Chapter Twenty-Nine
A chaste kiss in public is acceptable, anything more than that slips into the realm of ‘heavy petting’ and that sort of behaviour is highly uncouth.
Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955
Leo and I make out on the bench for a very hot and steamy twenty minutes, and it issogood that I completely forget where I am, who I’m with and what I’m supposed to be doing. Or not be doing, as the case may be. A grumpy park keeper interrupts to inform us that there has been a complaint from a young family passing by and that we should not be fornicating like this in a public place. Giggling like idiots, we leave the bench and carry on walking round the park. For the whole rest of the way around, we chat about anything and everything, and every five minutes we look at each other and burst into wild laughter for no apparent reason. Like we can’t quite believe how good we are at kissing one another. At how amazing that felt. My adrenalin is pumping. He won’t let go of my hand. This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. But . . . the way his body just felt to my body. It wasn’t simple randiness in the usual way when I fancy someone. It waskablam!
When Leo pushes me up against a sycamore tree for another round of kissing, I participate willingly. I care about nothing else other than how excellent it feels – like I’m melting into a puddle of warm, buttery awesomeness
Leo Frost. Artist. Thinker. Man. Jess melter.
‘Oh, Lucille,’ he groans, nuzzling my neck.
My eyes fly open.
I jump away from the kiss.
Lucille.
Lucille.
This is not real.
It’s fake.
Leo thinks he’s kissing someone entirely different. He’s not kissing me like that. He’s kissing Lucille.
I mentally shake myself. I have to get a fucking grip, and fast.
‘Lucille, what’s wrong?’ Leo says, his eyes flashing with concern as I back away from him.
‘I . . . I need to get home. I’m running late,’ I mutter, nodding quickly as I scan the park for the nearest exit. ‘It’s time to go now. I have to get my, er, my beauty sleep.’
Leo chuckles. ‘Oh no, is that likeI need to wash my hair?’
I laugh too, but it comes out as a bit manic.
Leo takes hold of my hand again. ‘We could go back to my place?’ He gives me a wolfish grin.
My vagina says yes. YES.
‘No!’ I yell. ‘I really do have to go or I’ll . . . be late.’
‘Late for what?’
‘Er, work. Yes. I have lots of work to do . . . for my charity. For the squirrels. Urgent squirrel business. Bye. Bye now!’
And before he can convince me to stay with another one of those other-worldly, mind-fuck kisses, I spin round, tuck Grandma’s parasol under my armpit and race off out of the park.
* * *
In desperate need of cooling off, I decide to jog back home to Bonham Square. It’s not easy in these high heels and I keep tripping up as I go. God knows what I look like, trussed up in this weird sailor dress with my pointy boobs, stumbling through the fanciest streets of London holding an antique lace parasol and angrily muttering ‘fuck . . . fuck . . . fuck . . . balls . . . fuck’ to myself every few steps.
My head is in a massive mess. A twisty whirl of confusion. What is going on? All my life I’ve been very, very careful not to get too giddy about a bloke. God knows, Mum’s warnings about letting people get too close to hurt you scared me off for life. I thought I was way smarter than that.
But I’m not.
I’m an idiot. A fool. A sucker. A chump. An idiot fool sucker chump.
