But then she has folded herself flat against me and is running her tongue in circles around my nipples, and how, I think, how does sheknow that I love that and why is she so good, and why does everything fit together so well, and that skin, and the red heat in those cheeks and the fury in her eyes and then I stop asking why.
“How old are you?” she asks me afterward.
She is not buried in the crook of my arm, hot cheek pressed against my shoulder, running her fingers through my chest hair. She is far away from me, on the other side of the bed, her knees pulled up to her chin, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Coming up to thirty-nine.”
“Why are you single?”
I shrug, top up our wineglasses, pass one to her. “Because I like it.”
“You like it?”
“Yeah. I like being single.”
“Do you sleep with loads of women?”
“No. At least, not as many as I’d like. I mean… look at me. I’m not exactly God’s gift.”
She shrugs and drinks her wine, leans down heavily to one side to rest the glass on the floor at the foot of the bed, and then straightens again. “You’re all right. I mean, you’re not fat. You’re kind of…” But she runs out of words.
I know I’m not a great catch. Nearly forty, living in a squat, with a low-level drinking problem, a paunch, and a swiftly encroaching thin patch at the back of my head (which my nephews took great delight in pointing out to me numerous times over the Christmas break). I haven’t done any exercise since I was a teenager and I’m kind of hopeless. But people like me. Women like me. People feel safe around me. So, yeah, that can go a long way, making people feel safe. Especially with women who’ve had more than their fair share of men making them feel scared.
“Thanks.” I say. “Shucks.”
“But don’t you ever get lonely?”
“Nope. Do you?”
“I’m lonely all the time.”
“But you have your kid. Your mum.”
She shakes her head emphatically, reaching down again for her wineglass. “No,” she says firmly. “No. A mother is not a substitute for a partner. And neither is a kid. A partner”—she squeezes her eyes shut and sets her jaw hard—“is everything. A completion. An answer.” The wine is suddenly gone, tipped down her throat in one fell swig.
“When did you start drinking?” I ask.
She throws me a look. “About an hour ago,” she says.
I laugh roughly. “No. I mean, habitually. When did it start?”
She narrows her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
I sigh and reach across the bed, cup her kneecaps with my hands, softly. “Come on,” I say gently. “You know. Don’t make me say it.”
She shudders and pulls her legs away from my hands. “You know, they’ll be back soon. It’s probably…”
I sigh heavily and lean back into her pillows. “Ah. Yeah. I’d better get out of here.” I start to pull the duvet away from my body.
She says, “No.”
I look at her questioningly.
“Don’t go. Stay. I mean, stay here.” She gestures at the bed. “You haven’t got anywhere to sleep tonight, have you? So sleep here. But… my daughter, my mother. You’ll have to stay low. For now. My little secret.”
Jesus Christ, I should have said no.
I SHOULD HAVE SAID NO.
