The Sleeper by Emily Barr Page B

Guy muses. ‘I think we can stay up a little while longer. I know! I was going to show you how to use Twitter, wasn’t I? What’s your email address?’
    I laugh at this pathetic excuse as Guy starts fiddling with his phone, and tell him. Soon he hands the phone to me.
    ‘There you go. Your Twitter account. Go on, write something. Your password’s lovelylara.’
    ‘Oh, thanks. Classy password.’
    ‘I know. If I were sober, you’d have had a better one.’
    I stab at his phone until I have written ‘Trying to work out how to use Twitter.’ Then I pass it back.
    ‘That’s one thing to cross off the list, then,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve written my first, and definitely my last, tweet. Another thing my sister can do better than me, but at least I’ve tried. Now I’m going to go to bed.’
    I think of Sam at home, desperately awaiting my return, pinning all his happiness on the expectation of a perfect weekend. If I got six hours’ sleep, I would be in an acceptable state for that. I would fall in with whatever he has planned, and I would be able to do it properly.
    I am about to stand up when I realise that my leg is pressing against Guy’s under the table. I note that it has been for quite some time. I leave it there.
    ‘OK.’ My voice is quiet. The bar is open all night, but at the moment there is no one here, under its bright lights, but us. Everything has changed.
    ‘Lara,’ says Guy. He opens his mouth to say something more, thinks better of it, and stops.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘This is …’
    ‘I know.’ I do not, of course, know. I have no idea whether he means ‘this is dangerous’, or ‘this is suddenly different, compelling and wildly, all-encompassingly exciting’. This is good: that is bad.
    The atmosphere between us is electric. He leans forward and takes my hand. His is warm, his skin dry. I look down at our two hands, entangled with one another. They should not be like that, but they look right together. We are holding each other’s right hands, so wedding rings are not part of the tableau.
    ‘Can I come over to your side of the table?’ he asks.
    I look into his dark eyes and see nothing but warmth.
    ‘Yes,’ I whisper, and I watch him slide out of his seat. Then he is beside me, and his hand is on my waist. I am turning towards him, in spite of myself, and tipping my face up to meet his.
    It is an odd thing, kissing a man who is not your husband. There is only one person in the world I am allowed to kiss like this, and the fact that this is not that person makes me so intensely excited, so desperate to cram as much as I can into these moments before reality catches up, that I feel every nerve-ending in my body tingling.
    Guy’s mouth is new. His lips are soft, and his tongue gentle as it explores my mouth. I am doing something gloriously and utterly forbidden. It has been many years since I did something that I was absolutely not allowed to do. My long-dormant bad side comes joyously to the surface, and rejoices as Guy’s hands move from my waist upwards. One of his hands is on my breast, then inside my top, finding its way inside my bra.
    The sensible me wins out for a while, and I pull away. He withdraws his hand.
    ‘Oh Christ,’ he says. ‘Lara. You are amazing. Apologies for overstepping.’
    This is the moment. I recognise it even as it happens. This, I know, is the moment when I could draw back. I could call it a mistake, forget it ever happened, and avoid Guy for the next few weeks.
    Or I could do what I actually do.
    ‘You’re not overstepping,’ I say quietly. ‘Or if you are, we both are.’
    He grins, and his whole face is alight. He leans in close.
    ‘You’re sure? I mean, you must have seen me looking at you. I knew it the instant I saw you, which was quite possibly the first time you travelled on this train. I just … I mean, just because you’re married, that doesn’t mean you don’t notice people. And then I got to know you. Oh God, listen to me. No one tells