The moment he entered, I darted into
my bedroom and began frantically stuffing clothes into my wardrobe. A quick tug
of the duvet, and the bed was passable.
The toilet flushed as I was shoving the last pair
of shoes under my bed, and I darted back into the hall, almost bumping into him
as he exited the bathroom. We made small, started sounds, then laughed. He
caught my arm, and I didn’t pull away.
The kiss we shared was tentative, more exploration
than anything. His beard was scratchy, his mouth cool from the water I’d given
him; the sensation surprised me when our tongues touched. I pushed deeper into
his mouth, clinging to the soft lapels of his moleskin jacket for leverage. He
opened for me, and I pulled him closer, gratified to feel his arms slide around
my waist and hold on tight.
“Why don’t I show you my bedroom?” I suggested,
whispering the words against his lips.
He made a small sound of assent.
I took his hand and led him into my room. He might
work in an office, but they felt like labourer’s hands, all big and rough.
The bedroom had been a dull, uniform white when I’d
bought the flat. I understood enough about interior design to know it was
supposed to make the space seem larger, but to my eye it only made it seem
cold. I’d roped Ryan and Sameer into helping me redecorate, painting the wall
behind the bed a startling pillar box red. I smiled as I looked at it,
remembering how much fun we’d had that day despite the struggles getting all my
furniture to fit, lugging boxes of books into the lift and along the corridor,
eating takeaway with plastic cutlery on the floor in the lounge. Not even the
uneven cutting in annoyed me, although I suspected, had Magnus been overseeing
the job, he’d have declared it woefully inadequate.
The furniture was black, the rest of the walls
white. My bedding was black and white to match, a canvas print of Tower Bridge
over the bed, framed posters of my favourite book covers hung in a neat line on
the wall opposite. Magnus saw them and dropped my hand to take a closer look.
I hovered at his side, waiting in silence for him
to pass judgment. There was Renault’s The Charioteer , Capote’s Other
Voices, Other Rooms , Leavitt’s While England Sleeps , Baldwin’s Giovanni’s
Room, and Tóibín’s The Story of the Night. A study on a very
particular theme. There was a reason the prints were in my bedroom, not on
display for all to see in the lounge.
“I loved this book,” Magnus said, touching the
frame of The Charioteer . “Although I prefer this cover.” He indicated Tóibín.
“Are they here purely for art’s sake, or because they mean something?”
“They’re inspiration,” I said. It was true. I’d often
dreamed of my name being lofty enough to speak in the same sentence as those
authors; one of my covers worthy to hang alongside theirs.
“You pick good muses.” Magnus smiled.
“I love that you recognise them,” I said without
thinking.
He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t normally date
literary types?”
I scoffed. “I don’t normally date.”
“So what changed your mind? Why am I here?”
I scuffed the cream carpet with the toe of my boot.
“I like you,” I said softly. “You seem trustworthy.”
“That’s important to you?” he asked. “You need
somebody you can trust?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” I shrugged off his
questioning, which was getting entirely too personal for my liking. Spilling my
guts wasn’t how I had envisioned the evening ending.
Magnus gave me a look which said he knew exactly
what I was doing, and next time, I wouldn’t get away with it. This time,
however, he let the matter drop.
I stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and now there was no
slow exploration, no hesitancy. He took me in his arms and walked me backwards
until my calves touched the bed. I unfastened the buttons of his shirt as he
shrugged off his coat and let it fall to the floor at our feet. The dark hairs
covering his chest reached almost
my bedroom and began frantically stuffing clothes into my wardrobe. A quick tug
of the duvet, and the bed was passable.
The toilet flushed as I was shoving the last pair
of shoes under my bed, and I darted back into the hall, almost bumping into him
as he exited the bathroom. We made small, started sounds, then laughed. He
caught my arm, and I didn’t pull away.
The kiss we shared was tentative, more exploration
than anything. His beard was scratchy, his mouth cool from the water I’d given
him; the sensation surprised me when our tongues touched. I pushed deeper into
his mouth, clinging to the soft lapels of his moleskin jacket for leverage. He
opened for me, and I pulled him closer, gratified to feel his arms slide around
my waist and hold on tight.
“Why don’t I show you my bedroom?” I suggested,
whispering the words against his lips.
He made a small sound of assent.
I took his hand and led him into my room. He might
work in an office, but they felt like labourer’s hands, all big and rough.
The bedroom had been a dull, uniform white when I’d
bought the flat. I understood enough about interior design to know it was
supposed to make the space seem larger, but to my eye it only made it seem
cold. I’d roped Ryan and Sameer into helping me redecorate, painting the wall
behind the bed a startling pillar box red. I smiled as I looked at it,
remembering how much fun we’d had that day despite the struggles getting all my
furniture to fit, lugging boxes of books into the lift and along the corridor,
eating takeaway with plastic cutlery on the floor in the lounge. Not even the
uneven cutting in annoyed me, although I suspected, had Magnus been overseeing
the job, he’d have declared it woefully inadequate.
The furniture was black, the rest of the walls
white. My bedding was black and white to match, a canvas print of Tower Bridge
over the bed, framed posters of my favourite book covers hung in a neat line on
the wall opposite. Magnus saw them and dropped my hand to take a closer look.
I hovered at his side, waiting in silence for him
to pass judgment. There was Renault’s The Charioteer , Capote’s Other
Voices, Other Rooms , Leavitt’s While England Sleeps , Baldwin’s Giovanni’s
Room, and Tóibín’s The Story of the Night. A study on a very
particular theme. There was a reason the prints were in my bedroom, not on
display for all to see in the lounge.
“I loved this book,” Magnus said, touching the
frame of The Charioteer . “Although I prefer this cover.” He indicated Tóibín.
“Are they here purely for art’s sake, or because they mean something?”
“They’re inspiration,” I said. It was true. I’d often
dreamed of my name being lofty enough to speak in the same sentence as those
authors; one of my covers worthy to hang alongside theirs.
“You pick good muses.” Magnus smiled.
“I love that you recognise them,” I said without
thinking.
He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t normally date
literary types?”
I scoffed. “I don’t normally date.”
“So what changed your mind? Why am I here?”
I scuffed the cream carpet with the toe of my boot.
“I like you,” I said softly. “You seem trustworthy.”
“That’s important to you?” he asked. “You need
somebody you can trust?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” I shrugged off his
questioning, which was getting entirely too personal for my liking. Spilling my
guts wasn’t how I had envisioned the evening ending.
Magnus gave me a look which said he knew exactly
what I was doing, and next time, I wouldn’t get away with it. This time,
however, he let the matter drop.
I stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and now there was no
slow exploration, no hesitancy. He took me in his arms and walked me backwards
until my calves touched the bed. I unfastened the buttons of his shirt as he
shrugged off his coat and let it fall to the floor at our feet. The dark hairs
covering his chest reached almost
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