Applause ripples through the room as my husband Charlie and his business partner take to the stage, cutting through the gala tables in their expensive tuxedos and smiling from ear to ear. The awards night theme music booms from several speakers above us and the cameras beam images of them on to large screens either side of the stage.
“Charlie Sheppard and Pete Mulhern... best start-up,” says the host, who wouldn’t be out of place fronting the Eurovision Song Contest in her glitzy pink dress and towering heels.
Across from me, Pete’s wife Lindsay rolls her eyes and I stifle a laugh. We both know that their already inflated egos are about to go through the roof.
--
“Charlie, this is a toast to you and me,” says Pete, swaying a little. We’re in the resident’s bar of our London hotel and it’s after midnight. “Two dreamers who came good.”
They’re both pissed and high on success. Across from me, Lindsay adjusts her sitting position and smooths down the fabric of her designer dress. It’s red and clings to her body like it’s made from acrylic paint. Her breasts are hardly contained by the lace cups and thin straps that form the top part of it.
We haven’t spoken much tonight, but we’ve communicated in other ways: a light touch here, a stolen glance there. I know we’re both thinking about the drunken kiss we shared at a similar event a few months back.
Playing second fiddle to Charlie and Pete isn’t easy, and a confessional chat over a bottle of wine in Vienna ended with our lips meeting for a few seconds. I take a long drink and enjoy the feel of my pussy tighten as I look across at her.
I’ve dressed carefully tonight, and not for Charlie’s benefit. The draped YSL dress I’m wearing barely covers my arse cheeks and cuts a deep V-shape at the front.
“Mel, did I tell you I bought the Birkin bag?” Lindsay says suddenly, leaning forward.
I’m across from her, so she bends over when she’s speaking and her breasts are almost touching the table.
“You mean I bought it,” Pete says, like a dickhead.
“Do you want to see it?” She ignores his comment and takes her hotel card out of the small clutch she’s carrying.
“You talk about it like it’s a fucking baby,” Pete says, laughing as he catches the waiter’s attention and signals for more wine.
“You girls go and talk bags or whatever,” Charlie says, with a dismissive wave. “The night’s young and we’re celebrating.”
“Thank fuck we got away,” Lindsay whispers to me as we walk towards the lifts. “I’m so wet.”
--
Her hands are on me as soon as the door closes, soft and probing. She lifts my dress up and kneels between my legs, pulling my underwear to one side and briefly flicking her tongue against my damp slit.