“Actually, we’re anti-marriage,” I say. “Our motto is: make love, not vows.”
“Here’s to that.” Lorcan lifts his glass, his eyes glinting.
The waitress looks from Lorcan to me, laughs uncertainly, then retreats. I down about half my glass. My head is gently spinning and I feel another surge of longing. I’m imagining his lips on mine, his hands ripping off my dress.…
Oh God. Get a grip, Fliss. He’s probably imagining his bus home.
I look away again and stir my drink, playing for time. I can never stand this uncertain stage of meeting a man, when you have no idea how things are going. You’re chugging up the slow-climb roller coaster of a date. You know how far up you are, but you don’t know how far he is, or even if he’s really with you. Maybe he’s mentally heading in the other direction. Here I am, already midway through sexual fantasy number 53, but he could be about to wrap up politely and head home.
“Would you like to go somewhere else?” Lorcan says abruptly, and my stomach lurches in anticipation. Somewhere else. Where?
“That would be great, yes.” I force myself to sound low key and chilled. “What kind of place?”
He frowns deeply, attacking his ice cubes with his stirrer, as though he has no idea where to start tackling this profound and complex question.
“We could eat,” he says finally, with no enthusiasm. “Sushi, maybe. Or …”
“Or we could not eat.”
He looks up, his guard finally down, and I feel a delicious shiver. He’s like a mirror image of me. He has a hungry look in his eye. A desperate longing. He wants to devour something, and I don’t think it’s sushi.
“That could work,” he says, his eyes flicking to my legs again. Leg man, clearly.
“So … where do you live?” I ask lightly, as though it’s a totally unrelated question.
“Not too far.”
His eyes are now locked on mine. OK, we’ve reached the top. Together. I can see the view stretching ahead. I can’t help an exhilarated little smile. I think we’re in for a good time.
7
FLISS
I’m half awake. I think. Oh God. My head hurts.
So many thoughts. Where do I start? Remembered sensations are crowding out my brain in a blur. And sudden flashes: intense, astonishing memories like squeezes of lemon. Him. Me. Under. Over … Suddenly I realize I’m mentally intoning Noah’s old picture book, Opposites Are Fun! Inside. Outside. This way. That way.
But now the fun’s over. It must be morning, if the light dazzling my eyelids is a clue. I’m lying, one leg thrown over the duvet, not quite daring to open my eyes. You. Me. Then. Now. Oh God, now.
I open one eye a chink and get an eyeful of beige duvet. Ah yes. I remember the beige duvet from last night. Clearly the ex-wife took all the White Company Egyptian cotton and he went to the nearest Linen for Divorced Men store. My head is throbbing, and after a moment the beige starts to shimmer in front of my eyes. So I close them and roll onto my back. I haven’t had a one-night stand in a long time. A looooong time. I’ve forgotten how they go. Awkward kiss? Exchange numbers? Coffee?
Coffee. I could do with the coffee.
“Morning.” The sound of his rumbly voice finally brings me into reality. He’s here. In the room.
“Oh. Um.” I raise myself onto an elbow, playing for time, hastily rubbing sleep from my eyes. “Hello.”
Hello. Goodbye.
Pulling the duvet around me, I sit up, trying to smile, although my face feels creaky. Lorcan is fully dressed in a suit and tie, holding out a mug. I blink at him for a moment, trying to reconcile the today-him with the last-night-him. Did I dream some of that stuff?
“Cup of tea?” The mug he’s proffering is cheap and striped. From Crockery for Divorced Men, I’m guessing.
“Oh.” I grimace. “Sorry. Don’t do tea. Water’s fine.”
“Coffee?”
“I’d love a coffee. And a shower?”
And a change of clothes. And those documents I left at home and the Molton Brown gift set for Elise’s birthday … My brain is slowly starting to crank into gear. This was really not a sensible move. I’ll have to whiz back home, postpone my nine a.m. phone interview.… I’m already searching around for my phone. I need to call Sebastian’s house, too, and say good morning to Noah.
My eye falls on the purple bridesmaid’s dress. Double shit.
“Bathroom’s this way.” Lorcan gestures out the door.
“Thanks.” I gather up the duvet and try to wrap it around myself elegantly, like an actress in a sitcom bedroom scene, but it’s so heavy it’s like trying to wear a polar bear. With an almighty effort I drag it off the bed, take one step, and immediately trip over, bumping into a bureau and hitting my elbow.
