15. Instant ramen
Chapter fifteen
Instant ramen
Afew moments passed before Greta drew in a long breath and spoke.
‘I should probably go, Dylan, I—’
‘Please, Greta. I really don’t want you to leave, and I don’t think you want to go either. I know this isn’t your fancy pants apartment, but—’
‘It’s not that…don’t be silly,’ Greta said softly.
The idea of her apartment felt cold and sterile compared to the warmth of Dylan’s bed and body, but she had a sudden, inexplicable instinct to put distance between them.
‘Neither of us fared well in being pulled apart last night. Did we?’
Greta pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Dylan’s chest, the bounding rhythm of her heart beneath her lips. ‘That’s true,’ she whispered. It was truer than Dylan could possibly know.
‘I would have stayed with you longer last night if I could. I know you wanted me to stay.’ Greta sighed, feeling a sudden, bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that only comes when you relent and finally stop fighting.
‘Stay with me, Greta.’ Dylan’s tone had become lighter and more hopeful.
She pulled her chin to her chest to better see Greta.
‘I’ll make you some toast? Tea? I have instant ramen.
’ A genuine, raspy chuckle escaped Dylan’s throat at the ridiculous notion of offering one of Manchester’s most revered and renowned oncologists a bowl of instant noodles.
‘You should have led with that, Dylan.’ Greta’s tone had finally lost its tense edge, her lips curling into a smile on Dylan’s chest.
‘So you’ll stay?’
‘I’d move in for ramen noodles.’
‘Steady on you massive lesbian!’ Dylan laughed, craning her neck as she looked toward the window. ‘Shit, did you arrive in a U-Haul van?’
‘Shut up,’ Greta chuckled, nudging her shoulder into Dylan’s ribs
‘Seriously, though. Is all your stuff parked outside? Are we doing this?’
Greta let out a deep, melodic laugh, her entire body vibrating against Dylan as she continued to chuckle. Held tight in Dylan's arms, the messy, beautiful reality of Greta seemed to completely wash away any lingering remnants of Margot.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Greta asked quietly, running her fingers over the defined contours of Dylan’s stomach.
‘If it’s what colour Farrow and Ball I would like us to have in the bathroom, no, you can't. It's too expensive and too soon!’ Greta’s head bobbed as Dylan laughed at her own joke.
‘You are insufferable, Miss St John.’
Dylan squeezed her. ‘What did you want to ask me?’
‘Did you really never orgasm with your other clients?’ Greta took a steadying breath. ‘Not even the ones that wanted you to?’
‘Never. Not one. Not all my clients paid for sex…sometimes, they wanted me to take them out or pretend to be their partner at an event, stuff like that. But no, I was never close to orgasms with the ones I did have sex with. It was only ever when I was with you. Before you, well…before you jumped me in that bathroom I—’
‘I jumped you?’
‘Err, yes.’
‘That’s not how I remember it, Dylan. I was alone in that bath—’
‘Aaanyway,’ Dylan stretched around a wide effortless smile.
‘Before that, and not including wanking after meetings with you.’ Greta tutted in feigned offense at the word, prompting a quick correction.
‘Sorry, Doctor Vincent, masturbating. I hadn’t had an orgasm with someone else for about…
Jesus, this is embarrassing… About seven, maybe eight years. ’
‘Really?!’ Greta pulled back just enough to look at her.
‘I can’t have sex without feelings. It means nothing to me. I mean, I obviously can physically have the sex without the feelings, but I can’t come. I suppose I’m a bit Demi. I dunno. It just doesn’t work.’
‘So you’re saying you have feelings for me?’ Greta fished, pressing her head back down against Dylan’s chest to hide her hopeful smile.
‘Err, yass,’ Dylan playfully hissed. ‘Have I failed to make that abundantly clear?’
‘Our age difference is—’
‘Spicy chicken or not-so-spicy veg?’ Dylan interrupted, neatly sidestepping a conversation she very clearly had absolutely no interest in having.
