Vampire illusion a sophi.., p.2
Vampire Illusion: A Sophie Vickers Thing, page 2
‘Tell me, Damien, how is it people can smoke in here? I thought it was banned in 2007?’
‘Sophie, there are things your laws can’t control. One of them is what goes on in The Drum. It has a private clientele, some of whom like to smoke. Others have different tastes but nobody interferes.’ His expression might have belonged to her brother, if she’d had one.
‘They’re not just my laws, aren’t they yours too? Shouldn’t they be enforced here?’ What was this, twenty questions? ‘Sorry, I’m being nosey and it’s none of my business anyway. Just ignore me.’
‘You’re right – it isn’t but I don’t propose to ignore you. Now, are you hungry? They do a very nice lunch, or if you prefer, we could skip the main course and indulge ourselves with dessert.’ He coughed, embarrassed. ‘No innuendo intended. My apologies.’
She shrugged and passed it off.
‘Thanks for the offer but I usually eat in the evening.’ Sophie longed to tell him how much she’d enjoy him for pudding but stopped the thought in its tracks. ‘I’m quite happy sipping my drink, but if you’re hungry then please order,’ she paused, ‘I don’t salivate at the sound of cutlery on china.’ What? Where did that come from - salivating? Eating him for pudding?
Placing her glass on the bar, she decided to stop game playing and start the real manoeuvres – the ones which precluded the few men in her short life from dying of boredom. If the reason for her drink was an apology, she would finish it and move on. Something about Damien gave her goose bumps: not the nice ones she’d experienced from her dentist.
Sophie drummed her fingers against the stem of her glass and tried to concentrate on the slice of lemon floating halfway down her drink. Why did Mr. Really Nice Guy no longer seem quite so attractive? The last time she’d glanced at him, he was still a face to get lost in, but the feeling wasn’t that shallow. It made her sit up and take notice.
Beside her, Damien studied the lunch menu, seemingly absorbed in making a choice between the seafood medley or potted mackerel and side salad. He ran his finger down the list, and, having decided, tapped the item with his fingernail. An ordinary gesture made by an ordinary, if eye-catching, customer, which brought the barman scurrying back to him with a pad and pencil at the ready.
Sophie happened to notice Damien’s fingernails. They were longer and thicker than was usual and also slightly pointed. She looked down at her own. Hers were similar. How strange... She normally kept her nails short since her job as a typist demanded it. It was frustrating when they snagged the wrong key because she’d let them get too long.
She’d been hauled into the bosses’ office once over a simple error of a ‘u’ being replaced by an ‘o’ on an inventory of cattle and, well, spell check hadn’t picked it up. However her boss told her it was all, at this point, a right load of b****cks and she’d better re-do it pretty quickly. Thank heaven for find and replace.
While Damien ate lunch, Sophie counted bottles. Then optics; followed by glasses and, in desperation, peanuts and stuffed olives.
Bored, Sophie was close to calling it a day and leaving him to his meal. The clink of cutlery stopped. Damien dropped his napkin on top of the plate and pushed it to one side. He swallowed the final mouthful of wine before giving her his full attention.
‘Thank you for waiting – you could have ordered another drink – it looks as though that one’s dead.’
The concern he showed, reached a tiny part of Sophie’s heart. She was jittery, that’s all – pure imagination to think this fabulous specimen sitting oh so very close, could be anything but delightful.
‘Would you be offended if I asked for a coffee? I’m not much of a wine drinker. In fact this is the first one I’ve had since Christmas.’ And what a Christmas!
How much she’d knocked back was still open to debate but she and one other, some bloke who was new to the company, started drinking at the office party on Christmas Eve. He was still spark out when she came to on her living room floor the day after Boxing Day. She hadn’t touched a drop since, or him, as he left her flat and his job, never to be seen again.
The bar began to fill; the noise level increasing exponentially. Sophie, having enjoyed her cup of coffee and wafer thin chocolate mint, got ready to leave. It seemed Damien had different ideas. He remained intent on using his charm to regale her with stories from his childhood. By all accounts it had been a time of mischief, and good fortune he’d managed to survive it.
