Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

I screw the lid back on the peanut butter and return the jar to the lineup. It’s barely four-thirty but completely dark. I turn on the side lights until the room marinates. When I first moved in, Ruth and I passed a bottle of prosecco back and forth because I didn’t have glasses. I didn’t have a bed either, and so that night we slept in sleeping bags like we were camping. Everything here is mine. The beaded cushions on the sofa. The vase on the table. The color-coded books in the bookshelf. I chose them. I paid for them. I placed them. This was my space. My home . But then he made fun of my cushions, he bought me flowers for that vase, he teased me about the books in the bookshelf. Now everything mine has become his, and I’m not sure when or how that happened. Amy’s house is full of photographs of her and David, but I don’t have any photographs of us, so our memories are in the items. I thought that made the relationship more intimate, but Ruth said it was because he never viewed it as a real relationship. And yet, if the police dusted, they would find his prints everywhere.

I open the balcony doors and feel the sting of cold. The sky is streaked like a watercolor, and the buildings have darkened to the same shade of gray. I can see the photographs we never took as clearly as I can see him standing on the platform edge last night.

I close my eyes and breathe in what feels like fresh air but I know isn’t.

W E WERE STOOD OUTSIDE his front door for the first time. He kissed me, and his hands pushed inside my coat. I told him to stop. Your neighbors might see! He told me to fucking come in.

We had gone for a drink in London Bridge, and the plan was tapas in Borough Market, but we never made it. It was date three. I had an overnight bag. He offered us gum.

Inside, the lights were on and I could smell food. He put his finger on his lips and indicated the kitchen. I won’t introduce you to my housemate because he’s a twat. I asked if there was anyone who he didn’t think was a twat and he smiled at me.

We took off our shoes, leaving them in the pile by the door, and he showed me into his room. It looked more like the room of a student than of a thirty-five-year-old man. Popcorn ceiling. Exposed bulb over the bed. Wardrobe doors ajar; trainers, sleeve, corner of a laundry basket. A bookshelf with a dead spider plant, crispy babies hanging from the tips. Washing over a radiator: comic book socks, stripy boxer shorts, single black glove. Chair pulled from a desk like he had just stood up from it. Atop, a spread-eagled crossword, laptop, and Family Guy mug.

I asked if the bed was a double. He said that it was one of those small doubles that landlords loved.

So, that was the lie?

I don’t have champagne either. This isn’t the Ritz.

He put on a song with no words and turned the main light off. I removed my coat and jumper so I was just wearing a black dress with buttons up the front. I wasn’t wearing tights, and my legs were covered in goose bumps.

Hey, he said, with a childish lilt.

He ran his hand up the side of my body. He didn’t kiss me, but I could feel his breath. He lowered his hand to my leg.

You must be freezing, Gay.

His fingers grazed the lace of my knickers, and he made a noise to let me know that he approved. I unbuttoned my dress. He reached to unhook my bra but couldn’t work the clasp. I reassured him that everyone struggled, and he joked: You’ve had other men? I pulled up his T-shirt. Dark hair on defined muscles. Heady smell of aftershave. The whole scene was soundtracked by drums that matched my heartbeat, or maybe my heartbeat was directing the tinny blue speaker but—

A ND I ’ VE DONE IT again. Like the gray T-shirt. This isn’t what happened. I wasn’t wearing a dress, because I struggled to get my jeans off and he commented that there was a reason skinny jeans were out of fashion. And then when he touched me, he said: I’m relieved you have a nice one of these, it could have been a dog’s dinner. I had felt insecure and asked if we should wait, but he said it was just a joke. It was like the first time I had sex. I hadn’t wanted it, but I told everyone that it was passionate and spontaneous and that this boy whose name I didn’t remember was the right person for me to open my legs against a garage door for. But it doesn’t matter whether I remember only the good or only the bad or if I get as close to objectivity as it is possible to get, because the truth is: I wanted him.

Really think about it, Laa, about how he makes you feel.

S HALL WE WAIT ?

Enola, it was just a joke…

I know. Sorry. Forget it.

