grave. Probably a bit nervous. I give his leg a squeeze to put him at his ease.
‘But we are having fun, aren’t we?’ I hiccup.
‘We are.’
By the time the bar closes, I’m so pissed that David, bless him, worries that I won’t be able to get home on my own. Perhaps, he says, looking concerned, I should stay at his.
‘Aye aye,’ I joke. ‘I know your game.’
He laughs. It’s nearer, he says. It’ll save me rattling all the way home on the Northern Line. And it’s easier to get into work in the morning from his. He walks it. Besides, he wants to prove to me that he doesn’t have to share a bed with a hundred other antipodeans.
It’s midnight by the time we arrive back at his. And before I slump into the elegant banana-coloured couch in his kitchen, I have time to notice that his pad is distinctly un-bloke-like. Lots of Alessi kitchen equipment. A shiny chrome Dualit toaster. A gleaming Waring blender…
‘Nice shutff,’ I slur as he hands me a cup of Lapsang.
‘Thanks.’
We loll on the banana sofa for a while, then David, suddenly serious, looks at his watch.
‘We’ve got an editorial meeting tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I think we should go to bed.’
Just as I thought. He’s gagging for it.
I’mtingling with anticipation as he leads me up the stairs. He seems to spend an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom, brushing and flossing his teeth, but I tell myself it’s nice to meet a man who takes care of his appearance, and concentrate on checking my own teeth for spinachy bits.
By the time he comes out, a tiny white towel wrapped round his delectable, nipped-in waist, I’m already in bed, my clothes in their usual crumply heap on the floor. Cursing myself for not wearing matching undies, I’ve taken my dirty grey bra off and hidden it under my shirt. I contemplated just leaving my purple bikini knicks on but then decided to be bold and let it all hang out. Under the sheets I’m starkers.
How bold is that?
He looks surprised.
‘I was going to say you could have the spare room,’ he says. ‘But…’
‘Oh, that’s OK.’ I grin boldly. After all, we both know why I’m here. ‘Why dirty another lot of sheets? Not that I am, of course.’
‘Not that you are what?’
‘Dirty.’ I laugh, leaning dangerously towards him as he sits on his side of the bed and pouting for all I’m worth.
‘Katie, I…’
‘What?’ I lean so far forward that, in my pissed state, I collapse with my head in his lap.
‘I…’
‘Oooh,’ I say, putting my hand on his penis and giggling. ‘Is this a cucumber or are you just… Oh.’
Let’s just say he’s either hung like a grasshopper or he’s in no state of excitement.
‘Look,’ he says firmly, removing my hand.
‘It’s OK,’ I rush to reassure him. ‘I’m not expecting marriage, you know.’
‘Katie…’
‘Is thish because you have to sit opposite me at work?’ I try. ‘Because we can completely forget about the whole thing in themorning, you know. You won’t have to go out with me. Or buy me fancy goods of any sort whatsoever. I’ll let you off scotfree. I won’t tell a shoul.’
Although I might ask to borrow one of his T-shirts to wear into work, of course. One he’s worn before. So that Melanie and Serena will know.
They’ll be furious.
‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s not because of that.’
‘Then what?’ I’m stumped.
‘Well…’
‘Oh, I get it,’ I say. ‘You’re married. You’ve got some Sheila baking you Lamingtons back at home. Well, you know what they say. What the eye doesn’t see…’
God. I can’t believe I’m being so flippant.
‘It’s because I’m gay.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I say.
‘Katie, I’m gay.’ He takes my hands firmly. And suddenly I get it.
The beautiful kitchen. His immaculate appearance. His wonderfully bitchy sense of humour.
Of course he’s sodding gay. Whenever was a straight guy that perfect?
Buggery buggery fuck.
Everything stops. I can hear
‘But we are having fun, aren’t we?’ I hiccup.
‘We are.’
By the time the bar closes, I’m so pissed that David, bless him, worries that I won’t be able to get home on my own. Perhaps, he says, looking concerned, I should stay at his.
‘Aye aye,’ I joke. ‘I know your game.’
He laughs. It’s nearer, he says. It’ll save me rattling all the way home on the Northern Line. And it’s easier to get into work in the morning from his. He walks it. Besides, he wants to prove to me that he doesn’t have to share a bed with a hundred other antipodeans.
It’s midnight by the time we arrive back at his. And before I slump into the elegant banana-coloured couch in his kitchen, I have time to notice that his pad is distinctly un-bloke-like. Lots of Alessi kitchen equipment. A shiny chrome Dualit toaster. A gleaming Waring blender…
‘Nice shutff,’ I slur as he hands me a cup of Lapsang.
‘Thanks.’
We loll on the banana sofa for a while, then David, suddenly serious, looks at his watch.
‘We’ve got an editorial meeting tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I think we should go to bed.’
Just as I thought. He’s gagging for it.
I’mtingling with anticipation as he leads me up the stairs. He seems to spend an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom, brushing and flossing his teeth, but I tell myself it’s nice to meet a man who takes care of his appearance, and concentrate on checking my own teeth for spinachy bits.
By the time he comes out, a tiny white towel wrapped round his delectable, nipped-in waist, I’m already in bed, my clothes in their usual crumply heap on the floor. Cursing myself for not wearing matching undies, I’ve taken my dirty grey bra off and hidden it under my shirt. I contemplated just leaving my purple bikini knicks on but then decided to be bold and let it all hang out. Under the sheets I’m starkers.
How bold is that?
He looks surprised.
‘I was going to say you could have the spare room,’ he says. ‘But…’
‘Oh, that’s OK.’ I grin boldly. After all, we both know why I’m here. ‘Why dirty another lot of sheets? Not that I am, of course.’
‘Not that you are what?’
‘Dirty.’ I laugh, leaning dangerously towards him as he sits on his side of the bed and pouting for all I’m worth.
‘Katie, I…’
‘What?’ I lean so far forward that, in my pissed state, I collapse with my head in his lap.
‘I…’
‘Oooh,’ I say, putting my hand on his penis and giggling. ‘Is this a cucumber or are you just… Oh.’
Let’s just say he’s either hung like a grasshopper or he’s in no state of excitement.
‘Look,’ he says firmly, removing my hand.
‘It’s OK,’ I rush to reassure him. ‘I’m not expecting marriage, you know.’
‘Katie…’
‘Is thish because you have to sit opposite me at work?’ I try. ‘Because we can completely forget about the whole thing in themorning, you know. You won’t have to go out with me. Or buy me fancy goods of any sort whatsoever. I’ll let you off scotfree. I won’t tell a shoul.’
Although I might ask to borrow one of his T-shirts to wear into work, of course. One he’s worn before. So that Melanie and Serena will know.
They’ll be furious.
‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s not because of that.’
‘Then what?’ I’m stumped.
‘Well…’
‘Oh, I get it,’ I say. ‘You’re married. You’ve got some Sheila baking you Lamingtons back at home. Well, you know what they say. What the eye doesn’t see…’
God. I can’t believe I’m being so flippant.
‘It’s because I’m gay.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I say.
‘Katie, I’m gay.’ He takes my hands firmly. And suddenly I get it.
The beautiful kitchen. His immaculate appearance. His wonderfully bitchy sense of humour.
Of course he’s sodding gay. Whenever was a straight guy that perfect?
Buggery buggery fuck.
Everything stops. I can hear
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