AFTER DARK DIARIES | HUMOUR

An Indecent Proposal, With Biscuits

At fifty-three, Claire has survived marriage, divorce and more than her fair share of disappointing men. What she hasn’t quite mastered is flirting with her ridiculously handsome neighbour.

Then a misdelivered invitation arrives, promising champagne, silk sheets and something rather suggestive.

Suddenly, four years of polite conversations about the weather take a decidedly improper turn.

A funny, sensual romantic comedy about second chances, unexpected attraction and why a decent packet of chocolate digestives can be surprisingly seductive.

Some invitations are impossible to refuse. Others really ought to come with an explanation, a warning label and a decent packet of chocolate digestives.

The Invitation

At fifty-three, I considered myself a reasonably sophisticated woman.

I’d survived twenty-six years of marriage, two teenagers, a divorce conducted with the emotional warmth of a tax investigation, and a disastrous blind date with a man who brought photographs of his prostate operation.

I was not easily shocked.

Which made it particularly unfortunate that I was standing in my kitchen, blushing at a handwritten invitation addressed to the man next door.

Friday evening. Eight o’clock.

Champagne. Candlelight. Fresh silk sheets.

Wear something you can slip out of easily.

I’ll take care of everything else.

There was no signature.

Just a small heart drawn beneath the final sentence.

I read it three times.

Then I read the name on the envelope.

Mr Oliver Bennett.

Number fourteen.

I lived at number twelve.

Oliver Bennett was fifty-six, divorced, irritatingly handsome and in possession of the sort of shoulders that made ordinary knitwear look like an expensive design decision.

He also had excellent manners, an immaculate garden and a habit of smiling at me over the hedge in a way that suggested he knew precisely what I was thinking.

Which was ridiculous.

He couldn’t possibly know what I was thinking.

I’d never told anybody.

Apart from my friend Carol.

And possibly my sister, after two glasses of wine.

And the woman at the hairdresser’s, although that had been more of a general observation about attractive men with good forearms.

I looked at the invitation again.

Fresh silk sheets.

Good heavens.

Oliver had been considerably busier than I’d imagined.

I should have put the envelope straight through his letterbox.

Instead, I made tea.

Then I opened a packet of chocolate digestives.

Some situations required careful consideration, and I had never successfully considered anything important on an empty stomach.

A Neighbourly Interest

I’d known Oliver for nearly four years.

Our relationship had consisted of polite greetings, occasional conversations about the weather and one particularly memorable afternoon when he’d helped me move a wardrobe upstairs.

The wardrobe had been heavy.

Oliver had removed his jumper.

I’d subsequently forgotten several important facts about furniture assembly.

He’d also once rescued me from a wasp while I was sunbathing.

Not that I needed rescuing.

I simply hadn’t expected a wasp to fly directly into my cleavage, and my response had been somewhat theatrical.

Oliver had appeared over the hedge just as I was attempting to remove my bikini top without exposing myself to the entire neighbourhood.

“Everything all right, Claire?”

“Perfectly. Just having a disagreement with an insect.”

“Winning?”

“Not currently.”

He’d laughed.

I’d spent the rest of the afternoon wishing I’d worn a more respectable swimsuit.

Not because I was embarrassed.

Because the one I had on was approximately three summers past its best, and the elastic had begun negotiating its retirement.

Since then, Oliver and I had developed a comfortable friendship, although I occasionally caught him looking at me in a way that made me wonder whether he was as interested in the weather as he pretended.

Then, two months earlier, he’d started seeing someone.

Or so I believed.

There had been a woman at his house on several evenings, an attractive brunette with long legs and a red sports car.

I hadn’t been jealous.

I’d simply become unusually interested in the movement of vehicles along our road.

Purely for neighbourhood security.

Now, apparently, somebody was inviting him to an evening involving silk sheets and rapid undressing.

I ate another biscuit.

Then I did something deeply foolish.

I decided to deliver the invitation personally.

A Most Inappropriate Conversation

Oliver opened his door wearing jeans, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a smile that should have required planning permission.

“Claire. What a lovely surprise.”

“I’ve brought you something.”

