The Saturday Morning Park Run

Chapter Two

Ashwin Laghari,

Financial Director

When I got to the office I’d flipped the card backwards and forwards over my hand. It had been ages since I’d had so much as a sniff of a date. All work and no play made Claire very dull. And I didn’t want to be dull. He’d sparked something that had lit a little glow of excitement in what was otherwise a fairly barren landscape. While sitting at my desk, something had made me send a distinctly out-of-character, playful text to Ashwin Laghari, of the sexy long legs and unusual, piercing eyes. He wasn’t having things all his own way and besides, on Friday nights I tended to stay late in the office and get as much done as I could before heading home. My reply had been:

Dinner, a week on Saturday. 8pm. The Beech House. Coffee Girl. x

I swallowed as a twinge of nerves flashed in the pit of my stomach. Ashwin Laghari. After a whole day of radio silence, he’d finally responded to my text.

You strike a hard bargain. Saturday it is. See you there.

Despite its brevity, I must have read it dozens of times over the last ten days and now here I was on Saturday afternoon, less than three hours to lift off. I’d kept my eyes peeled for him on my daily walk across the park to the train station but hadn’t seen him once. Maybe he didn’t live around here. What if he’d been on his way to work after a one-night stand? What if he was a complete womaniser?

And what if he was? I was overdue some fun. I didn’t get the impression he was a ‘for keeps’ sort of guy. Far too full of himself, but there’d been that definite sexual frisson.

Ashwin Laghari. I kept twisting his name around my tongue. I liked the sound of it. His full name had a melodic feel to it. I wondered if he had any middle names and how they’d fit. I’d have to ask him tonight. And then my sensible gene reared its prudent, forthright self.

For goodness’ sake, Claire, what is the matter with you? He’s a player. You challenged him. He waited a whole day to respond to your text. This is a game. You might have won that round insisting on Saturday instead of Friday but he wants round two. That’s all.

But less-sensible me, who seemed to be determined by my hormones, suggested that maybe he had also felt that sexual frisson and was keen to explore it too.

Armed with his name, I’d done a little bit of research. No more than you’d do before meeting a new business colleague. Not full-on stalking. A bit of LinkedIn, a quick trawl of Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Okay, I might have done a search on Google images. Just to remind myself what he looked like, in case after intensively staring at his face for those fifteen minutes I’d forgotten some aspect of his features. He cropped up in all his gorgeousness a couple of times, always in a suit shaking the hand of some important guy. LinkedIn had given me plenty of information. Graduate from Leeds with a first in Mechanical Engineering. Two years with First Direct and then a move to London and stellar promotions ever since and then back north. Clearly, he was a smart cookie.

Why, oh why, had I chosen The Beech House? Intimate, quiet, with perfect ambient lighting. Ideal for a romantic date. I should have selected somewhere swankier, more contemporary and more show off-y where the staff squinted at you as if you were beneath contempt and everything was far too much trouble for them.

The fussy, friendly maître d’ greeted me with a smile of pleasure, briefly dousing my shimmering nerves, which had been making themselves felt ever since I raced into my flat from my sister Alice’s to get ready. I’d managed to fob her off last Saturday but couldn’t avoid it today. An afternoon’s hedge trimming had left me a sweaty, bug-infested mess and now the butterflies in my stomach were manically trying to beat their way out. Why was I so damn nervous?

‘I’ve booked a table for two.’ I paused, wiping my slightly damp palms on my favourite black trousers.

‘The name?’ he asked.

Playing it cool, I hadn’t responded to the last text when he’d asked for my name. Ashwin Laghari only knew me as Coffee Girl. I said it, maintaining eye contact with the man as if this was a perfectly acceptable name and there was nothing out of the ordinary with it.

‘Certainly, madam.’ He didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Allow me. The gentleman has already arrived.’