He shuffled out of his boxers and threw his socks to opposite corners of the room. His cock was bobbing. I had guessed he would be large. Ruth told me to look at the index. I told her that was an old wives’ tale. She said that expression was sexist. He kissed me with an aggressive tongue, and I responded with my nails on his back like I was a woman in a film who sleeps with a man and then murders him. When he pushed inside, it hurt, and I pressed my face into the pillow where the smell of his sleep lingered. Was he enjoying this? Was I? His joints moved. His muscles flexed. I thought of those images of the human body from biology class, red stripy muscles stretching under the skin. I wanted him to overpower me. To take what he wanted. I wanted to be useful. He moved more fervently. Everything became hot and wet. I grabbed his hips, pulling him harder, faster, deeper in until he came and I pretended to.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He withdrew and collapsed, ribs jerking. Then he reached for his vape, holding his breath before releasing.

Wow, he said. We came at the same time.

That almost never happens to me, I said.

The words were true; the context was a lie.

Same, he said, like I was special.

My heart skipped, and feeling as special as he’d said I was, I relaxed onto the hard mattress. I was glad that the first time was over. Now it could get better. I wondered what he was thinking. Then he spoke: I thought you’d make that harder on me. He whistled air. I mean, date three…?

Oh god.

Don’t be upset. I’m thrilled you’re a slut.

His eyes stayed deadpan while mine widened. Then he grinned. I called him a prick.

Jokes aside, he said, I was glad that you made the first move.

Excuse me? You were the one who said you weren’t hungry.

Then you charged up the bridge like a dog in heat.

I said that wasn’t exactly how it happened, but he forced my head onto his chest. Shh, Enola, shh. That’s exaaaactly how it happened. The joke was over, but neither of us moved my head. We lay in silence until he clucked and asked about my hobbies. I burst out laughing and told him that it was too late to ask me those questions. We had seen each other naked. He chuckled—the noise twisted and curved as a roller coaster. I propped myself up on my elbow. My hair fell forward, and he tucked it behind my ear. I told him that his laugh was insane , and he said that his friend Pat said he sounded like a husky trying to talk.

The smell of garlic drifted from the kitchen, and I remembered Dad cooking on Sundays. I also remembered Aunt Louise commenting: Your mum should be the one cooking. It’s his only day off! My brother was always going to end up in politics. He just has one of those minds.

Are you hungry now?

He raised an eyebrow: Are you?

We did skip food.

We did, he repeated, stressing the “did” as if it had been my fault.

I asked if he liked cooking, and he scoffed like it was a stupid question. And he can cook? Affection built in my abdomen. I knew that I wanted these moments: the time he cooked for me; the time he stayed at mine; the time we met each other’s friends.

Pizza?

Pizza.

He kissed me. His hand on my face. The heat between our bodies, the duvet lowering, and—

Or we could just skip the pizza…

S O , HOW WAS THE big third date last night?

Ruth had me on speaker, and I could hear her getting dressed for Halloween. I told her that it was good. She said that meant it was either really good or really bad. Well, it wasn’t really bad , I said.

So you’re not asexual, then? I told her to please forget that I had said that. She asked for more details, and I told her that it was incredible.

On the first time?

She sounded more skeptical than impressed.

I guess that’s what happens when you have that much chemistry.

And you communicate? Is he easy to talk to in that way?

The last time I’d had sex was nine months ago. I met Ben (marketing, Gemini, 5’11”) speed dating with Ruth—a suggestion following an article she had read over someone’s shoulder on the tube. She had chastised me for faking it: We’re not twenty-one anymore. They have to learn, Enola.

Yes, I said. He’s really easy to be open with. He was super focused on me and just really listened.

Good, because I know you put their needs before yours sometimes.

Ruth was right, but I liked not having to decide what I wanted. To have someone make the decisions for me. I would tell him what I wanted over time, and my fake orgasms would seamlessly transform into real ones.

The doorbell sounded. It was only this morning that I was waking up to the light from where his blinds didn’t hang flush, and now he was coming over to have takeaway and watch scary movies.

Roo, he’s here. I’ll call you later.

Okay. Have fun. Remember that I loved you when you cut your own fringe.

We hung up the phone and I quickly scanned the flat. It was the first time he had come over and I had hoovered and dusted and repositioned every trinket, as if it would matter to him that my candle holders were symmetrical, but, like all our interactions over these past three weeks, I needed it to be perfect. I opened the door, and there he was: dark green shirt, silver chain, denim jacket with the rip.

