A Taste of Passion

The mist was cold against her cheeks. She could feel each icy speckle that touched her as she ran. The moist fragrance of the trees was rich in her nostrils. She could smell damp earth, dewy leaves and the heady scents of pollen and sap.

They were all musky perfumes that she normally enjoyed.

But this morning Trudy wouldn’t allow herself to acknowledge the smells. Her thoughts, when not fixed on the circuit she was attempting to complete, seemed able to focus on only one thing.

You fucked William Hart.

The music continued to thump through her skull at a deafening volume.

She knew each and every one of the power ballads in her exercise regime. Most mornings, when breathlessness wasn’t a problem, she would sing along. This morning, Trudy couldn’t find the enthusiasm to mutter a single syllable.

The muscles in her legs began to ache.

Maddeningly, rather than help take her thoughts away from William Hart, every increasing strain reminded her of the way her muscles had responded beneath his touch. Every glimmer of discomfort made her think of the previous evening when her muscles had been equally well exerted but reacting to far more pleasurable stimulation.

Her stomach folded.

Her cheeks flushed. She shook her head in an attempt to banish the memory.

His fingers had traced appreciatively over the sculpted muscle of her quads. They had slipped upwards, disappearing beneath the hem of her skirt and touching the crotch of her panties. His fingers had teased the elastic to one side as he continued to explore her with the practised hand of an expert lover.

Trudy had savoured every magnificent moment.

Regardless of the regrets she now harboured, regardless of the doubts she had about what she had done, how Hart might interpret her actions, and what her friends were likely to think should they ever find out, the evening had been a sensational experience that she would happily revisit if she was given the opportunity.

William Hart wasn’t just an attractive man.

He was a skilled lover and Trudy wanted to get to know him better. She decided then she would learn more about the man and, if the opportunity presented itself, she would see if he was worth the commitment of a relationship.

Admittedly, he was older than her. She didn’t know his exact age but she was sure he was at least twice her age. She suspected that one of her friends or one of his would likely say something judgemental about the huge disparity between their ages. Trudy cringed from the idea of that potential argument.

There were other potential barriers to their happiness such as their different social situations and world experiences. But it was the difference in their ages that she knew would prove most problematic. Nevertheless, she did want an opportunity to get to know him better and, Trudy thought, if the opportunity didn’t present itself, she would find a way to force circumstances so she could get to know him better.

For the first time that morning she felt a smile creep across her lips.

She realised she was already planning a way to address the matter.

The embarrassment of what she had done was diminished by the prospect of how it could be potentially developed. She tilted her head upwards and felt the weight of unnecessary tension slip from her neck. She’d had no idea that the concerns had been weighing on her like a milkmaid’s yoke.

A hand fell on her arm.

Chapter 8

Trudy shrieked and pulled away. She lost her footing and came close to falling over. A strong hand caught her forearm and stopped her from tumbling to the ground. She felt a wrench pulling on her shoulder harsh enough to make her moan.

‘Slow down,’ Charlotte warned. ‘You need to be careful on this stretch of the run. The ground here is positively lethal.’

Trudy regained her balance. She tugged one of the buds from her ear and the loud music of the day was suddenly split in two. From one ear she could hear heavy metal. From the other there were the tentative calls of the morning’s first bird song and the sound of her own startled breathing. She pushed the brim of her cap upward so she could see her friend.

Charlotte was dressed in an immaculate navy blue running outfit, trimmed with white and scarlet piping. As always, she looked golden. Even without make-up she looked bright-eyed and fresh-faced. Her brown eyes were clear and there was only a small V of concern creasing her brow. Her retroussé nose was wrinkled as she assessed Trudy.

‘What the hell are you doing out here?’ Charlotte demanded. ‘Are you taking on the quad killer?’

Trudy shrugged and then nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak. If she did open her mouth she was fearful she would blurt, ‘I fucked William Hart!’

Charlotte’s eyebrows inched upward as she waited for a response.

Trudy nodded again and then looked away.