I followed him, weaving through cosy candlelit tables, towards the back of the restaurant, wishing he’d slow down a little. My legs felt a little unsteady and my tongue had already glued itself to the roof of my mouth. This was ridiculous. I’d met and conversed easily with people from all over the world, talked to conference audiences over a thousand strong and presented to chief executives and board directors all the time and never betrayed a flicker of what I was feeling.

Stiffening my spine and tilting my chin, I sucked in a breath and two seconds later I was at the table and the waiter melted away.

Ashwin Laghari was every bit as gorgeous as I remembered and so was the slightly mocking smile. He stood up.

‘You came,’ he said, his voice deeper and more mellow than I had recalled.

‘I did,’ I said, sliding onto the chair opposite him.

He suddenly grinned. ‘Busy on Friday, were you?’

‘No,’ I paused for a minute before giving him a catlike smile; he didn’t need to know that I’d been at work until nine, ‘but I wanted to put you in your place.’

‘Why didn’t I guess as much?’ Those fascinating eyes twinkled at me. ‘Am I allowed to know your name?’

‘Yes, but I’m not sure it’s been worth waiting for. Do you have any middle names, Ashwin Laghari?’

‘I’m always Ash to my friends.’ His eyes dipped to my mouth. ‘Although I like the way you say my name.’

‘I like it too,’ I said, feeling flirtatious and mysterious but not quite enough to dare to say it again.

‘No middle names.’

‘Good,’ I said. I didn’t like the thought of them disturbing the melodic symmetry of his name.

‘When you search for Coffee Girl on LinkedIn, it’s not that informative.’

‘Leeds. First. Mechanical Engineering. Currently at Beechwood Harrington,’ I quipped.

‘Unfair advantage.’

‘Claire Harrison. Manchester. First. Currently at Cunningham, Wilding and Taylor.’ I paused and, unable to help myself, gave him a direct, sultry look and lowered my voice to say, ‘Now we’re equal.’

If only that were true. He was clearly self-possessed and brilliant whereas for the last couple of weeks, no matter how hard I worked, I felt like I was sinking into quicksand. There never seemed to be enough time in the day to do anything.

He smiled back, his voice laden with darkness and said, ‘I don’t think we’re ever going to be equal.’ The knowing look did something to my pulse. ‘I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine.’ He gave me another look.

‘What, no champagne?’ I said as he lifted the bottle of very, very expensive red wine.

‘You don’t strike me as a champagne girl. That would be too much of a cliché. I chose something deeper, darker, and smoother.’

I raised an eyebrow at this blatant smooth-talking bollocks.

His face creased into a grin. ‘And it’s a bloody nice wine. Usually the champagne they have in these places isn’t the best. Would you like to try some? I gambled on you drinking red, but if you don’t, I can order something else.’

‘Lucky punt,’ I said, lifting my glass and letting him pour a mouthful for me to try. I lifted the glass, swirled, sniffed, and sipped. ‘Nice, very nice.’

‘Of course,’ he said with a lift of one eyebrow.

God, he was one cocky git but I couldn’t help liking his sheer arrogant confidence. Somehow it was reassuring that he was so in command of himself and – I couldn’t believe I was thinking it – quite sexy.

We lifted our glasses in a toast. ‘Cheers,’ I said.

‘To ill-advised meetings,’ he said.

I stared at the rich ruby colour, suddenly a little shy. That almost sounded like… as if he were taking this seriously. I wasn’t expecting this to go anywhere. Gorgeous as he was, I’d pigeon-holed him in the laddish box. For him, this whole date was a challenge. Yes, there’d been sexual chemistry and I suspected he might use it to try and talk me into bed, but he was a work-hard, play-hard city-type. I didn’t expect to see him again after tonight and, to be honest, did I even have the time?

‘How did your meeting go? With the board and the CEO from London.’

I glanced up at him, surprised he’d remembered. He actually appeared interested. Okay, now that was smooth.

‘It went well, thanks.’ In fact, it was ancient history. I was already preparing for the next big meeting. ‘How about yours?’

