wearing a dress and heels. You know.’
‘Very sexee,’ he smiles at me. ‘But why you aren’t wearing ze dress where you untie one leettle bow and you’re naked?’
Everyone erupts. I decide to find new friends.
‘You’re as funny as a fungal foot infection, Bertrand,’ I tell him.
‘Do you know what I want?’ pipes up Julia, changing the subject. ‘I want a conscious shag.’
‘What’s a conscious shag?’ chirps Nikki. She and Bertrand lean towards Julia, clearly hoping to increase their sexual repertoire.
‘As opposed to an unconscious shag, which my shags generally are because they always happen at about four a.m. after a litre of vodka,’ she explains.
‘Oh,’ say Nikki and Bertrand in disappointed unison.
I don’t comment because Baldy is hovering near by. He’s been outside emptying ashtrays so he is holding a bucket full of fag butts.
‘Oh, hi, Sarah,’ Baldy says, doing some very bad oh-I’ve-only-just-noticed-you acting.
‘Oh, hi,’ I say, doing the same.
‘How, um, are you?’ he asks nervously, kicking the table leg with his toe.
‘I’m, um, fine, thanks.’ I am quite enjoying the fact that he is nervous. He probably wants to get my custom back as his takings would have plummeted after my humiliation and subsequent desertion from his pub.
‘I, um, haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘No, I’ve been really busy.’
‘Great.’ He nods, which makes his chins wobble. He stands there smiling at me. I’d like him to leave as the stale-cigarette smell is foul and I want to continue my conversation about Paul’s motives. I am just turning back to Nikki and Julia when he coughs and says, ‘We should go for that drink sometime.’
I wonder whether I should point out that when I made that very same proposition he told me he would rather watch a children’s movie about a backless wardrobe. He sounds eager. He looks nervous. I remember how I felt as I plucked up the courage to ask him out. I remember how awful it felt to be rejected. If I was a strong woman in an American serialized drama I would squish my face up like a pug dog in pain and say the word ‘soz’ in a fantastically patronizing manner. But being me and crap and from a convent I just mumble, ‘Oh, er, yeah, we should.’
sixteen
Mortlake is the antithesis of Camden:
1)
It is eerily quiet
2)
Nobody has offered me skunk weed. I get offered skunk approximately eleven times a day in Camden
3)
There is utterly no spit on the street. I have looked hard and nope, no pavement flob at all
This must be a very affluent area, where people go to breed. Mortlake. It isn’t a very nice name for a place though. It sounds like somewhere kittens in brick-filled bin bags are callously thrown or, worse, a huge shopping centre. Getting here involved a tube and a proper train and spending all the money I had on me. It’s miles away. I should probably have had some jabs and changed some currency. I’m sure it isn’t actually in London. It just clings to it like chewing gum to a trainer.
I have found his house. It really is a house. There is only one buzzer. Now people always say, ‘Come to my house,’ but what they mean is, ‘Come to the tiny flat I pay an astronomical amount of money to share with six people and we shall eat in my room with our plates on our laps.’ I can’t remember the last time I went to a house in London that belonged to someone under fifty. There is a majestic silver birch in his front garden. Golly, they have trees here as well.
I mount the stone stairs slowly to his red door. I look down to check that my nipples aren’t erect. They are. Bugger. The chilly three-minute walk from the station has made them pop out. Please, God, make my nipples go soft. I cannot enter Paul’s house with erect nipples. I wish I wasn’t so nervous. What if everyone is right about Paul? Paul has read my blog and now knows everything about me including how I imagined having sex with him. What if I get there and
‘Very sexee,’ he smiles at me. ‘But why you aren’t wearing ze dress where you untie one leettle bow and you’re naked?’
Everyone erupts. I decide to find new friends.
‘You’re as funny as a fungal foot infection, Bertrand,’ I tell him.
‘Do you know what I want?’ pipes up Julia, changing the subject. ‘I want a conscious shag.’
‘What’s a conscious shag?’ chirps Nikki. She and Bertrand lean towards Julia, clearly hoping to increase their sexual repertoire.
‘As opposed to an unconscious shag, which my shags generally are because they always happen at about four a.m. after a litre of vodka,’ she explains.
‘Oh,’ say Nikki and Bertrand in disappointed unison.
I don’t comment because Baldy is hovering near by. He’s been outside emptying ashtrays so he is holding a bucket full of fag butts.
‘Oh, hi, Sarah,’ Baldy says, doing some very bad oh-I’ve-only-just-noticed-you acting.
‘Oh, hi,’ I say, doing the same.
‘How, um, are you?’ he asks nervously, kicking the table leg with his toe.
‘I’m, um, fine, thanks.’ I am quite enjoying the fact that he is nervous. He probably wants to get my custom back as his takings would have plummeted after my humiliation and subsequent desertion from his pub.
‘I, um, haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘No, I’ve been really busy.’
‘Great.’ He nods, which makes his chins wobble. He stands there smiling at me. I’d like him to leave as the stale-cigarette smell is foul and I want to continue my conversation about Paul’s motives. I am just turning back to Nikki and Julia when he coughs and says, ‘We should go for that drink sometime.’
I wonder whether I should point out that when I made that very same proposition he told me he would rather watch a children’s movie about a backless wardrobe. He sounds eager. He looks nervous. I remember how I felt as I plucked up the courage to ask him out. I remember how awful it felt to be rejected. If I was a strong woman in an American serialized drama I would squish my face up like a pug dog in pain and say the word ‘soz’ in a fantastically patronizing manner. But being me and crap and from a convent I just mumble, ‘Oh, er, yeah, we should.’
sixteen
Mortlake is the antithesis of Camden:
1)
It is eerily quiet
2)
Nobody has offered me skunk weed. I get offered skunk approximately eleven times a day in Camden
3)
There is utterly no spit on the street. I have looked hard and nope, no pavement flob at all
This must be a very affluent area, where people go to breed. Mortlake. It isn’t a very nice name for a place though. It sounds like somewhere kittens in brick-filled bin bags are callously thrown or, worse, a huge shopping centre. Getting here involved a tube and a proper train and spending all the money I had on me. It’s miles away. I should probably have had some jabs and changed some currency. I’m sure it isn’t actually in London. It just clings to it like chewing gum to a trainer.
I have found his house. It really is a house. There is only one buzzer. Now people always say, ‘Come to my house,’ but what they mean is, ‘Come to the tiny flat I pay an astronomical amount of money to share with six people and we shall eat in my room with our plates on our laps.’ I can’t remember the last time I went to a house in London that belonged to someone under fifty. There is a majestic silver birch in his front garden. Golly, they have trees here as well.
I mount the stone stairs slowly to his red door. I look down to check that my nipples aren’t erect. They are. Bugger. The chilly three-minute walk from the station has made them pop out. Please, God, make my nipples go soft. I cannot enter Paul’s house with erect nipples. I wish I wasn’t so nervous. What if everyone is right about Paul? Paul has read my blog and now knows everything about me including how I imagined having sex with him. What if I get there and
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