One drink soon became two. After three, they started to find common ground, and suddenly the conversation became fun. They chatted dancing, cars, generic news stories that seemed alien in the happy little bubble of Kembleford. To talk to somebody else who had a past, had connections outside of Glouchestshire, had a job, had a life - it was as refreshing as ice cold lemonade on a stifling hot day.
She instinctively moved closer to Sullivan as the evening moved on, probably because the crowd were getting rowdier as the beer started to spill. If the men came back now, she doubted they'd be restrainable now. Luckily Sullivan stayed a perfect gentleman, if a little more inclined to sway about. He seemed to be sticking closer to her as well; probably worried about her.
Or perhaps he wanted to be close to her.
Perhaps she wanted to be close to him.
She couldn't exactly follow the conversation as easily after that gin and tonic, except that Sullivan was repeating 'pardon?' in a way that suggested he couldn't follow either.
''Listen,'' He said eventually, leaning close to Bunty with an arm on the back of her chair, nearly shouting over the rowdy band and intoxicated guests, ''Should we try talk somewhere else? Somewhere quieter?''
Bunty batted her eyelashes and leaned in close to him and whispered, ''My room is the third on the right up the staircase, opposite the painting of the woman playing with her dog. Try not to get lost.''
She kissed him quickly, before he had time to react, and then she hurried off through the crowd. Sullivan sat for a second dumbfounded, touching his lips to check he was dreaming, and then took off in pursuit of Bunty.
He snuck through the party unseen, and slipped through a side door to an empty hall where the noise of the celebrations were quiet and distorted like he was listening to them underwater. He found the staircase, and made his way up (with more stealth than any thief) and padded along the corridor, heart pounding in case he opened the wrong door and found himself being chucked out of Kembleford for scandalous behaviour. Perhaps the only scandalous occasion he's see though in his life. One door, two doors, three...
He looked to one side, and saw a huge painting of a Georgian woman frolicking in the garden with a little spaniel trying to catch the fabric of her voluminous dress. Hesitantly, he knocked on the door, his mouth dry and his pulse racing.
''Come in.''
Bunty was standing by her dressing table, just having removed her earrings. In the slight delay, she'd convinced herself that Sullivan wasn't coming, that she'd scared him off by moving things too quickly. Yet here he was, in her room, standing beside the door he's hurriedly shut. She couldn't remember the last time there stood such a stunning man in her chambers.
She'd left the bedside lamp on and as a result, the room was bathed in a soft orange glow that multiplied their shadows, changed the colours of their clothes and softemed their expressions. Sullivan hadn't said a word, yet he still seemed to speak through his eyes, his breathing, the soft way in which he moved towards her. Barely a sound, and irresistable.
She couldn't remember whether she'd flown to him or he'd pulled her in, but she was in his arms, the same strong arms she'd danced in all evening. The kiss tasted of gin and fizzy tonic, her lipstick and frozen limes, and she found herself breaking it off very quickly as (cliche as it sounded) he really took her breath away. In that moment, the memories of the waltz and the tango surging through them as their hands starting to roam, backing entwined until they hit the edge of the mattress and fell back, they both knew that they'd passed the time for talking.
''Was that alright?'' Sullivan whispered afterwards, scared to break the spell of the now silent room but too anxious not to clarify, ''Did you enjoy it?''
''It was utterly sublime and I loved every second.'' Bunty responded wholeheartedly. ''How did you find it?''
''...Pretty incredible.'' Sullivan chuckled, as Bunty pressed a kiss to the hand lying on the pillow beside her. They lay facing each other, warm and perfectly comfortable, slightly breathless and tired. Bunty was contemplating the urge to snuggle closer to Sullivan when he threw an arm around her and after kissing her neck, settled his head on the pillow less than inches from hers.
''Is this alright?'' He asked quietly, anxious not to get anything wrong. Post liason etiquette was not something he was not a subject he was well versed in.
She nodded, and murmured, "Just lovely."
He wanted to ask her something but couldn't remember what it was. Instead, he contented himself with drawing the soft satin covers further over himself and relishing how soft it felt against his bare skin.
He moved his leg - it brushed against hers - and realised that she was asleep. He smiled and let her soft breathing lull him into slumber.
She was awoken the next morning by movement next to her. She opened her eyes (which wasn't a simple task, they put up some considerable resistence) and rolled over, trying to spot something in the dull morning half light. Eventually, she rolled over and was greeted by Sullivan, sitting up in bed beside her, vest on, pulling on his shirt.