‘Given that I was wearing a Marks & Spencer suit, very well. Good tip by the way. Thank you. I got my PA to postpone the meeting for half an hour and I was the first customer into the store that morning. Fastest purchase ever, I reckon.’

‘I’m impressed… that you followed my advice.’

‘I think I might have thought of it myself.’

‘Yes,’ I paused, ‘but you might have resisted out of sheer pig-headedness.’ There was another of our direct eye-meets and my lips twitched as he laughed, twinkly-eyed and appreciative.

‘Was I that ungrateful? Sorry, I was a bit stressed that morning. Stupid eh? I can barely remember what the meeting was about now.’ He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if about to impart a great secret, ‘And do you know what?’

I shook my head. He peered covertly around the restaurant before whispering. ‘No one noticed it wasn’t designer.’ Widening his eyes to emphasise the point, he added, still in a whisper, ‘I’ve worn it all week.’

I burst out laughing. ‘So you’re a convert now?’

‘Too right. I’ve been a mug, spending ridiculous sums of money on suits when no other bugger can tell the damn difference. I even asked Gav what he thought of my new suit. And he thought it was a Hugo Boss.’ He grinned at me and I smiled back, our eyes meeting with a flash of warmth. ‘What about you?’

‘My PA brought in the most hideous shirt in mint green with this huge bow on the front. Remember Mrs Slocombe from Are You Being Served?’

Those sexy eyebrows rose. ‘Wasn’t she the one with the naughty pussy?’

I almost choked on the wine. Although his face was deadpan, his eyes danced with devilment.

Trying to keep it cool, I ignored his words. ‘It clashed horribly with my suit. It almost drowned me as well. I must have looked ridiculous.’

‘I can’t imagine that.’ He eyed my outfit, which was insanely expensive but totally understated. ‘I imagine you’re always immaculate.’ I liked the way his gaze didn’t linger on my cleavage. His voice softened and, to my surprise, he said, ‘You look lovely.’

He nodded his head towards my soft black jersey top with tiny specks of silver woven into the fabric, which I’d chosen deliberately to hide my gardening wounds. I was covered in scratches from that bloody hedge I’d trimmed for Alice. As a result, it hadn’t been my first choice. I’d wanted to wear a sleeveless black vest which I’d initially thought would be far sexier but now I realised from his appreciative expression that this was more subtle. The soft fabric clinging to my skin hinted at what was underneath rather than blatantly displaying everything for show. Maybe I had something to thank Alice for after all.

It was, however, a little warm and without thinking, perhaps because I’d relaxed after his unexpected compliments and sudden seriousness, I pushed back my sleeves and rested my arms on the table.

‘What happened to you?’ he asked, reaching out to touch my arms. ‘Are you okay?’ There was genuine concern in his eyes.

I smiled back at him, my voice a little breathless. ‘I’m fine. Just a run-in with a hedge.’

‘You challenged it to unarmed combat?’

‘Yes, I’m a regular garden ninja.’

Despite a soak in the bath, my arms were worse now because I’d had some kind of allergic reaction. Ash reached over the table and touched one of the many welts on my forearm. His barely-there touch sparked a tingle on my skin. I glanced up sharply and his eyes were kind rather than mocking. ‘You probably want some Savlon on those.’

I gave my arm a rueful rub and rolled my shoulders. ‘Every bit of me seems to be aching.’ Why was I telling him that? Oh God, would he think I was sending out invitations to give me an all-over massage?

‘Do you do a lot of gardening?’

‘No, I’ve moved recently and the previous owners, Lord love them, thankfully created a very low-maintenance garden. Keeping a basil plant alive is the sum total of my green-fingered accomplishments. These scars came from my sister needing help with her garden.’

‘And you can’t say no to sisters.’

‘Sadly no,’ I sighed.

