How many other women have you sent this exact email to?
He sends back the startled, pink-faced emoji. Just you!! He uses a lot of emojis and exclamation marks. I try to avoid both. I try not to trivialize or sensationalize. I’m walking a tightrope. He waits a moment. I wait too. His next email pings into my inbox. Heart beating quickly, I open it up. He explicitly tells me exactly what he wants to do with me. It’s a good thing I set up this account outside work, as the profanity filter would never have allowed it through. My heart beats even faster, and there’s the quickening between my legs too. I email back and tell him I can’t see him.
Can’t see me or don’t want to see me?
Can’t, I reply, honestly. I want to and I won’t lie about that.
There’s no such thing as can’t. What are you afraid of?
He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, not that I would have been able to give him one. He simply adds:
See you at 9 a.m. on Wednesday. Breakfast at The Wolseley.
He doesn’t email me again and I don’t email to confirm whether I will or will not turn up.
I do, though, even though it requires me taking time off work. I tell them I am going to the dentist. Breakfast, what harm could there be in breakfast? We eat full Englishes, or at least we order them, but then both of us helplessly push the food around our plates. “You’ve put me off my food,” he admits. “I’m never off my food.” He sounds surprised and a little bit annoyed with himself. I haven’t eaten well for two weeks, since we met. I can’t deny it—I’m enjoying the hollowness that I feel in my belly. I’m bright-eyed, despite not sleeping. I look suspiciously like a woman falling in love.
We catch a cab to an apartment that he tells me his family own. He’s vague, the way rich people who are slightly embarrassed by their glut sometimes are. I call my PA and tell her that my face is too numb for me to come back into the office straightaway. That I’ll work from home but try to get in later.
His apartment is breathtaking. Not my usual style, because it is minimalist, überstylish and functional. My home is stuffed with objects that I’ve kept long after they’ve ceased to have a practical use because of the memories they harbor. Still, I find myself admiring it for what it is. Other. The penthouse suite is sixteen floors up. We are surrounded by glass walls affording tremendous views. I am on top of the world. There are much taller buildings scattered across London’s skyline: countless offices, some hotels, the Shard obviously towers above us. Yet I think I am tickling the toes of the gods, miles away from being mortal.
“You must get fabulous views of the fireworks on New Year’s Eve from here,” I comment. He shrugs, accustomed to privilege, the best views, seats, service, wine. He probably doesn’t notice it. I feel silly, gauche. He continues to twist the champagne bottle he is holding, explaining this is the proper way to open a bottle, not forcing the cork with the thumb. He smiles as the discreet pouf sound heralds his success, no uncouth explosion, no mopping of the overspill. Although privately a tiny part of me misses the vulgar, celebratory pop.
He had the champagne on ice. He knew I was coming here. The whole thing feels suspiciously sleek; I try not to think of the women who have trodden this path before me. Or the ones that will come after. He hands me a glass of champagne in a coupe not a flute. Waves of desire throw me off my feet, wash sense out of my head. I barely manage to take a sip before he takes it off me, sets it aside, and I fall back onto his bed. He briefly kisses my mouth but quickly moves on to lap the lips between my legs. He does so with such incredible vigor and enthusiasm, something I’ve always enjoyed, and he obviously loves, so I love it too. I push my hips toward him. Arch my back. Offer myself up. I burn for him.
Afterward, I stand naked looking out of his window. Too high up to worry about being seen, much more interested in what I can see. London is shimmering. Blue skies and sunbeams bounce on the Thames, transforming the green sludge into a silver slithering snake. Light reflects and refracts off every window of every building. The city gleams. An illusion of frosting or gilding. I can see the Tower of London, London Bridge and HMS Belfast stately squatting on the Thames. The Tower is the size of a Lego castle. It is like a beehive with endless streams of tourists buzzing in and out. I watch boats chug from Westminster to Greenwich Pier. I wave at the passengers, but they can’t see me, I am far too high up. I am used to being invisible, and this time it is useful.
“The Tower of London is a great thing to see every day,” I comment. He nods. Affable but dazed the way men are after acrobatic sex that ends in rare mutual orgasms. “It reminds us of our mortality. We’re up here, feeling big but really we’re quite small.” The trains run below me to and fro; determined, relentless. All of this—the beelike tourists, the ancient palace, Southern Rail—gives me permission somehow to risk everything. To throw my lot in with this man. To dare to see where it goes. Because those things go on regardless of the decisions I make. I am small and want to be bigger.
He gets out of bed, makes me a coffee, not bothering to dress. I can’t take my eyes off his smooth buttocks, his relaxed cock. He hands me a double espresso, no sugar. “I guessed you would take your coffee strong and black.” Normally I drink sweetened cappuccinos. I took my coffee strong and black when I was a student. His barista skills have somehow stripped me back to that hopeful, experimental, promising person that I once was. I drink the coffee; tell him I have to go. Leave before he asks me to.
I travel back to the office, via tube. He stays between my thighs, wet and full. Long after I’m sitting behind my desk, I feel him.
I do not imagine it will last any length of time. This thing we have. Whatever it is. His youth, looks, wealth will guarantee as much. Every time I am with him, I think it is the last and value it all the more for that. However, I find that we are together even when we are apart, the presence of him stays in my head, on my hips and tits, between my legs. Throbbing, pulsing, like life. Until the next time.
I’ve given him my telephone number and so now we speak often and message constantly. I lose hours typing flirty messages in WhatsApp. I practically orgasm when I see the word typing… and I know he is across the channel but also right next to me. We see each other only once a month as he still lives and works in Amsterdam. He’s busy, inaccessible, important, impressive. I am very certain I am his London booty call. Nothing more. I imagine there are other women in other cities. Maybe one woman in particular. Sometimes, I even wonder if he is married. It is possible. I don’t ask. I tell myself I can’t be jealous. Such a destructive, hopeless, pointless emotion.
Yet, I am jealous. Eaten up with it.
I find myself googling him in the dead of night. Sifting through his social media accounts. Then—when my eyes are sore and tight with staring at every pixel, reading every comment, reading into every exclamation mark—I look at the accounts of his friends and family, hoping to see his familiar, suave, blond image on their pages. I do not request Friend status; I do not heart any of his posts. I remain invisible, untraceable. There are photos of him with other women. His arm slung casually around tanned shoulders, slim waists. It is impossible to tell if these women are lovers or friends. He is discreet, careful. I am mad to trust him.