to be thinking of that?’
‘Late, shmate. Should I be worried?’
‘No. Should I worry about a little half-Irish half-supermodel surprise in nine months’ time?’
‘I’m on the pill.’
He stretches like a cat, then turns on his side and unhooks my fingers from around the sheet. He holds my hand flat and kisses the pulse point of my wrist, tracing with his lips and teeth a line down to my inner elbow. ‘I do feel a bit guilty,’ he says.
He feels guilty? Nikola is staring at me in bed with an usherette I’ve known for 15 days and he feels guilty? My God. He’s got a wife. Ten kids. My hands make fists, nails burrowing into my palms. ‘Why?’
He sits on the edge of the bed. I scoot my body away. ‘I promised you Italian. No Italian. Then I promised you gourmet supermarket quail, and still nothing. No dinner at all. You must be starving.’ In an instant he vaults over me, landing lightly on his feet on the floor. ‘I have a great idea. How about breakfast? Something unrelentingly bad for you like bacon or eggs Benedict or pancakes or preferably all three. Then you can tell me more things. Childhood illnesses, favourite music, your football team—whatever you like.’
I look up at the ceiling. I’ve got so many things to do. I need to wash my hair and dry it and brush each section 100 times, then dress. And Saturday mornings are for shopping. I have to brush my teeth and wash my face and I’ve missed the alarm already but that doesn’t mean the day is ruined. I can start again at the beginning of the next hour.
‘That is…I mean…if you’re free…’
‘It’s not that.’
He takes my hands, and holds them together by the wrists. He brings them close to his body so I have no choice but to look into his eyes. ‘Grace, I have something very important to ask you. Please don’t think I’m asking this lightly. Please think about it, carefully, before you answer.’
I tense my shoulders, my hands.
‘Grace, can I have one of your toothbrushes? I’d really like to brush my teeth but I’d hate to leave you short. For…whatever.’
I laugh. I’ll pretend the supermarket had one less. ‘You may.’
‘Thanks. Now, I’m going to the toilet. Then I’m going to brush my teeth with a specimen from your collection. I’m going to put on my clothes from last night, as unappealing as that sounds. Then I’m taking you out for breakfast, because we need food and we need coffee. Okay?’
The air is even more still now than it was before. It’s early. The day is brand new. This morning, I have woken up with someone else in my bed. Last night, I did not do my night-time routine. The day is new, and it is filled with possibilities and I am filled with possibilities. He barely knows me. I can be anyone I want.
‘Well?’ he asks again.
Get up. Go to the loo. Brush my teeth with a new toothbrush. Put on clothes from last night. Go for breakfast.
The way he said it like that, it sounds like a list.
I pull myself out of bed with a determination and suddenness that surprises me. I stand next to the bed. I’m up.
‘No.’
His eyebrows rise satisfactorily.
‘No, I have no football team. Marx was wrong. Sports are the real opium of the people.’
He grins, as wide a grin as I’ve ever seen, and the crinkles around his eyes look like lots more smiles. ‘That’s sad, Grace. That’s really sad. But it might not be your fault. Perhaps you need to be shown the beauty in a run down the wing, or a long goal from the boundary.’
I take two toothbrushes from the bag and throw him one. ‘Football? Please. Why do people care? And 6 points for 1 goal? That’s just plain annoying. Why does their team, an arbitrary, illogical grouping at best, inspire this kind of bone-headed loyalty?’
I’m in the loo with the door closed, but he keeps talking. ‘It’s not arbitrary. It’s far from arbitrary.’ I can hear other noises, too. Kitchen cupboards, opening and closing. The fridge. ‘Do you have any
‘Late, shmate. Should I be worried?’
‘No. Should I worry about a little half-Irish half-supermodel surprise in nine months’ time?’
‘I’m on the pill.’
He stretches like a cat, then turns on his side and unhooks my fingers from around the sheet. He holds my hand flat and kisses the pulse point of my wrist, tracing with his lips and teeth a line down to my inner elbow. ‘I do feel a bit guilty,’ he says.
He feels guilty? Nikola is staring at me in bed with an usherette I’ve known for 15 days and he feels guilty? My God. He’s got a wife. Ten kids. My hands make fists, nails burrowing into my palms. ‘Why?’
He sits on the edge of the bed. I scoot my body away. ‘I promised you Italian. No Italian. Then I promised you gourmet supermarket quail, and still nothing. No dinner at all. You must be starving.’ In an instant he vaults over me, landing lightly on his feet on the floor. ‘I have a great idea. How about breakfast? Something unrelentingly bad for you like bacon or eggs Benedict or pancakes or preferably all three. Then you can tell me more things. Childhood illnesses, favourite music, your football team—whatever you like.’
I look up at the ceiling. I’ve got so many things to do. I need to wash my hair and dry it and brush each section 100 times, then dress. And Saturday mornings are for shopping. I have to brush my teeth and wash my face and I’ve missed the alarm already but that doesn’t mean the day is ruined. I can start again at the beginning of the next hour.
‘That is…I mean…if you’re free…’
‘It’s not that.’
He takes my hands, and holds them together by the wrists. He brings them close to his body so I have no choice but to look into his eyes. ‘Grace, I have something very important to ask you. Please don’t think I’m asking this lightly. Please think about it, carefully, before you answer.’
I tense my shoulders, my hands.
‘Grace, can I have one of your toothbrushes? I’d really like to brush my teeth but I’d hate to leave you short. For…whatever.’
I laugh. I’ll pretend the supermarket had one less. ‘You may.’
‘Thanks. Now, I’m going to the toilet. Then I’m going to brush my teeth with a specimen from your collection. I’m going to put on my clothes from last night, as unappealing as that sounds. Then I’m taking you out for breakfast, because we need food and we need coffee. Okay?’
The air is even more still now than it was before. It’s early. The day is brand new. This morning, I have woken up with someone else in my bed. Last night, I did not do my night-time routine. The day is new, and it is filled with possibilities and I am filled with possibilities. He barely knows me. I can be anyone I want.
‘Well?’ he asks again.
Get up. Go to the loo. Brush my teeth with a new toothbrush. Put on clothes from last night. Go for breakfast.
The way he said it like that, it sounds like a list.
I pull myself out of bed with a determination and suddenness that surprises me. I stand next to the bed. I’m up.
‘No.’
His eyebrows rise satisfactorily.
‘No, I have no football team. Marx was wrong. Sports are the real opium of the people.’
He grins, as wide a grin as I’ve ever seen, and the crinkles around his eyes look like lots more smiles. ‘That’s sad, Grace. That’s really sad. But it might not be your fault. Perhaps you need to be shown the beauty in a run down the wing, or a long goal from the boundary.’
I take two toothbrushes from the bag and throw him one. ‘Football? Please. Why do people care? And 6 points for 1 goal? That’s just plain annoying. Why does their team, an arbitrary, illogical grouping at best, inspire this kind of bone-headed loyalty?’
I’m in the loo with the door closed, but he keeps talking. ‘It’s not arbitrary. It’s far from arbitrary.’ I can hear other noises, too. Kitchen cupboards, opening and closing. The fridge. ‘Do you have any
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