‘Very early days, though, Sonya.’
No more talking. I pull him back to me. I wrap my arms around him, and his stiff body softens. We kind of rock like that for a few moments until the tension becomes unbearable. We’re no longer fixed versions of ourselves; we’re in the process of becoming something else entirely. David’s eyes glaze over as he pulls my jumper down over my shoulder and traces his lips over my hot skin. He seems instantly pissed on the moment; all semblance of control gone. His tongue is inside my mouth, tang of metallic, kick of coffee.
I give myself over to the thrill of being afraid. Fear equals adrenalin equals aphrodisiac. Standing up there in the spotlight, all eyes trained on me, all ears tuned in to my words, the spell I would weave, the orgasmic terror.
This is that: close attention being paid to me. I had forgotten the power of that rush. A kind of obliteration. A moment that seems both holy and depraved. I am turned on in a way I haven’t been since I was with Roberto in some forbidden place. We shouldn’t be doing this. A forbidden encounter! How romantic, and how undeniably sexy.
After, somehow having made it to the bed, we lie in each other’s arms, drenched in sweat. I know what’s coming, the whirring, the back-pedalling, the wishing it had never happened. Neither of us speak. Outside: a clear night sky, like navy velvet shot through with brilliant diamonds. Take him and cut him out in little stars. Where are you, my Mister Man? My breath gets stuck high in my throat and I’m scared I’ll spill into tears. This is the part I dread, when I feel as if I have vacated myself. I hate this moment of bare-arsed vulnerability.
David falls asleep easily, his face relaxed, his body twitching involuntarily. I lay a hand on his cheekbones, tracing the line of stubble down towards his jawline. Can’t bear the feelings this closeness brings. This is something I’ve always experienced: this post-coital surge of excess emotion, while whatever partner is lying beside me is out cold. I go into the kitchen, fill a saucer of milk for Marmie and lay it in front of her. The little girl laps at the milk with her baby-pink tongue. I am entranced by her intense concentration, her defencelessness.
David sleeps for a solid seven hours, while I pace, watch telly on low. A Mystic Meg rip-off is on, her phone number flashes on screen. I get my phone, dial, and am greeted by an automatic voice to dial in a credit card number. Fake Meg’s bland, pretty, young face fills the screen. The casting department got it very wrong – they should’ve cast a wrinkled hag with searing blue eyes; this one is as inane as a catalogue model. I wonder at the type of person who would pay for an out-of-work actress’s advice at 3 a.m.
Fall at some point into some semblance of sleep on the couch; must do, because when I wake he’s standing over me.
‘Mind if I do?’ he says, as he sits beside me, drawing me close.
My body stiffens; I stink, need to stand under a shower, alone, but don’t want him not to want to be with me. He pulls my hair back off my face and kisses my cheek. Who is this carefree version of David? It’s as if he transferred all his uptightness into me last night – he should be mortified by what just happened. He should be very worried about what he just did.
‘Can I make you breakfast?’
I manage a polite ‘I’ll do it after my shower.’
‘Don’t bother your pretty head with that.’
What script is he following now? I walk as slowly as I can manage, when every part of me wants to run. As soon as I’m inside the bathroom I lock the door. The shower is as hot and the flow as hard as my skin will allow. I massage my coconut-and-lime Tesco special-offer shampoo into my scalp, a cheap waft of suds permeating my everything.
I cover myself in a big bath towel, scurry to the bedroom, wishing I could lock the door. What to wear? Decide on a demure look: checked shirt and jeans, barefoot, light touch of make-up. He wolf-whistles when I walk into the kitchen. I’m offended, but only slightly, more alarmed than anything. I should have seen it: he has a love/sex-addict thing going on. Isn’t this why there are strict guidelines in recovery? The danger of swapping one addiction for another. David has over ten years in sobriety, so he should be able to handle intimacy, although regarding him now, there’s no doubt that dopamine, or some other highly addictive feel-good chemical, has been triggered in his brain. His eyes are shining and faraway and it’s obvious he’s inhabiting some other world.
I haven’t worked out the exact shape of his fantasy yet but am certain it involves some form of conquest: Fair Maiden. Has he cast himself as a conquering master, hero, servant, slave? I really want him out of my house. The smell of the eggs is making me sick. He serves me a heap of scrambled on soggy toast, lots of pepper. He doesn’t even ask, just twists away at the grinder. Everything about him is irritating: his stupid happy whistling, his long skinny legs, the memory of them wrapped around me, almost choking me, his ridiculous smile. I want the old David back, the one I craved to touch, because he was out of bounds.