A Passionate Love Affair with a Total Stranger by Lucy Robinson Page A
Authors: Lucy Robinson
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‘S’. I
wanted
to kiss William. Both via email and in real life.
It appears
, I thought, looking over at the mirror and seeing my flushed cheeks and slightly wild eyes,
that I have completely lost control of myself
.
The sensation of having completely lost control was not something I’d ever felt particularly comfortable with, yet I was finding this ill-advised exchange deliciously, almost excruciatingly enjoyable.
You have a new message!
advised the dialogue bubble floating up my screen. I felt a sensation of pure, rushing joy. The seconds it took for the message to load were torture.
Bloody hell, Charlotte Lambert, so-called Scottish Amazon, this is no good at all
, I told myself sternly. Then the message loaded and I forgot everything else.
04.41
Now then Shelley. That’s not fair. I told you the truth about feeling like I could Maybe Do Better and you threw it back in my face with talk of charitable good deeds and some bollocks about volunteering. Talk to me! You may look beautiful but I do not believe you’re perfect.
Come on … x
PS Is your skin really that smooth? It sort of looks like you’ve been carved from a piece of alabaster.
PPS Er, sorry. It’s late. Might be getting a bit carried away. This Internet dating thing is dangerous, isn’t it? Are these feelings real? Or are they just some sort of mad online fantasy? After all, you could be an old man.
PPPS I don’t really think you’re an old man.
I laughed out loud. ‘I’ll old-man you, William.’ I giggled, hitting reply.
And then I paused. William had just been touchingly honest with me. Would I brush him off with some silly flirting or would I actually think about what he’d just said?
I moved my hands away from the keyboard. Was I perfect? (Clearly not.) Were there things about me that I’d change if I could?
Yes
, I thought, surprising myself.
Yes, actually.
Recognizing myself in Shelley a few hours earlier had made for some uncomfortable realizations. And William had somehow tapped right into them. How was he doing it?
Before I knew it, I was writing again.
05.01
Do I feel like I could do better?
I’ve never asked myself that question before. Well, I have, but I’ve always used ‘doing better’ in terms of working harder or achieving more. But, now you come to ask, I’m realizing (er, possibly right now) that I’m not very good at sitting with myself. You were bang on when you said I’d probably prefer a date where we do a million things in three hours. I can’t stand being still – it sends me insane. That’s not good, is it?
So now (where is this coming from?? Argh!) I’m also wondering if maybe I need to let go of my work a bit … It takes up most of my time and mental energy. But how does anyone do that without actually leaving their job?
Oh dear. Can of worms, William. Can of worms.
I pressed send, feeling a bit sick. ‘You’re writing on Shelley’s behalf,’ I told myself half-heartedly. ‘This is for her, not you.’ But none of the correspondence so far had had anything to do with Shelley and this was no different. This was 100 per cent me. Not just the surface me, either: I was writing things that I’d never said before. Never thought before. I read back over my last message and felt
even more flummoxed. These observations about my life were not comfortable.
William emailed back almost immediately.
05.03
Do you think you’re a perfectionist?
I exhaled slowly. This was all getting a bit heavy. And yet he was hitting home. Quite hard, in fact. Was I a perfectionist? Bloody hell, yes! I was more of a perfectionist than anyone I knew! I crippled myself trying to make the perfect risotto, to buy the perfect wine, to be the perfect employee. I got furious with myself if I lost so much as a
tenth of a second
from my ideal running time round Holyrood Park. A tenth of a second? Dear God! I passed my hand over my face, slightly dazed.
05.10
In a word, yes. Actually I’m a chronic perfectionist. And I
wanted
to kiss William. Both via email and in real life.
It appears
, I thought, looking over at the mirror and seeing my flushed cheeks and slightly wild eyes,
that I have completely lost control of myself
.
The sensation of having completely lost control was not something I’d ever felt particularly comfortable with, yet I was finding this ill-advised exchange deliciously, almost excruciatingly enjoyable.
You have a new message!
advised the dialogue bubble floating up my screen. I felt a sensation of pure, rushing joy. The seconds it took for the message to load were torture.
Bloody hell, Charlotte Lambert, so-called Scottish Amazon, this is no good at all
, I told myself sternly. Then the message loaded and I forgot everything else.
04.41
Now then Shelley. That’s not fair. I told you the truth about feeling like I could Maybe Do Better and you threw it back in my face with talk of charitable good deeds and some bollocks about volunteering. Talk to me! You may look beautiful but I do not believe you’re perfect.
Come on … x
PS Is your skin really that smooth? It sort of looks like you’ve been carved from a piece of alabaster.
PPS Er, sorry. It’s late. Might be getting a bit carried away. This Internet dating thing is dangerous, isn’t it? Are these feelings real? Or are they just some sort of mad online fantasy? After all, you could be an old man.
PPPS I don’t really think you’re an old man.
I laughed out loud. ‘I’ll old-man you, William.’ I giggled, hitting reply.
And then I paused. William had just been touchingly honest with me. Would I brush him off with some silly flirting or would I actually think about what he’d just said?
I moved my hands away from the keyboard. Was I perfect? (Clearly not.) Were there things about me that I’d change if I could?
Yes
, I thought, surprising myself.
Yes, actually.
Recognizing myself in Shelley a few hours earlier had made for some uncomfortable realizations. And William had somehow tapped right into them. How was he doing it?
Before I knew it, I was writing again.
05.01
Do I feel like I could do better?
I’ve never asked myself that question before. Well, I have, but I’ve always used ‘doing better’ in terms of working harder or achieving more. But, now you come to ask, I’m realizing (er, possibly right now) that I’m not very good at sitting with myself. You were bang on when you said I’d probably prefer a date where we do a million things in three hours. I can’t stand being still – it sends me insane. That’s not good, is it?
So now (where is this coming from?? Argh!) I’m also wondering if maybe I need to let go of my work a bit … It takes up most of my time and mental energy. But how does anyone do that without actually leaving their job?
Oh dear. Can of worms, William. Can of worms.
I pressed send, feeling a bit sick. ‘You’re writing on Shelley’s behalf,’ I told myself half-heartedly. ‘This is for her, not you.’ But none of the correspondence so far had had anything to do with Shelley and this was no different. This was 100 per cent me. Not just the surface me, either: I was writing things that I’d never said before. Never thought before. I read back over my last message and felt
even more flummoxed. These observations about my life were not comfortable.
William emailed back almost immediately.
05.03
Do you think you’re a perfectionist?
I exhaled slowly. This was all getting a bit heavy. And yet he was hitting home. Quite hard, in fact. Was I a perfectionist? Bloody hell, yes! I was more of a perfectionist than anyone I knew! I crippled myself trying to make the perfect risotto, to buy the perfect wine, to be the perfect employee. I got furious with myself if I lost so much as a
tenth of a second
from my ideal running time round Holyrood Park. A tenth of a second? Dear God! I passed my hand over my face, slightly dazed.
05.10
In a word, yes. Actually I’m a chronic perfectionist. And I
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