by Adele Parks
Afterwards, I pull up my knickers, mop up the desire. I have never done anything like this before and I wait for the embarrassment (mine), the dismissal (his). My mind gallops, planning, plotting. Preparing. Modern dating is a minefield. There is ghosting and haunting, being benched, breadcrumbed and kittenfished. Countless different ways for people to hurt one another. These are the new ways, or at least the new names, the old ways are still very much in existence too. Lies, deceit, rejection, regret. I don’t want to get involved with all of that. It has been years since I started up any sort of a relationship. A man like Daan: handsome, young, tall, confident, wealthy, will have a pick of women. I can’t risk my peace of mind. He will be trouble. I should simply walk away right now. I really should.
He offers to get me another drink. I watch him head towards the bar. He effortlessly cuts swathes through the crowds, people part for him. Men glance nervously upwards, clocking his height, women glance appreciatively, noting his beauty. I like it but I’m afraid of it. I could just slip away now. I can’t flatter myself that he’ll be too worried. Most likely, he’ll just pass the drink to the next pretty, willing woman. Why is he even spending time with me? Novelty? There are so many beautiful, brilliant, younger women to pick from. Yes, I am drunk, but somehow some deep reserve of self-preservation has kicked in, and I know that giving him a way to get into my life, my head, my heart would be ruinous. I will get hurt.
He returns, hands me a glass of champagne. ‘How can I reach you?’
It’s flattering. A man wanting to see you again after you’ve shagged him is not to be taken for granted. It’s tempting to trust him but impossible.
‘You can give me your email, I’ll contact you,’ I say.
‘Email?’ He seems amused. ‘Not my number or my Insta?’
‘Your email.’ I like the thought that that ball is in my court. I can contact him if I want to at any point although I’m not planning to. I must leave this here. One illicit night, on the back of an incredible shock. A treat. A holiday from work, my mother, all my responsibilities. Not to be excused but perhaps possible to explain. I’ve got away with it. I should count myself lucky. I should leave well alone.
11
Kai
But I don’t leave well alone. I can’t. I get home and expect to be able to compartmentalise the incident, consign it to a deep crevasse in my mind. Left alone, not disturbed, not disturbing. I tell myself it was just a flirtation. Exciting, electrifying. Isolated, contained. Nowhere to go. No future. A man like that would simply play with me. Let me down. It is not worth the risk, the inevitable heartbreak. But my real life conspires to be as hard and dull as possible so that he glistens and glitters all the more brightly. There is the funeral to attend, on hearing news of my father’s death my mother slips further into decline. She’s needy, angry, regretful. Days are lost to cleaning cat sick off the bed, sorting out dark and light wash loads, ploughing through towers of ironing, pairing socks, picking up dry cleaning, paying bills, shopping, cooking, cleaning, answering to my boss, managing my team, each one with their own spider’s web of demands and desires. Domestic and professional responsibilities threaten to overwhelm and bring little joy. He was joyful. The ball is in my court and I pick it up, serve a volley right over the net by setting up a new non-work email account and emailing him.
Is there a feeling like it? When the small envelope icon bounces onto your screen and suddenly it’s as though his fingers are on you again, in you again? We swap increasingly flirty emails, dozens every day. I wonder whether he is sending dozens of emails to dozens of women. Probably, but as I’m not planning on meeting up with the man, not allowing him in, it doesn’t matter. It’s just a game, a distraction. It is flattering, being rediscovered – reinvented even. We don’t speak. Our communication is confined to email. He tells me he works mostly from the offices in Amsterdam, that he is only in London once a month or so. I receive this news with relief. See, this man could not have a proper relationship with me. He is like all the men in my history, aloof, unattainable, unreachable. He tells me when he will next be in the UK. He writes that he’d like to see me again.
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 trivialise or sensationalise. 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 go, 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 straight away. That I’ll work from home but try to get in later.
His apartment is breathtaking. Not my usual style, because it is minimalist, uber-stylish 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 harbour. 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, 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 on to his bed. He briefly kisses my mouth but quickly moves on to lap the lips between my legs. He does so with such incredible vigour and enthusiasm, something I’ve always enjoyed, and he obviously loves, so I love it too. I push my hips towards him. Arch my back. Offer myself up. I burn for him.
Afterwards, 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 ski
es 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 bee-like tourists, the ancient palace, Southern Rail, give 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 sat 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 only see each other 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.
It becomes wearing. I can’t get a decent night’s sleep. My priorities are warped, my responsibilities are neglected. I’m tired, tearful. Unreasonable.
And so, after six months I try to end it. I try to leave.
I force a row, behave brutally, spit out hurtful truths that every couple knows about each other, but they manage to suppress, to curtail, in the name of harmony. I pick at the scab. Make us bleed. I finish it. Or he does. It’s nuanced. Unclear who finally ends things as it happens so quickly. In just minutes I tear us apart, which suggests we are only paper thin. I give him an ultimatum, it is in temper and frustration and he probably knows I don’t mean it even as I issue it, but I choose a time when he’s under pressure at work, rushing between meetings. He hasn’t got time to debate or think.
