‘Well what about all the other stuff??’ I laugh. ‘Like spending weekends rummaging around the markets, like Spitalfields and Portobello, hunting out all the weird bits and pieces and junk you can transform. Like a ratty old armchair you could cover with some vintage fabric, or even a whole sofa – and what about a lamp that you could make a new shade for?’ Getting carried away with ideas, I start gesticulating enthusiastically.
‘Like I said, I don’t have time for any of that,’ shrugs Seb.
I get the distinct feeling he’s not sharing my enthusiasm, and I feel a bit silly for even suggesting it. It’s true: he’s far too busy to be rummaging around markets. He’s got this high-flying career and he’s always at the office. Saying that, he does spend a lot of time at the gym or doing sport. Still, I guess it’s just priorities, that’s all.
‘Well, it’s still really lovely,’ I say, rather lamely.
‘Thanks,’ smiles Seb, throwing his keys on the table and taking off his coat.
Meanwhile I look around me. It all seems to be exactly the same as before. Nothing has changed, and yet everything has changed. My eyes sweep across a shelf of photographs. There used to be one of us two at a party, but it’s gone now. Sadness flickers, and for a moment I feel a sense of loss, of bittersweet nostalgia for all the times we spent together that have now never happened. Like Sunday afternoons spent reading the papers. Like the dinner party we threw last summer where we all got drunk on toffee vodka, and did karoake.
Like when we broke up, I remind myself sharply.
Suddenly it hits me – that was the last time I was here – and out of nowhere an old hurt rises up inside. Rewind a couple of months ago and I was sitting right there . . . I glance across at that big grey sofa and it’s like Sliding Doors . . . there I am, hugging a cushion and trying not to cry, and sitting opposite on the armchair is Seb, staring at his trainers, the atmosphere strained and awful.
‘Everything OK?’
I snap back to see Seb looking at me, concern in his face.
But that’s all gone now. Deleted. Erased forever. Like a tape that’s been wiped clean. And now we’re recording over it again, only this time with something different. And I’m not sorry, I’m glad. The good times might have gone, but so have all the bad times. The last time I was here was the ending, but now we’re right back at the beginning. A new beginning.
‘Yeh, everything’s great,’ I smile, delighted by the thought. I still can’t believe this is really happening, that I’m getting to do it all over again. I almost want to pinch myself.
‘Good.’ His face relaxes. ‘You’re still wearing your coat, I was worried you were thinking of leaving . . .’
I suddenly realise I haven’t taken it off. ‘Oh, sorry,’ I laugh, and start unzipping it and tugging my arms out of the sleeves. ‘It just takes me a little time to warm up.’ Making excuses, I pass it to him.
‘Well in that case let me get that wine. A good bottle of red will warm you up in no time,’ he grins, taking my coat and hanging it on the stand in the corner, before walking into the open-plan kitchen.
There’s a wine rack next to the fridge and I watch as he expertly selects a bottle and grabs a corkscrew and two glasses, then turns to me. For a moment I think he’s going to say something, but instead he angles his body towards mine and kisses me gently on the lips.
It’s the first time he’s tried to kiss me and it’s so casual and relaxed that for a split second it barely registers what’s happening.
Until his lips brush against mine.
The effect is immediate and all at once a familiar ache ripples through my body. God, I’ve missed him so much. And for a heady, breathless, urgent moment, all I want to do is pull him closer, wrap my arms around him, and snog the living daylights out of him—
I slam on the brakes and my mind screeches to a halt.
Tess, no! You can’t. You’ve only just met him, remember? Plus you’ve barely been in the flat five minutes – you can’t just jump on him in the kitchen. What will you look like? You’re aiming for perfect girlfriend, not complete slapper.
Fighting the urge, I give him a quick peck on the lips.
And I thought giving up chocolate for Lent last year was hard. Believe me, that kiss took serious willpower.
We break apart and he holds my gaze for just long enough to make my legs go all wobbly, then says, ‘Let’s go make ourselves comfortable,’ and gestures towards the sofa area.
