My Book

by Alam, Donna

  ‘I’ll go to the bar.’ With a reflective smile, I spread my palms on the table as I stand. ‘Can I expect you’ll still be here when I return?’

  She has the audacity to throw back her head and laugh. I think this could be part of the reason I like her so much. Her sense of humour is almost perverse.

  ‘It’s my turn to leave again, isn’t it?’ Her gaze narrows. ‘I think you’ll have to take your chances.’

  And what do you know? I’d absolutely love to.

  Ten minutes later and we’re nursing our respective whiskies, the conversation sparing. I wonder if my choice of drink might have been a mistake because I’ve yet to see her lifts hers to her lips for more than a sniff.

  ‘Cards on the table.’ I rap my knuckles against the wood veneer. ‘I meant what I said earlier.’

  ‘Which bit? When you said you can be a bit premature?’

  ‘I think I said quick, though I’ll admit my departure was a little hasty. My apologies.’ She opens her mouth, then closes it again. ‘But I was referring to when I said I like you.’

  ‘You don’t know me.’ Her gaze dips to the amber liquid in her glass. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I like the bits I’ve seen.’ Her head rises then, one brow in the shape of a question mark. ‘Not like that,’ I drawl, adding, ‘though it warrants a mention that I like all of those bits of you, too.’ If you’d just let your guard down, I’m sure we’d get along fabulously.

  ‘I might’ve noticed,’ she murmurs. ‘And in the interest of honesty, I’ve been appreciating bits of you longer than you’ve been appreciating bits of me.’

  ‘Oh?’ The answer to this should be interesting. ‘I’m not sure how, unless you’ve installed a camera in my bedroom.’

  ‘Would it make for interesting viewing?’ she asks saucily.

  ‘Lots of manual labour. Perhaps the odd naked dance.’

  ‘You like to dance naked—and admit it?’

  ‘Why not? Haven’t you?’

  ‘I can’t say I’ve tried it.’

  ‘We’ll have to remedy that. But what about this appreciation of yours?’

  Her fingernail taps her full bottom lip contemplatively, bringing my attention there. Maybe I don’t know her well, but I know those lips. I know how they feel against my own, and that in and of itself is knowledge.

  ‘I might’ve watched you doing yoga in the garden while I was looking after your neighbour’s cats.’ Even in the dim light of the pub, I can tell she’s blushing. Another of the things I like about her, though perhaps I shouldn’t. But there’s something about her blush that I find irresistible.

  ‘See anything you like?’ I wonder if she realises we’re both leaning closer.

  ‘I might’ve enjoyed a couple of things.’

  Her tone is a touch salacious, my eyebrows heading for my hairline as I absolutely resist the urge to suggest I show her a couple of tricks. The lizard pose can be mind-blowing, for instance.’ Mind-blowing and load blowing.

  ‘You know you can’t leave it there; you have to explain.’ She shakes her head, her gaze avoiding mine now. ‘Don’t be shy. Be audacious. Be bold and demanding.’

  ‘Those blue shorts.’ Her words fall in a rush. ‘You don’t wear a T-shirt or any underwear, as far as I can tell.’

  I try very hard not to laugh, pressing my smile into my hand.

  ‘Don’t,’ she protests half-heartedly. ‘Or I won’t tell you anything else.’

  ‘You mean there’s more?’ I widen my gaze comically. ‘Perhaps you like my shirt or my trousers?’

  ‘They’re very nice but cover far too much.’

  ‘Shall I take them off?’

  ‘Ha, funny. Oh, God. You probably would, wouldn’t you? Sit down!’ she protests as I push back my chair. ‘Please don’t say you’re an exhibitionist or into other kinky stuff.’

  ‘Define kinky,’ I tease. ‘I do enjoy being naked—’

  ‘That’s not a surprise.’

  ‘If only I’d had some inkling I was being watched,’ I add. ‘I would’ve put on a show.’

  ‘The show was fine as it stood. On one leg, sometimes. Or with your bum in the air. But as a wise woman once said, it was much easier to objectify you when I didn’t know your name.’