His eyes dropped to the envelope.

“An invitation?”

“Yes.”

“How exciting. Is it from you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Pity.”

I stared at him.

He smiled.

I had no idea whether he was flirting or simply enjoying watching me become uncomfortable.

“It’s been delivered to my house by mistake,” I explained.

“Ah.”

I handed it over.

He glanced at the front.

“Would you like to come in?”

“No, thank you.”

“Coffee?”

“No.”

“Wine?”

I hesitated.

Oliver raised an eyebrow.

“It’s half past four.”

“Then perhaps coffee.”

He stepped aside.

His house smelled faintly of cedarwood and fresh coffee. There was music playing quietly in the sitting room, and a vase of white roses stood on the dining table.

I tried not to wonder who’d bought them.

Oliver placed the envelope beside the kettle.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” I asked.

“Should I?”

“Well, it might be important.”

“Most post isn’t.”

“This might be.”

He looked at me with growing amusement.

“Claire, have you read my invitation?”

“Of course not.”

He waited.

“I may have glanced at it.”

“Through the envelope?”

“It wasn’t sealed properly.”

“Ah.”

There was a pause.

Then he opened it.

I watched his face.

He read the card, looked up at me and smiled very slowly.

“Well,” he said.

“Quite.”

“That’s rather direct.”

“Very.”

“Silk sheets.”

“Apparently.”

“And something easy to remove.”

I reached for my coffee.

“Perhaps you’re having your carpets cleaned.”

Oliver laughed so suddenly that I nearly dropped the cup.

“Is that what you think?”

“I have no idea what you get up to, Oliver.”

“Would you like to?”

The question hung between us.

For one glorious, alarming moment, I forgot how to swallow.

Then he added, “I could show you my diary.”

I recovered my dignity with considerable effort.

“I’m sure it’s fascinating.”

“Not particularly. Mostly dentist appointments and reminders to buy compost.”

He folded the invitation and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

“Well, thank you for delivering it.”

“My pleasure.”

“Would you like another coffee?”

“No. I really should go.”

He walked me to the door.

As I stepped outside, he said, “Claire?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have any plans for Friday evening?”

I turned.

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

I glanced at his shirt pocket.

“Wouldn’t you be rather busy?”

Oliver’s smile returned.

“Perhaps. Depends how the evening develops.”

I went home and ate four more biscuits.

The Trouble With Flirting

By Thursday morning, I had convinced myself that Oliver’s invitation was none of my business.

By Thursday lunchtime, I had changed my mind.

By three o’clock, I’d spent twenty minutes deciding whether the dress I’d bought for my niece’s wedding was too revealing for a casual trip to the supermarket.

I was beginning to annoy myself.

At half past five, Oliver appeared at my front door holding a small cardboard box.

“I come bearing gifts.”

I looked inside.

Chocolate digestives.

“Why?”

“You seemed rather distracted yesterday. I thought you might need emergency provisions.”

“That’s very thoughtful.”

“I wasn’t sure whether you preferred milk or dark chocolate.”

“Milk.”

“Excellent. I’ve made a note.”

He leaned against the doorframe.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

I folded my arms.

“Why do you keep asking?”

“Because I keep hoping you’ll give me an interesting answer.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

There was something different about him today. Less neighbourly. More deliberate.

“Are you inviting me somewhere?” I asked.

“Possibly.”

“What about your other invitation?”

“What about it?”

“Oliver.”

“Claire.”

“You can’t possibly be planning two engagements on the same evening.”

“Who says I am?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

He looked delighted.

“You’re enjoying this,” I accused.

“Immensely.”

Then he stepped closer.

Not enough to touch me.

Just enough for me to notice the faint scent of his aftershave and the little flecks of silver at his temples.

“Come round tomorrow at eight,” he said quietly.

I glanced at his mouth.

A terrible mistake.

“Why?”

“Because I’d like to spend an evening with you.”

“And what exactly would that involve?”

“Dinner. Wine. Conversation.”

“Nothing else?”

His eyes held mine.

“I suppose that depends on how good the conversation is.”

My stomach performed a small, entirely unnecessary somersault.

