"Barcelona! How amazing. I went years ago, but I was a student at the time and I only studied the architecture. This time, we'll be able to see much more!"
Richie had picked her up that morning in a taxi. She hadn't yet visited his house (the no sex thing, remember? Going to his home was too risky), but he'd told her he lived on the south side. From there, the taxi had dropped them off at the train station.
She turned to him, puzzled. "I thought I needed my passport? Or was that part of your cunning plan to make me believe we were going somewhere else?"
He grinned at her. It wasn't hard to recognise a fellow control freak. In the taxi, she'd bombarded him with not-so-subtle questions designed to tease their destination out of him.
He pointed to the platforms at the far side of Glasgow Central.
"Aha! So, we are going to an airport. Prestwick airport," Lillian clapped her hands. He took hold of one of them, the feel of his palm reassuringly rough.
"C'mon then," he said. "I've got us a wee treat for the train."
The wee treat turned out to be a bottle of champagne. Lillian clapped again. She was used to decadence, but generally it didn't centre on her.
Richie found them seats with a table and placed Lillian's case on the rack above. She was tall enough that doing it herself was easy enough, but the old-fashioned chivalry pleased her. Her last date had insisted on splitting their dinner bill equally, using a calculator to work the exact amount out. Any desire she had for him evaporated instantly.
Richie sat opposite her and stretched out his legs, the foot touching her toe. She felt the tingle of it, stirrings of lust that moved upwards through her legs. He must have done too as the look he shot her burned.
Tickets shown to the examiner, Richie twisted open the champagne, the cork coming away with a soft pop. He'd gone to the extent of buying plastic wine glasses, instead of just cups. Thanks to her experience of running private views, Lillian knew there was such a thing as plastic champagne flutes. She chased the ungrateful thought away and touched the frothy, fizzing glass to his.
"To exciting, unknown trips!"
She hadn't eaten that morning, and the bubbles went straight to her head. By the time they'd reached Johnstone, Lillian decided to move on from general chit-chat. Richie had told her he was a divorce and politeness had so far held her back from asking why.
"Your divorce then," she began, keeping her gaze at the scenery flashing past them, "what happened, if that's not too personal?"
A pause. She risked glancing at him. He blushed and took a gulp of fizz.
"I...er...got married too young. Nineteen" Another gulp. "I wasn't ready, and we weren't..."
Suited, she supposed. Her mind flashed to the people she'd been around as a teenager and she shuddered. There weren't that many people left in Lillian's life that she'd known before she reached her twentieth birthday. The thought of marrying that...
She'd been quiet for too long. And she needed distraction. The past bubbled there, tiny bits of it escaping from time to time. Lillian did her best to ruthlessly suppress it.
"We change a lot from twenty to thirty, don't we?" she said, reaching a hand out to touch his. To her surprise, he grasped it hard.
"God, yes! I hope I'm a much better man than I was then. No-one should get married at nineteen. It's stupid."
Indeed. Lillian couldn't think of anyone who'd married at nineteen, apart from her now-dead grandmother. The question had set the wrong note.
"Doesn't matter," she declared, pouring some of the champagne in her glass into his. "That was then, this is now! And we have a whole three nights away to look forward to. Do you think we'll have time for a quick bite to eat at the airport?"
Girona. At first, Lillian presumed their destination was Barcelona. They were on a Ryanair flight (again a teensy, disloyal jolt of disappointment for Lillian who wasn't used to budget airlines) and Ryanair flights to Barcelona used Girona.
But no, Richie explained once they reached the other end. He'd done a day tour of Girona while visiting Barcelona years ago. Steeped in history and culture, Girona counted as the perfect place to take a girlfriend for a romantic holiday.
The 'girlfriend' reference struck Lillian at once. A bold move, she decided. She'd been careful to refer to Richie as her friend when she asked for coffees for them both on the flight, frightened that anything else would sound proprietorial too early on.
Barcelona would have been Lillian's preference and Richie had allowed her to believe that's where they were going all through the flight. The exhaust fumes of city traffic ran through her veins. Nothing thrilled her more than big hotels, shops, and teeming restaurants and bars. But as the taxi pulled up at the hotel, she changed her mind. The cobbled streets and the city walls charmed her. And anyway, she'd been to Barcelona many times.
The hotel wasn't a hotel after all; an apartment, instead, with gardens that backed onto the old city walls.
