The Book Tour

My publicist Emily leads me to a table where several stacks of my books are piled like Jenga towers. My stomach stirs at the sight. I love book tours and this is the first stop on a two-week jaunt across the country to promote my second novel. Before the month is out, I?ll have done ten signings, two TV appearances and countless radio interviews.I sit down and fix my hair as the bookshop manager prepares to unlock the front doors. People are already queuing outside, sheltering from the chilly Edinburgh wind under the store?s awning.A few hours pass and the crowd thins out a little. The pile of paperbacks beside me is replenished every few minutes by Emily, so it?s hard to calculate how many we?ve sold. She?s smiling from ear to ear, though, so I presume it?s been a good day. She sweeps her phone around the room and records yet another Instagram story. I hate social media, but she assures me that it?s good for ?my brand? and she needs to show the publisher that she?s working. I like her, so I let her do what she needs to do.?Hey, stranger.?I look up, Sharpie marker in hand, ready to write another personalised message. It takes me a few minutes to realise who the tall, handsome man in front of me is. He?s wearing a dark sweater, jeans and an overcoat. Droplets of water cling to the wool like Swarovski crystals.?Mark?? I get to my feet, a little unsteadily, and step around the table. Emily looks over at me and then down to her clipboard, like she?s wondering if he?s a journalist she missed from her list. I wave to let her know it?s okay.?I heard you were doing a signing,? he says, flashing a wide smile. His mouth is generous and his teeth beautifully even. ?The famous Catriona March on my doorstep... it was too good an opportunity to miss.?He kisses my cheek and pulls me in for a hug, his hand firm and warm on the small of my back. He smells amazing, I think, as my nose brushes his collar.I take a step backwards to soak him in. He?s in his late forties now but looks even better than I remember. When he smiles, his eyes shine and his left Anadolu Yakası Escort cheek dimples.I know from my occasional LinkedIn stalking of him that he?s still an English professor at Edinburgh University, my old alma mater. It?s a position he?s held for over fifteen years. He sometimes appears as a panellist on my favourite radio show, but it?s been more than a decade since I?ve seen him in the flesh.?I can?t believe it,? I say, my hand on the damp sleeve of his coat. ?It?s great to see you.?I?m suddenly grateful that Emily organised hair and make-up for this morning, despite my initial protestations that it was a waste of budget and sleep time. My long brown hair has been blow-dried into voluminous waves and my skin is glowing in a way I can never achieve on my own.?I don?t want to hold you up,? Mark says, turning to acknowledge the queue behind him. ?Here?s my card. Give me a ring later if you want to get a drink.??You mean you don?t want to buy a copy?? I laugh and tuck the card into the pocket of my dress.?I already have one.?---It?s almost eight and I still haven?t called him. The rain is lashing against the windowpane of my top floor hotel room and steaking down the glass. In the distance, Edinburgh Castle looks as though it?s floating above the rest of the city, under-lit by powerful orange spotlights. It?s one of my favourite cities in the world, dark and mysterious, with a murderous history. There?s no place quite like it.I turn his business card over in my hand: Professor Mark Loxley. I think of my husband then, alone at home, probably watching Netflix with the dog. He?s never met Mark Loxley and has no idea of the threat he represents.Being so close to Mark for the first time in years is too much for me to resist. I take a deep breath and punch his number in. He answers quickly, before I can change my mind and hang up.?I was beginning to think you wouldn?t call,? he says.I take a sip of wine and run my fingers up and down the stem of the glass.?Don?t lie,? I say, watching Anadolu Yakası Escort Bayan my own reflection in the glass. ?You knew I would.?I can almost hear him smile. ?Where are you staying???The Balmoral.? ?I?ll meet you in the bar. Give me half an hour.? I rifle through the wardrobe and pull out a crisp white shirt. I tuck it into my high-waisted designer jeans and open the buttons low enough to reveal the dip between my breasts. From a certain angle, you can see the white lace of my bra. My skin is still tanned from the three weeks I spent in the south of France over the summer.A chunky silver necklace and a smear of red lipstick finish things off. My hair still looks fresh from the blow-dry earlier. I pull it around so it frames my face and falls over my chest.I slip my fingers down the waistband of my jeans and run them over the lips of my pussy. They glide easily between the skin and the damp fabric of my thong. I wipe them on the bedsheet and grab my handbag. It seems Mark Loxley hasn?t lost his touch; my body reacts at just the thought of seeing him.--Mark is sitting at the bar when I get down, wearing dark jeans, boots and a charcoal-coloured jumper. His hair is damp and tousled from the rain.He greets me warmly and pulls a stool out for me. I pretend not to notice as he appraises my body and rests his eyes on my chest, where the silver necklace grazes my breasts. He orders a bottle of red and signals to the barman that we?re moving to a table in front of the fireplace.I watch the flames lick the glass of the wood-burning stove a few minutes later as the waiter pours out two glasses of Malbec. I think of the last time we were together, over ten years ago; me, with a tear-stained face, wanting more than he could give me, and Mark, stepping out from behind his desk to plead with me, telling me he wasn?t what I needed or wanted.?Are you married?? I ask, crossing my legs and enjoying the heat of the fire on my ankle. I sit back in the armchair and watch him.He leans forward Escort Anadolu Yakası and brings his chair closer to mine. ?No.?I nod and smile, pushing my lips together, amused. ?Course you?re not. No one could tie you down, eh?? I wait a few seconds and then go in for the kill. ?Are you still breaking the hearts of your students??He?s caught off guard and splutters a little, then laughs. ?You were always straight to the point, Cat. I?m glad that hasn?t changed. It?s what makes you a bloody good writer.?Mark supervised my creative writing MA at university. I was twenty-two and he was thirty-five, and for one glorious year, we spent our time fucking, reading poetry and drinking red wine.I stay silent, so he continues, ?And the answer is no, you have the honour of being the only person in that category.??It ended pretty badly,? I say, laughing, because now I?m old enough and wise enough to know that he?d been right back then.?It was amazing while it lasted, but it?s hard to make student-teacher relationships work.??Unless you?re the President of France,? I say, jabbing my glass at the air like it?s a ruler. He laughs and says, ?True.??Anyway, it?s not illegal for university professors and students to get together.?He nods and fiddles with the label on the wine bottle. ?Just frowned upon.??I never felt like you took advantage of me, in case you?ve ever wondered about that.? I tap his arm to make my point. ?Your conscience is clear. I was old enough to know what I was getting into.??I appreciate you saying that,? Mark says.His eyes feel like lasers, burning through my retinas, and I look away.Memories that I?ve suppressed for years bubble to the surface now. I suddenly remember what the ornate light-fitting above his desk looked like; how I?d focus on it when I was lying back and he was eating my pussy; how I?d beg him to fuck me between lectures; how I?d sit in class, enjoying the damp feel of his cum on my underwear.I remind myself that on paper my life now is amazing: a high six-figure book deal, handsome husband, cottage in Cornwall, my new-found celebrity status. Things are good, and until this morning, Mark Loxley was a distant memory. But I also know, now, that I?d trade it all to go back. Being successful lines your bank account and makes restaurant reservations easy, but it doesn?t make you feel alive in the way that a hot university professor eating your pussy does.