''Good morning.'' She said.
He looked over and saw her awake. ''Morning,'' He said, ''Sorry - I was trying not to wake you - at least, not till I was properly dressed.''
Bunty snorted. ''I saw most of you last night, it'll hardly shock me now.'' She laughed, but she understood. People seeing your body in a state of passion is not the same as someone watching you dress, so she lay back in bed and turned her face away from Sullivan to give him a bit of privacy. It was a bit awkward, waking up while a man was making his getaway. What was there to say in the cold light of day?
Her head was sore, she was tired, she wanted to bury her head in her pillow and go back to sleep. Yet for some reason Sullivan insisted on making pointless small talk to fill the void before he bolted.
''That was really fun, last night.''
''Yes.'' Bunty agreed, ''It was.''
''You did enjoy it, didn't you?'' Sullivan was obviously paranoid, ''You don't have to lie or anything.''
''Oh don't worry,'' She said, rolling back over to look him in the eye, but only saw his back as he pulled his trousers back on. ''Honestly - last night was wonderful, you were wonderful. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself so much.''
Glimmers of last night's activities were flooding back to her. Now that she thought about it, Sullivan was good in bed. Really good.
''I'm glad,'' He said, fumbling with his shirt buttons, ''It's just - I don't - I mean... I don't really do things like this.'' He confessed. ''Not on first dates, either.''
''Really?'' Bunty asked, eyebrows gaining height, ''I would never have known. If the rest of Kembleford found out you could do things like that they'd be queueing up for you.''
What she could see of Sullivan blushed. ''Oh.'' He said, somewhat surprised, but also somewhat chuffed.
''You're a terrific dancer as well,'' She added, ''You're a real dark horse.'' She said, rummaging about the bedside drawer, ''How's your head, do you want an aspirin?''
''No, I'm alright actually. At the moment. Speaking of which, what time is it?''
She squinted her eyes at the little clock on the locker. ''Quarter past nine.''
''Quarter past nine!'' Sullivan exclaimed, spinning around, ''Oh my - I have to be in work at quarter to!''
He abandoned the shirt buttons as quickly as he could, before fighting with the sleeve of his jacket and shrugging it on. Bunty watched in mild amusement as he bolted forwards, half dressed. She expected him to run out the door, but instead he squatted down on the floor beside her bed and looked her in the eye for the first time that morning.
''Listen, I really enjoyed last night and I'm really sorry for having to run off like this but - you still have my number, right?''
Bunty nodded.
''Great - listen, I should be home around seven if you want to call, we can organise a proper date, maybe a meal, cinema, that kind of thing. If you want to, that is.''
Bunty was surprised. She hadn't really expected a sequel to this particular movie yet here Sullivan was, crouching beside her looking at her with his startlingly blue, electrifying eyes. ''Yes,'' She replied, ''I'd love that.''
Sullivan beamed. ''Wonderful.'' He said, leaning forward and pecking her on the cheek, before struggling back to his feet, shoes in hand, and running for the door, ''Thanks again, I'll talk to you later!''
''I'll talk to you if you don't get caught out there!'' She laughed, hearing the muffled thump of Sullivan's stockinged feet across the hardwood floors.
''I won't!'' He called back, obviously far down the corridor, making her laugh.
She sighed, and lay back in bed. Provided nobody saw him, she felt confident that the fact that her and Sullivan had spent the night together wouldn't go beyond the two of them. The feeling of certainty that this news might not reach half of Kembleford was oddly comforting. She could lie in bed for another while and mull over last night, and predict that evening.
And there would be an evening, it seemed. Sullivan was keen; he seemed even keener than he had been last night before they'd hit the sheets, but not annoyingly persistent. He was a proper gentleman, it seemed, when he wasn't being an Inspector.
Had he told her his name?
She heard footsteps and maids chatting as they walked down the hall. She shrugged on her nightgown and got up to close the door, feeling woozy, heavy, giddy at light all at the same time. She flopped back into bed and as she inhaled, she could still smell Sullivan off the pillow. The bed was still warm, but not as warm as it was when he was in it. What was his name again?
He hadn't told her, and she couldn't remember telling him hers. She went to bed with Inspector Sullivan and he went to bed with the Right Honourable Penelope Windermere. She laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, and pulled the scrap of paper back out from behind the alarm clock, and started plotting which phone she'd be least likely to be interrupted on.