Her own childhood memories called forth exactly opposite recollections. Always restrained: sometimes literally, especially as a toddler. She’d actually been swung by her reins because she’d asked for an ice cream and her mother had emphatically said ‘No.’
What would happen to her mother now if she dragged a small child along the pavement? A subliminal throb of pain from her kneecaps acted as a reminder of that little incident. No dwelling on past events, she chided herself.
Charming or not, this time wasting was driving Sophie crazy. She had shopping to do for goodness sake. Did the man, dazzling as he was, not realise even he couldn’t compete with the temptation of shoes, dresses, handbags … need she go on?
Making her apologies, she stood abruptly and began heading towards the exit.
Damien got there before her. He held the door open, giving a mock bow as she walked past.
‘Always the gentleman, that’s me.’
He looked sad to see her turn away and Sophie wondered if he’d follow.
He didn’t.
*
It was a good job she lived at the edge of town. The amount of packages she struggled to hold wouldn’t survive a bus journey, even if she had any cash left, and no taxi gave free rides. Arriving home, out of breath and cursing silently, she jiggled her way through the entrance door. Now the thing was, should she take the lift or walk the stairs to the first floor?
Wedged between the closing doors of the lift, she snatched the last of the bags off the floor and stood clear. One of the residents likened the doors to Arkwright’s till.
Somewhere to her left an annoying sucking sound reverberated against her eardrum.
‘Doors opening,’ the generic voice intoned.
Sophie glanced over her shoulder as she prepared to leave. On the metal wall behind her, a large fly struggled feebly, impaled on the straw-like mouth of a spider.
Feeling sick, it occurred to her there were some things best left unnoticed.
With her bags held tightly in both hands she braced herself and marched out of the lift…straight into her dentist.
CHAPTER 3
Sophie fizzed with energy. Today the shocks just kept coming: hitting her over the head every time she popped up. She must have used a pheromone deodorant this morning because Mr. 23 and 26 lateral incisors had been waiting for her.
What was it he’d said? ‘If you’re agreeable to it, I’d like to take you out to dinner and explain a few things.’ How had she answered him? She’d nodded; like a toy stuck to a car dashboard. It was all she could manage.
He’d held her bags while she searched out the door key. Even took it and opened the door. At least she’d said, ‘Thank you,’ before he winked, and sauntered off down the stairs. That was when she’d discovered jelly legs existed. It took three attempts to walk into her flat.
*
‘You’re such an easy catch’, Sophie muttered, swiping a damp cloth at a net of cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. Two men in one day - must be a record.
Hoovering was not Sophie’s thing. It was what other people did, or got someone else to do. But, if she brought him back for coffee, he’d need somewhere to sit. Still chuntering, she ploughed a pathway across the carpet, tidied up quickly, then rushed off to change for her date.
At two minutes to seven, the doorbell chimed. Sophie’s stomach cartwheeled.
She opened the door and almost fell over a basket of fruit. A cream card was wired to the handle, the handwriting fluid and looped:
See you downstairs. Car parked on double yellows
F xxx
With the basket unceremoniously dumped on the kitchen counter and her handbag and jacket draped over her arm, Sophie resumed her evening – an evening with the man of her dreams. She hoped.
*
The only car parked outside was a red Porsche Boxster S. Her jaw dropped as she took in its sleek lines. It suited him – they were both stunners. He hopped out, walked around to her side and opened the passenger door; a ‘cat got the cream’ grin on his face. Sophie tried to think of something to say which wouldn’t sound inane. She gave up and eased into the seat with as much decorum as possible. She clicked the seat belt and settled back, he closed her door without a sound and was already belted in by the time she noticed he was beside her.
‘So, Mr. F., firstly, thank you very much for the basket of fruit – my shins have stopped smarting by the way.’
He pulled away from the kerb, easing into the sudden spurt of evening traffic, and glanced at her with the annoying eyebrow thing which had her all gooey in the surgery this morning. She ignored the look – as best she could.
