and so forth.’
He furrowed his brow, smiling curiously, and took a sip of his champagne.
‘So what were you into?’
‘I suppose we liked to think that we were, you know, beyond all that kind of, of frivolity. Shallowness. And that our connection was on a more cerebral level.’