other and kissed, just lightly: a promise. He'd bought a tub of
salty popcorn, but neither of us ate much of it. We'd both known it was
tonight, and the film was just about waiting in the dark, emptying our minds of
the other things. For me that meant trying to forget what Brendan had said to
me the evening before. The way he'd leaned forwards and whispered it. Smiling
and saying that thing. I mustn't think of it; I had to get it out of my mind,
where it was buzzing like a fat, unclean fly. So I gazed at the images
flickering across the screen, glanced at Nick. Every so often closed my eyes.
When we wandered into the foyer, it was
dark outside. Nick lifted my hand and kissed the back of it. 'Where now?'
'My flat's nearer than yours,' I said.
We got a bus there and sat on the top,
right at the front. I pressed my forehead against the window and felt the
vibrations and looked at the people on the streets beneath me, walking with
their heads bent against the gusts of wind. I felt nervous. Soon, I would be
making love with this man who was sitting beside me now, not speaking, whom I'd
only met twice. What then? Sometimes sex can feel casual and easy, but
sometimes it seems momentous and full of problems; almost impossible. Two
people with all their hopes and expectations and neuroses and desires, like two
worlds colliding.
'This is our stop,' I said.
He stood up and then pulled me to my feet.
His hand was warm and firm. He smiled down at me. 'All right?'
It was all right. Just fine. And then, after
we'd made ourselves a sandwich out of one of those half-baked baguettes which I
had in my cupboard, with goat's cheese and tomatoes, and drunk a glass of wine
each, we went back into the bedroom and this time it was better than all right.
It was lovely. Just thinking about it now, in Kerry's car, made me feel liquid
with desire. Then we had a bath together, legs tangled up in the small tub, my
foot pressed against the inside of his thigh, grinning like idiots at each
other.
'What are you grinning at?'
'Mmm? Oh, nothing.'
'Here. This is the first one.' Kerry
pulled up and squinted at the sheet of paper dubiously. 'It says it's a
two-bedroom maisonette, retaining many period features.'
'Does it say it's next to a pub?'
'No, it doesn't.'
'Let's go and see, anyway.'
It's dangerous buying houses. You know
before you set foot inside whether you like them. It's almost like a
relationship, when they say it's the first few seconds that count, that
instant, pre-rational impression. You have to fall in love with the house you
buy. Everything else — whether the roof's sound, the plumbing good, the rooms
numerous enough — is almost irrelevant at the start. You can knock down walls
and install a damp-proof course, but you can't make yourself fall in love. I
was here as the expert; as the voice of caution.
Kerry knocked and the door flew open as if
the woman had been standing with her eye pressed to the spyhole, looking for
our approach.
'Hello, come in, mind the step, shall I
show you round or do you want to do it yourself, except there are a few details
that you might miss, here, come in here first, this is the living room, sorry
about the mess...' She was large and breathless and spoke in a headlong rush,
words spilling over each other. She careered us from room to tidied room, over
frantically patterned carpets. The walls were covered with plates they'd
collected, from Venice, Amsterdam, Scarborough, Cardiff, Stockholm, and for
some reason the sight of them made me feel sorry for her. She pulled open doors
with a flourish, showed us the airing cupboard and the new boiler, the second
toilet that was crammed into a space that had been carved out of the kitchen,
the dimmer switches in the tiny master bedroom, and the spare bedroom that
looked more like a broom cupboard and had clearly been built by cowboys. I
pushed the wall surreptitiously and saw it shake. Kerry made polite murmurs and
looked around her with bright eyes
salty popcorn, but neither of us ate much of it. We'd both known it was
tonight, and the film was just about waiting in the dark, emptying our minds of
the other things. For me that meant trying to forget what Brendan had said to
me the evening before. The way he'd leaned forwards and whispered it. Smiling
and saying that thing. I mustn't think of it; I had to get it out of my mind,
where it was buzzing like a fat, unclean fly. So I gazed at the images
flickering across the screen, glanced at Nick. Every so often closed my eyes.
When we wandered into the foyer, it was
dark outside. Nick lifted my hand and kissed the back of it. 'Where now?'
'My flat's nearer than yours,' I said.
We got a bus there and sat on the top,
right at the front. I pressed my forehead against the window and felt the
vibrations and looked at the people on the streets beneath me, walking with
their heads bent against the gusts of wind. I felt nervous. Soon, I would be
making love with this man who was sitting beside me now, not speaking, whom I'd
only met twice. What then? Sometimes sex can feel casual and easy, but
sometimes it seems momentous and full of problems; almost impossible. Two
people with all their hopes and expectations and neuroses and desires, like two
worlds colliding.
'This is our stop,' I said.
He stood up and then pulled me to my feet.
His hand was warm and firm. He smiled down at me. 'All right?'
It was all right. Just fine. And then, after
we'd made ourselves a sandwich out of one of those half-baked baguettes which I
had in my cupboard, with goat's cheese and tomatoes, and drunk a glass of wine
each, we went back into the bedroom and this time it was better than all right.
It was lovely. Just thinking about it now, in Kerry's car, made me feel liquid
with desire. Then we had a bath together, legs tangled up in the small tub, my
foot pressed against the inside of his thigh, grinning like idiots at each
other.
'What are you grinning at?'
'Mmm? Oh, nothing.'
'Here. This is the first one.' Kerry
pulled up and squinted at the sheet of paper dubiously. 'It says it's a
two-bedroom maisonette, retaining many period features.'
'Does it say it's next to a pub?'
'No, it doesn't.'
'Let's go and see, anyway.'
It's dangerous buying houses. You know
before you set foot inside whether you like them. It's almost like a
relationship, when they say it's the first few seconds that count, that
instant, pre-rational impression. You have to fall in love with the house you
buy. Everything else — whether the roof's sound, the plumbing good, the rooms
numerous enough — is almost irrelevant at the start. You can knock down walls
and install a damp-proof course, but you can't make yourself fall in love. I
was here as the expert; as the voice of caution.
Kerry knocked and the door flew open as if
the woman had been standing with her eye pressed to the spyhole, looking for
our approach.
'Hello, come in, mind the step, shall I
show you round or do you want to do it yourself, except there are a few details
that you might miss, here, come in here first, this is the living room, sorry
about the mess...' She was large and breathless and spoke in a headlong rush,
words spilling over each other. She careered us from room to tidied room, over
frantically patterned carpets. The walls were covered with plates they'd
collected, from Venice, Amsterdam, Scarborough, Cardiff, Stockholm, and for
some reason the sight of them made me feel sorry for her. She pulled open doors
with a flourish, showed us the airing cupboard and the new boiler, the second
toilet that was crammed into a space that had been carved out of the kitchen,
the dimmer switches in the tiny master bedroom, and the spare bedroom that
looked more like a broom cupboard and had clearly been built by cowboys. I
pushed the wall surreptitiously and saw it shake. Kerry made polite murmurs and
looked around her with bright eyes
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