‘There’s no need to be so cocky about it.’ My tone is a little haughtily. ‘I think I must have Stockholm Syndrome.’
‘After a few hours?’
‘Oh, go away.’
‘Where?’ The word hit the air as a chuckle, his arms outstretched. ‘And no need to be so tetchy about it. Whatever the reason, I’m glad you didn’t make me wait six weeks.’
‘We would’ve probably killed each other before the six-week mark.’
‘True,’ he agrees. ‘Death by fucking. Can I just ask, though, why six weeks?’
‘I want to settle down,’ I answer baldly. ‘I’m trying to find men who have the same things in mind. Findingthe one. Starting a family. The kind of man who’ll wait six measly weeks for that very reason. The flaw in that plan isthe onewho waited was because he really just wanted to get me into bed.’
Something crosses Greg’s expression, something unreadable yet quick. Before I have the chance to hazard a guess, he asserts, ‘The married one.’
I nod and slide a lock of hair behind my ear, not wanting to think about it or look at him. ‘Oscar. Also known ashe-who-shall-not-be-named.’
‘Good riddance to him. Unfaithful piece of shite.’
‘Yes, his poor wife.’ I can’t help but feel guilty even though I had no idea. None at all. He just seemed far too available to be married. He answered my calls nine times out of ten and returned that one soon following. He even spent the night with me, post my six-week waiting mark. We just didn’t go to his place because he lived on the other side of London. I thought I’d dodged a bullet by not having to schlep out to his place. But really, it was because his wife probably would’ve had something to say about my visit.
Married. I still feel sick about the whole thing.
‘He was also unfaithful to you, as well.’ Greg’s expression is like granite, his words just as firm. ‘And shite in bed, so you’re well rid of him.’
‘But was it him, though, really?’ My gaze finds his briefly. ‘And the ones who came before? I’ve always thought it was me. They always seem to get—’ I halt in my explanation. This isn’t the kind of thing you discuss, especially not with other men.
‘Get off?’ I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from answering, though I nod again. ‘Can’t be just you, though, can it? I think we’ve established that already. And very thoroughly.’ His long fingers brush my face, his expression unreadable. ‘Maybe they just weren’t right for you. Good riddance to them. Selfish lovers are no one’s idea of fun. Love is rough enough,’ he then announces.
‘The roughest.’
‘Wanna talk about it?’
‘Really?’ I turn my head to look at him.
‘Why not?’ he answers with a simple shrug.
‘Oh, Greg, I’d need a lot more to drink to discuss my disastrous love life,’ I reply, turning his own words back on him.
‘Let’s talk more about your sex life, then.’
‘More wine needed still.’
‘I’d better open the wine, then.’ He makes to move but before he does so, he speaks again. ‘But we’re only discussing your sex life from here on in. Ask not what you can do for your cell mate, but what your cell mate can do for you.’
He does open another bottle of wine, this time a Sauvignon Blanc, but not before we rustle some dinner up in the kitchen together. Soup left over from lunch along with toasted cheese sandwiches. We eat on the floor in front of the fire, discussing everything and nothing as we play endless games of Scrabble on a very retro-looking board.
Like friends. Friends who’ve had sex.
‘It’s a strange thing to have in a house, a game of Scrabble. I mean, given you said you’d never stayed here before.’ I don’t mean to give him the side eye, and I wonder if he’s noticed the not-so-subtle Izzy inquisition.
Okay, so not like friends at all.
‘Dunno what to tell you,’ he says with an unconcerned shrug. ‘I suppose it’s one of the knick-knacks the decorator saw fit to include. I had planned to eventually rent the place out to holidaymakers, so maybe there was a bit of that behind it, too. Mind you, it’ll be strange to do so,’ he says, gazing around the room.
‘How so?’
‘This was my grandparents’ place, though they haven’t lived in it for many a year. It was basically inhabitable, and no more than a crofter’s cottage when they lived here after first getting married. ‘Still, it’s kept me occupied fixing the place up.’