  ‘I’m not sure who this wise woman is but feel free to objectify away.’ As though an invitation, I fold my arms across my chest and sit back in my chair. ‘I’ll just be sitting here, basking in the adoration.’ I close my eyes and tip back my head. ‘When you’re ready,’ I say, peering at her with one eye.

  She shakes her head disparagingly. ‘You’re a very strange person.’

  ‘But one you like. And one who’d give you an up close and personal yoga session any time of the day.’

  ‘Downward dog?’ She tries to look unimpressed but struggles.

  ‘If you’d like, though I’m a devotee of the baby pose myself. As well as providing a fantastic view, it’s good for opening the sacral chakra, and—’

  She moves away as though suddenly pulled by strings, the colour draining from her face just as quick.

  ‘What is it?’ She blows out a breath long and hard. ‘It can’t be all that bad.’ Can it?

  ‘It shows what you know,’ she mutters, her gaze sliding away. ‘I really wish Heather wouldn’t have called you. If she’d left it for a few days, the timing would’ve been better. I would’ve been surer, at any rate.’

  Timing? Days? Is she ill? ‘Miranda, you’re beginning to worry me. Whatever it is, you can just say it. Tell me.’

  ‘But that’s just it.’ Her hands are in the air before she pushes them through her hair, pulling out her formerly sleek ponytail. ‘Can I? Where would I start?’

  ‘At the beginning,’ I answer firmly. ‘You’ve never held back telling me what you’ve thought before.’

  ‘You really don’t know me.’ Her hands drop to her lap, her gaze following. ‘Not the real me. You just see the bits I want you to see.’ The together bits. The brave bits.

  Does she think I’m so shallow? That I don’t know we’re more than the sum of our parts? She’s more than a pair of breasts, round and full. She’s more than just a peach-like arse that I want to press my teeth into. There’s so much of her I don’t know.

  ‘I like to think you’ve shown me enough to make me want to know more.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ She’s a little too lovely to deliver foreboding convincingly. ‘At the beginning?’ I nod in what I hope is an encouraging manner as I reach for my glass, which is unfortunately empty. ‘Here, you may as well drink this.’

  ‘You don’t want it?’

  ‘I’m . . . detoxing.’ She slides it across the table, and before she can retract her hand, I cover it with my own.

  ‘Whatever it is.’

  ‘You really have no idea.’ She laughs a little, but there’s no humour in it. ‘But first, you’re not a criminal, are you?’

  ‘If I were, I’m hardly likely to admit it, am I?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t move in those kinds of circles.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I don’t know what you do,’ she replies with a tiny shrug. ‘And just to warn you, if you say me, I’ll kick you under the table.’

  ‘Will you whisper whisky laced kisses to make it better?’

  ‘This is going to be a bit harder to fix than a grazed knee, no matter what business you’re in.’ That is, assuming you do work.’

  ‘I feel like we’ve already had this conversation.’ It’s quite a direct line of questioning, and I begin to wonder why.

  ‘You said you’re in acquisitions.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘After being in your house, I have to wonder exactly what you’re acquiring.’

  ‘Any ideas?’ I ask, folding my arms against the tabletop, intrigued more than suspicious. When a woman wonders what your net worth is, she’s rarely blunt about it. But I don’t think that’s what this is.

  ‘I’ve narrowed i
t down to drugs or illegal weapons.’

  Ah, this makes more sense. Less self-serving and more self-protecting.

  ‘Art,’ I answer with a smile. ‘I buy and sell art. I have a gallery in Belgravia. I could show you sometime.’

  ‘Sounds like a ploy to get me to come and look at your etchings.’

  ‘Ah, the original Netflix and chill.’ I stroke my chin in an exaggerated fashion. ‘I think we’re a little beyond that.’ She almost chokes on a giggle before waving me on. ‘I’m a mere appreciator of art, but my talent lies in making money from it. I have no etchings to speak of. But I’m happy to show you a few other things.’

  ‘Things?’ That one word holds such enticement. Such encouragement.