‘Take it slowly and I’ll come with you,’ Charlotte said. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve done the quad killer. It’s probably been six months or more.’ There was a knowing smirk in her voice as she added, ‘Didn’t we last do this run just after you broke up with Peter? Or did it happen after I introduced you to Terry?’

Trudy didn’t bother replying. She guessed Charlotte was trying to make a point. She turned down the volume on her MP3 player and left one earbud out. Slowing her pace she began to tackle the run without the hasty and manic energy she had been previously employing. The lack of swift progress struck her as maddening.

‘You missed a great night,’ Charlotte said, falling into step beside her.

Trudy did not respond. She had wanted to avoid Charlotte this morning. There was a strong danger Charlotte might ask questions that Trudy didn’t want to answer. Now she was here, Trudy thought it was best to let her friend chatter on in the fragmented way she always used when they were running together.

‘We went into town. Caught up with the class. Maybe half of them.’ Her speech fell into the rhythmic pattern of her sprint through the woodland trail. Her sing-song tones made the banalities of mundane conversation seem almost musical. ‘Just a few of us. Gemma and Daryl. Wendy and Henry. They were in Stanzas.’

Trudy nodded. She knew they had been planning to finish the night at Stanzas. Somehow that seemed appropriate. Stanzas was the local nightclub most frequently favoured by university students. Cheap beer and a reputation for tolerated decadence made it the essential place to visit off campus. She had spent several nights in Stanzas throughout the duration of her degree. Most of the memories were good ones. On any other occasion she might have smiled at the mention of Stanzas.

This morning she didn’t feel like smiling. Not whilst she was in Charlotte’s presence. There was always a danger that Charlotte might read something from a smile. Something that Trudy wanted to keep hidden.

She quickened her pace.

Charlotte tapped her shoulder and silently gestured for Trudy to slow down. ‘Donny pulled Gemma,’ Charlotte said. She didn’t add the word ‘again’. Trudy didn’t think there was any need for her to say the word. She could hear the note of reproof underscoring Charlotte’s voice.

Charlotte went on quickly. Trudy thought her friend was hurrying to speak before she said something that exposed her true feelings about the shameless fuckbuddy relationship shared by Donny and Gemma.

‘Two lecturers came. One got Wendy drunk.’

‘Which lecturer?’

Trudy wasn’t really interested but she figured, if she asked some questions about events in Stanzas, it would keep the focus away from what had occurred at Boui-Boui. More specifically, she hoped it would keep the focus away from what had occurred between her and William Hart.

‘Professor Simmonds.’ Charlotte sounded aghast. ‘It’s so disgusting. He’s in his thirties. He bought Wendy beer. He’s such an old lech. He plied her with –’

‘There’s only two years between them,’ Trudy broke in.

Charlotte snorted. ‘Are you sure of that?’

Trudy remembered Wendy mentioning it before their finals. Wendy had fancied Simmonds since the first year of their studies. Out of respect for him, and because she didn’t want to make things professionally awkward for the lecturer, Wendy had kept her distance. But, Trudy supposed, now that the woman had graduated and Simmonds was no longer her professor, Wendy was perfectly entitled to share a beer or more with the man. At the back of her mind she privately hoped that Wendy and Simmonds would get together and be very happy.

She liked to see people happy.

‘I’m sure of that,’ Trudy said flatly. ‘There’s two years between them.’

Charlotte jogged beside her in silence for a moment. ‘Still think it’s creepy,’ she said eventually. ‘If it is two years –’

‘Which it is.’

‘He seems more mature. A lot more mature.’

Trudy threw an extra effort into running. She didn’t want to hear any of this. Not this morning. She had wanted the solitude of the demanding quad killer. She had wanted the distraction of a muscle-searing, energy-depleting workout. She had wanted to lose herself in the exertion and excitement of pushing herself too hard and too far. She hadn’t wanted to listen to Charlotte passing judgement on what was wrong with every relationship that had begun last night.

‘Pete was in Stanzas.’

