Free Bella Summer Takes a Chance by Michele Gorman Page A

on Harley Street.’
    ‘At a lab? Do you diagnose illnesses from people’s blood?’
    ‘I’m not a doctor, I just run the tests. And it’s not always blood.’
    ‘Oh. Oh .’ Charming. My date handled people’s number twos. ‘Well, I’m sure it’s interesting.’
    ‘It’s a job. And I don’t have to get up too early, I work eleven to four. So I have time for my music.’
    I envied him. And felt inferior. My date supported his art by rummaging in poo. ‘I admire your dedication. I sort of gave up on music when I moved here.’
    Coming to London was a natural move, partly because my English grandparents gave me a cultural connection and partly because my dual citizenship made it easy. Dad’s parents emigrated to Canada just before the war, and Dad moved to Chicago, where I was born, to teach in the 1960s. ‘But I’m making more of it now.’
    The exaggeration seemed necessary in the circumstances. Having unmusical friends meant they were easily impressed by the littlest step forward, but anybody in the business would quickly recognize me for what I’d become: a sometimes singer. I was relieved when the conversation moved to less exposing topics. The Musician was a traveller by nature, and more than happy to regale me with adventurous tales from far-flung lands.
    I was excited by his itinerant nature. I’d felt the same thrill when Mattias talked about his upbringing. His Swedishness had made him exotic; every Scandi-inflected word he uttered captivated my imagination. I was an easy audience. ‘When’s your next gig?’ I asked.
    ‘The next big one’s at the end of the month. It’s a proper gig too, not a wedding. Maybe you’ll come along?’
    ‘I’d like that. And maybe you’d like to stop by The Boisdale a week from Wednesday when I’m singing.’
    He nodded, smiling.
     
    I had nothing to worry about. Hours passed. He was easy to talk to; there were no awkward silences. When he asked again about the gig at The Boisdale, he put the date in his phone. He was either an accomplished seducer, or truly interested.
    ‘I enjoyed this,’ he said, stroking my hand, which he’d held since we left the bar. ‘I’m not ready to say goodnight yet.’ He leaned in to kiss me. It was a good kiss. Mmm. It was a very good kiss. And just the right amount of body contact. ‘I’m definitely not ready to say goodnight,’ he murmured.
    I was getting that impression. Literally. Something was poking me in the ribs. Yes, the ribs. Possibly he was taller than I thought he was. It was clear what he wanted.
    The question was: what did I want? The sensible answer was to kiss him on the pavement and say goodnight. After all, I hardly knew him. He might be dangerous, or a thief. Oh, but he was a stellar kisser. Surely thieves weren’t good kissers.
    I didn’t want to be sensible. And I definitely didn’t want to stop kissing. ‘Want to have a drink at my place?’ I said instead.
    Did I plan to sleep with him as we took the taxi home? No, not then. As I let us into the empty flat? Not yet. We poured the wine only to ignore the glasses. His hand crept inside my dress. In the language of love it was only second base. Eleven-year-old girls probably let their dates get that far. Though eleven-year-old boys probably weren’t as adept at snapping open a bra as The Musician proved himself to be.
    This put me in a compromising position for, as long as the bra stayed on, I was clothed. Undone, it was a useless defence against the assault that (I hoped) was coming. It was impossible to stop proceedings and say goodnight in a dignified manner with a lacy cup snuggling against my throat. Did men intuitively know that the social awkwardness of an undone bra substantially increased their chances of nudity?
    The thought popped into my mind as my dress came off. I wanted to have sex with this man. It seemed a rational decision. First, I’d have to take the plunge eventually, right? Second, by all accounts I had a willing