I feel a blush of flattery rise up my neck. “Wow. Thank you.”
“I’m serious. Your writing’s beautiful. Honestly, Lucy. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but... you’ve got a gift.”
I let his gaze sink into me, pleasure budding in my belly. “You’re not just humoring me?”
“Believe me, I’m a terrible liar.” He smiles slightly helplessly. “Look, I get it: I’ve been putting my work out there for God knows how long. I do understand what it takes to show people your stuff for the first time. So I would never patronize anyone who does. I respect you way more than that, Lucy.”
I realize I’m shaking slightly, and for the first time in years, I find myself craving a long swig of chilled white wine. I take a steadying breath, drawing the scent of honeysuckle into my lungs.
“If I’m honest, I had everything crossed itwouldbe good, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to fake being impressed. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to.”
“Thank you,” I say, finally relaxing enough to be able to smile. “That means a lot. Writing... It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“Lucy,” he says, leaning across the table like he really wants me to hear this, “it’s really good. You should keep going.”
I bite my lip. “Tash got me a flyer for a writing group, in Shoreley.”
“You going to go?”
“I might.”
“Can’t hurt.” He meets my eye, like he understands my reticence, even without me spelling it out. “That’s one of the reasons I wish I hadn’t dropped out of college, actually. Having that... group support goes a long way.”
“Have you ever doubted yourself? With your work, I mean?”
“Only pretty much every day,” he says, a soft smile on his face. “Look—you do anything creative, you spend your life questioning your choices and doubting your ability. It’s part of the deal. But thepayback, when it comes... That feeling when someone else likes your work, and you manage to pay the rent for another month off the back of something you’ve dreamed up... There’s nothing like it, Luce.”
“I’m really glad I met you.” The words leave my mouth entirely without permission. I chase them down with a self-conscious laugh.
But Caleb isn’t laughing. He’s looking me right in the eyes. “I’m really glad I met you, too.”
From over at The Smugglers drifts an acoustic song I can’t quite place but sounds like it might be Jack Johnson.
“I’ve never...” I start, then falter. “This feels really—”
“Yeah. It does, doesn’t it?” And then he leans forward and kisses me, lips sinking against mine, tender pressure that makes me melt inside. His mouth teases mine open, and I have to actively hold back how hungry I am for this, for this amazing man who knows just what it is to be human, whose heart seems to beat exactly in time with mine.
After a couple of minutes, we draw gently apart. Caleb still has one hand at the back of my head. “Want to go inside?”
I can only make a sort of happy murmur in response, but luckily he understands what it means, so we abandon our bowls and glasses and he leads me back indoors, gripping my hand like a promise. My body is buzzing, almost shivering, with want.
In the living room, he turns to face me, kissing me again. This time, the intensity ratchets quickly up, our movements becoming faster and deeper, greedier. Our mouths are heated and damp, our breath loud and heavy. I grab the hem of his T-shirt and tug it roughly over his head, and as I do, we stumble backward onto the sofa. I pull him on top of me, he pushes up my dress. A sharp groan flees my throat at the delicious torment of his fingers against my thighs. I sink into his touch, giddy from the weight of him against me, from the feeling of his hand roaming the skin beneath my dress.
We explore every inch of each other’s dips and curves and grooves,fingers skating over flesh, the tease of limbs pressing then releasing. I discover that Caleb is not muscular exactly, but toned and lean. He has the physique not of someone who goes to the gym, but someone who’s never needed to.
I flick open his belt, delighting in the hot dance of his breath against my neck. And then all I can hear is the rush of my own blood and the throaty sound of him gasping my name as he moves inside me at last and I let go completely, pulsing and shuddering and intoxicated with pleasure.
Go
While Max is away in Leeds, I determine to make the most of my final week of freedom—reassured by the prospect of my forthcoming salary—before my start at Supernova on Monday. I set out to explore London in springtime, as though I’m emerging from the chrysalis of my old life. The trees are twitching with greenery, their branches growing heavy with confetti, as vapor trails carve scars into a blue-skinned sky. Families and tourists and office workers—distinguishable by their varying gaits, curiosity, impatience—are shedding winter clothing like molting birds. I spend a few days checking out Jools’s recommendations for favorite brunch cafés, the best spots for rye brownies, warm croissants, whole-milk flat whites. I browse charity shops, bookshops, and markets, pick up artisan doughnuts and freshly baked sausage rolls and armfuls of flowers for the house. And when Jools isn’t working nights, we brave the still-chilly water at the lido before filling our bellies on Lebanese mezze at the Common, watching children career haphazardly across the newly mown grass—the tangof it heady as freshly picked mint—delighting in the freedom afforded them by the firming ground, the warmth of the hatching spring.
I go shopping too, update my summer work wardrobe, spend hours on Instagram trying to figure out how the advertising world dresses. I mean, I’ve worked in advertising before, of course, but only in a hideous brutalist office building abutting a multistory car park in Shoreley. Nylon featured heavily. Soho—and Supernova—it was not.
In the evenings Jools and I head out for drinks, sourdough pizza, late-night treats in dessert bars. Sometimes we meet Reuben, and sometimes Sal, who I decide I would definitely want as my midwife if I were ever to fall pregnant.
Originally from South Africa, Sal is one of those people with a story to tell about everywhere she goes, each person she encounters: this pub, where she once had a very long and involved conversation with Jack Dee. That waiter, with his heavy addiction to chemsex and S&M. Those lads over there, who look like football hooligans but are in fact all very high up at a well-known tech giant.
Max and I have FaceTimed a few times since he’s been in Leeds. He’s walked me to his hotel window, showed me the skyline of the city at night as the promise of Friday burned between us.