  ‘Just say the word.’

  She sighs softly, essentially pouring cold water on the moment. But that’s okay. In my business, I’m used to playing the long game. There are very few fast returns.

  ‘I asked because I think our paths might cross from time to time. In the future, I mean.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Even if she is being rather cryptic.

  ‘And if we’re going to spend time together, I think we should get to know each other better.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Though I’m sure once you’ve heard all I have to tell, I won’t see you for dust.’

  ‘I’m made of sterner stuff.’

  ‘You’re sure you want this from the beginning?’

  I pick up the whisky refill and indicate she should go on.

  And so she does. She tells me about her arse of a fiancé, her worthless engagement ring, her parents living arrangements and their acrimonious split, and the reasons behind the pet-sitting gigs. For a moment, it’s hard to believe that she’s kept all this to herself. But on the other hand, the moments we’ve spent together have been mostly those of the naked sort. She could’ve told me her life story, and I probably wouldn’t have heard.

  Men, eh? What can you do? We don’t have the most sophisticated of software.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, this ex of yours sounds like a colossal prick.’

  ‘Agreed. No arguments here.’

  ‘When someone treats you so despicably, so carelessly, that’s not love. That’s them trying to fix their broken pieces with yours.’

  ‘For a while, I’d liked to have stabbed him with his broken pieces, but I’m over it.’

  ‘Over it or over him?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been over him for a while. I’m now over the whole experience and moving on. Mainly because I have bigger problems. Issues. Things? Honestly? I don’t know how to categorise any of it.’

  ‘Perhaps I could help?’

  ‘And now we get to the pointy end of the stick,’ she mutters, glancing down and straightening the front of her dress with her hand. ‘Because you see, James. I’m pregnant.’

  21

  James

  Something few people know about me is that, as a small child, I had a stammer. At first, it was attributed by doctors to a development thing. Apparently, these are quite common due to the rapid way speech and language develop at those early stages, and more common still in boys. The male of the species. Are we always so slow on the uptake?

  But the issue persisted beyond the age these things are apparently considered normal, and help was sought from a speech therapist, I believe. It transpired that my stammer was linked to anxiety, perhaps in a child who wasn’t told but somehow knew anyway that his mother had cancer. By the time I entered puberty, I’d lost both the stammer and my mother.

  But I digress as a modicum of those fearful feelings return when one word stutters out of my mouth.

  ‘P-pregnant?’

  My gaze drops to the scarred tabletop, then lifts to a ceiling decorated with, of all things, antiquated gardening equipment. A glance at the walls shows they’re covered in the same kind of abstract detritus, and I notice the bar is stocked with a decent selection of gins. Because I find I can look everywhere, but I cannot look at Miranda. Until the wavering tone of her voice pulls my attention back to her.

  ‘Look, I am sorry to tell you here, and like this.’ She blows out a breath, soft wisps of hair around her face disrupted in the motion. ‘It wouldn’t have been my first choice of venue—or time. And I’m going to murder Heather.’ On her feet now, she drapes a light jacket over her arm before she slings a blue purse over her shoulder, seemingly suffering from the same attention problems. ‘And just so you know, I haven’t been to see the doctor yet. I’ve just done a home test.’

  I wonder abstractly how effective these tests might be as I swallow over the large ball of actual physical panic wedged in my throat. The news is a headfuck. A shock. But my current panic relates not to her news, which is possibly a panic for another time, but to the thing I fear most; the almost paralysing dread of being unable to communicate effectively as one word struggles for freedom, hitting the air in a breathless burst.

  ‘When.’

  ‘When what?’ Her brow furrows as I swallow again, reaching out blindly for the glass and swallowing the contents. The whisky’s fiery burn seems to loosen the knot of muscled tension there. Thank fuck.

  ‘When did you do the test?’

  ‘This afternoon. After you left.’ There’s a challenge but no accusation. Maybe at this point, I should apologise for leaving her wet and pulsing and draped over her boss’ desk. Except I won’t. I don’t want to. How could I regret a moment so beautiful in its execution? In its result? It seems pointless to explain the point of my actions as a manipulation borne of my desire to see her again.

