‘Anyway, he was here with a woman. A beautiful one. She looked like a model.’
‘I didn’t see anyone else while he was hitting onyou.’
‘Exactly my point,’ I reply with a sweep of my hand. ‘I’m not going there again. Besides, he wasn’t hitting on me, he was asking me out. For the afternoon, I mean.’
‘A bit of afternoon delight, more like.’
‘Moot. I’m not interested.’
‘I hate that word. Sounds like something you keep in your knickers,your moot. And you definitely need your bumps feeling, giving up an afternoon with him.’
‘Yeah,feel my bumps, said no girl ever. And that’s exactly what I don’t need.’
‘I’d get my bumps out for someone like him.’
‘Let’s leave both our bumps out of this.’ I turn at the same moment she lays her hand on my arm.
‘And you don’t know who he was here with. It could’ve been his sister or someone.’
‘His sister.Do I look that dumb? Guys like him aren’t interested in girls like me, and I’m not interested in an afternoon hook-up.’ I begin to move again, keen to gain some distance from this conversation.
‘It doesn’t have to be complicated,’ she says, easily matching my pace. ‘From where I was standing it looked simple enough.’ Pulling forcibly on my arm, she lowers her tone. ‘Babe, you need to move on.’
‘That’s what I’mtrying to do,’ I say quietly. ‘But guys like him—’
‘Fuck guys like him. I mean it,’ she interrupts fiercely. ‘So maybe he’s not Mr Right, so who cares! What he is, is gorgeous and into you and just what you need. You can’t shut yourself off,’ she adds, dialling down her severe tone. ‘You’re not a nun, babe.’
‘But—’
‘Stop.’ Her gentle tone doesn’t last. ‘You know why they’re called nuns? ‘Cos they getnun.And you need to get some...thing.’ She makes a gesture of frustration with her hand. ‘Fun, attention; a mad-hot man. Put the past behind you. Move on, yeah?’
Mirroring her forced smile, I add a noncommittal shrug. But it’s just not that simple, I know.
Keep it casual and I won’t get hurt?
Pigs arse. That’s like saying lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place.
It’s not that simple, I know. And it’s not like I can’t imagine it, it’s not like I haven’t since I fell into his arms: We’re having dinner, we’re on a date. I’m kissing his soft, full mouth. Vivid images, almost visceral, feeding from one to another like charms on a chain.
But that’s where it stops—at imagining. Because, opening my legs without opening my heart, that Ican’timagine.
And opening my heart? I’ve been burnt enough.
