by Holly Bourne
“I…don’t know.”
I slumped my head on the table and made myself breathe. Lizzie eventually kicked into action.
“Sorry,” she said. “But you’ve surprised me so I haven’t had time to prepare a good friend response.” She paused and thought about it again. “I think he’s obviously into you, judging from what you’ve said. And you’re not going to sleep with him, are you?”
I shook my head. “No way. Not yet.”
“Well, he’s just going to have to accept that and, if he’s really into you, it won’t be a big deal.”
She was right. But I was still terrified.
“I don’t know, Lizzie. I feel like this whole thing is destined for failure. There’s so much about him that sets off alarm bells. Like, I don’t know why he lives alone, apparently he has depression, he’s a man-whore, and he’s also in a band with girls like Portia chucking themselves at him all the time.”
She nodded. “Yeah, but it sounds like he really likes you.”
“You think?”
“Yeah.” She looked me up and down. “God knows why though.”
“Don’t make me sit on your head again.”
We had another mini play-fight, much to the delight of some of the boys in the canteen, who yelled “MUD WRESTLING!” at us. Finally we gave up and collapsed back onto our chairs, laughing.
“I hate saying it…” Lizzie said. “Well, actually I love saying it, but…I told you so.” She picked up my coursework again and started copying more of my introduction.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I predicted this perfect union. I told you you’d fancy the fit guitarist because it’s against all your principles. I set the wheels in motion.”
With horror, I realized she was right.
“Oh no,” I said. “I’m a…a…” I couldn’t say it.
“That’s right,” said Lizzie. “You’re a big fat cliché.”
Apparently time doesn’t behave itself if you’re nervously anticipating something. Much as I needed the day to pull myself together, time slid away from me like water. In a blur lunch was over, Photography whizzed past, and – blink – hey, where did Psychology go? Before I knew it, I was sitting in front of Dr. Ashley with the ever-present tissue box between us.
“So what have you been up to this week?” he asked, his notebook poised on his knee, ready for urgent scribbles.
Noah Noah Noah Noah Noah Noah Noah.
“Not much.”
I wondered why time had suddenly slowed down again. Now it was dragging. The minute hand of the personality-free clock on the wall was practically moving backwards.
“You must have got up to something.”
I needed something to fill the silence. I’d used up Mum-and-our-relationship-issues last time, there wasn’t much to say about Dad, and I didn’t think I’m-worried-about-my-A-level-coursework merited an appointment at a private health clinic.
“I went to another gig,” I volunteered.
“I see. And how was it this time?”
I nodded. “Good. I didn’t have another panic attack.”
The frantic note-taking began and I wondered if I would ever be allowed to read them.
“That’s good, that’s good,” Dr. Ashley muttered, almost to himself. “And did you do your breathing exercises this time?”
“I did them at the first gig as well.”
“I see. Well, did they help?”
“I suppose.”
“That’s good. That’s good.”
I interrupted his next surge of note-taking.
“Will I ever be allowed to read those?” I asked, pointing towards his book.
Dr. Ashley looked up and clutched his papers to him protectively. “What do you mean?”
“Well, whenever I say anything, even if it’s really boring, you write about it. But I don’t know why you’re writing.”
He put the notebook face down on his knee. “They’re just notes, Poppy.”
“Yeah, I know. But can I read them?”
“Why would you want to read them?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. Curiosity, I suppose. You could be doodling and not listening, for all I know. Or playing hangman against yourself or something.”
I wasn’t really sure why I was bringing this all up. But it meant we weren’t talking about Noah. That was good.
“I promise I’m not playing hangman, Poppy. Now…shall we get back to things?” He picked up the notebook again. “Has anything else happened this week? Have you—”
I interrupted him. “Dr. Ashley, do you go to therapy?”
That got him. He visibly jerked and took a good couple of seconds to compose himself.
“It’s not your job to ask the questions, Poppy.”
“I was just interested.”
“Well, it’s not relevant, is it?”
“You always tell me it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
This was fun. I pushed my guilt about Mum’s cheque to one side and enjoyed myself.
“It isn’t anything to be ashamed of.”
“Does that mean you go?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t say no. Isn’t it weird? Like, don’t you judge how good they are? Like when a hairdresser has to get their hair cut by another hairdresser?”
“I think we’re getting off the point here.”
“Is it what made you want to be a therapist? What happened to you? Did it inspire you? It’s alright, Dr. Ashley. You can tell me. It’s a safe environment here.”
I knew I was being a total bitch. Again. But it was too good. His face turned slightly red. But the fun came to an abrupt end with:
“I find it interesting you haven’t told me about Noah.”
Shock.
Complete shock.
I opened my mouth but he answered my question before I asked it.
“Your mum told me.”
He looked pleased with himself. The git. The blood was leaving his face and, in turn, mine was filling up.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said petulantly.
“If this boy is upsetting you then it might be best to talk about it,” he said. “Wasn’t it the first night you met him? That gig? When you had the panic attack?”
My mouth fell open. How did he know that? I didn’t think Mum or Dad even knew. I must’ve told them and forgotten.