“Very well,” I said.

“Wonderful.”

He turned to leave, then paused.

“Oh, and Claire?”

“Yes?”

“Wear something comfortable.”

I shut the door.

Then I leaned against it and made a noise that no dignified woman of fifty-three should ever make.

The Preparations

Carol arrived on Friday afternoon with a bottle of prosecco and the expression of somebody attending an emergency committee meeting.

“Right,” she announced. “Tell me everything.”

I did.

She listened without interruption.

Then she said, “You’re going.”

“Yes.”

“To his house.”

“Yes.”

“At eight.”

“Yes.”

“After he received an invitation mentioning silk sheets.”

“Yes.”

Carol took a long drink.

“Well, thank God somebody’s finally getting some excitement.”

“Carol!”

“What? You’ve spent four years discussing his recycling habits. It’s hardly been a whirlwind romance.”

I showed her three possible outfits.

She rejected the first because it made me look like I was attending a christening, the second because it was apparently suitable for a funeral, and the third because she said it looked like something I’d bought during a temporary loss of confidence.

She selected a midnight-blue wrap dress I’d forgotten I owned.

It fitted beautifully.

Possibly a little too beautifully.

“Perfect,” she declared.

“It’s rather low.”

“Claire, you’ve got a perfectly good cleavage. There’s no need to treat it like classified information.”

I tried the dress with heels.

Then without.

Then with different earrings.

Carol watched patiently until I began debating whether to wear tights.

“Are you planning to remove them?”

“Carol!”

“I’m asking a practical question.”

In the end, I chose the dress, modest heels and a little perfume.

Nothing outrageous.

Nothing desperate.

Just enough to suggest that I was a woman with an interesting private life.

Even if that private life currently consisted of watching crime dramas in bed and occasionally eating cheese directly from the packet.

At seven fifty-five, Carol inspected me.

“Beautiful.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do I look as though I’m trying too hard?”

“No. You look as though you’re about to remind a handsome man that women over fifty haven’t forgotten what to do with their lips.”

I stared at her.

“Carol, sometimes I wonder how we’re friends.”

“Because I’m right.”

Champagne and Dangerous Ideas

Oliver opened his door at precisely eight.

He wore dark trousers and a black shirt, open at the neck.

I immediately regretted every unkind thought I’d ever had about black shirts.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

No joke.

No teasing.

Just the words, delivered so sincerely that I almost forgot to answer.

“Thank you. You look very nice yourself.”

Very nice.

Four years of accumulated attraction, and I’d managed to sound like his aunt.

He took my coat.

His fingers brushed the back of my neck as he lifted it from my shoulders.

A tiny contact.

Entirely ordinary.

Except that my skin reacted as though somebody had switched on a light.

The dining room was glowing with candles.

There were flowers, soft music and two glasses of champagne waiting beside the table.

And there, in the middle, was a plate of chocolate digestives.

I stared.

Oliver followed my gaze.

“I thought they might make you feel at home.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Only a little.”

He pulled out my chair.

Dinner was wonderful.

Oliver had cooked salmon with lemon and herbs, roasted vegetables and a dessert involving dark chocolate that should probably have required a licence.

We talked about our marriages, our children, the peculiar indignities of middle age and the ridiculous things people did when they were lonely.

I discovered that his marriage had ended five years earlier, not because of some great betrayal but because he and his wife had slowly become strangers.

“It’s odd,” he said. “You can share a house with somebody for twenty years and still end up feeling as though you’re dining alone.”

I understood that far too well.

For a while, the teasing disappeared.

We talked honestly.

And somewhere between the second glass of champagne and dessert, I realised that I wasn’t simply attracted to Oliver.

I liked him.

I liked the way he listened. The way he laughed without looking around to see whether anybody else found him amusing. The way he remembered things I’d mentioned months earlier.

And the way he occasionally looked at my mouth when he thought I wasn’t noticing.

Which, naturally, I noticed every single time.

Then Oliver reached across the table and took my hand.

“I’ve wanted to do this for quite some time.”

I smiled.

“Hold my hand?”

“Well, that was the respectable version.”