‘OK,’ I reply, in what I hope is a husky voice. But instead it comes out all squeaky and high-pitched, like the time I went to an engagement party with Fiona and we got drunk and inhaled the helium balloons and spent the whole evening talking like Pinky and Perky.
Only this time there’s no helium balloons. Just me and Seb. Alone in his apartment with a bottle of red wine and a whole night ahead of us. My lips are still tingling and, feeling a flutter of anticipation, I follow him towards the sofa.
As for all that other stuff, there’s plenty of time for that later.
Chapter 15
Picture the scene:
Soft lighting, the kind you get from nice, expensive lamps placed strategically around the room; ambient chill-out music wafting from concealed speakers, and me and Seb snuggled up together on the big, squidgy sofa.
Two glasses, forty minutes and quite a lot of kissing later, and I’m in heaven. As second dates go, it can’t get much better than this, I muse, nuzzling into his neck and inhaling his familiar aroma of faded aftershave and deodorant. I breathe it in deeply. Forget all those fancy expensive perfumes, this has to be my favourite scent.
‘Want some more wine?’ murmurs Seb into my ear.
‘Mmm, yes please.’ Emerging from my dreamy reverie, I sit up tipsily. I feel all fuzzy around the edges, like a pencil drawing that’s been smudged with an eraser, rubbing out all the hard lines.
‘I love this vintage,’ says Seb, reaching for the bottle and pouring me another glass.
‘Mmm, yes, it’s delicious.’ I take a sip. ‘What is it?’
‘A Pinot Noir, from one of my favourite vineyards back in the States.’
Somewhere in the back of my mind a vague bell starts ringing, and as he turns to pour himself a glass, I reach over and pick up the corkscrew that’s lying on the table. I glance absently at the cork, at its red-wine-stained bottom and, unscrewing it, turn it over in my fingers to see the embossing on the top: ‘Stanly Ranch Pinot Noir 2002’.
I recognise that name.
My mind flashes back to the shoebox I threw on the fire. To its contents. To the wine cork that I kept as a memento. It’s the same wine as the bottle we shared the first time we got drunk together. The first time we spent the night together.
The first time we had sex.
‘It’s getting late . . .’
I tune back in.
‘. . . and I was wondering . . .’ He pauses, and somewhere deep inside of me I can feel a pulse beating. I know what he’s going to say and yet it doesn’t make it any less exciting. In fact, it makes it even more exciting. ‘Do you want to stay?’
My groin answers for me. It must be telepathic.
‘Or I can call you a cab,’ he adds quickly, looking unsure.
I once read one of those books about dating, and it had all these rules in it about how to make a man fall in love with you. One of them was that you have to wait until the third date to have sex. Apparently, those are the rules.
I hesitate. This time I want to do it all properly; this time I want to do everything by the book.
Saying that, there are some rules that are made to be broken . . .
Slipping the cork into my pocket, I flash him a smile. ‘Do you have a spare toothbrush?’
A new relationship is always a bit nerve-wracking, but there’s nothing worse than reaching that tantalising moment when you might sleep together . . . only to realise you’re not ready. And I don’t mean as in ‘things are moving a little too fast and you want to get to know him more first
’. I’m talking ‘not ready’ as in you haven’t had a bikini wax since last summer and the regrowth is so bad you’d give Bob Marley a run for his dreadlocks.
Or you’re wearing your comfy T-shirt bra and knickers that come in packs of three and are flesh-coloured so you can’t see them under your clothes. And not, as is obviously crucial the first time you have sex with a man you are crazy about, the kind of underwear that is supposed to be seen, i.e. little expensive, uncomfortable scraps of frothy lace that get right up your you-know-what and have you wriggling around on the tube like you’re dancing the Salsa.
Underwear like the expensive lingerie that Seb bought me last year, I note, doing a little wriggle as I get up from the sofa and follow Seb towards the bedroom. It’s too small but I squeezed into it just in case. I admit I also waxed my legs and did all my naughty bits. I even did an all-over body scrub and applied a fake tan. The whole process took hours. I had to set my alarm and get up super-early so I could do the full makeover before I left for work this morning.