I definitely wasn’t having fun any more.
I refused to answer any questions and sat mute in rebellion until the nondescript clock finally marked the end of the hour.
Dr. Ashley sat smiling, writing notes in his pad. He was obviously quite content with the silence.
I was officially a nervous wreck by the time Noah picked me up. Still wound up by my altercation with Dr. Ashley, I’d changed outfit at least eight million times, reapplied lip gloss every thirty seconds and was quivering with fear. When I’d finally decided on an appropriate outfit (funnily enough it was the first one I’d tried on – a casual off-the-shoulder stripy dress), I kept a vigil by my bedroom window, anxiously anticipating the evening.
After what seemed like hours, I saw him walk to my house. I’d allowed him up to the front door as Mum and Dad were still working in their respective offices. They were both civil servants – whatever the heck that is – but it meant they left and returned home like clockwork. Of course, he looked amazing. He was wearing a red checked shirt and jeans, and was whistling. I ran to the door to greet him, smoothing out imaginary creases in my clothes. As I did, I could feel the outline of my matching lingerie set underneath. It wasn’t anything too fancy, just an oddly inappropriate Christmas present from my aunt. Pink lacy bra with matching lacy knicker-type things. I’d never really worn it, and I didn’t plan to reveal it to Noah just yet, but, you know, a girl has to be prepared.
I could see his shadow through the windowpane of our front door. I opened it, borderline terrified.
His greeting smile made my knees jellify.
“Hello
, gorgeous. Ready to see my humble abode?”
I could only nod.
He offered me his arm and we headed down my driveway. It was a beautiful evening. Not one cloud in the sky and the air was balmy – odd, again, for this time of year. Touching him still felt electric and breathing still required intense concentration. We walked down my road, not talking, and headed up another. Less than five minutes later, we arrived at a small block of flats. They were pretty posh, very modern-looking from the outside.
“Home sweet home,” he said.
I couldn’t help but wonder where the hell his parents were.
He fiddled with his keys, then unlocked the door and took me inside. There was plush red carpet and the walls were a cream colour. We went into the lift and he pushed the button for the top floor. My heart was pounding. I realized we were alone. Like, really alone. I was freaked and thrilled at the same time. As we rode the lift we still didn’t really talk and I wondered again what he expected from me.
The lift opened and there were only two doors to choose from. Noah steered me right and pushed his key into the lock.
“Come on in,” he said as he stepped through the door.
I took a deep breath and followed him inside.
His place was stunning, incredible even. The huge open-plan living room was painted the faintest blue colour, with stripped wooden floors and dominated by a large leather couch. The room reeked of Noah. His touch was everywhere, from the piles of dog-eared books scattered haphazardly to the stacks of yellowing newspapers. His guitar took pride of place and his favourite LPs were tacked to the wall like posters. I noticed a distinct lack of any family photographs amongst the “arty” framed shots of his band and was puzzled again about how and why he lived alone.
Noah gave me a quick tour and I tried not to reveal my astonishment. The kitchen was a serious chef’s dream, all aluminium fridges and slate countertops. The bathroom was larger than my bedroom, with a giant hot-tub bath and an infinity shower. He quickly opened the door to his bedroom and I caught a glimpse of a giant double bed. I tried not to think about how many girls had already been in there. I failed miserably.
Noah led me back to the living room and offered me a drink.
“Water,” I squeaked nervously, feeling like we were strangers.
He fetched me a glass from his perfect kitchen, adding ice cubes from his massive fridge. He handed it to me, then sank into the leather sofa, sprawling across it. I tried not to think about how many girls must’ve been on that couch before. I failed miserably.
I was standing with my arms crossed. I clutched at my water glass, trying to work out just how out of my depth I was.
Apparently unaware of my inner turmoil, Noah smiled and said, “Well, I bet you’re wondering why I’ve brought you here?”
To seduce me? To take advantage of me? To scare the hell out of me with your crazy-perfect apartment?
I took a sip of water to soothe my desperately dry mouth. “I am curious, yes.”
Was I supposed to be taking off my clothes now? I wanted to run away.
Noah took my hand and sat me down on the couch. He pulled my chin up so I was looking at him. All I could do was try not to pass out.
“Poppy,” he said.
I gulped.
“I had a great time with you the other day, but we didn’t really do what we were supposed to, did we?”
Were we supposed to have sex in the coffee shop? I shook my head. The lace of my knickers itched the top of my leg.
“I brought you here so we could…talk – about all that serious stuff we successfully dodged the other day.”
My mouth fell open. “Talk?” I repeated dumbly.
Noah looked surprised. “Yes. Why else would I bring you here?”
The fear and the awkwardness disappeared. God, I was stupid. Talk! Of course. Talking. Like people do. Why did I get so wound up?
With all the tension vanished, I curled up under Noah’s arm and looked up at him. “I dunno. Of course. Yeah. What do you wanna talk about?”
He seemed confused by my complete change of mood but went with it.
“Well, there’s a lot I feel I need to tell you…about myself,” he stammered. “I feel you should…well…know some stuff about me before you get all involved.”
