Only The Truth

1 This job has its perks. One of the best ones is lying next to me right now, giggling as she catches her breath. ‘Sounds like you need to exercise more often,’ I tease. She punches my arm – gently, playfully – and tells me she’s more than happy with the workout she’s just had. ‘It’s gone three,’ she says, padding at my shoulder. ‘I’ve got to get back downstairs. That reception won’t run itself. And you’re going to need to get some dinner before you risk turning into an Adonis yourself.’ She’s got a point – I’ve got a bit of a beer belly, but it’s hardly noticeable when I’m lying down. And, let’s face it, that’s the position she’s mostly seen me in since I came to stay here almost a week ago. Like I said, the job has its perks. ‘Jesus, look at the state of my make-up,’ she says, standing up and glancing in the mirror at the other end of the room. As she leans to the side, the faded scar below her belly button becomes slightly more pronounced. Just another small thing that makes Jess unique. She pulls her face in all sorts of odd directions, as if that’s going to fix her make-up. That’s one of the things I like best about her – she’s got that remarkable vain streak in a personality that otherwise doesn’t give a s**t. I’ve only known her a few days, but she intrigues me more than almost any woman I’ve met. And I’ve met a lot. This job takes me all over the country – and further, sometimes. It’s a nice way to separate life from reality, giving you a sense of adventure whilst earning an honest crust. Not many people are able to say that. I’m lucky. You only need to mention to women that you work in TV, and you’re golden. Even when you elaborate and tell them you just supply and help erect lighting rigs, all they want to know is which celebrities you’ve met and what film sets you’ve worked on. I don’t mind; it’s a means to an end. ‘You know,’ she says, finally relenting and climbing back into bed, ‘I really should fix that telly for you one day.’ ‘I’ve only got a day and a half left here. It’d be a shame to waste it.’ I plant a long kiss on her lips. I’ve always been quite good at telling when a woman is interested in me, and I’d judged from her body language when I arrived at the hotel a few days ago that things might be promising. You can just tell. I’m rarely wrong. I’d gone up to my room, left it a few minutes, then came back down to tell her the TV wasn’t working. Right on cue, she offered to take a look herself. Since then, the ruse of ‘fixing the TV’ had taken on a whole new meaning altogether. She leans her head on my chest and plays with the hairs around my navel. ‘I can hear your heart beating,’ she says. ‘Always a good sign,’ I reply, running my hands through her hair. It feels so soft and light. Carefree. Just like her. She giggles and taps me on the chest. ‘At least it shows you’re alive. That’s a start.’ ‘I often thought I wasn’t.’ ‘Oooh, deep,’ she says. ‘Far too deep.’ I laugh. ‘Nah, seriously. My dad was a doctor and I remember him trying to teach me basic first-aid stuff when I was younger. The usual stuff: how to put someone in the recovery position, how to tie a tourniquet. He used to get really short-tempered when I couldn’t find pulses. I was terrible at it. I could just about find one on the wrist sometimes, but for some reason I couldn’t do it from the neck. It used to drive him mad. He told me I’d be a terrible doctor.’ ‘That doesn’t sound very nice.’ ‘He was right, though,’ I say, laughing. ‘The human body’s not really my area of expertise.’ ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says impishly. ‘You seem to know your way around pretty well. Tell me about your family.’ This takes me a little by surprise. ‘Sorry?’ ‘You mentioned your dad. Tell me more about them.’ I’m never really one for talking about my family or my childhood, nor do I see why I should make an exception for a girl I barely know, but she seems genuinely interested. Very few people are genuinely interested in me. ‘They were good people,’ I say. ‘Very good people.’ ‘Is that it?’ ‘What more do you want to know? He was a doctor; she was a legal secretary.’ ‘Was?’ I swallow. ‘Yeah. They’re dead now.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Don’t be,’ I reply. ‘And before you ask, cancer. Got them both within eighteen months. Mum’s was bowel, Dad’s was lung. Ironic for a man who spent his life telling people to stop smoking and who knew all the signs to look out for.’ ‘What kind of doctor?’ ‘Just a GP,’ I say, as if this is some sort of ignoble choice of profession. ‘He had his own practice by the time he retired. Then he was dead within four months. Mum followed soon after.’ ‘So now you’re a poor little orphan boy?’ she says, lightly and teasingly, although the comment stings me more than it has any right to. ‘Yeah. Something like that.’ She kisses me on the lips, more gently this time, then slides back out of the bed and bends down to pick up her underwear. I can’t help but admire the light curves. She’s small, petite, but perfectly formed. It’s almost as if it gives her a charm and innocence – something which is quite a big turn-on, seeing as I know she’s far from innocent. ‘I must say, I’m quite enjoying having a broken TV,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘It’s certainly got its advantages.’ ‘Well, yeah, not having Channels 4 or 5 is definitely an advantage,’ she says, winking at me in the mirror as she starts to touch up her make-up. ‘I dunno. I quite like to spend my mid-afternoons watching Countdown. I’ve not had any better offers recently.’ She picks up my boxer shorts and throws them at me, the soft fabric landing on my chest. ‘If you’re not careful, I’ll fix your damn telly and you can watch as much Countdown as you like. Now, you’d better go down to the restaurant. Dinner’s included in your room cost, you know.’ ‘I know. Good job, too, as I doubt many people would actually pay for it.’ ‘Harsh,’ she says. ‘But true.’ ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ I say, standing and tossing the boxer shorts onto the chair beside the bed. ‘Probably best I don’t follow you straight downstairs. People might start talking.’ ‘Well, we wouldn’t want that, now, would we, Dan?’ she says, with a slow wink which gets me hard again. She kisses me again at the door and leaves, somehow managing to look just as flawless as she did twenty minutes ago. And, once again, I’m on my own.