And trust me, applying hot wax to your nether regions at 6 a.m. when you’ve only had a couple of hours’ sleep because you’ve been watching Luke Skywalker take on Darth Vader till gone 3 a.m. is very dangerous. I was so bleary-eyed the wax mistakenly went in some very painful places.
Still, I needed to be prepared this time. I didn’t know exactly when sex might strike, but this time I was going to make sure I was primed and ready. Like the Angels, when Charlie gets on the telephone. Last time, our first time wasn’t planned at all. It was all very spur of the moment, which was exciting and spontaneous, but I do also remember wishing I’d worn a sexier bra as he fumbled to undo it. And when he pulled off my jeans, all I could think about were my pale, hairy legs, which I’d kept hidden under opaques all winter, and hoped he wouldn’t notice them.
And don’t even get me started on my bikini line.
But now I’ve got the benefit of hindsight and a full bikini wax. Not to mention a few condoms that I popped into my bag, I think, with a slight blush of excitement. OK, so I know it’s cheating a bit, but I’ve got a second chance to wow him in the bedroom and I can’t wait to make the most of it!
Entering the bedroom, Seb pulls me towards him and, wrapping his arms around me, gives me a long, lingering kiss. I kiss him back, relishing the anticipation of what’s about to happen next. Surprises are nice, but sometimes it’s even nicer to know what’s in store.
‘I’ll just go freshen up,’ I say flirtily, breaking away finally.
‘Sure,’ he gives me an easy smile. ‘The en-suite’s just through here.’ He pads across the thick carpet and pushes open the door to a limestone bathroom. ‘There are fresh towels on the shelf next to the sink.’
‘Great,’ I smile back, shimmying past him.
‘And here’s a spare toothbrush.’ Pulling open a drawer, he hands me one of those travel ones you get when you fly transatlantic. Seb’s always going away on business and has dozens of them, along with eye masks and all these lovely toiletries they give you for free when you fly club class and stay in five-star hotels. Not that I know personally, of course – the only travelling I do for work is with my Oyster card, I reflect, reminded of my own rubbish career and quickly batting it away.
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking it from him. ‘Won’t be a min.’
Shooing him out in a teasing way, I close the door and lean against it. I feel a bit woozy from all that red wine and for a moment I remain there, letting the events of the evening sink in . . . the movie . . . the wine . . . and now here I am. Back here again. About to have sex with Seb for the first time. Again.
How fantastic is that?
Feeling the frisson of excitement building, I wipe away smudged eyeliner and pull out my lip gloss. So far the evening has been awesome, as Seb puts it, and I want tonight to be perfect, faultless, like a gold-medal Olympic athlete. In my head I get an image of judges holding up score cards . . . only instead of perfect sixes they have big fat zeros as my performance is terrible.
Hang on, what’s all that about? Quickly I scrub that image from my brain. It must be just nerves talking. Seb and I always had a good sex life. At least I thought we did. Saying that, since we broke up I confess there’ve been times I’ve wondered if I could have done a few things differently. Like, for example, what if the times he wanted to have sex and I said I was tired and had to get up early for work I’d been all ripe and up for it and reaching for the massage oil? And not setting the alarm and reaching for my earplugs.
Or what if I’d worn sexy lingerie all the time, even those nipple tassels he once bought me? And not thought they were a joke and hooted with laughter when I unwrapped them, and which Flea thought were little black mice and promptly tried to eat.
And then there was that time once in the middle of foreplay, Seb told me I needed to let go, so I did and promptly fell off the bed. Which, looking back now, wasn’t what he meant, I don’t think.
Unexpectedly I feel a bit anxious. Maybe that was the reason we broke up but he never told me? Maybe I wasn’t sexy enough. Maybe I didn’t satisfy him sexually? Maybe – my stomach knots – I was bad in bed. Hurriedly I force myself to dismiss the thought. No, that’s rubbish. We had a great time together in the bedroom. Admittedly, like most couples, it took a little while for us to find our groove, to experiment, to discover what each other liked and didn’t like, but that’s normal.
