Playing Around by Gilda O'Neill

She went back through to the other room. ‘But don’t expect too much, this gas ring thing is hopeless.’
    ‘The records have finished,’ Martin said.
    Jill stood up. She looked decidedly unhappy. ‘I’m really sorry, Martin.’
    ‘You can always put on another one. My record changer’s the same, only plays six at a time. And I have to use this special gadget and knock all the centres out.’
    ‘It’s not the records I’m sorry about. There’s no room at this stupid little table. I should have cooked something not quite so messy.’
    Martin didn’t understand at first, then he looked down in the direction of Jill’s gaze. It was then, mortified, that he realized he had managed to eat only slightly more of the food than he had dropped on to his lap and the table.
    He rose clumsily to his feet, just stopping the stool on which he’d been perched from crashing back into one of the battered utility armchairs that stood either side of the little fireplace.
    ‘I can’t believe I’ve made all this mess. I’m so sorry.’ It was then that it occurred to him: he had probably managed to cover his face with a good dollop of the bloody stuff as well. ‘I’ve never had this sort of spaghetti before. I’ve only ever had it from tins. And that’s sort of short.’
    Jill bit hard on her bottom lip. She genuinely wasn’t sure whether she was about to laugh or cry. ‘Here,’ she managed to splutter, and she advanced on him with her napkin. ‘It’s me who’s sorry.’ As she reached up to wipe his mouth, Martin put his hands on her shoulders and, instead of dabbing his lips with the gingham cloth, she kissed them instead.
    The kiss was tentative at first, shy, with their lips pressed softly, almost innocently, together, but then it became more urgent, with their tongues deep and searching.
    Martin held her tighter, pulling her towards him, his hands moving down her back, lower and lower. She could feel him hard against her, and heard his breathing quicken as he grasped the flesh of her buttocks.
    She pulled away, and looked at him, directly, steadily, straight into his eyes. ‘You taste great,’ she said, wiping her finger on a smear of bolognese on his chin. She was panting slightly and her voice was huskier, lower than before. ‘Really great. And I don’t mean the sauce.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Don’t let’s take things too quickly, Martin.’
    He dropped his chin. ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘I think we’ve said sorry too many times tonight.’ She put her arms round his neck. ‘Don’t you?’
    He looked at her, trying to understand what she wanted.
    ‘I’d like this to go further, Martin. I really would. But not too soon. Not tonight.’
    ‘Can I at least kiss you again?’
    She pushed him gently backwards on to one of the armchairs. ‘You don’t have to ask me that,’ she whispered as she fell on top of him.
    Since Martin had seen a scratch on his precious scooter just two days after taking possession of it, he had never been quite so close to bursting into tears of frustration in all his young adult life, but he could no more have dragged himself away and made his excuses to leave than he could have tackled that plate of spaghetti without plastering himself with the stuff.
    As Angie felt the boy’s breath, warm and damp on her neck, and listened to the sweet Tamla Motown sounds of the Temptations’ ‘My Girl’ wafting over her, she didn’t notice Jackie manoeuvring herself and her own leech-like partner so that they were dancing right next to her. But she felt the tap on her shoulder.
    ‘What?’ she mouthed.
    ‘All right, Ange?’ she mouthed back, rolling her eyes and indicating, with a bored glance, the blond six-footer who was trying – unsuccessfully – to get his hand up her skirt.
    Ange surprised herself by smiling and nodding.
    She hadn’t been sure about what to do at first, when the nice-enough-looking boy with the light brown hair had asked her to dance, but she had said yes when he