“And the less respectable version?”

He lifted my fingers to his lips.

“Perhaps we should finish dessert first.”

I was considering an appropriately wicked reply when a woman’s voice suddenly announced:

“Bedroom temperature eighteen degrees. Romantic evening activated.”

I froze.

Oliver closed his eyes.

There was a pause.

Then the voice continued.

“Suggested activity: intimate relaxation. Would you like me to play your seduction playlist?”

I stared at him.

Oliver stared at the ceiling.

“Absolutely not,” he said.

“Playing: Let’s Get It On.”

Music erupted from somewhere upstairs.

Loudly.

Very loudly.

I put my hand over my mouth.

Oliver sprang from his chair.

“Alexa, stop!”

Nothing happened.

The music grew louder.

“Alexa! STOP!”

“I didn’t understand that request.”

I began laughing.

Not a polite little laugh.

The sort that starts somewhere beneath your ribs and makes your shoulders shake.

Oliver disappeared into the hallway.

I heard a cupboard open.

Something fell over.

“Damn thing!”

The music stopped.

Silence returned.

Oliver reappeared looking thoroughly defeated.

“I’m so sorry.”

I was wiping tears from my eyes.

“What on earth was that?”

He sat down heavily.

“My daughter installed a smart-home system while helping me redecorate. Apparently, she thought I needed a more exciting social life.”

I laughed harder.

“Did she programme that?”

“She denies it.”

“Bedroom temperature eighteen degrees?”

“I like a cool bedroom.”

“Intimate relaxation?”

“Claire.”

“Seduction playlist?”

“Please.”

I reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

“Oliver, that may be the most romantic thing anybody’s ever done for me.”

He looked at me.

“Really?”

“No. But it’s certainly the funniest.”

Then I leaned across and kissed him.

He looked so surprised that I almost did it again.

Almost.

Four Years Too Late

After dinner, we moved to the sitting room.

Oliver switched off the smart speaker at the wall.

“Just in case,” he said.

“Probably wise. I don’t think I’m emotionally prepared for the bedroom to start giving instructions.”

We sat together on the sofa, close enough for our knees to touch.

He turned towards me.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why have you spent four years pretending you don’t fancy me?”

I nearly inhaled my champagne.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard.”

“That’s a remarkably arrogant question.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll ask a different one.”

He took my glass and placed it beside his.

“Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?”

My heart gave a thoroughly undignified leap.

“I suppose that depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re any good at it.”

He smiled.

“There’s only one way to find out.”

Then he kissed me.

Not hurriedly.

Not tentatively.

He touched my cheek, leaned towards me and kissed me with the quiet confidence of a man who had spent a considerable amount of time thinking about doing exactly that.

I forgot the champagne.

The candles.

The plate of biscuits.

I forgot, briefly, my own name.

When we finally drew apart, Oliver rested his forehead against mine.

“Well?” he whispered.

I opened my eyes.

“Acceptable.”

He laughed.

“Acceptable?”

“Possibly above average.”

“That’s encouraging.”

“I’d need further evidence.”

“Would you?”

“I’m a cautious woman.”

He kissed me again.

This time I slipped my arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

His hand settled at my waist, warm through the fabric of my dress, and I felt the delicious weight of his body as he shifted towards me.

I had forgotten how wonderful it could feel to be wanted.

Not politely admired.

Not vaguely appreciated.

Wanted.

Oliver brushed a strand of hair away from my face, then kissed the sensitive place just below my ear.

My fingers tightened against his shoulders.

“Everything all right?” he murmured.

“Perfectly.”

“You’ve gone rather quiet.”

“I’m concentrating.”

“On what?”

“Not making a complete fool of myself.”

He drew back just enough to look at me.

“Claire, I have wanted to kiss you since the day you moved in.”

“You have?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“You were married.”

“Not for the last three years.”

“I know.”

“So?”

He sighed.

“Because every time I tried to flirt, you changed the subject to the weather.”

I stared at him.

Then I began to laugh.

“Oh, Oliver.”

“What?”

“I thought you were being polite.”

“I thought you weren’t interested.”

“Four years?”

