Role Play

‘Why?’

‘I — I just don’t …’ she floundered.

His grin was wicked. ‘Not good enough. Come on, you’ve finished here for the night.’

He flicked off her terminal, stacked her books back on to the shelf and held out his hand. ‘Come.’

‘What if I don’t want to?’ she said defensively.

He sighed. ‘You’re lying again, Abbie,’ he teased in a soft, sing-song voice.

Her mouth firmed in defiance. ‘I have to study.’

‘Cobblers,’ he said rudely. ‘Come on. We’ll pick up a take-away.’

Her stomach rumbled loudly at the thought, and he chuckled. ‘Co-operation at last!’

‘Only from my involuntary muscles —— ’

‘That’ll do for a start. I realise that aggravating mouth of yours will take a little longer to tame. Come on — and say, Yes, Leo.’

She sighed. ‘Yes, Leo.’

‘Better. Now come on.’

She assumed they’d have fish and chips, or a Chinese at the outside, but the little town surprised her. Tucked away in a narrow alley off the main street was a tiny but immaculate kebab house owned and run by a Greek Cypriot who, Leo said, had come over from Cyprus at the time of the Turkish invasion in the early seventies and stayed ever since.

The shop, predictably, was called Spiro’s, and Spiro himself was almost circular, balding and grumbled constantly about the price of lamb and the rubbish at the market.

Leo, commiserating, bought shish kebabs in pitta pockets groaning with salad, and they ate them in the car looking out over a field because they were both too hungry to wait any longer. Despite Spiro’s complaints the quality was superb, and Abbie ate every last bit and even pinched a bit of Leo’s second one.

Then he drove her back to his house, a cottage on a quiet lane about two miles from the town centre, and the evening sun gleamed on the windows and on the glowing banks of perennials that flanked the path, the magenta of the crane’s bill, the green and white of the lady’s-mantle, the tall spires of the hollyhocks nodding at the back behind the white and yellow daisies.

‘Oh, how pretty!’ Abbie said, enchanted, and Leo let them in, retrieved a bottle of wine and two glasses and took her for a stroll round the garden.

The evening was much cooler than the day had been, and she was able to enjoy the mellow air and the sweetly scented roses that graced the soft pink walls.

‘How do you manage it all?’ she asked, incredulous, after he had finished his guided tour.

He laughed softly. ‘Me? I wouldn’t know a dandelion from a primula! I have a gardener who comes in twice a week and cuts the grass and keeps the beds in order.’

‘He does a wonderful job,’ she said admiringly, glancing round again at the riot of colour that filled every corner.

‘She. Yes, she’s excellent, I have to say. When I moved here the garden was a mess, but she’s worked wonders.’

‘She?’ Abbie said with a teasing grin. ‘I might have known.’

‘Of course. She’s tall, blonde and very, very lovely.’ He grinned back. ‘She’s also in her late forties and a grandmother. I swear she’s stronger than I am, and she’s definitely no competition to you, Abigail, my love, so you needn’t get all jealous.’

She looked away hastily. ‘I’m not your love, Leo, and I don’t intend to be. And I’m certainly not jealous!’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Look, I really ought to get on. I’ve got studying I should be doing, and I’m sure you’ve got better things to do ——’

He laughed softly. ‘Running, Abbie?’

‘Not at all,’ she blustered, but she was, and they both knew it.

He took pity on her, though, and drove her back to the surgery so that she could collect her car.

As she unlocked the door, she became suddenly, startlingly aware of his body close behind her. His hand, warm and hard, closed over her shoulder and turned her gently towards him.

‘Leo?’ she said breathlessly, and then her protest, such as it was, was cut off by his lips as they covered hers in a feather-light caress.

‘Goodnight, Abigail,’ he murmured softly, and then he turned on his heel and walked back to his car.

Shaken, she unlocked her door and slid behind the wheel, her limbs trembling. He was waiting for her to start the car and drive away, she thought dimly, so mechanically she turned the key, backed out and drove off.

After a moment she realised he was flashing his lights furiously at her, and she pulled over.

He leapt out of his car and ran towards her. She wound down the window just far enough to talk to him but not so far that he could kiss her again—just in case.

‘What do you want?’ she asked nervously.

‘Me? That’s an interesting thought.’

‘Leo ——’

‘You didn’t have your lights on.’

She blinked. ‘Oh — right. Thanks.’

His grin was infuriating. ‘My pleasure. I didn’t realise one little kiss would throw you so badly.’

‘It’s nothing to do with your kiss!’ she protested, and the grin widened.

‘You’re telling porkie-pies again, Abbie, darling,’ he murmured, and, slipping his hand through the partly-open window, he brushed her cheek with his knuckles.

It sent a shiver through her, as did his softly voiced, ‘Sleep well, princess. Dream of me.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Leo, go away,’ she said unsteadily, but he was gone, leaving her in a tangle of wild and unfamiliar emotions, not least of which was a most unsettling feeling that she would, indeed, be dreaming of him — with or without his permission!

She didn’t dream of him, in the end — largely because she didn’t sleep until almost dawn, because every time she closed her eyes she felt the brush of lips on hers and her whole body screamed to life.

Unable to bear it, incapable of sweeping aside such unfamiliar and overwhelming sensations, she paced her little flat over a shoe-shop in the centre of town and wondered how she was going to get through the next year.

By ignoring him whenever possible, was the conclusion she eventually came to, and after a drink of hot milk and another severe lecture to herself she finally crawled exhausted into bed shortly before dawn to fall instantly and deeply asleep until the traffic woke her at almost eight-thirty.

Predictably, she was late, and, equally predictably, her surgery was less than straightforward. To add insult to injury, she found that when under pressure the computer was even less co-operative, and she finally, in desperation, asked Peggy if she could come in and sit with her and show her what she was doing wrong.

‘No,’ Peggy told her, ‘I don’t think the patients would like it, but Leo’s here. I’ll send him in; it’ll get him off my back while I type these letters.’