Trudy’s shoulders slumped. Great. Now it was time to have the conversation about her ex. She gritted her teeth and forced her tone to sound indifferent. ‘How was Peter?’

‘Dating a first year. What’s wrong with these men? Are they all perverts? Screwing young women.’

Trudy stopped running and rounded on Charlotte. Finally, she understood.

‘How did you know?’

Charlotte came to a halt and laughed. The mirth was made thin by exertion but it remained fairly obvious. Merriment shone in her eyes. She put her hands on her thighs and leant forward and chuckled softly before speaking.

‘I can always tell when you get laid. I’m a light sleeper. I could hear that you were in the shower at two in the morning when you got back. The fact that you’re doing the quad killer tells me you’re feeling conflicted about getting lucky. You did the quad killer after you broke up with Peter. You did the quad killer after that embarrassing night’s fumble with Terry.’ She paused to lean against a tree and stretch out her legs. ‘I think you see this run as the spiritual atonement for your imagined sins.’

Trudy glared at her. ‘That psychology module you took is still proving useful.’

Charlotte’s grin inched wider. ‘You really screwed William Hart? He’s pretty hot. What was it like?’

Trudy looked away. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘You didn’t screw him?’

‘Well …’

Trudy tried to think of how she could phrase her response. She wanted to be artful and say that they had made love. But she knew that wouldn’t be entirely true. She and William Hart had given themselves over to base, animal instincts. There had been an instant attraction and neither of them had let themselves be restrained by the formalities of propriety or common sense. She wasn’t sure that such an act could really be called making love. But she felt sure it had been more than simply screwing. On some level she felt sure it had been a lot more. But there was no way to shape that thought into a convenient phrase that would stop her friend from asking questions.

‘I don’t want to talk about this. I just want to finish my run.’

Charlotte pulled her into a hug. Her arms were cold from the morning mist but it was impossible not to feel the waves of friendship that were apparent in her embrace. She rubbed her hands briskly and reassuringly against Trudy’s back.

‘I was just teasing before,’ she whispered. ‘If you need to talk about anything. If you need an ear or a shoulder or just a friend, you know that I’m here for you, don’t you?’

Trudy thought about the words and realised Charlotte was telling the truth. Regardless of what else happened she believed the brunette would always be a friend she could rely on. Trudy returned the hug, ready to swoon with relief.

‘Did you find out the identity of that mystery ingredient?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you make them for Sweet Temptation?’

Trudy started to respond and then stopped. There would be ethical implications involved in stealing William Hart’s recipe for the benefit of Sweet Temptation. She hadn’t yet had breakfast and already she was trying to deal with quandaries like the semantics of sex and sexual politics and now the ethics of appropriating recipes in the catering business.

‘Let’s finish the quad killer,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t have the exact recipe to those muffins but I have my own interpretation of them.’

Charlotte shrugged and then nodded. ‘Even better. Stealing recipes from the shoulders of giants.’ Before starting to run again she jogged on the spot from one foot to the other. ‘You know we’re in the Admiralty Room this afternoon, don’t you?’

Trudy nodded. Charlotte had scheduled a meeting with her parents at a local hotel. She had made a point of booking the prestigious Admiralty Room at the Hadfield Hotel. Donny kept telling them he was anxious to get the business up and running as soon as possible and he wanted to demonstrate that Sweet Temptation was a perfect investment opportunity. Whilst it was known that Charlotte’s parents would have ploughed money into their daughter’s schemes without any supporting information, Trudy knew that Charlotte did not want to build her dream on handouts and charity.

‘It’ll be great if you can bring your interpretation of those muffins to the presentation,’ Charlotte said. ‘That way everyone will know what you’re capable of producing.’

Trudy considered this and nodded. Once she’d finished the run she would get ingredients from the market, prepare the muffins that were needed and then attend and support Donny’s presentation. Their joint commitment to making Sweet Temptation a success was important and that needed the focus of her attention this morning.

After the presentation Trudy vowed that she would allow herself some time to think about what she had done with William Hart and try to establish whether or not it had been a mistake.