‘Secondly?’ he asked innocently.
‘What does the ‘F’ stand for?’
‘Take a guess…I’m sure you can think of a few names beginning with that letter.’
He was definitely on the ball tonight.
‘None which would flatter you...’ Not bad for an inane person – if you can actually be an inane person. Another flashback to her mother impinged on her thoughts.
‘Don’t use words unless you’re sure of their meaning, darling. It can have the opposite effect to the one you intended.’
Sophie cast her mind back to a time when reading a dictionary had become a necessary evil. She’d try anything to ward off her mother. Inane, according to her mental dictionary, meant: silly, unintelligent, absurd… alright, alright, enough already. Good heavens, was there ever going to be a time when using a slightly different word would not summon the ‘give her grief’ genie of her mother?
‘Something troubling you, Sophie Knickers rhymes with Vickers?’ His light-hearted tone didn’t quite mask his sincerity. ‘You’ve gorn orl quiet.’
‘Searching for an effing word does that to me now and then.’
His chuckle was rich and throaty: yet again she needed to hang onto the seat to stop from jumping all over him.
She put her finger to her lips as if deep in thought, ‘Hmm, let’s see. What about Fagan or Felix? Maybe it’s Felipe?’
‘Try again – I’m not into soliciting little boys to steal for me, neither am I a cat, nor come to that, a frog.’
‘Frog? Why a frog?’
‘Felipe sounds French to me. Although it could mean a type of footwear I suppose...’
Sophie actually snorted a laugh - she knew the joke so well. She’d been nine, when Tom, her best friend’s brother, had asked her what seemed to be a serious question.
‘What do French men wear on their feet?’
‘Shoes I expect.’
‘Wrong.’
‘What then, what do French men…?’
‘Felipe Felops!’
She could still hear the laughter, hers and Tom’s, as they repeated it every few minutes, until they couldn’t conjure up a snigger any more.
‘Actually, I think Felipe is Spanish,’ she managed to say before wiping her eyes and blowing her nose on a tissue smelling of tea tree oil. How long had that been in her bag? Good job she’d used waterproof mascara, she had to blink the sting away. Sophie peered out of her window at the fields and hills, relishing the illusion of peace and tranquillity.
‘Giving up so soon?’
The challenge hung in the air. He wouldn’t let her off the hook so easily.
‘I’m enjoying the scenery at the moment Mr. F. The one outside the window.’
The countryside was an explosion of harvest colours suspended beneath a sky of golden / crimson / citrine; the striations of hues melted from one into the next.
‘Shit!’ He hissed.
This time, when she turned her head to look at him he wasn’t smiling. His expression was serious and, as she followed his line of sight she saw why. Ahead of them lay a body spread-eagled across the road.
CHAPTER 4
‘Stay in the car, Sophie, this might not be what it seems.’
Mr. F. pulled over to the grass verge, switched off the engine and slowly unclipped his seatbelt. As if that wasn’t enough, he took a small gun from the inside pocket of his jacket before leaving the car.
Very James Bond, she thought, trying not to freak at the sight of a body on the road. First Aid wasn’t her thing. Perhaps he’d put the person out of their misery if they were in really bad shape.
I hope you’re joking, a small niggling voice nudged at her conscience. ‘Oh lighten up - as if I could help anyone,’ she snapped back, praying he didn’t turn around at that moment. Talking to yourself just wasn’t cool.
To pass the time, Sophie flicked the sun visor down and inspected her reflection in the mirror. Not bad, could do better. She sounded like her school report. Her eyes seemed more alert than usual, although the whites were threaded with red veins as a result of the tea tree incident. Tilting her head, she checked her teeth – no lipstick on them – no Dracula developments either. With a sigh she pushed the visor back up and turned her attention to events outside the car.
The road was empty. Now what? Mr. F. said to stay in the car. What if he didn’t return? Her three inch heels would never survive the trudge back. Better ring for a taxi – but where the hell was she? Calm down. No point in panicking. Deep breaths. That’s it.