But this time around there’s not going to be any fumbling or nervousness, I remind myself firmly. We’re going to have mind-blowing sex right from the start as – and this is the brilliant bit about getting to date Seb again – I already know what turns him on. I’ve already learned all the tricks!
Applying my lip gloss, I pout at myself in the mirror. For instance, I know that Seb really likes it when I . . . I trail off, unable to finish the thought. I frown. That’s funny, my mind’s gone all fuzzy. Must be all that red wine, I’m always hopeless after a few glasses. Giving myself a little sobering shake, I blot my lips with a bit of loo roll (well, I don’t want to look like I’m wearing make-up) and think about the thing I do with my . . . Crikey, I really must be drunk. I can’t even remember that either!
I swear, it’s that third glass of wine. Once, after sharing a bottle of Pinot Grigio with Fiona, I forgot where we’d parked the car. We spent ages looking, until one of us sobered up enough to remember that we don’t actually have a car.
I know, maybe if I just imagine having sex with Seb generally it will come flooding back. It usually does, I muse, thinking about the nights I’ve spent alone in my bed since we broke up. Well, a single girl’s got to have a little bit of light relief. Closing my eyes, I visualise Seb with no clothes (this is how I always start the fantasy), then brace myself for all the X-rated memories to come surging back . . . except, that’s weird, nothing’s happening . . .
Suddenly I freeze. My mind’s gone blank! I can’t remember anything. Panicked, I scrabble around for even a single X-rated memory but I can’t find one. My anxiety increases. I can’t have drunk that much. It’s as though I’ve suddenly got amnesia. Sex amnesia.
Abruptly a thought strikes. Oh my god, that’s it! I haven’t just erased our past.
I’ve erased our sex life!
I snap my eyes wide open. Fuck, what am I going to do?
Then it hits me. My diary.
Diving into my bag, I rummage around inside. I’ve been carrying it around with me all week, ever since our first date, and grabbing the dog-eared pages I pull it out and plonk myself on the loo to read it. Right, OK. I start flicking through the pages. Come on, come on, I must have written about sex somewhere. I must have.
‘Hey, are you OK in there?’
Seb’s voice makes me jump. Shit. He can probably hear the pages rustling and is wondering what the hell I’m doing in here.
Hastily I turn on the taps.
‘Um . . . yes, fine . . .’ I call out, trying to sound all light and breezy, and not pinned to the loo with panic that I?
??m about to have sex with Seb for the first time, and I can’t remember the last time, I think, my mind tangling itself in knots.
Oh hang on, what’s this . . .
Dear Diary,
Slept with Seb for the first time!!!! I was really nervous but it was amazing, though I wish I’d known we were going to do it as I’d have shaved my legs! And done a fake tan. I spent the whole time feeling self-conscious and hiding underneath the duvet, which spoiled things a bit as it can be very hot underneath a duvet. And very dark. There was a lot of fumbling around and at one point we got all tangled up and bumped our heads together and nearly knocked each other out.
I feel a beat of relief. Well, at least I don’t have to worry about that happening. This time I’m going to prance naked around the bedroom with the lights on. I’m going to be confident, proactive.
A seductress.
Well, that was the idea, I think with a stab of panic as I feel the entire evening I’ve rehearsed in my head beginning to quickly unravel into a disaster. I keep reading.
. . . and it was a bit embarrassing as I wore the ring that Fiona bought me for my birthday last year, the one with the big blue stone, and it got caught on his you-know-what . . .
I glance down at my finger. The big blue ring stares back at me. Shit. I’d better take that off. I try to pull it off but it’s stuck. Soaping it up I try and squeeze it over the knuckle. Abruptly it flies off across the bathroom and rattles around on the floor. Damn! Where’s it gone?
But I don’t have time to look for it just now, I’ll have to find it later. I need to crack on. I need to read up on some tricks. Find out what he likes, and doesn’t like, what turns him on. And turns him off. Panic grips. What if I start talking dirty and he tells me to shut up? What if he’s a bum man not a boobs man and I get it the wrong way round?
Snatching up the diary, I flick much further on.
We’ve been seeing each other three months now and the sex just gets better and better! Tonight when we were in bed I drove Seb wild when I . . .