It hadn’t felt like a mistake.

It had felt so good that she desperately wanted to repeat the experience. But the prospect of repeating the experience was something she wouldn’t let herself think about until after she had helped her friends.

Chapter 9

An hour later Trudy was showered and refreshed. The quad killer was once again vanquished, her muscles ached from the exertion, and she no longer worried that Charlotte might think less of her for what she’d done with William Hart. Charlotte was, as always, the understanding and sympathetic big sister that Trudy had never had.

On their return to Eldorado, Charlotte said she wanted to spend the morning working on the web designs for Sweet Temptation. The corporate logos were nailed and she was comfortable with the behaviour of most of the software she had written as it worked with the major browser. However, Charlotte wanted to see if she could iron out a couple of wrinkles that occurred between the Sweet Temptation interface and some of the disparities she was facing with mobile technology.

‘Do you need my help?’ Trudy asked doubtfully.

Not unkindly, Charlotte laughed at the suggestion. ‘I’ll concentrate on the web design,’ she said firmly. ‘You focus on the company’s product. I thought you were going to unravel the mystery of those muffins you were obsessing about last night?’

Grateful, Trudy nodded. She knew so little about computers she was relieved that Charlotte had politely declined her offer. She changed into comfy jeans, a shapeless jumper and a pair of modest heels. The market never demanded high fashion and this morning all she wanted was the chance to find some Sri Lankan cinnamon, get a couple of pieces of fresh fruit, and then have an opportunity to get back to the house and spend a couple of hours experimenting in the kitchen with the new flavour she had discovered.

The afternoon’s investment presentation, and the need to make a definite decision about how to progress her relationship with William Hart, remained in a faraway future that she had no intention of considering until much, much later in the day.

The market was one of the town’s oldest features. According to the promotional literature a market had stood in the same location for the best part of a millennia or more. With the crowded buildings jostling for priority on the narrow streets, and the arms and guild symbols that stood above the majority of doorways, Trudy could sense the ancient and archaic heritage that was ingrained into every building stone and each cobbled walkway.

The sky was a sporadic collection of blue patches peeping between the overhanging rooftops. Long shadows trailed into the market’s deepest depths and narrowest corners. Those narrowest corners were lit by the murky glow of dim bulbs and the occasional flashes of sultry neon. Trudy took a familiar route past the deli counters and coffee shops. She smiled cheerfully at the stallholders she knew. She nodded polite greetings to those who looked vaguely familiar. She exercised a diplomatic and disarming grin for those perpetual strangers who still regarded her with suspicion.

For the last three years of her studies the market had been a comforting shopping hub where she knew she could search for the new, the exotic or the fashionably exciting. She had rarely been disappointed by an excursion to the market. It stocked everything she had ever wanted – and always seemed to have those surprises that she had never known she needed. Sure that some of the stalls at the back of the market were speciality spice stalls, Trudy felt confident she would not be disappointed on this occasion.

Her brisk pace quickened. She imagined herself tripping lightly through the market to the sounds of a jazz tune that she had recently heard. She couldn’t immediately recall where she had heard the music but it was a piece that she thought of as being so magical it could only be described as sexy. She wondered if it might be a tune that had been sung by Ella Fitzgerald.

‘Trudy? Trudy McLaughlin?’

There was something instantly recognisable about the gruff northern twang of William Hart’s voice. She turned and saw him beaming at her. His smile was as charming and dangerously irresistible as it had been the night before. His smile made her think that everything in the world was going to be OK. His smile made the muscles in her loins twitch with a hungry pang of longing.

He stood in front of a cured meat stall, dressed in a pair of smart trousers over polished shoes. The V-necked sweat shirt that sat beneath his sports jacket seemed to hug his broad and manly chest. He had one arm raised and his open hand waved for her attention.

