It's not that I notice him. It's that I notice my wife noticing him. We're sitting round the banquet table and he comes round with the champagne. It's a little glance, that's all, just a flick of the eyes up and down, but it's enough for me to know that she wants him.
I'm surprised. I wouldn't have thought he was her type. Our rules say under-thirties only, but I still feel like this one needs another five years in the oven. Or the gym maybe. That said, he's scrubbed up well. This is a high-class place and his uniform is pristine, the whites of his collar complement his Mediterranean skin tone perfectly and he's been serving with a quiet confidence all evening. He has the height and the bone structure that she likes. It kind of makes sense. Especially as she's been branching out more recently.
Maybe it's because she's already on her third glass of champagne. Or maybe it's because we're stuck here socializing at this company wedding where she doesn't know anyone. I've worked with Clive for years, but he's hardly the most outgoing guy -- probably why he's had to pack his side of the aisle with people from the company rather than genuine friends. It sounded good in theory -- spending a long weekend in a fancy hotel in Bath with the ceremony on the bank holiday. We'd forgotten how tedious weddings can be. Amy's English is good, but in these situations where you have twelve people all talking at the same table, she gets shut out easily. No wonder her eyes are wandering.
She's looking good though. She's taken the opportunity to bust out her best Qipao, black with embroidered king-fishers and the traditional Chinese dress shows how much work she's done on her figure recently. She may have had two children, but ever since we started our new lifestyle, she's really gotten back into shape. She'll never be twenty again, but that doesn't mean she looks anywhere near her actual fifty years.
"Are you okay, dear?" I ask her. It's my way of letting her know that I know.
"Sure," she says. "I just came over all dizzy for a second."
The other guests make a minor show of concern and she reassures them that she's fine.
We do these things together. That is to say, nothing will happen unless I make the play for her. That's a good rule. Makes me feel more like a co-conspirator than a cuckold. We're nearing the end of the main course. They'll be bringing out the dessert soon and then we'll adjourn to the other function room for the disco. An appearance at that is mandatory, but the changeover gives us some wriggle room. No one will mind if we turn up a bit later.
I make a show of checking my watch. "Remember you're mother is calling at eight," I say. "You can go up and have a lie down while you wait."
That's only twenty-five minutes away. I hope that no one knows the time zones well enough to work out that it's now three a.m. in China and, indeed, no one says anything.
"That's a good idea," says Amy, putting her knife and fork down and taking her leave of the other guests. "I think I'll skip dessert."
That's the easy part. I watch her sweet behind disappear out the door and I watch it some more as she stands around waiting for the elevator. I plan my next move. He's still on the clock for at least the next half-an-hour, plus however long he's expected to clean up for. That makes it tricky. Still, these events are surely catered for on a temp basis. He'll likely risk a rollicking if the offer is good enough.
As they start to serve the dessert, I make my play. First, I get up and go to the lavatory. That takes me away from the table and I time my return so I bump into him near the kitchen door.
"Oh, blueberry cheesecake," I say. "My wife's favourite. Sorry, she's just gone up to her room. I don't suppose I could trouble you to take her up a piece?"
"I'm sorry, sir," he starts. "I can't really..."
I reach into my wallet and pull out a twenty-pound note. "Here, I'll make it worth your while if you go now before the ice cream melts. I'm sure my wife will be very grateful as well."
I'm not actually wiggling my eyebrows or comically stressing the word 'grateful'. There's a limit to how blatant I can be in polite company. The bribe is enough. If he doesn't cotton onto the rest, well, he will when he gets to the room.
I take my key out and press it into his hand. "What's your name, son?" I say.
"Frank," he replies. I had him pegged as Greek or, less likely, Italian. His Midlands accent suggests its heritage only. I wonder if he's actually a Franco or something. It's a pity, but then Amy doesn't pick up on these things half as much as I do.
"I'll call her and let her know you're on your way up."
It's all psychology. I don't want him handing the plate off to one of the waitresses. I need to subtly suggest it's something that he is now doing personally, although I can give him no rational reason why this should be the case except that he's taken my money for it.
I return to my seat and, as I rejoin the conversation, I keep an eye on the elevator. Frank waits there, cheesecake in hand. When the doors open, I send Amy a text message:
Hope you're ready.
It's a pity. I'm going to miss the beginning. It can't be helped. I wonder how she's going to play it. Maybe she'll open the door completely naked. Or maybe she'll invite him in first -- make up some issue about needing to close the windows and not being able to reach or some such. Then, as he bends over, she'll place a hand on his arse and tell him she's available.
I refuse my own dessert and ask them to bring the coffee straight away. Tony tried to strike up a conversation about the plans for the company Christmas party. I join in apparently earnestly for a couple of minutes, but then my phone buzzes.
You're about to miss the show
, the text message says.
"Excuse me," I tell Tony. "Looks like my wife is having problems connecting to the WiFi in our room. I'll be back down in a moment."
I drain the rest of my coffee and then make my way out of the hall. I walk quickly, mostly because I can already feel my erection growing. It seems to take forever for the elevator to come, so much so that I almost decide to take the stairs, but eventually, I'm on the fifth floor.
As I near the room I can already hear them -- hear her at least. They're going at it hard. That's a problem as the door is shut. Leaving it ajar would have been risky, but at least I wouldn't have had to disturb them. I pause just outside and listen.
A moment later and a maid, pushing her service trolley, rounds the corner. I pull my ear away from the door, but too late. She's not sure how to proceed, so she settles for a brief scowl in my direction and then she hurries past. She already knows what's going on in the room, suggesting she passed this way earlier. Probably worried that I'm about to start a scene.
As I'm waiting for her to disappear out of sight, my phone shakes again.
