Chapter 17
17
Dad asks me to go for a walk before dinner, because he says we’ve had no one-on-one time all holiday and I’m his favourite.
‘Dad,’ I say with a smile, ‘I know you say that to all of us.’
He chuckles and gives a shrug. ‘It’s true, though,’ he counters, somehow both proving my point and still upholding the integrity of the statement. ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘let’s go and do a few laps of the beach. Make the most of this magical twilight hour, shall we?’
He’s not wrong about it being magical. Not only is the sky swirling shades of pink and orange, but it’s like the air has been infused with the same somehow. Everything feels softer at this hour, more delicate. When the heat subsides and the air settles, it makes me want to whisper to preserve whatever delightful thing is happening.
‘Okay, sold,’ I say, putting down my empty beer bottle and taking one last handful of crisps. I haven’t been the first one down to pre-dinner drinks all holiday, and I’m glad I am tonight. I’ve made a decision to trust that Kate won’t tell Laurie anything, and another decision to believe I deserve this little holiday … thing. Fling! Non-fling? Whatever Jamie and I are and have, or don’t have, it’s making me happy. I can’t remember when I last felt this way, to be honest.
Dad and I meander down the winding steps and onto the sand, turning left towards the end of the bay, where the water edges out to the sand and we’re blocked off by a massive rock formation. We talk about what they saw at the ruins that day, and that Kate and I caught up, once I’d woken up. Jamie is not mentioned in any capacity, and I certainly will not bring him up. It’s easy to be with Dad. He’s amazing, too – as accomplished and competent and able as Mum is. But as much as I hate to admit it, he’s a man, so I don’t compare myself with him (and come up short) in the way I do with Mum. The friction is taken out of the relationship then.
‘You seem to be enjoying this trip anyway,’ Dad says, as we stand at the edge of the sea and let the water lap up onto our bare toes. He picks up a stone and skims it over the water.
‘I think we all are, aren’t we?’ I reply, picking up a stone of my own. It skims twice and then plops into the sea. Dad skims another one and it glides once, twice, three times, then a fourth, before succumbing to the same fate.
‘Yes,’ he nods. ‘I feel very lucky that my grown-up children will still come willingly to spend time with me. It’s not the case in every family.’
‘No,’ I say, knowing it’s true. ‘Good job you and Mum are so awesome really, isn’t it? And that you raised awesome kids.’
‘We certainly did,’ Dad says with a grin, and then he loops an arm round my shoulder and pulls me in for a sideways hug, landing a kiss on my temple.
‘What was that for?’ I say.
‘I love you, that’s what it’s for,’ he tells me, letting go. ‘And you seem good now, Flo. I feel like I’ve got my daughter back.’
I don’t know what to say to that. Sorry my breakdown made you sad? My therapist said I can acknowledge that the breakdown affected the people around me without assuming responsibility for it. I think of that now, to remind me not to shoulder Dad’s feelings about what happened to me.
‘Somebody told me recently that the opposite of anxiety isn’t calm, but trust,’ I say. ‘And that makes a lot of sense to me.’
‘You’re feeling more trust lately?’ Dad clarifies. ‘In yourself, or the world, or …?’
We stop throwing stones and turn to head back the way we’ve just come.
‘It’s a work-in-progress,’ I tell him, ‘but I think in myself, and that kind of affects my trust that everything will work out. I’ve never felt that before. Like I really might be okay, you know?’
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I know that.’ He pulls a leaf off a nearby tree branch and shreds it with his fingers, contemplatively. ‘I thought it might be a romance making you happy,’ he goes on. ‘That Adonis bloke. But you said it didn’t work out?’
I laugh. ‘It was the man-bun,’ I tell him. Dad furrows his brow. I make a ball shape with my fist and rest it on the top of my head. ‘The hair? Never trust a dude with a man-bun, that’s what I say.’
He considers this. ‘I see what you mean,’ he smiles. ‘No hipsters allowed?’
I shrug, the responsibility not mine – I don’t make the rules.
‘Are you doing okay?’ I ask him then. ‘Are you having a good holiday?’
‘I am,’ he says, dropping the last of the leaf to the ground. It flutters down slowly, like a ballerina’s pirouette.
His tone catches me off-guard. ‘You don’t sound sure,’ I tease, but instead of him reiterating his joy, pain crosses his face.
