The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [174]
“Checkmate,” I finally declared.
“Damn,” she said, and standing up turned her back on me. “You’ll have to give me a hand.” Trembling, I leaned over and slowly pulled the zip down until it reached the small of her back. Once again I wanted to touch the smooth, creamy skin. She swung around to face me, shrugged gracefully, and the dress fell to the ground as if a statue were being unveiled. She leaned forward and brushed the side of my cheek with her hand, which had much the same effect as an electric shock. I emptied the last of the bottle of wine into her glass and left for the kitchen with the excuse of needing to refill my own. When I returned she hadn’t moved. A gauzy black bra and pair of panties were now the only garments that I still hoped to see removed.
“I don’t suppose you’d play one more game?” I asked, trying not to sound desperate.
“It’s time you took me home,” she said with a giggle.
I passed her another glass of wine. “Just one more,” I begged. “But this time it must be for both garments.”
She laughed. “Certainly not,” she said. “I couldn’t afford to lose.”
“It would have to be the last game,” I agreed. “But two hundred pounds this time and we play for both garments.” I waited, hoping the size of the wager would tempt her. “The odds must surely be on your side. After all, you’ve nearly won three times.”
She sipped her drink as if considering the proposition. “All right,” she said. “One last fling.”
Neither of us voiced our feeling as to what was certain to happen if she lost.
I could not stop myself trembling as I set the board up once again. I cleared my mind, hoping she hadn’t noticed that I had drunk only one glass of wine all night. I was determined to finish this one off quickly.
I moved my queen’s pawn one square forward. She retaliated, pushing her king’s pawn up two squares. I knew exactly what my next move needed to be, and because of it the game only lasted eleven minutes.
I have never been so comprehensively beaten in my life. Amanda was in a totally different class from me. She anticipated my every move and had gambits I had never encountered or even read of before.
It was her turn to say “Checkmate,” which she delivered with the same enigmatic smile as before, adding, “You did say the odds were on my side this time.”
I lowered my head in disbelief. When I looked up again, she had already slipped that beautiful black dress back on and was stuffing her stockings and suspenders into her evening bag. A moment later she put on her shoes.
I took out my checkbook, filled in the name “Amanda Curzon” and added the figure “£200,” the date, and my signature. While I was doing this she replaced the little ivory pieces on the exact squares on which they had been when she had first entered the room.
She bent over and kissed me gently on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said as she placed the check in her handbag. “We must play again sometime.” I was still staring at the reset board in disbelief when I heard the front door close behind her.
“Wait a minute,” I said, rushing to the door. “How will you get home?”
I was just in time to see her running down the steps and toward the open door of a BMW. She climbed in, allowing me one more look at those long tapering legs. She smiled as the car door was closed behind her.
The accountant strolled around to the driver’s side, got in, revved up the engine, and drove the champion home.
THE CENTURY
“Life is a game,” said A. T. Pierson, thus immortalizing himself without actually having to do any real work: Though E. M. Forster showed more insight when he wrote “Fate is the Umpire, and Hope is the Ball, which is why I will never score a century at Lord’s.”
When I was a freshman at the university, my roommate invited me to have dinner in a sporting club