‘He would have been your type, back at uni?’ she tells me.
‘Really, he looks a bit earnest.’
‘You would have shagged that right out of him.’
I laugh and her face relaxes to see someone she remembers. The man in question may be older than his teens, some master’s literature buff. The leather satchel is the redeeming feature, the badly fitting denim is dubious. If we were to hook up then I’d be mercilessly cruel about the cravat.
‘How would I have approached him?’
‘No nonsense.This is me, if you don’t like this shit then you’re missing out,’ she says. I think she may be mimicking my accent. It’s not terrible and, for a moment, I understand why I would have been attracted to her. She’s pretty but it’s cerebral, it’s kind. I reach over and kiss her on the cheek.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m not sleeping with you, Lucy.’
‘No, for coffee, for explaining that time in my life to me.’
‘We had a lot of fun. There’s a saying that describes you to a tee. You lived your best life.’
‘My sister said the same thing to me.’
‘The sisters. God, you loved those girls, all those nieces. I’d never known anyone who loved their family so much, it made me slightly jealous.’
‘I have nephews now too,’ I reply, getting out photos from our jaunt to Kew Gardens.
‘It was your best feature, how hard and ardently you loved those you cared for. I never felt anything less from you, even as a friend.’
She stops for a moment and finishes the last dregs of her coffee, then turns to her left.
‘Hi, my name is Jill and this is my friend, Lucy, and I was just wondering if you were single?’
What the actual hell? I smile and wave as he gives me the once-over.
‘I’m Pedro and yes, I am single.’
‘Like Pedro the Pony,’ I say.
‘Who?’ he asks.
‘Peppa Pig. I have nieces. Peppa has a mate called Pedro.’
From Jill and Pedro’s quizzical looks, it would seem this is not the angle I should have chosen to prove to this semi-good-looking man that I am cool and sophisticated.
‘Only through art can we emerge from ourselves and know what another person sees,’ I suddenly reel off.
Jill looks at me like my mind is having a small malfunction.
‘Proust,’ I say, pointing to his book. He looks impressed but it’s most likely I can quote that as I once saw it in a hypnotherapist’s office.
‘I watch Peppa and I also read philosophy, it’s a very dangerous combination,’ I say with my most winning smile. He smiles back. ‘Now tell me, Pedro. What brings you to Birkbeck? And let’s talk about that cravat…’
17
I stare at the ceiling of a room in a student flat near Bloomsbury. Pedro is not big on interior décor. It turns out he’s from Seville so makes do with a dresser that’s falling apart, sheets that smell vaguely of oregano, brand-new shiny textbooks and an old birthday card that he’s Blu-Tacked to the door of his wardrobe. I’ll also be frank, he’s big on pubic hair too. Christ, I was waiting for chicks to fly out but A* for effort and enthusiasm and asking me what I liked rather than just ploughing ahead. Would recommend, would come again, hopefully, will come before I leave. Pedro confirms his student status to me as he’s now having a light nap while I count the cobwebs hanging in the corners of his room. I roll over and study the spines of his textbooks and examine the used condom strewn on the carpet. Why do they do that? Like, wrap it in something at least, right?
After introductions, Pedro became quite chatty telling us about his course, his part-time job working as a barista and blabbed some bullshit about Proust that I think he thought was smart. Jill observed the interaction and, as soon as he initiated some flirty contact by touching my knee, she got up and excused herself to go to a tutor group session. Before she left, she held me close and told me to be present. I shouldn’t be retracing steps, I should be going down a newly forged path. Ones that involve random Spaniards.
Pedro snuffles lightly in his sleep and rolls over. There was a spark there for a brief moment when we got in through the front door and he whispered something Spanish in my ear, his breath warm on my neck. Did I enjoy that? It was less awkward than I thought I would be. I remembered how to put a condom on, which given everything I’ve forgotten feels like a skill worth noting. My recollections of my teen sex involved trying to work out what fitted where, like those baby wooden toys where you’re getting the shapes to match up. This felt like more a dance with moves and rhythm that maybe my muscles still remembered in parts. I felt pleasure deep within me, which was a relief but also a release. It felt good. It felt like I still worked. Would do again. Maybe not with Pedro and the big bush because I feel I need to floss now and your dental hygiene shouldn’t be the first thing you think about after having sex.