‘Excuse me?!’ Greta pulled back, blinking at the sudden change in subject.
‘Your noodles. Spicy chicken? Well, they’ve probably never seen an actual chicken, but let’s not think about that. Or not-so-spicy veg?’
Greta cocked a brow, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Dylan. She knew a diversion tactic when she heard one, but in the warmth of Dylan’s bed, pressed against her body, she found she didn't mind being diverted.
‘Veg, please, Chef.’
‘Okay, Doctor. One gourmet meal, coming right up. Don't go anywhere.’ Dylan leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Greta’s forehead. ‘Sriracha?’
Greta smiled as Dylan reluctantly slipped out from underneath her. ‘Of course.’
***
They ate their noodles sitting cross-legged on Dylan’s bed, the room bathed in the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamps.
The faint ethereal melody of the Cocteau Twins played quietly in the background.
Greta had accepted the offer of one of Dylan’s vintage T-shirts.
A faded Goonies one that was worn thin in places and had a hole in the sleeve.
It clung to her curves a little more than she usually liked her loungewear to—a fact that earned her a slow, delighted grin from Dylan when her messy waves popped through the collar—but it smelled unmistakably of Dylan.
It was a smell of oud and bergamot and something that Greta couldn't quite name, something uniquely Dylan. As she held it she hadn't been able to help herself; she’d pressed the fabric to her face, closed her eyes, and breathed in Dylan’s scent.
Uncharacteristically, Greta had ignored how silly she felt pulling on a T-shirt with Do the truffle shuffle, emblazoned across the front and instead enjoyed the feeling of the soft cotton against her skin.
Sitting there with the warm ramen bowl resting in her lap, Greta strangely felt more at home than she had in her own “fancy pants” apartment for a long time. She sat with an unexpected ease, and had caught Dylan watching her with a small smile and a quiet, appreciative expression as they ate.
‘I loved that film,’ Greta said, gesturing with a head tilt toward the framed poster on the chimney breast, before bringing another tangle of noodles to her mouth.
‘Me too. It’s absolutely incredible. I adore queer cinema, but there’s something remarkable about Portrait.
Even though it sort of leans into the cliché that the woman can’t have the woman because, well, fucking men.
’ Dylan rolled her eyes. ‘It’s a masterpiece.
The way Sciamma created a film so unapologetically feminist is just brilliant.
No men on screen for ninety percent of it…
just women seeing, being seen and falling in love. ’
Greta nodded, her gaze lingering on the poster.
She knew a thing or two about the weight of being watched and the relief of finally being seen.
With her senses saturated, Greta leaned back, watching and listening to Dylan wax lyrical about the film.
She was captivated by the sight of her. The way Dylan dropped her chopsticks into the bowl with a hollow clack so she could gesticulate passionately with her right hand.
The care she had taken in serving instant ramen in a heavy, proper ceramic bowl with a napkin, as if they were having room service at a nice hotel.
Dylan had “pimped” the broth with fresh ginger, chillies and coriander, and given Greta a wooden ladle and bamboo chopsticks.
It wasn't just Dylan’s enthusiasm that Greta was mesmerised by; it was her eloquence, her wit and the sharp, sparking intelligence that had been tucked away behind her obedient boundaries for two years.
It was the way Dylan rubbed at her eyebrow with her fingertips when she laughed, or scrunched her lips together when disgruntled.
Greta felt shallow at how little she’d thought of Remi; never truly considering what she was like outside the confines of a hotel room.
But listening to Dylan speak—looking at her, flushed and animated, tattoos bright around the white cotton of her vest, soft grey shorts tight over her muscular thighs—the overwhelming need to know all of Dylan had settled deep under Greta’s skin.
Every hidden corner of Dylan St John, every favourite thing, every habit, every scar.
She watched avidly, her noodles forgotten for a moment, as Dylan continued her impassioned speech.