“So, your mum?” It’s evident my ploy is not going to work. What I feel about my mother is not something I should put into words, so I skim the surface of that deep, dark water.
“No. She didn’t work. She … Well, I don’t know what she did, to be honest. Socialised I guess.” I lean against the counter, aware of the message my crossed arms send. I don’t want to talk about my family, don’t want to bring that toxic sludge into what has so quickly become such a happy space for me.
“What do you have planned for the day?” As a subject change, it’s not very subtle, and I can tell by Lulu’s face she knows what I’m up to, but she lets it go.
“Meeting with suppliers for the furniture for your offices. I need to negotiate them down on price. They think because I’m young and blonde, they can take advantage of me. What they don’t know is they’re dealing with a Scot.” She rubs her hands together in apparent glee at the upcoming negotiation.
That night over dinner in her loft, she takes great delight in retelling the story of how she beat the supplier down until he was almost giving the furniture away, capitulating to all her demands.
“As my Da would say—‘I didnae come doon in the last shooer’.” She affects a delightful Scottish accent as she quotes her father.
Who would’ve thought Lulu would be such a hard-headed businesswoman? My first impressions of her as an arty flake were so far off the mark, I can barely believe it. I’m usually an excellent judge of character. All I can think is I was blinded by unresolved lust.
After dinner, Lulu suggests we catch a movie. I fully expect to be dragged kicking and screaming to some arty, angsty, French film, but we end up at the latest in the James Bond franchise. I wonder when Lulu will stop surprising me.
“Best Bond?” she asks as we settle into our seats with a big box of popcorn between us.
“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. Daniel Craig, I guess.” I’ve never had a lot of spare time for movies. Or maybe I haven’t made the time.
Lulu gasps in horror and turns wide eyes on me. “Never thought about it? Okay. Well, then, all you need to know is Daniel Craig is good, Pierce Brosnan was acceptable, and Roger Moore was iconic, but the one and only true Bond was, without a doubt, Sean Connery.”
“Because?”
“Duh. Because. He’s. Sean. Connery. Oh, and it doesn’t hurt that he was Scottish. Bless his soul.” Her eyes are gleaming as she presses a hand to her heart. I can’t help but lean across and kiss her senseless.
It’s not a reflection on the film that I spend more time watching Lulu than I do the screen. She watches the movie with her whole body, shifting, jumping and bracing in her seat during the action scenes, scrunching up her face at the villain and going all pliant and soft in the sex scenes. By the end of the movie, I can barely restrain myself. My hand wanders up her leg, skimming her knickers, as I drive her home.
It doesn’t even occur to me that what we did tonight was a date. Nor does it occur to me to drop her off and go home to my place, or to leave after the mind-blowing sex. It just seems natural to stay.
Chapter Twenty
Lulu
Wesaidwedidn’tdo relationships. We said we didn’t want to date. But over the next few weeks we fall into a pattern that feels an awful lot like dating. Nick stays at my place pretty much every night. We spend every spare moment together, waking and sleeping. Half of Nick’s wardrobe ends up in my cupboard because we always stay here. He tells me it’s because I work from home, so it’s more convenient. But I get the feeling he enjoys my apartment. When I called his apartment minimalist, what I meant was cold and soulless. At the time, it seemed to fit him, but now I know Nick better, and it doesn’t suit him at all.
What has surprised me most is the realisation that Nick is actually shy. He’s smart and ambitious, and when it comes to work, he takes no prisoners. But on a personal level, his abrupt manner hides a shyness I can’t help but find appealing. It’s a beautiful balance to his work-related arrogance.
We avoid each other as much as possible at the office in case someone twigs to what is going on. Sometimes I see Mandy looking at me with a gleam in her eye, but she doesn’t say anything, so neither do I.
Sometimes we go out—to a movie, a play or dinner. But more often we stay in, where touching and nakedness are not frowned upon. Weeks in and we still can’t seem to stop touching each other. I had expected it to fade, but it feels like the reverse. Sometimes the sex is so intense it feels like my heart stops, and rather than scare me, it thrills me.
We talk, sometimes for hours. About everything. Except about our families and friends. I don’t know what Nick’s motivation is, but I feel like this is the last line of defence for me. If he breaches that barrier, I’m done for. And if I’m honest, I’m afraid if I try and broach the subject, he’ll shut it down. He was pretty quick to change the subject when we touched on his childhood. So, like a coward, I allow us to continue to exist in a bubble.
Despite that, I feel like Nick knows me better than anyone, except maybe Rosanna. Our post-sex conversations add to a level of intimacy I’ve never experienced before. I feel like I can tell him almost anything. Which is how he finds out about his many and varied nicknames.
“What did you call me?” he asks as he flops back on the sofa, taking me with him.
“Nothing.” I was already red from exertion, and now I’m probably crimson.
“Did you call me Nick the Sex God?”
“No.” I bury my face in his chest with an embarrassed laugh.
“Yes, you did.” He pushes my hair off my forehead and brings my face up so we are eye to eye. “Spill woman.”
“It’s embarrassing. It’s a nickname I gave you …”
“It’s embarrassing that you think I’m a sex god? You’ve got to be kidding. It’s the best nickname ever. In fact, as far as I know, it’s the only nickname I’ve ever had.”