“Four years.”

I shook my head.

“We’re idiots.”

“Apparently.”

I caught the front of his shirt and drew him towards me.

“Then perhaps we should stop wasting time.”

His smile disappeared into another kiss.

A longer one.

When his hand moved gently along my back, I felt myself relax against him, enjoying the unfamiliar luxury of having absolutely nowhere else I needed to be.

For several minutes, neither of us said anything. There was no need. His thumb traced a slow circle against my waist, and I found myself smiling against his mouth.

“Still concentrating?” he murmured.

“Desperately.”

“Should I stop distracting you?”

“Don’t you dare.”

He laughed softly, and I kissed him again.

The Truth About the Invitation

It was almost eleven when I remembered the brunette with the red sports car.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Who’s the woman who visits you?”

Oliver looked puzzled.

“Which woman?”

“Long dark hair. Red sports car. Very attractive.”

His expression changed.

Then he began laughing.

I sat upright.

“What’s so funny?”

“Claire, that’s my daughter.”

I stared.

“Your daughter?”

“Charlotte. She’s twenty-nine.”

“Oh.”

“She lives in Bristol. She’s been helping me with the house.”

I considered this information.

“Right.”

Oliver was still laughing.

“Were you jealous?”

“Certainly not.”

“Claire.”

“I was concerned about parking.”

“Of course.”

“And traffic congestion.”

“Naturally.”

He kissed my forehead.

“Would it help if I told you I’ve been single for the last two years?”

“Possibly.”

“And that I’ve spent most of those two years wondering whether you’d ever agree to have dinner with me?”

I looked at him.

“Why didn’t you ask?”

“Because you kept telling me you were happy on your own.”

“I am happy on my own.”

“Good.”

“But that doesn’t mean I object to company.”

He smiled.

“Excellent. I’ll make a note.”

I kissed him.

Then I remembered something else.

“Oliver?”

“Yes?”

“What happened to that invitation?”

He gave me a suspiciously innocent look.

“Which invitation?”

“The one I delivered.”

“Oh, that.”

He reached into the drawer beside the sofa and produced the familiar cream card.

“Would you like to know who sent it?”

“Very much.”

He handed it to me.

“Charlotte designed it,” he said. “It’s a sample invitation for a surprise anniversary weekend she’s arranging for her husband, Daniel.”

I looked at the front of the card.

“Then why was it addressed to you?”

“She wanted my opinion before giving it to him. She wrote my name on the envelope, but put number twelve instead of fourteen. She rang on Wednesday evening when she realised.”

I stared at him.

“Wednesday evening?”

“Yes.”

I’d delivered it that afternoon.

“And you didn’t think to mention any of this?”

“I thought about it.”

“Clearly not for very long.”

He smiled.

“Charlotte and Daniel are staying at a cottage owned by a friend of mine. I’m helping arrange the surprise.”

I read the invitation again.

“Fresh silk sheets?”

“Part of the anniversary package.”

“Champagne?”

“Also part of the package.”

“Something easy to remove?”

Oliver began smiling.

“They’ve booked a couples’ massage before dinner. Charlotte thought it would be funny to make the invitation sound a little more suggestive.”

I stared at him.

“You absolute scoundrel.”

Oliver looked delighted.

“I prefer opportunist.”

“You deliberately let me think you had a secret admirer.”

“I didn’t know what you thought.”

“Oliver!”

“All right. I had a reasonable suspicion.”

I hit him with a cushion.

He caught it.

Then he caught me when I tried to retrieve it.

“You could have told me,” I said, laughing.

“I could.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because for the first time in four years, you were looking at me as though you might actually want to do something other than discuss the weather.”

I considered that.

It was an excellent answer.

Annoyingly excellent.

“So the silk sheets weren’t yours?”

“No.”

“And the champagne?”

“Charlotte’s.”

“The candlelight?”

“Also Charlotte’s.”

I glanced around the room.

“What about all this?”

Oliver’s expression softened.

“This,” he said, “was entirely for you.”

For once, I had absolutely nothing clever to say.

Which, as Carol would later point out, was probably a medical first.