Sophie’s anxiety level began to rise again. It didn’t help being in the middle of nowhere with missing bodies, and a strange dentist who carried a gun with him like most men carried a wallet.
A growling inside the car made her edgy. When it happened again her stomach offered a clue. She’d eaten a chocolate bar earlier in the day - her only meal - unless the slice of lemon from the spritzer and chocolate mint with the coffee counted as dessert.
In the evening light, the road looked like a strip of liquorice. More grumbles from her stomach. She really must stop thinking about food: a person could be driven to madness. Being driven anywhere right now seemed like a good option. Where was he?
On cue a tall, broad-shouldered figure approached the car. He slipped in beside her and started the engine. The heater and lights sprang to life. Sophie inhaled automatically as Mr. F.’s scent filled the interior with sandalwood and vetiver. Not overpowering, just a mere hint, although the maleness of him was obvious. It blended with the smell of leather and did things to her hormones which had her biting her bottom lip to gain control.
‘Alright?’ He managed to convey a sense of calm, concern and intimacy at the intonation of that one word.
‘Is this usual on a date with you? The fruit? The excitement of a body sprawled across the road?’ Sophie’s attempt at teasing sounded hollow as nerves kicked in.
He swallowed before replying. His jaw clenched as tightly as his grip on the steering wheel. Relaxing both, Mr. F. buckled his safety belt. ‘I find that, as an ice breaker, they usually do the trick.’
Before she could make her comeback remark, he accelerated, and once again they were on the road to somewhere. All thoughts of interrogating him began to fade. Whatever had happened had been dealt with. She really didn’t want to be involved.
‘You’re not just a dentist are you?’ Sophie felt the urge to bang her head on something hard but managed to stop mid-way.
‘I’ll explain things when we get to the hotel - if you can wait another few minutes.’
If Mr. F. noticed her jerky head-shake, he pretended otherwise.
*
He was right. It did only take a few minutes. The hotel, ivy covered and old, stood hidden from the road by a smattering of larch trees. Unless you expected it to be there it was quite possible to drive past without a second glance. Rather like the pub Sophie had visited earlier in the day with Damien. She shivered slightly at the thought of him. He was a conundrum – not what he seemed that’s for sure. And your point is? Her conscience prodded her with events of less than ten minutes ago. Who was this man with the gun and gorgeous sports car? How had he swept her off her feet? Oh, wait, not swept, hadn’t she actually jumped at his offer of dinner?
While these thoughts pounded her brain, Mr. F. negotiated the sweeping gravel driveway and pulled into a parking space in front of the hotel. There were six other cars: they all looked expensive.
Sophie felt really nervous. In knee-length black leather boots, she crunched across the gravel leading to the entrance of yet another posh establishment, hoping she wouldn’t make an even bigger fool of herself. Absentmindedly, she ran shaky hands over her grey, silk dress; smoothing any wrinkles, imagined or otherwise.
‘You look fine. Don’t fret so much, nobody will notice you - take my word.’
‘If that was a compliment, thank you. I think.’
She heard his chuckle and began drooling, well virtual drool - she didn’t want to make a bad impression. He slipped his hand into hers, squeezing lightly. Walking close by her side they moved toward the reception desk. Was that saliva dribbling down her chin?
Having been shown to a secluded corner of the dining room, Sophie kept casting quick looks across the table at her incredible escort. He’d treated her to smoked salmon mousse as a starter, with chilled Chablis which tingled against the back of her throat when she swallowed. At the moment they enjoyed the main course. It was only as she popped a slice of medium rare sirloin into her mouth, she realised his name was still a mystery. Like the rest of him.
‘Is it to your liking?’
His deep voice broke in on her musings. She almost swallowed the next bite of steak whole.
‘Mmmm...’ Even for Mr. Mystery she would not stop eating to hold a conversation. It seemed the more she ate the hungrier she became, and was slightly tipsy from the Cabernet Sauvignon she slurped back now and then.