‘Meeting up once a month is pointless. How can we have a relationship when you live in another country?’ He is confused because haven’t I always given the impression that I like the casual nature of what we have? ‘You are just stopping me having meaningful relationships elsewhere. You’re not thinking of me in this at all. You are spoilt and selfish.’ I pull the thread that stitches us together. The space, his absence makes us possible. My words wound, and I’m certain he’ll want to bleed out alone.
‘We can’t discuss this over the phone,’ he says stiffly.
‘But I want to.’
‘I don’t.’
‘I’m sick of doing everything your way.’
‘I wish you would stay calm, be rational, Kai.’
‘You are so cold. You are incapable of real feeling,’ I snap accusingly. I imagine his upper lip quivering. Not because he is close to crying – not the sort – he is angry with me for exposing him. For exposing us both. The telephone is a cruel way to end a relationship. He stays silent. ‘Haven’t you anything to say?’ I demand.
‘Let’s talk about it when I see you next.’
‘I want to talk about it now.’ Because I can’t let there be a next time. Every time leads to another next time.
‘It’s better face to face. It’s better if we wait,’ he insists, firmly.
‘Now!’ I all but stamp my feet. ‘Now or let’s just call it a day.’
He sighs. I hear his breath. Imagine I feel it. ‘Then we should call it a day.’
‘Fine.’ I hang up and relief whooshes through my body, almost knocks me over. I reel.
After the relief comes the agony. I miss him so much. I hadn’t expected that. I hadn’t realised how quickly he’d been absorbed into my daily routine, my consciousness. The words, whilst being the ones I was looking for, cause me to wander around as though someone has beaten me. I hurt. I feel like I am being ripped apart. Split in two. If only. I call work and say I have flu. I go to bed, pull the duvet over my head. It feels like a sickness. My heart, my back, my head aches. I do not cry. I am too sad to cry. It surprises me how much he matters.
The world becomes duller, as though someone has dropped down a shade. Cut off the light and warmth. I can’t find any joy where I found it before, which makes me ashamed. Meeting friends for coffee is melancholy, not uplifting, attending book club is dull rather than stimulating. It feels like I am encased in an impenetrable mist. I can’t concentrate at work as I check my personal email account repeatedly, obsessively, every fifteen minutes, every ten. Every three. I recall the things I said. Harsh and impossible to retract. I told him not to contact me: no phone calls, no emails, no messages.
It takes a week for him to decide to ignore my dictate. It feels like a month, a year.
I cry when the text comes. Awash with relief, again. A total flip-flop of thought. Which makes no sense. I had deleted his number but not blocked him. It reads, Come to me.
I can’t not. I text back within seconds. Where? When?
When I arrive at Sushisamba, a Japanese-South American fusion restaurant with stellar views and dreamy interior (because Daan never sacrifices style, not even during times of emotional turmoil), he seems different, changed. Dipped in pain and self-knowledge. Has he missed me too? He must have. Why else get in touch?
‘I’m sorry,’ we blurt, simultaneously.
‘You don’t need to be more committed, I’m rushing things,’ I add, because I’ve had time to think about what I can cope with, what I can manage. What he might throw my way. If it is just once a month and there is no contact in between maybe I won’t drive myself wild with jealousy. Maybe it will be enough. I don’t want to be that woman, but I don’t think I have a choice anymore. I could be her.
We talk. We smooth it out as best we can. I try to explain my insecurities but can’t explain everything to him
. I probably should. This moment of clarity and honesty would be the time to tell him everything about myself, to shine a light on what we actually have going on here. But I don’t. I hold part of myself back, it’s habit and now necessity. What if he walked away from me once he knew all about me? I know now I can’t lose him. The early lunch stretches into the afternoon. But I should be at work, I’ve taken so much time off recently though, what harm can one more afternoon do? I’ll give some excuse about needing a blood test, I’ll imply that they are investigating a potentially serious health issue, then people won’t pry. I might not be asked for a doctor’s note. I’m shocked at how fearlessly I lie to secure time with Daan. I had thought we were meeting for more sex. I imagined him dropping to his knees, pulling my knickers aside and licking me out. Maybe not in the restaurant but back at his apartment. Or I would drop to my knees. Take him in my mouth. Tongues and fingers. Sucking, flicking and fucking.
He does drop to his knees. In the restaurant. ‘Marry me.’
‘What?’ I feel the proposal roar through my body, it doesn’t reach my head.
‘You are right, once a month is not a relationship. I’ve requested a transfer. It’s all been agreed. I’m moving here to London. There is something about you, Kai, that’s different from any other woman I’ve ever met. You ooze independence, self-containment. I love it. I love you. Marry me?’
I try to process what he’s saying. He wants me because he thinks I don’t want him as much as other women have done, or do. Just six months, six or seven encounters, his gesture is rash, vain, attractive.