For an instant Trudy wasn’t sure what name she should use when addressing him. Courtesy made her want to call him Mr Hart. Respect for his celebrity, as one of the area’s most renowned chefs, made her want to call him William Hart. She remembered that, the previous evening, he had told her to call him Bill. But, she also remembered, he had cryptically said she could only call him Bill on that night.

‘Mr Hart,’ she exclaimed cheerfully. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’

His smile brightened.

She wanted to blush. The previous evening could also have been described as an unexpected pleasure. She had no idea why she had picked those words. She suddenly felt foolish and worried that she had said too much and acted without discretion. Her cheeks flushed crimson.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked quickly.

He gestured at the market around them. ‘I’m lakin’ round here every morning. You?’

Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. She felt guilty for making the admission because it sounded as though she was involved in an act of recipe stealing. But she couldn’t bring herself to deceive him. That would have been even more unthinkable.

‘I’m trying to track down some of the Sri Lankan cinnamon you showed me last night.’

He laughed good-naturedly. ‘Chuffin’ gorgeous, isn’t it?’

‘Gorgeous,’ she agreed, hoping her use of the word didn’t sound like she was mocking his accent.

Within a moment he had an arm linked in hers and was escorting her through the market with the same masterful confidence he had shown when guiding her around Boui-Boui. The citrus notes of his cologne touched her nostrils, awakening the deep and dark longing in her loins that his mere presence excited. Trudy could not recall ever being more conscious of the smouldering heat that nestled between her legs. Hart seemed to have an easy ability to ignite her desire and make her acutely aware of the needs he inspired. She began to feel lightheaded as she walked alongside him, dizzied by the arousal he caused.

Market stallholders shouted cheerful greetings to Hart as he passed. A couple of them acknowledged Trudy, knowing her as a regular visitor, but most of them seemed anxious to capture Hart’s interest and sell him their goods.

He handled their greetings with friendly humility. Trudy knew he was a respected local celebrity, a chef who occasionally lectured at the local university, a restaurateur with Michelin stars and the former host of a couple of cookery shows from one of the satellite channels.

But, Trudy noticed, Hart didn’t exploit his status for special treatment.

Instead he simply shook hands, exchanged greetings and jokes, and made his way casually through to the rear of the market. His pace was unhurried. He seemed confident in the respect he had, without appearing to arrogantly believe that he deserved it. His humility was disarming and attractive.

He led her to a spice store at the back of the hall: West and White. It was an old place, the sign above the door said the company had been in business since 1870. Inside, Hart scowled defensively at the young woman behind the counter. She looked to be about Trudy’s age and there was something in her face that made Trudy think she had met the woman before.

‘Imogen,’ Hart began.

After the easy way in which he had dealt with everyone else in the marketplace, she thought his stilted interaction with the woman seemed singular. She frowned, trying to work out what could possibly have made things so uncomfortable between Hart and the woman behind the counter.

‘I’d like to speak with Finlay West, please.’

‘I didn’t think you were here to speak with me,’ Imogen returned stiffly. There was the cry of a baby from the back of the room and Imogen rushed away, blushing with her gaze lowered.

Hart gave Trudy an uneasy glance. He looked as though he was going to make a joke about Imogen’s reaction when the proprietor, Finlay West appeared.

West was elderly and bearded. He ignored Hart at first and spoke only with Trudy. He asked her about her degree and, when he learnt she’d done a module on the medicinal qualities of certain foods, West discussed her opinion on the health benefits of ginger and turmeric.

Trudy was happy to argue her opinions and, because West knew his subject, the conversation flowed easily. At one point West interrupted, asking Trudy if he could get Imogen to make them beverages whilst they continued.

Hart shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. He shook his head as if telling Trudy that he saw no reason to prolong the conversation with Finlay.

Suppressing a grin, Trudy thanked Finlay and declined. She could hear the sounds of a baby sobbing in the backroom and figured Imogen had enough work looking after a child and working in a shop without having to cater to the tea-drinking demands of West’s customers.

‘Mr Hart has been kind enough to show me one or two things in his kitchen,’ she explained. ‘I wouldn’t want to impose further on his time than I already have.’