The Biscuit Situation

It was nearly midnight when I finally stood to leave.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I’d decided I wasn’t going to rush into anything simply because Oliver Bennett had a beautiful smile, excellent shoulders and a talent for kissing that should have been declared on his council tax assessment.

He walked me to the door.

“Thank you for dinner,” I said.

“Thank you for coming.”

“And the champagne.”

“My pleasure.”

“And the biscuits.”

“Ah, yes. The biscuits.”

He glanced towards the dining room.

“Would you like to take the rest home?”

I considered the question.

Then I stepped closer, slid my hands up his chest and kissed him.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

With enough enthusiasm to make him forget what he’d been saying.

When I drew back, he looked slightly dazed.

“Good heavens,” he murmured.

I smiled.

“Above average?”

“Considerably.”

“Excellent.”

I opened the door.

Then paused.

“Oh, Oliver?”

“Yes?”

“Next Friday. My house. Eight o’clock.”

His eyebrows rose.

“Am I being invited?”

“Champagne. Candlelight. Dinner.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“And wear something comfortable.”

He smiled.

“Anything else?”

I leaned close enough to whisper in his ear.

“Bring your own biscuits.”

He laughed.

“Any particular kind?”

“Chocolate digestives.”

“Milk or dark?”

“Milk, obviously.”

“And what if I forget?”

I kissed him once more.

“Then, Mr Bennett, you’ll have to find another way to impress me.”

At seven thirty the following morning, Carol rang.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Don’t good morning me. What happened?”

“We had dinner.”

“And?”

“Champagne.”

“And?”

“Dessert.”

“Claire, I swear to God—”

“And he kissed me.”

There was a shriek so loud I had to move the telephone away from my ear.

“Was it good?”

I thought about Oliver’s hands at my waist, his mouth against mine and the delicious possibility of next Friday.

“Carol, I may have been wasting the last four years of my life.”

“Did you stay the night?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because some things are worth waiting for.”

There was a pause.

Then Carol said, “You do realise you’re fifty-three, not seventeen?”

“Perfectly.”

“And you’re not getting any younger.”

“Thank you, Carol.”

“And neither is he.”

“Goodbye, Carol.”

I hung up.

Then I made coffee, opened the biscuit tin and found it empty.

A tragedy.

A genuine domestic emergency.

I was considering whether it was too early to visit the supermarket when my doorbell rang.

Oliver stood outside.

He was wearing jeans, a soft grey jumper and the sort of smile that ought to have come with a warning.

In his hand was a packet of chocolate digestives.

“Morning,” he said.

“Good morning.”

“I thought you might be running low.”

I looked at the biscuits.

Then at him.

“You’re becoming rather predictable.”

“Am I?”

“Very.”

“Shame.”

He stepped closer.

“Would it help if I did something unexpected?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether it’s any good.”

Oliver smiled.

Then he kissed me.

Right there on the doorstep.

At eight fifteen on a Saturday morning.

In full view of Mrs Patterson from number ten, who was putting out her recycling.

I heard her wheelie bin stop moving.

I didn’t care.

When Oliver finally stepped back, Mrs Patterson was still staring.

I smiled sweetly at her.

“Morning, Margaret.”

She blinked.

“Morning, Claire.”

Oliver handed me the biscuits.

“See you later?”

“Absolutely.”

He walked back towards his house.

Mrs Patterson waited until he’d disappeared through his front door.

Then she hurried across the pavement.

“Claire!”

“Yes?”

“Was that Oliver Bennett?”

“Yes.”

“From number fourteen?”

“The very same.”

She looked at the biscuits.

Then at me.

Then back at the biscuits.

“Well,” she said.

I waited.

She leaned closer.

“Are they on special offer somewhere?”

I looked at the packet.

Then at Oliver, who was waving from his kitchen window.

“Not exactly, Margaret.”

She frowned.

“Then why’s he bringing you biscuits at eight in the morning?”

I smiled.

“Because, apparently, I’m very good at accepting indecent proposals.”

Mrs Patterson’s mouth fell open.

And for the first time in four years, I had absolutely no intention of explaining myself.

The End.

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