  What I couldn’t have imagined is how it had happened so quickly or under such circumstances.

  So, here we are, together again.

  Perhaps if I’d stuck to fingering, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.

  I banish the unwelcome thought.

  She’s pregnant, and I’m about to be a father.

  Or am I getting ahead of myself?

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I’m aware this sounds like an asinine enquiry, but it does come from a place of genuinely wanting to know where her mind is. What her plans are. Even if I don’t know what my own reactions look like or what my own thoughts are right now.

  ‘Numb. Confused. Scared.’ Her knuckles are white where she grips the back of the chair, and she releases a shaky breath. ‘But maybe we should just leave this conversation until we know for sure. You know, before we start to panic.’

  ‘I’m not panicking.’ How my response sounds so cool, so ordinary and so like my regular self, I’ve no idea when the circumstances are anything but ordinary. But now that I’ve mastered my voice, I am calm.

  ‘Well, I have your card, so I’ll call you. Let you know.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  Despite it becoming clear maintaining her dignified air is taking its toll, she raises her chin. ‘I’m not sure there’s any point.’

  ‘We have things to discuss. The test aside, I assume because you’re telling me that you’re sure—’ As I speak, her face works through a range of emotions, settling on a strange kind of determination as she cuts me off.

  ‘I’m sure about nothing except for the fact I haven’t had sex with anyone but you in months and months. You fucked me well, and now I’m well fucked, you might say.’

  ‘Except I wouldn’t. Put it in those terms, at least.’

  So much to process but somehow, I know I can take her at her word as my eyes dip unbidden to her midriff before drifting to her face again. Is that dread? Worry glistening in her gaze?

  ‘Well, let me know what terms you would use when you can because I have to leave now.’

  ‘Miranda, sit down.’ Through the miasma of my own confusion, I reach for her hand. While she may allow me to take it, she doesn’t sit. ‘We should talk.’ How effective are pregnancy tests though, really? Are they more or less reliable than fucking condoms? I’ve used rubbers for twenty years and never had a failure, never been one of the one percen
t. The one percenter group I’ve never envisaged joining. ‘Talk to me, please.’

  Her expression suddenly crumples then, and the weight of the world, her world, buckles inwards, making her shoulders slump and her expression give.

  ‘It’s okay.’ I’m on my feet, my arms around her as she sobs silently into my chest, her body wracked with sobs. I begin to rub my palm against her back as the barman frowns in my direction, and a passing waitress slides me a filthy look as I myself suffer an episode of absolute cognitive dissonance. The woman I’ve fucked and who has subsequently been invading my dreams is pregnant, and I’ve no thoughts of being a father, yet her body against mine feels nothing but natural. As though this is the way it should be.

  ‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ she says through a muffled sob.

  ‘Of course, you didn’t.’ I cup her face, moving it from my chest so I can see her. ‘Wasn’t I in charge of the contraception?’ And I’m always so fucking careful, but that’s by the by now.

  ‘So, really, you did this to me,’ she complains wetly, slapping my chest with an ineffectual hand. ‘I’m going to get varicose veins and leak, and get really, really fat, and it’s all your fault.’

  No plans for a termination, my mind whispers. Shouldn’t this thought be followed by a wave of panic?

  ‘Can we not blame fate?’ I push the damp strands of hair from her face, then slide her tears away with my thumbs. ‘Or the condom manufacturers for their pitiful ninety-nine percent effectiveness?’

  ‘Or even the manufacturer of dog doors. We should totally sue.’

  ‘I know an extremely shady barrister. I’d ask you if I should set up a meeting, but I’m afraid he might steal you away.’

  She looks so forlorn yet so lovely as she laughs. And I can’t help it. I want her so much; I lower my lips to hers.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she whispers, her striking hand stronger now as she presses it against my chest.

  ‘I want to kiss you. Would that be okay?’

  ‘That depends.’ Her eyes narrow a touch. ‘Are you trying to comfort me?’