‘I get it too. My sister calls on my services a lot. I’ve no idea why. Do I look like a DIY expert to you?’ He held up artistic hands with long, elegant fingers.

It gave me the opportunity to take stock of him, instead of the surreptitious checking out I’d been doing since I arrived. He wore a grey V-neck T-shirt, which fitted rather well, the soft jersey moulding to a broad chest, the dip of the vee revealing a few crisp, dark hairs.

No, he didn’t look like a DIY expert; he looked flipping gorgeous. Absolutely edible, and I wanted to peel that T-shirt right off him, touch his golden skin, smooth a hand over that chest and run my fingers across the firm biceps beneath his T-shirt sleeves. I wanted… His mesmerising eyes darkened, the pupils wide.

My breath caught in my throat. The pause in the conversation stretched out as we stared at each other, the same fizz of sexual tension in the air that I’d sensed the first time we met.

I knew then that I was going to throw all caution to the wind. I was going to sleep with Ashwin Laghari. I was going to revel in touching every inch of his skin, stare into those delicious eyes and enjoy every minute of exploring that hot body.

And he wasn’t going to be saying no. His hand was on my forearm again, stroking my wrist, his eyes holding mine.

His smile was gentle rather than triumphant; it felt like the gamesmanship had died. Somehow, both of us had relaxed – and more – into the evening.

I’m not sure how long we’d have enjoyed that sexually-charged silence but it was interrupted by the waiter coming to take our orders. Of course, we hadn’t so much as glanced at the menu. Suddenly I really wasn’t that hungry and food seemed an obstacle in the way of the evening.

‘So you have a sister,’ I said.

‘And a brother. And my sister seems to think DIY is part of my DNA. She’s a brain surgeon, for God’s sake. She’s licensed to use a scalpel.’

‘A surgeon.’ I was impressed.

‘Of course.’ In the candlelight, his skin glowed like warm honey and he smiled. ‘My sister’s a surgeon. My brother’s a barrister.’ At this he grinned cheerfully. ‘My mum is a real tiger mum. She’s white. Dad’s a doctor, born here; his dad is Indian, came over from Uganda just before Idi Amin kicked the Asian population out in the seventies. What about you? Brothers, sisters?’

‘Just one. Alice. Single mum. I have two nieces.’

‘You close?’

I sputtered out a laugh. ‘Not especially. Alice prefers a more alternative lifestyle. She doesn’t really approve of corporates.’

‘She’d hate me.’

I wrinkled my nose and nodded. ‘Yeah, probably.’

‘Good job you don’t give a toss about what she thinks then,’ he said with an arrogant laugh.

‘Are you always this sure of yourself?’ I asked.

‘Pretty much. What’s the point otherwise?’ His eyes met mine, guileless and direct. ‘You could spend a lifetime worrying about what others think of you and where would that get you? Would you rather I lie to you and pretend to be modest?’

‘No,’ I laughed. I rather like his unashamed arrogance. ‘So what do you do when you’re not spraying coffee over unsuspecting commuters or working?’

‘The usual. Gym. See friends. You know… the job’s pretty all encompassing.’

Gym. Friends. It didn’t sound like much. And if he were like me, I knew the type of friends he meant. People you drank with after work. The others tended to drift away when you cancelled things once too often. I nodded in sympathy. ‘Don’t I know it.’

‘But if you enjoy it then none of that really matters.’ Ash’s gaze was steady but I caught the question buried in the words.

‘Do you ever wonder if it’s worth it?’ The words came out before I was ready for them and I was halfway to thinking of a way to retract the comment when I realised Ash was considering my words quite carefully.

‘Yes.’ He rested his chin on his hand. In the clipped, unencumbered word, I felt a ripple of unease that mirrored my own.

‘Succinct.’

‘I was trying to think of the best way to put it into words. There’s a fear, isn’t there? Deep rooted, submerged, but it’s there. What if it isn’t worth it? What if the hours we put in aren’t worth the stress? What’s left?’