Happy Halloween, Gay.

Long time no see.

We looked at each other for a moment, both thinking, I hoped, how well this was going. Then I told him to come in, and he thanked me like I had suggested something dirty. I wanted to bite his earlobes. He didn’t wait for me; he just moved through the flat, peering in each room. There was a spot in the kitchen where you could smell the neighbor’s fish curry.

I know, it’s annoying, I said as he sniffed and scrunched his face.

But it didn’t annoy me. I saw them in the lift sometimes; they were a family and I liked that they ate together.

He moved into the living room and pointed out the buildings from the balcony window as if I hadn’t seen them before. I sat on the sofa and saw my home through his eyes: embroidered cushions; double bookshelf; coffee table with a book on succulents, a gilded bowl, and a tray shaped like a monstera leaf. He picked up the tray and blew the dust off it. You should move this to the front door to put keys in, Gay.

He ran his hands across the bookshelf and called me a twat for organizing my books by color. He held up a romance novel. I told him it was a Secret Santa present. I gestured to the Vonnegut section and told him that he was ignoring the books he liked. He picked up a photograph of me and Ruth. The knees were the widest parts of our legs and our smiles had matching gaps. It was a print of the one by her bed. I didn’t have any pictures of our childhood because Mum burned them.

Is that Ruth?

Yes.

Where’s this taken?

An elephant orphanage.

He sat next to me; his eyes were pale in the light from the window. He leaned back, and his face changed. He pulled a cushion from behind him. What the fuck is this? You’d slice an artery on those sequins. I took the cushion and told him to thank me for saving his life.

The tortured doesn’t thank the torturer, he said.

They do in Torture Garden, I said, recalling how tonight Hugo would be donning a leather harness and dog collar.

He laughed and pulled me close.

You want to go to Torture Garden, honey?

Honey.

I shook my head and rested it on his shoulder. His shirt smelled like it had been left in the washing machine too long. He asked how I’d afforded to buy a flat with my café salary. Are you a poor little rich girl? Don’t worry, I won’t think less of you. I’ll probably like you more. I’ve always wanted to be a kept man.

I told him that when my grandparents died, they left me money from their house sale. They didn’t have loads, but because they were basically my caregivers from—

Where was your mum?

She moved to France to be with her boyfriend.

He made a noise that implied he understood. He didn’t get on with Karen, his stepmother. He said that it must be nice to have somewhere to go in France. I told him I hadn’t been there in years. When Mum left, she decided that we should speak once a week, and that’s the extent of it still now. Five minutes every Wednesday.

Once a week is loads.

Is it?

He nodded. I only speak to mine once a month.

I suppose it’s less the amount and more the—you know.

He said that wasn’t a sentence then made a face like a sad clown and told me not to feel sorry for myself. He was so light that I thought about telling him everything about my childhood. But perhaps sensing that I might say something serious, he started humming the William Tell Overture, and galloped his fingers over the coffee table. I began to copy him, but he told me to stop it. Your horses would be shot for physical deformities, honey.

What?

Your hands look like how children draw hands.

No, they don’t!

Like a circle with five sticks.

He leaped his fingers over the monstera tray with a whinny and then tapped my leg. Come on, then. Let’s go out.

I thought you wanted to eat here?

Nah, I feel like curry now.

Okay, well, I just need to freshen up.

Be quick, he said, getting his phone out to scroll.

I went to the bathroom and touched up my appearance. Being with him was exhilarating. There were challenging parts; he was blunt and occasionally rude, and he wielded humor both as a weapon and a shield. But I felt happy, in that fizzy way you feel as a child jumping in a lake or seeing snow for the first time.

I came out of the bathroom, and he was in the hall holding my otter soft toy.

And who’s this?

Otter.

I see.

We stared at each other until the air turned red, and I handed myself to him like an item. He fucked me, and I felt the soreness from last night and again this morning, but I didn’t care because I was flesh and bone and blood and as crucial to the world as an old tree with hard, thick roots, while at the same time like an adult woman from a television show that I would binge-watch and envy, thinking: Her, yes, her, she is alive.

