Free Thrill Seeker by Kristina Lloyd Page A

ornamental lion smiled up at me. In my veins, the Rioja to blood ratio was high.
    I loved life. There and then, it was held and perfect. Everything around me glowed with a quality apparently greater than itself, as if the essence of the thing had leaked beyond its edges. Then I noticed a guy at the back of the beer garden, standing with a pint in his hand. Tall, built, shorn head. My heart flared even as I told myself that plenty of tall, muscular guys shaved their heads.
    But the idea took hold and in the evening’s wine-smudged enchantment, the thought of him watching me became conceivable and exciting. I kept glancing over my shoulder to try and catch him looking my way. To my disappointment, his focus stayed on the band.
    When the song ended, applause clattered. I leaned across to Marsha, speaking loudly above the noise. ‘Hey Marsh, I’ve got a new man on the go!’
    I wasn’t even sure why or what I was telling her. I’d no intention of fessing up to anyone about the kidnap fantasy, especially not Marsha, eight years married and safe as houses.She’d think I was nuts and probably come up with a hundred and one reasons why I needed to stop.
    ‘Yeah?’ Marsha moved her glass to rest her arms on the table. Red-wine stains bracketed the corners of her mouth and her tongue was purple. ‘Where d’ya find him? The internet again?’
    I laughed. ‘Where else? He’s called Den, thirty-six years old.’
    ‘Go on.’
    I realised I didn’t have much else to tell. ‘I haven’t actually met him yet but we’re getting on great in email.’
    Marsha grinned. ‘Well, good luck with that, babes. Keep me posted, eh?’ Then she sat back as the next song started, a haunting ambient warble bleeding into the night.
    We’re getting on great in email . I had to admit, it sounded lame.
    Moments later, when I glanced over my shoulder, the man had vanished. I felt as if I’d conjured him up by enthusiasm alone and he’d dematerialised as a consequence of Marsha’s disinterest.
    I said nothing else to anyone for a couple more days. Heard nothing either. That was the worst of it. I kept wondering whether to text him. ‘ Hi, I enjoyed our chat the other night .’ Or ‘ So when do I get kidnapped?’ Or maybe something porny. ‘ I want to suck your big, hard cock like a dirty little slut.’
    But I didn’t text. Sometimes I checked my phone history to look at the time of his initial text (23.53) and my return call (00.02). I wasn’t looking for anything, just proof of a connection.
    The following week, I went to see Liam. I’ll tell him everything, I thought. Well, nearly everything. Since Liam and I had started seeing each other a few months previously,we’d always let each other know if someone else was on the scene, even if they were just a potential date. Our understanding was another relationship wouldn’t necessarily affect what we had, unless a new lover wanted monogamy, but being open about these things was polite and decent. Besides, honesty kept complications at bay.
    It was a Tuesday, and I’d worked till half six, finishing off an urgent report whose formatting had acquired a life of its own at the last minute. Everything is urgent in my job and yet nothing is. I work for Saltbourne Council’s parking department. We’re not performing open-heart surgery and yet my line manager acts as if we are. She’s a woman who causes everyone’s stress levels to rise merely by entering a room, half-running in a stiff-legged kind of way, hobbled by her pencil skirt.
    When I left the office, I fancied a drink and some non-parking related conversation so I texted Liam to see if he was around. He was still at the workshop. ‘ Drop in ,’ he replied. ‘Am carving something I think you will like. ’
    I bought four bottles of fancy cider, Liam’s tipple of choice. He suits cider. His hair is russet like autumn apples, his skin creamy like their flesh, and he spends a lot of time hanging out with trees. Saltbourne