I leapt away.
‘Alone!’ I exclaimed. ‘Back to bed alone!’
He sighed and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘What’s wrong, you don’t think I am attractive?’
‘No. I mean, of course, you’re not bad, but I’m not looking for a man.’
‘You are lesbian?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t like sex?’
‘For God’s sake! None of those things, but I just want to sleep alone.’
‘Ah, you are tired.’
‘Yes! Nail on the head. That’s it exactly. I am tired.’
‘OK. I understand.’ He rose, gathering the blanket back around him. ‘I am tired also. Let’s go to sleep.’
I leapt up, at a loss as to how to make this man understand I didn’t want to share a bed with him.
‘You mean … you are coming into my bed?’
‘It’s my bed,’ he pointed out.
‘Yeah, but … I just …’ I could do no more than gibber while he watched me with an eyebrow cocked.
‘Ó Istenem, you are afraid of me? Fine. I sleep here.’
I looked rather dubiously at the couch, which didn’t seem quite sufficient to accommodate his full length, but he merely waved his blanketed arm towards the bedroom door and ordered, ‘Go!’
There seemed no option but to obey.
Two and a half hours later, I woke to the smell of cooking and the sound of pans clattering. It took my memory a few seconds to catch up with my consciousness and remember the events of recent hours.
That man is still here.
I locked myself in the tiny bathroom and showered for as long as I thought it might take him to go away, thinking over our night-time encounter as I massaged shampoo into my scalp. What a bloody nerve he’d had! He had actually thought I’d be willing to jump right into the role of Jodie’s replacement in bed as well as in the flat. ‘Wanker,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Talk about a brass neck.’ I remembered a line from Jodie’s letter to me. If 15 Hungarian men haven’t tried to pull you within an hour of landing, check that you still have a face. I snorted, wiping lather from my eye. If you want to give a man the brush off tell him quite loudly and precisely that you are pregnant with Chuck Norris’ baby. Subtlety won’t work. I thought of János’ apparent incredulity at my not wanting to hop into the sack with him and snorted again.
By the time I was out of the shower and dressed, the cooking smells were too seductive to resist, the promise of cholesterol drawing me into the other room.
János stood scrambling eggs in a skillet with his back to me. I don’t know when he had collected his clothes – presumably he must have crept into the bedroom while I was sleeping, ugh, freaky – but he was half-dressed in a pair of jeans and a belt and nothing else. He hadn’t heard me come in, so I watched his rear aspect for a moment while he cooked, the shoulder blades flexing and back muscles rippling. He had a tattoo – a bird of some kind – right at the base of his neck where his hair ended in a V-shape of downy brown. I tried very hard not to look at his arse, but it couldn’t be helped. The tightness of it in those jeans needed capturing in the memory to be brought out at a more appropriate time.
He lifted the skillet and tipped the scrambled eggs into first one bowl and then another, so that it sat alongside something else already in there.
Without turning around he said, ‘You like what you see?’
I suppressed my yelp of alarm at having been perceived and tried to retrieve the situation. ‘Scrambled eggs, yeah, lovely.’
‘Not the eggs,’ he said. ‘You are checking out my ass. You like it?’
‘I’m not … nothing of the kind,’ I protested, but it sounded too lame to continue with. Instead, I sidled up to the counter and peered into the bowl. ‘What’s this?’
‘Lecsó,’ he said, but I was none the wiser, so he explained. ‘We like for breakfast. Onions, peppers, tomatoes, cook with sugar and salt and paprika until they are soft. Then we put with eggs, right?’
‘It smells
‘Alone!’ I exclaimed. ‘Back to bed alone!’
He sighed and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘What’s wrong, you don’t think I am attractive?’
‘No. I mean, of course, you’re not bad, but I’m not looking for a man.’
‘You are lesbian?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t like sex?’
‘For God’s sake! None of those things, but I just want to sleep alone.’
‘Ah, you are tired.’
‘Yes! Nail on the head. That’s it exactly. I am tired.’
‘OK. I understand.’ He rose, gathering the blanket back around him. ‘I am tired also. Let’s go to sleep.’
I leapt up, at a loss as to how to make this man understand I didn’t want to share a bed with him.
‘You mean … you are coming into my bed?’
‘It’s my bed,’ he pointed out.
‘Yeah, but … I just …’ I could do no more than gibber while he watched me with an eyebrow cocked.
‘Ó Istenem, you are afraid of me? Fine. I sleep here.’
I looked rather dubiously at the couch, which didn’t seem quite sufficient to accommodate his full length, but he merely waved his blanketed arm towards the bedroom door and ordered, ‘Go!’
There seemed no option but to obey.
Two and a half hours later, I woke to the smell of cooking and the sound of pans clattering. It took my memory a few seconds to catch up with my consciousness and remember the events of recent hours.
That man is still here.
I locked myself in the tiny bathroom and showered for as long as I thought it might take him to go away, thinking over our night-time encounter as I massaged shampoo into my scalp. What a bloody nerve he’d had! He had actually thought I’d be willing to jump right into the role of Jodie’s replacement in bed as well as in the flat. ‘Wanker,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Talk about a brass neck.’ I remembered a line from Jodie’s letter to me. If 15 Hungarian men haven’t tried to pull you within an hour of landing, check that you still have a face. I snorted, wiping lather from my eye. If you want to give a man the brush off tell him quite loudly and precisely that you are pregnant with Chuck Norris’ baby. Subtlety won’t work. I thought of János’ apparent incredulity at my not wanting to hop into the sack with him and snorted again.
By the time I was out of the shower and dressed, the cooking smells were too seductive to resist, the promise of cholesterol drawing me into the other room.
János stood scrambling eggs in a skillet with his back to me. I don’t know when he had collected his clothes – presumably he must have crept into the bedroom while I was sleeping, ugh, freaky – but he was half-dressed in a pair of jeans and a belt and nothing else. He hadn’t heard me come in, so I watched his rear aspect for a moment while he cooked, the shoulder blades flexing and back muscles rippling. He had a tattoo – a bird of some kind – right at the base of his neck where his hair ended in a V-shape of downy brown. I tried very hard not to look at his arse, but it couldn’t be helped. The tightness of it in those jeans needed capturing in the memory to be brought out at a more appropriate time.
He lifted the skillet and tipped the scrambled eggs into first one bowl and then another, so that it sat alongside something else already in there.
Without turning around he said, ‘You like what you see?’
I suppressed my yelp of alarm at having been perceived and tried to retrieve the situation. ‘Scrambled eggs, yeah, lovely.’
‘Not the eggs,’ he said. ‘You are checking out my ass. You like it?’
‘I’m not … nothing of the kind,’ I protested, but it sounded too lame to continue with. Instead, I sidled up to the counter and peered into the bowl. ‘What’s this?’
‘Lecsó,’ he said, but I was none the wiser, so he explained. ‘We like for breakfast. Onions, peppers, tomatoes, cook with sugar and salt and paprika until they are soft. Then we put with eggs, right?’
‘It smells
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