January 2003
Lawrence’s place feels more like a penthouse than a flat. He’s no older than I am, but he seems to have skipped a few rungs on the housing ladder. Every surface is pale and pristine, the marble floors gleaming, all furnishings flawless and perfectly positioned. The space smells of posh candles, the kind of soap you get in nice hotels.
He throws his keys on to a console table, then leads me through to an open-plan kitchen/living area. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
I glance around. His sofa looks stiff, the cushions on top of it stacked three deep. The chairs appear to be almost ornamental. There is nowhere immediately obvious to sink into and relax. So instead I remain on my feet, wander over to examine a painting on a nearby wall. An impasto oil-on-canvas, the colour palette abstract, of a naked woman reclining, her large breasts the unavoidable centrepiece.
‘This is interesting,’ I say with a smile.
Lawrence turns around, then faintly rolls his eyes. ‘My mother’s handiwork. She’s an artist.’ He says this in the same way as you might sayflat-eartheroregg thief. ‘She gave me that for my twenty-first, if you can believe it.’
‘Wow.’
‘Yeah, I’d have preferred a watch,’ he says darkly.
‘You know, I actually sketch a bit, in my spare—’
‘More wine?’ he says, not appearing to have heard me, crouching to open a silver fridge with a temperature LED above its glass door.
‘Sure, thanks,’ I say distractedly, leaning forward to re-examine the painting. I have the very distinct and strange feeling that I would love to get to know the woman who painted it, but that’s probably just because I’ve had a couple of drinks.
The interior of the fridge glows a bright aquarium blue. Lawrence extracts a bottle of red, then straightens up and removes the cork.
‘You keep red wine cold?’
He starts to pour. ‘Actually, certain grapes drink best after a slight chill. But you can’t rely on the bars to do it.’ He takes a step towards me, passing me a glass. ‘Cheers, HR.’
‘You know, you don’t have to call me that.’
‘Don’t you like it?’ His eyes are fixed against me, green and depthless. I have the vertiginous feeling of almost falling into them.
I bite my lip. ‘I don’t know. It makes me sound a bit... strait-laced.’
‘Oh.’ He smiles, drops his voice to a murmur. ‘And let me guess: you’re anything but?’
I smile back at him, say nothing.
A kind of soft incredulity creeps over his face. ‘Are you nervous?’
‘It’s the red wine,’ I insist. ‘I’m famously clumsy. And your flat looks like it would cost a lot to clean.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘we’d better not risk that, then.’
He reaches out for my glass before I’ve taken a single sip, setting it down with his, then closes the gap between us, so we are almost touching. His eyes work back and forth across my face, the heat of his gaze turning to helium inside me. ‘You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about you, Rachel.’
It cannot be more than a couple of weeks, unless he means since well before that Christmas party. But right now I couldn’t care less about semantics, because he is taking my face between his hands and kissing me, so intensely it sends little shockwaves through me. Lust rushes my stomach as I respond, running my fingers through his stiff dark hair, marvelling at the foreign feeling of this unfamiliar kiss, the press of this brand-new body against mine.
The kiss deepens, becoming fierce and insatiable, his tongue in my mouth now. The alcohol has turned to voltage in my blood. We move on to the sofa, falling a little awkwardly among the cushions, but our lack of elegance barely registers.
It’s not long before he’s tugging my top over my head, his full weight pressed against me. My hair has tumbled loose now. He skims my nipples with his thumbs, rumpling the silk of my bra, eyes fixed on my face. I unbutton his shirt, skate my hands across his chest. It is rigidly muscular, mannequin-smooth. He hooks his fingers beneath the straps of my bra, pulls it down, then flicks it off. I unzip his flies, unlock his belt, kissing him harder. I feel a groan pass from his mouth to mine.
So I am about to have sex on a sofa with a colleague, after quite a bit of wine. But it’s too late for doubt: my body, with its warp-speed heartbeat, has already decided. Rash and rushed may be the opposite of who I usually am, but this is exactly what I want right now. No, in fact: it is what Ineed. To have sex without feeling sad. A no-strings fuck; pure, undiluted wanting.
31.
Josh
February 2003