‘I worry about your mother,’ he continues, and we’re at the bottom of the steps to the house, but instead of going up, he leans against the handrail post and looks up at the sky. I wait for him to speak. I don’t think I have ever heard of anyone being worried about my mother. ‘It’s hard, you know, becoming retired. She’s still got thirty or forty years in front of her to fill, and it can be overwhelming.’
I cock my head. ‘I don’t think Mum has ever been overwhelmed in her life, has she?’ I offer.
Dad tuts. ‘Flo,’ he says. ‘You know better than that. Everyone goes through stuff, even if we can’t see it or necessarily tell from the outside.’
I nod, thinking of what Jamie said about assuming that I, out of everyone, could feel sympathy for somebody going through it.
‘You’re right,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll check in with her. Sorry. You’re worried about her, and I’m glad you told me, so that I can share half of that worry, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Dad nods. ‘You’re a good girl, Flo. I’m proud of you.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I reply, and we head back up to the house, every step I take making me realise that I’m proud of me, too.
Mum, Kate, Laurie and Alex are all having aperitivos on the veranda when we reach the house. They’re laughing and joking about who knows what, pouring wine and opening beers, and the playlist I’ve come to think of as The Holiday Playlist is reverberating from the Bluetooth speaker. I desperately want to ask where Jamie is, but I daren’t. I have another beer and listen to the details of another restaurant Alex has found for us, and it’s only when we start getting our things together to leave that I begin to feel really confused. Are we going without him? If we are, then why? I’m eager for clarification, but truly do not trust myself to speak his name out loud. I think if I do, it won’t sound like, ‘Oh hey, where’s Jamie?’ It will sound like, ‘Oh hey, I’m hoping to hook up with Jamie again and thought you should all know. Is he about?’
‘He left this for you,’ a voice whispers in my ear. Kate. I turn round, alarmed that she’d allude to him – to me – with everyone around, even though nobody can really hear.
She stuffs a piece of paper in my hand, and my heart sinks. I know what this will say. It will say, I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I scurry off to the kitchen and round the corner to the living room whilst everyone else shuts the doors and locks up. I take a breath.
Up the hill, where we went running. From the house, walk for about ten minutes. 10 p.m. I’ll be waiting.
I put the note into my bag and pull out my phone.
Me
I had sex with Jamie
Last night
It was really good
And we almost got caught doing it again this morning, too
By Kate!
Hope
What?
Jesus! I cannot keep up with you two!
This has more will-they-won’t-they than Ross and Rachel!
Me
I know. But. Exposure therapy, right?
Hope
The extreme version, yeah!
Me
I’m not crazy, am I? Have I been a pick-me girl?
Hope
Are you having fun?
Me
So much fun
Hope
Fuck it then! Go forth and bump uglies!
Me
He’s not out with us tonight, he’s gone off somewhere, but he’s left a note to meet him later
Hope
Sexy!
Me
Feels kinda romantic, tbh
Hope
And that’s … bad?
Me
I don’t know!
You tell me!
Hope
I think …
Follow your heart
And if she’s busy
Follow your fanny.
Jamie scares me half to death when I get up there after dinner. It’s dark, there are no street lights, and I’m using my iPhone torch to see.
‘Sorry,’ he whispers, when I let out a Gah! ‘There is no way to loiter in the dark for a woman without it being innately creepy.’ I hit his arm and tell him he’s an idiot, and in the beam of my phone light I see him smirk and say, ‘Fright as an aphrodisiac? Maybe?’
‘Spoken like a true psychopath,’ I laugh, rubbing at my chest to catch my breath. ‘What are we even doing here?’ I ask. ‘Have you actually planned to murder me?’
‘I feel like if I tell you the French for orgasm is the little death you’ll accuse me of being off-topic,’ Jamie offers, to which I nod.
‘It feels like you’re stalling for time,’ I reply. ‘Which is inherently suspicious.’
‘Noted,’ he replies. ‘Take my hand then, and come this way.’
Jamie laces his fingers through mine, and I relish the touch of his skin; how easy it feels, how natural, to walk this way with him. I’m aware that’s a bit OTT for a fling, but I figure it’s okay to enjoy the bits of this that I do enjoy – if I withhold the pleasure of the small things from myself, what’s the point of doing this?
We trudge up to an old outhouse and Jamie positions himself behind me, hands on my hips, so that I face the door.
‘Okay, now I’m really worried,’ I joke, noting the pressure of Jamie’s pelvis in my back, how excited he already is.
A guy passes us then, making us jump, but it’s nobody we know or anything – simply a bloke smoking a cigarette, passing through.