He came, and I didn’t (which was okay because, I justified, it was only a quickie), and he zipped back up with dexterity. Right, he said. Glad we got that out of the way. No way I’d be up for it after curry. He headed for the door, and I stood naked from the waist down wishing that I had tissues and contemplating moving the monstera tray from the coffee table to the front door.

R UTH ENTERED THE BAR already removing her coat. Sorry I’m late, the interview ran on! I poured her a glass of wine and pushed her the bowl of olives. She put down an envelope and a small purple box on the table. The card is from Mum, she said. The box is from me.

Inside was a selection of Turkish delight.

It’s only small, she said.

I thanked her and put the card in my bag to open later. I asked how the interview went, but she said she didn’t want to talk about it, which meant it had gone well. Then she asked three questions without waiting for the answers: How was your birthday yesterday? How’s it going with him ? He’s coming to the party on Saturday, right?

I laughed and she told me to answer the third one.

I nodded that he was. She said that things were moving quickly. I told her that it was going really well. Roo, I’m obsessed. I can’t stop thinking about him. Things he’s said. Or thoughts he’s expressed. His odd socks and the deodorant stains on his T-shirts.

God, men are gross.

He makes me laugh so much. And he gets angry about small things. He’s so passionate. He’ll go off on a rant about the publishing industry because he’s read this tweet.

And that’s good?

It’s… I don’t know, he’s just so present. And Roo, he is the sexiest man I’ve ever met.

You’re doing other stuff, though, right? You’re not just having sex?

Why? Do you think that’s bad?

She said that it had been very intense so far and she didn’t want to see me get hurt. I reminded her that the last woman she’d been seeing moved in after two weeks.

Yes, and you see how well that worked out?

When the afternoon light faded, the music was turned up and the bass pulsed like a heartbeat. The waitress lit the candle on our table. She had short black hair, and her neck was swanlike. As she cupped the tealight, Ruth mouthed to me that she was beautiful. I told her that she thought everyone was beautiful.

Everyone is beautiful! Is he telling you how beautiful you are?

Roo, you’re the only person who thinks I’m beautiful.

You’re the only person who thinks you’re not. But is he being good to you?

I smiled, because earlier he’d said that I looked like someone who would stand for their stop while the train was still moving. But I didn’t tell Ruth that because she might not understand the joke. Her instinct was to protect. Even when we were children, if a grown-up told me to smile, she would snap: Leave Enola alone, she’s just thinking.

The song changed, and she laughed, because we had missed this band at a festival. We had waited for two days to see them, but we were hungover and exhausted and decided to lie down on haystacks, just for a moment, waking only to fireworks above us.

How amazing this summer would be with him now, too.

Ruth put an olive in her mouth and licked the oil from her fingers. She spoke, probing her tongue around her teeth: Speaking of your birthday, Mum is asking if you’re free for a dinner next weekend. Em says she can be around, although she might have had the baby. They’ve got a dog now too! God, my sister is fucking insane.

I thought about Emily and Samson’s beautiful beige home, soon to be filled with a new baby and a dog to run into a room and demand love, love that they would give effortlessly. But Catherine was the epitome of Celtic warmth, and Jon had been adopted from Colombia by a Norwegian family, who then returned to adopt his biological brother. Emily and Ruth were born with love in their bones. I couldn’t keep a succulent alive.

My phone rang on schedule, and I turned it straight over. Ruth asked whether I was sure I wanted to ignore her. She probably wants to say happy birthday.

She sent a card.

But didn’t you miss last week’s call too?

The device vibrated twice more before stopping. See, Roo, she doesn’t want to speak to me either.

We drank our wine quietly, and then Ruth said: So, a week Sunday for dinner?

Sounds good. I love Catherine’s birthday dinners!

That’s because you’re the favorite. I got leftovers. Speaking of, she said. Noodles? There’s a new place round the corner that’s meant to be epic.

As we stood to leave, a man knocked into us and his hand lingered on Ruth’s shoulder. She lurched back. Do you mind? He laughed it off, and I smiled at him in apology. Her eyes flicked to me. Why did you do that? I didn’t know what to say; it had been an impulse. Ruth’s figure drawing came to mind; the model’s severed penis hovering like a rain cloud. Ruth smiled to let me know that she wasn’t cross, and as we walked to the noodle place, talking about films and restaurants and people, my feminist guilt sunk to the place where I kept the other hidden things.