"Is this okay?" Richie asked, as he pushed open the door to what would be their home for the next few days. "I prefer self-catering. It's more private."
That blush again. By privacy, she supposed he meant, "You can shag whenever you like without worrying the maids will catch you at it."
"Fine!" Her reply sounded overly cheery. Someone trying to mask disappointment. But as she looked around, the apartment worked its magic on her. A kitchen/living area with a dining table and a complementary bottle of wine. French windows that opened out to a balcony where you could sit and watch the tourists exploring the city walls. The bathroom included a free-standing iron bath and a smattering of luxury toiletries that promised wild jasmine, vanilla bean, papaya extracts and more.
By some unspoken agreement, they'd left inspection of the bedroom till last. The bed was a king-sized one, heaped with cushions, its sheets pulled pristine tight. Lillian stood there, Richie behind her, his eyes burning into her back. Half-past three in the afternoon and the sun's bright rays bouncing off the whiteness of the bed. She closed her eyes, soaking in the warmth and the perfect stillness of the air.
That was then, that was then, that was then...
She heard a tiny movement, feet moving closer. Richie's hand touched her shoulder and his head moved, so his breath tickled her ear.
"I did warn you I couldn't wait to..."
It didn't sound predatory or threatening at all; just overwhelmingly flattering. The words were soft and questioning; a man asking permission. She turned to face him.
"Aren't we meant to wait? Explore the city? Visit the cathedral and all that?" Like she gave a shit what the high ceilings and glass windows of a centuries old church looked like. The question, she hoped, sounded ironic.
Richie's eyebrows headed north-wards, and the smile moved to a dirty grin. "Do you really want me to take you to the cathedral? Now?"
Lillian pretended to consider the question, holding the pose for a beat too long just to let him believe she was serious. Then she gave him the same dirty grin back.
"Fuck no!"
She began to unbutton her shirt as Richie watched, his eyes moving down every gap that opened. Years ago, she'd taught herself the art of one-handed bra removal. A useful trick, it meant she could use her other hand to stroke Richie's chin and neck. Tickling a guy's Adam's apple was a divider of a move; some of them loved it, others found the vulnerability of it unnerving.
Approval, she guessed from his response. Or maybe he just liked her half naked in front of him.
And those eyes of his. You didn't notice someone's eye colour right away, unless they had unusually striking eyes. Richie's hadn't been up until now. Did he have bigger than normal pupils? They overwhelmed the irises, dark, glittery coal that focused on her face momentarily before dropping to her chest.
Lillian stepped back. Powerfulness wasn't something she was sure of in relationships. It worked like a tennis ball—in one player's court, then in the other. All the balls in your court? Weird.
The skirt she wore unbuttoned at the back, allowing her to thrust her chest out as she did so. It puddled to the floor at her feet, leaving her in knickers and sandals. The underwear she'd chosen was everyone's idea of what you wear on a date that's expected to lead to sex—Agent Provocateur's finest, its costs inversely proportional to inches of material.
"Aw, c'mon Lillian!" Richie groaned as she shimmied herself at him from the other side of the bed.
"Your turn. I've done my strip tease," tipping her head at him, "so it's only fair you do it too."
Richie gave her a filthy smirk once more and pulled at the buttons of his shirt so fast one of them pinged off, making them both laugh. He tugged his jeans down, revealing an above average body. That building work clearly paid off as all the muscles of his torso were clearly defined. Well, defined-ish. Body hair, stark black against pale skin, started at his collar bone and covered his chest and the line from there to the top of his boxers.
Lillian moved, sliding her way towards him and finally at ease with being tumbled into bed.
Richie's gaze had changed, horror making its way across his face.
"Oh God, Lillian we'd better—" His hands went to his crotch, the fabric of his boxers straining against an almighty erection.
Lillian turned instinctively, hearing the warning Richie yelled too late and giving the three tourists on the wall above them an eyeful of full frontal naked woman. They were close enough for her to make out expressions of shocked delight. And a camera, one of those with a huge zoom lens.
She darted to the side out of their line of vision. Richie, in the meantime, had pulled off his boxers and turned sideways, laughter making his cock wobble.
"Might as well give them the full works, eh?"
It was more than enough for Lillian. Laughter rose from her belly and she collapsed,giggling hysterically, onto the bed.