‘Oυγγν?μη,’ he says, apologetically, and Jamie replies in Greek. I assume he’s saying, Don’t worry .
‘Go on then,’ Jamie says, and I reach out to push the crumbling old door to the crumbling old building, only to be confronted with the most romantic set-up I have ever seen in real life. In fact this could come straight from a big-screen movie.
Inside this derelict barn are hundreds of tea-lights in glass jars. They’re on the floor, on upturned crates, in the rafters: everywhere. On the floor is a throw and some pillows, with a small vase that has a single rose peeking out of it. It’s a cosy love-den, just for the two of us.
‘Jamie!’ I say, amazed. ‘What did you do? How did you get all of this stuff?’
He pulls a face. ‘I know a guy who knows a guy,’ he tells me.
‘Is this why you weren’t at dinner?’ I marvel. ‘You were doing all this?’
Jamie steps inside and gently closes the door. He puts his arms around me from behind and rests his chin on my shoulder. He whispers, ‘I thought you deserved a little more than the great outdoors.’ I turn my head and we kiss, slow and deep and surprisingly gentle. ‘Not that you aren’t fantastic al fresco ,’ he adds.
‘Thanks,’ I laugh. ‘I think.’
There’s a cooler that I recognise from the house, and inside it a bottle of champagne. Jamie pops the cork and pours us both a glass, and we toast.
‘To doing … this ,’ I say, and Jamie smiles.
‘To this,’ he echoes. ‘It’s probably warm by now,’ he goes on. ‘But, I don’t know. I’ve thought about us doing this for so long, and I know it would be easy to just have sex and not talk, but for what it’s worth: I want you to know I’m so happy about this.’
‘Me, too,’ I say.
Jamie eyes me, and I can see his fondness for me. He makes me feel safe. And I trust him. I do.
‘I like talking to you, too,’ I continue. ‘In fact I actually quoted you to my dad earlier, so I think you’re making quite the impression on my brain.’
‘Aww, that’s nice. I wonder what he’ll say when he finds out …’
‘Oh my god, don’t!’ I squeal. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
We have this weird moment then, champagne flutes suspended halfway to our mouths, staring at each other – the air between us doing that thing it did on the boat, getting all still and loaded and … complicated. I briefly wonder how many women he’s been with in his life, how many have felt this special.
‘What?’ I say, when I can’t take it any more.
And Jamie blinks and tells me, ‘I don’t think you understand how beautiful you are, do you?’
‘Put your drink down,’ I reply, because I’ve decided to do something. I’m not the most experienced woman on the planet – I haven’t ever actually given anyone a blow job before. And I feel like I want to, with Jamie. He’s not asking for it, and I don’t feel any pressure or anything like that. It’s just that suddenly I want to give him pleasure. And I want to be in charge of that pleasure.
Jamie lingers with his glass, as if he doesn’t understand what I’ve asked him, so I take it from him and find a wooden beam on which to put it. I kiss him, revelling in the fact that I can. I don’t have to worry about rejection or mixed signals because we have our agreement – it’s all out in the open that we both want to do this. I rub my lips from his mouth to his neck to his firm shoulders, my tongue on chiselled pecs, and I only pause once I have to kneel, my face looking up to the waistband of his trousers. I look up at him, and Jamie stares down with an earnestness I’ve never seen before. He reaches out a hand, rubs a thumb over my lips, and then I tug down his shorts to see that he is ready – very ready – for what comes next.
He lolls back his head and says my name, and the power of it, of being the one to make him lose control in this way, is heady.
I start slow but get faster, following the lead of his moans to figure out what to do next. He rests a hand lightly on the back of my head, and I suddenly realise I’m going to have to make a choice between spitting and swallowing, but then I hear, ‘I want to finish inside you.’
I decide I want that, too. I’m more turned on than I’ve been in my life.
I stand up, and we end up stumbling backwards as we embrace, so that somehow we tumble down to the blankets that he’d laid out earlier. I straddle him, grabbing a nearby condom and sliding it on as Jamie half lies and half sits, taking my nipple in his mouth in that way he is so good at. I push against him, and then his mouth is on my earlobe and my chin is over his shoulder, and I find myself saying his name over and over. We’re slick with sweat and our rhythm gets faster and faster. I can’t imagine it ever feeling this good with anybody else, not if I practised with somebody for a million years.