For a moment we held each other’s gazes as if the other was some kind of lifeline, holding fast against the emptiness of the answer. One that neither of us really wanted to visit. What drove us? Was it fear or lack of courage? The moment of honesty shimmered between us and I felt as if we’d taken a step below the surface. We were more alike than we’d realised.

‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘It scares me sometimes. Maybe that’s why I keep working so hard, to fill the void. Because without work, I’m not sure… I’m not sure what I’d have.’

Or who I was? In the office I was the invincible go-getter, a role model, and the epitome of success. I avoided thinking about life outside of work and luckily there wasn’t too much of it because my job was all consuming.

‘Which is why there’s a lot to be said for job satisfaction,’ I said, feeling the need for firmer ground. For a moment I’d strayed into quicksand that had no place in my life. Those sorts of thoughts belonged to dead-of-night insomniac moments, when a person questioned life, the universe, and everything, not just the unremitting pressure of their job. Pressure came with the territory. ‘Not everyone has that. Imagine being in a job that you hate.’

‘Can’t.’ He gave a mock shudder which immediately lifted the shadow that had touched our conversation. ‘I guess we are both lucky in that way. I love my job.’

‘Me too. Although it’s been a busy week and I’m absolutely knackered.’ I deliberately lightened my tone, signalling that we’d left that line of philosophical enquiry behind but I was aware – and so, I could tell from his steady regard, was he – of that moment of connection between us.

‘Do you always get the early train?’ Ash didn’t comment on my uncharacteristic admission of weakness for which I was fervently grateful. Like me, he probably despised weakness. ‘How come I’ve never seen you before?’

‘Because you weren’t looking,’ I responded with a twisted, cool smile, feeling a little more myself.

He gave me an equally cool look and we were back to being sparring partners again. ‘I’d have noticed you… the attitude at the very least. You walk like a power house.’

‘That sounds… not attractive.’ But I rather liked it all the same. Anything else might have been a cliché.

‘With purpose, determination. Like you know exactly where you’re going and why. In my book, that’s very attractive.’

He said it without the flirtatious smirk and that made the compliment all the sweeter.

‘I like a woman who knows herself.’

‘That’s good then. A lot of men are intimidated by that.’

‘You’ve just had poor taste in men.’

‘Did I say they were relationships?’

‘You didn’t need to.’

‘Arrogant, much?’

‘Yeah. I reckon I’ve earned it. And so have you.’

‘Arrogant is all right for a man. Women tend to get called big headed, up herself, too big for her boots.’

Ash shrugged. ‘There aren’t many women where I work. And sadly, I agree. They don’t get treated equally, despite all the HR policies that say otherwise.’

‘Which is why I have to work five times as hard to prove I’m “suitable for partnership”. Hence where we came in. Is it worth it?’

‘I guess it will be when you make partner. Is it likely?’

‘I bloody hope so. I feel like I’m jumping through enough flaming hoops. That morning… my presentation was supposed to nail it but they want me to complete another project, naturally with impossible deadlines, which of course I will deliver because I always do.’ I said it blithely, as if impossible deadlines and leaping over burning skyscrapers were all in a day’s work, but actually this latest project was giving me sleepless nights. This time the deadlines really were impossible but I’d never missed a deadline in my life and I wasn’t about to start now.

After the meal we finished coffee, followed by flaming sambucas, which prolonged the evening. The sky was deepening to a purple hue when we came out of the restaurant and my nerves kicked in again.

I had a first-date rule: don’t sleep with him.

‘I’ll walk you home.’ We’d already identified during dinner that we both lived on the south side of the park. It was a purely practical suggestion. I was not going to sleep with him. ‘Are you happy to walk through the park?’

‘Yes.’ Victoria Park was the jewel in the crown of Churchstone, a proper municipal park with regimented borders bursting with colour in every season, well-lit with traditional iron curlicued lamps that guarded the wide paths like benign sentries.