'Astonishing,' Jones said to himself, gathering his papers and stepping away from the lectern.
It was then that he noticed her, standing a few metres from the stage and looking up towards him. He couldn't believe it. The room was empty, except for Trisha Botherington, Jones' fantasy woman, and she looked more delectable than ever.
The young journalist smiled, flicked her long, blonde hair back, and walked slowly towards him, her leather-clad hips swaying in a most provocative fashion, seemingly independent to the rest of her body. It was as though she had been engineered to torment, and perhaps sometimes to satisfy, although he could only dream of such an eventuality. Jones could say nothing; he watched and dribbled a little, mostly from his mouth.
He watched and dribbled a little, mostly from his mouth.
'Well, well, well,' she said. 'If it isn't Christopher Robin.'
'I'm sorry?' said Jones, squinting a little as he looked through the floodlights beaming onto the stage. He stepped down to be beside her.
'Christopher Robin,' repeated Botherington, moving closer to him, closer than he had ever hoped for.
'You know,' she said. 'Christopher Robin, Tigger, Piglet, Pooh. They're all in there.'
'In where?' asked Jones, a little confused, but happy to keep the conversation going as long as possible.
'Those last two chapters. Straight from The House at Pooh Corner. Nice bit of padding out, I thought.'
'You've read the report?' said Jones, finally joining the dots. 'The Whitlam, Beevis & Hogsbreath report?'
'Yes, I read it. A long time ago. When it first came out. I thought I was the only one,' she said, her lips now just a few centimetres from his. 'But now it looks like I have company. It seems you are pushing ahead with their recommendations.'
All he wanted to do was tell her how insatiable his appetite was for a night of rampant copulation.
Jones looked at her moist lips and wide eyes and had the same reaction as every man who had ever stood so close to her. It was nice to know his libido was still functional. He had become so preoccupied with work over the last few days, he had forgotten all about the concept of sex. Now all he wanted to do was tell her how insatiable his appetite was for a night of rampant copulation.
In his mind, he wanted to say 'Can I f*** you?' Instead, he thought it safer to respond with, 'Well, I hope you're going to keep quiet about what you read.'
Well, that was what he thought he'd said; he couldn't be sure. Perhaps he had asked if he could f*** her.
Botherington smiled a little, licked her lips slightly and said, 'Of course.'
What? he thought to himself. What did I just say? Which one, dammit?
'However you want to play it,' she said, not really answering his question, but throwing his testosterone production into overdrive.
The Incumbent is Phil Dobbie's first novel and these excerpts have been used with his permission. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. To purchase the entire novel in digital format, click here. It is also available in printed format ... for more details click here.