Touched by his new nervousness, I cuddled closer to him, loving the feeling of his arms enveloping me.
“Is this about you being the man-whore of Babylon?”
More confusion. “What?”
“It’s okay. I’ve already tortured myself about all the girls you must’ve brought back here.” I wasn’t sure why I was saying all this. “So go on – torture me some more about what a stud you are.”
Noah wasn’t impressed. “You think I brought girls back here?”
“Noah, this place is like a babe-magnet. I’m surprised you haven’t installed a revolving door.”
I was suddenly un-scooped from his embrace. He stood up, his eyes hurt and face angry.
“I’ve never brought anyone to my place before, Poppy,” he said, looking me straight in the eye.
The eye contact made my heart race again and I could feel adrenalin coursing through my body. I’d somehow managed to get things incredibly wrong.
“You…you…haven’t?”
“No. This is the only place I can…be…I dunno. You’re the first girl I’ve ever brought here. I stupidly thought it would be special. But now you’re just implying I’m some player messing you around.”
I thought about it. “That isn’t strictly true,” I replied quietly. “But come on, Noah. I’ve heard the rumours about you and your…umm…promiscuous ways.” He smiled slightly and relief began replacing the angsty ball in my stomach. “You’ve not even denied them. So I’ve got all that to deal with and then you bring me here, and there’s a leather couch, for God’s sake. What am I supposed to think? I don’t necessarily believe you’re playing me…well, I really hope not, because my instinct tells me you’re not—”
“I’m not, Poppy,” he interrupted. “I’m really not.”
He sat back down and we stared at each other. Again, something passed between us, electricity, if that were possible. When it got too tense, I crossed my eyes and pulled a face.
Noah laughed. “I suppose I can clear everything up if I explain it to you.”
“I’m sure you can.”
He looked away. “But I’m scared…”
I was surprised. Noah didn’t appear to be a person who was scared of anything. “Scared of what?” I lightly touched his forearm.
“Scared you’ll go off me.”
I almost laughed at the stupidity of what he’d said. The fact someone like him could think someone like me was capable of “going off him” was insane.
“Don’t be stupid.”
He just smiled sadly. “There’s a reason for all the rumours.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I just think you should know before, you know, you fall in love with me or something.”
The words spilled out of my mouth before I consciously realized what I was saying, it was such a stock response: “I don’t believe in love.”
And though I hadn’t meant it to, the atmosphere broke, and Noah finally laughed again and pushed me over on the sofa.
“God, sorry. I forgot, Mrs. Strong-Independent-Woman.”
I struggled to get myself right again, my hair all over my face. “That’s MS. Strong-Independent-Woman to you.”
He pushed me over again and I screamed and retaliated, trying to push him over using my feet. Instead he grabbed my foot and began tickling it.
“Stop, stop!” I screamed, trying to wiggle away. I managed to kick my foot out of his hands and flipped my body up, using my arms now to topple his balance. Annoyingly, he caught them too and wrestled me backwards. I fought with every bit of strength but he soon had me pinned on my back.
Noah lay, practically on top of me, casually restricting my arms behind my head with one ha
nd. My heart had another fit as I adjusted to having his body weight on top of mine. There was no space between us, and I could smell his scent. It was intoxicating. Noah stared at my face, his black eyes scanning every part of it. I stared back, willing him to kiss me. Using his other hand, he brushed a strand of messed-up hair behind my ear.
“This isn’t talking,” he whispered. His hot breath on my face made me shudder with deliciousness.
I strained towards him a little. Not obviously. But enough for our mouths to be closer. Lust had taken over my body like a parasite, intent on the destruction of any sane part of my brain. “So talk then,” I whispered back.
His eyes searched my face and I felt I would never feel this good ever again. As good as it felt right then with Noah looking at me like that.
“Just give me a moment.”
I stretched forward but he didn’t kiss me. Instead, he righted himself until he was sitting normally.
“Come on, Poppy. It’s serious time.”
I frowned, irritated, and sat up too. “Alright. Spill then. What’s your big bad secret?”
Noah opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped himself. He ran a hand through his thick hair and looked down.
“You okay?”
He looked at me again. And I felt my stomach go gooey. Again.
Noah shook his head. “Can we get a drink first?”
I sighed.
“Go on then.”
A few minutes later we sat back on the sofa, nursing two cold bottles of beer from his fridge. I curled my legs under myself and watched Noah struggle. It was amusing seeing him so wound up, a nice power reversal. I took a cautious sip and waited for him to start speaking.
He was staring into his beer intently, watching the bubbles foam. Then he tilted his head back, poured half of it down his throat, put the bottle down and turned to me.
“You ready for the monologue then?” His eyebrows rose.
“Nobody actually talks in monologues in real life,” I replied. “Movies completely underestimate a human’s need to interrupt and ask questions.”
Another gorgeous smile. Making Noah smile was quickly becoming my new favourite pastime.
“Okay, I won’t monologue.”
“Good.”
“I’m nervous.”