‘I want to do you from behind,’ Jamie instructs, and so I hop off, turn round and feel him enter me, pawing at my stomach, my boobs, panting once more as he doubles over to lay his front across my back. ‘God, you feel so good, Flo. So, so, good …’
It’s enough to make me climax, feeling him that way, feeling myself that way: empowered, desired, desiring. Jamie follows not long afterwards. It seems we’re pretty good at the mutual-pleasure thing.
We stay still, once we’ve finished, collapsing so that Jamie holds me from behind and the moment sustains itself for as long as we can make it last.
‘That was …’ Jamie murmurs.
‘It was,’ I agree.
We lie side-by-side, stomach-to-stomach and chest-to-chest. He holds me gently. I take in his grey eyes and angelic eyelashes, the single bead of sweat still lingering at his temple. It hits me that I really, really like being looked at by Jamie in this way. And that’s not the plan. Realising this makes me feel claustrophobic with my own heart, my own feelings. If he keeps looking at me like this, any crush or fondness or hotness I feel for him won’t quell, it will swell. I thought, by getting to know Jamie better, I could get him out of my system, like the poem said. Exposure therapy. But I might be getting in over my head here.
I move away from him, wrapping myself in one of the blankets. The privacy of the barn brings a whole new level of intimacy. I reach over to the cool box and am grateful to see some water in there. I grab a bottle and drink half of it in one gulp.
‘Four more nights of the holiday left anyway,’ I say. ‘So what do you reckon? Eight to ten more spectacular shags?’
I mean it to sound light, to steer us into jovial, cheeky territory. But Jamie doesn’t laugh. He just says, ‘Well, four nights and then … everything after.’
‘Everything after?’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘Obviously, once Laurie knows …’
‘You’re telling Laurie?’ I say, surprised.
‘I kind of have to?’ Jamie says. ‘Like we agreed.’
I’m confused. ‘So we are going to tell Laurie we’re – you know – fooling around?’
Jamie narrows his eyes. ‘Fooling around,’ he repeats.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘I don’t get what’s going on here. This is a fling, right? A holiday fling?’
Jamie opens his mouth and then closes it again, choosing not to speak. He moves to cover himself up, reaching for his boxers and pulling them on. He’s beautiful, in the candlelight. A feeling swells in my chest, and it reminds me of what I felt at Christmas, when I thought something was happening and it wasn’t. Except it actually was. And I don’t know what made him change his mind, or why he has changed his mind again on this trip, but I start to pull at the thread of a thought I’ve been pushing away ever since we talked about trust. It’s actually a thought that’s been growing all year. Anger. I am angry at Jamie, for never saying sorry for what he did. And if I thought I could level the playing field by having some quick hook-up and walking away, I was wrong, because … because … Well, I don’t know why. Only that I can’t.
‘Why did you leave me hanging at Christmas?’ I say suddenly. I’ve done it. I’ve said the C-word, the thing we’ve danced around this whole trip.
Jamie narrows his eyes. ‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he replies coolly.
I don’t understand what he means. He was the one who led me on; he led me down the garden path and then changed his mind.
‘Urm …’ I say, remembering how terrible I am at confrontation. I wish I could take back the last ten minutes. Neither of us speaks. This has all gone horribly wrong. We look at the floor, the walls, the ceiling – anything but at each other. Anger brews.
And then Jamie is furious: red-faced and manic eyes, his voice raised.
‘Do you know what, Flo? I don’t know in what world you think I wronged you last Christmas, but it’s all adding up to me now. You just do what you want, don’t you? You think because you had your breakdown, you’re the only one who can hurt, and you hide behind it. You do whatever you goddamn choose: you lead people on, dump them when it suits, treat them coldly and horribly and make them feel unwelcome … Did you decide you’d use me to pass the time again, because we’re on holiday and it didn’t work out with Adonis?’
He says Adonis like he’s spitting it out, like it pains him.
I shake my head. ‘You’ve got this wrong,’ I say. ‘This is all backwards.’
‘No,’ he says, pulling on his shorts and grabbing his T-shirt. ‘I’ve got this exactly right. I see this for what it is now, crystal-clear. I’ve been a grade-A idiot.’
‘Please don’t go,’ I say as he walks to the door. ‘None of this makes any sense …’
‘Hard-agree,’ Jamie replies. ‘I don’t know how you dare accuse me of shitting on your heart, when if you ask me it’s quite the opposite.’
And then he is gone, and I am lying naked under my blanket, looking at the barn wall, wondering what the hell just happened.