20. JACK
20
JACK
I haven’t seen Elly since I interrupted her practising and we ended up yelling at each other last week. I’ve been in the office or out for drinks most nights, and her hours are so random I never know when she’s going to appear. I’ve heard her practising the guitar in her room, but I haven’t wanted to disturb her.
It’s been a heavy week at work. We’ve had tenders out with developers for three new sites across the UK, and on a fourth site, where development is already underway, they’ve uncovered a fucking Roman burial ground, which is going to delay construction for God knows how long while the archaeologists go in and investigate.
I unlock my front door earlier than normal. I’ve had enough. I’m ready to relax. But more than that, I want to see Elly. I want to get things back on a more friendly footing… back to normal. If we even have a normal to return to. I suspect we don’t.
Maybe we’re done. Maybe that lap-dance orgasm incident was too much. Or maybe it was the fight. She’s probably still avoiding me. I guess she could be thinking the same of me, but I haven’t been doing it deliberately. Either way, that changes tonight because our game is nowhere near complete, and I’d much rather play with her than fight with her.
I hang up my overcoat and march into the kitchen, rolling my sleeves up as I go. I have no idea what time Elly is coming back, but if I’m going to break down her resistance, or at least have a little fun after this shitty week, then I might as well get started.
I don’t cook often, but when I do, I make it count. There’s rarely anything in my fridge to cook with, but today I gave the housekeeper instructions to stock up and leave the cooking to me. She bought everything to make coq au vin. If I want to win this game and have Elly begging me to sleep with her— God, what a fucking delightful thought —then I need to crack out the big guns.
I grab down an apron from the back of the door. It’s one Seb Hawkston gave me as a joke, and it’s printed with a man-sized image of Michaelangelo’s David. Full frontal marble nude, dick and balls and all. Somehow, it seems appropriate.
I open a bottle of wine and pour myself a glass as I cook, and put on some music.
An hour later, and there’s no sign of Elly, but the coq au vin is simmering and I’ve polished off half a bottle of wine.
She probably has a gig. This was idiotic. God knows how long I’m going to have to wait. I sit on the sofa and pull out my phone, typing Elly’s name into all the social media channels again.
Still nothing.
She's had a week to take action on my advice, but she hasn't. I was probably way too harsh on her. But how can someone so talented be so reluctant to share their ability? If it were me, I’d have been singing from the rooftops for years. Revelling in the groupies and fans or whatever the fuck women I’d have following me around on account of my guitar playing and kick-arse vocal skills.
Perhaps I ought to apologise… but then, why ? I’m right. She needs to get a grip and suck up the pain of putting herself out in the world, unless she wants to stay stuck right where she is for the rest of her life.
A noise outside startles me. Shit . Elly could be back any minute. I rush to light the candles on the kitchen table, but, seeing the flickering light illuminate the kitchen, nerves cascade over me as forceful as the downpour that night I picked Elly up in my car.
What the hell am I doing? This looks like I’m seriously trying to seduce her rather than mess around and have a little fun. This doesn’t look like a game, this looks… romantic . Fuck … it looks like I care . Not that I don’t care… but… shit …do I?
I’m questioning everything I’ve done this evening, but I don’t have time to make sense of it because a key sounds in the lock.
How do I make this look less like a date and more like… a game? Less ‘ I’ve been an arse so I’ve cooked dinner for you ’ and more, ‘ I’m ready to forgive and forget, if you’re prepared to play ’?
I catch sight of the apron featuring Michaelangelo’s David, which I slung over the back of a kitchen chair when I finished cooking. It’s just the thing to take the edge off… but I need to be pretty fucking quick.