But James’s face breaks into a smile and his hands swing forward enough to brush past mine, and there is a surge of excitement as our fingers barely touch and I feel completely, breathlessly on edge.
‘You know, when I think about it, it’s probably just as well I fucked up the wine and you fucked up the food, because at least it’s both of our faults,’ I say to him. ‘No one’s going to fire you, and if they don’t fire you, they won’t fire me. And that would be a relief. You know, you should make a decision about what’s happening here, because I’m no good at reading people.’
‘Ishould make a decision?’ he says, and then his fingertips trail up my arm, all along my shoulder, gently up my neck – all the while his gaze fixed to mine. ‘You’re the one who—’
‘We broke up,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, we haven’t talked about it, but I can text him now? Where’s my phone? I’ll do it right now. James, Tim is a terrible boyfriend. He was never really a boyfriend even. We’ve hardly spoken the last few weeks.’
‘If it’s over …’ he says, searching my eyes for reassurance.
‘It’s over. Right now. It’s over.’ I feel my heart thumping in my chest, every single part of my body tingling with anticipation. And it’s true – in my heart it’s true.
‘Well, if it’s definitely over …’ he says again.
And then it happens and my eyes are still open when it does, I’m in such shock. His lips are gently on mine, and I can feel the light brush of his nose on my cheek. I drop my shoes. It’s a softer kiss than I thought it would be. Soft, but determined. My brain is racing and I wonder why I can’t just enjoy being kissed without analysing every moment of it.
Then James’s arms are round me and his hand traces down my back to the base of my spine and he pulls me in closer. Then the kiss gets a little harder, and his mouth opens wider and I shut my eyes and let myself go, reaching my hands up to his neck.
He steps back and nods at the door. ‘Let’s go.’
Moments later we’re at the back of the building and I’m walking barefoot along the cold pebbles. I’m in front of him, pulling him by the hand. He’s walking slowly, watching me walk with this funny smile on his face, and I start to feel even more exposed and vulnerable in the relentless silence.
‘It’s cold,’ I say, as I slow myself down to his pace and we walk alongside each other, me holding James’s hand. ‘Why are you so slow?’
‘We’ve got time, haven’t we?’ he says.
‘I don’t like waiting,’ I say. Thoughts are trying to get into my head: horrible thoughts about what he’ll think of me naked; if I’d have to be on top; if I’d even enjoy it. ‘Delayed gratification makes me anxious.’
He stops walking and pulls me into him and kisses me one more time, and I wonder if he wants this because it’s only got a shelf life of one summer, or if he wants it because it’s only one night. But I try to push my fears away and enjoy being kissed, and kissing him in return.
Now James is leading me. His hands are warm and clammy and I can’t quite make out whose lights are on at the cottage in the distance. The oak leaves waving in the night breeze look small and fragile against the thick, old trunks. I feel a sudden affinity with those leaves.With everything around me, finding warmth and sun. Beginning to really grow.
We creep into the hallway, but the house is deathly quiet. James leads me up the stairs, putting his finger to his lips to keep me from making any noise as we inch down the hall past Bill’s room. I realize I’ve never seen James’s room, and then I have a minor panic that it’s too tidy, or weirdly decorated with posters of some strange obsession, like Oasis or a crappy local football team. Then, as we near his door, anxiety washes over me and I don’t want to think about why – but it’s not about posters.
James unlocks the door as gently as he can and pushes it open, and his room is the perfect mix of clean and surface-mess. Definitely boyish, down to the navy-blue pinstripe duvet, classic M&S, with only one matching square cushion that came free with the set. There’s an acoustic guitar in the corner, and some books, including what looks like a novelwith a bookmarkby his bed. Impressive. Mercifully, there are no posters on the wall.
He looks a bit embarrassed as he shakes his duvet out and closes his laundry basket. ‘I wasn’t expecting guests,’ he says, his cheeks a marvellously sweet shade of pink. ‘Most of my stuff isn’t here anyway.’
‘I’m nervous,’ I blurt.
Immediately I regret it, but it’s the truth. The ten minutes or so between the kitchen and his bedroom have cooled me somewhat, and I suddenly feel a new pressure to do thething. I mean, I like the rush of someone fancying you on a night out, and that exciting bit as you tear each other’s clothes off, but then it’s almost always a bit disappointing. Some chad watching his own biceps, while I wriggle around trying to find some satisfaction. For me, it’s the bits you do between the sex that Ireallywant. The intimacy. Eating takeaway in a guy’s T-shirt and having him bring me a coffee. I don’t have much of a chance to think about it any further, because James is removing his T-shirt.
I’m staring, I know I am. He doesn’t drop his T-shirt, just holds it in front of him, and for a moment he looks a bit lost. I take a step towards him, because making him feel comfortable is more important to me than making myself feel comfortable. I want him to know that he’s got permission to keep going, even if I’m not sure I want tojoin in. But he senses my conflict and stops. I feel that stab of worry; without the promise of sex, he’s trapped in his room with me. I don’t know how to negotiate this situation.
‘Sorry, we should have stayed in the kitchen. I’m not good when I have to think about something too much.’
‘Heather,’ James tosses his T-shirt to the side and walks over to me, then picks up my hand and puts it in his. I cringe at the name and pull back slightly.
‘Don’t,’ I say, and he immediately obliges, dropping my hand and pulling out of my space. I look at his pale collarbone and thick, round shoulder and imagine running my mouth along it, in some super-sexy manner that might make him groan. I want to throw myself into it, but I can’t.
‘Fancy sticking on a film?’ he suggests.
‘A film?’
‘Netflix?’
‘And we can just hang?’ I search his face to see if he’s disappointed.
I think about Peter Faulkner, who I fancied for about six months when I was twenty-three. But when he came on to me at a party in Croydon, I got nervous and asked if we could simply talk for a bit. He reluctantly agreed and suggested we go get a kebab at the only place open down by the Tube station. When I collected my chicken doner from the man behind the counter, Peter had already called himself an Uber and didn’t even say goodbye properly.You’re on the Northern Line, right? There’s one in six minutes, he said, with a bright but dismissive smile.
