Chapter Fourteen
We return to George”s car and drive a short distance, through a few streets and into a car park at the base of a large apartment block that opens when George types a code into a keypad at the gate. We walk through the dimly lit car park to a lift that takes us up to the fifth floor. I can feel my heart beating fast as we approach George’s apartment. The last time I had seen him we had slept together, and now we were not only alone together, but about to be alone together in the most intimate space possible - his home. He unlocks the door and holds it open for me to walk through, then follows me in and closes it behind him. His apartment is large and clean, while still seeming cosy. He leads me to the living room which has broad white walls, a dark wooden floor, and French windows leading to a small balcony that I can just about make out in the dark. He has a brown leather sofa and a glass coffee table on a woven rug in deep Autumn colours. Beside the couch is a low wooden side table, on which is an enormous, vibrantly green fern plant, sprouting from a tall vase painted in a blue and white herringbone pattern. On the biggest wall is a shelving unit crammed with books and records, the top of which is decorated with a smattering of photos in glass frames of his family and friends. I recognise, with a flutter of delight, the photo taken of Frannie, Nisha, Lila and I during the photoshoot in Mijas.
‘I like your fern,’ I say.
‘It’s nice isn’t it?’ George says, ‘I’m not sure I could keep a pet flourishing at this time in my life, but this guy is doing well. Now, excuse me while I drown myself in ice water.’
He leaves to go through another door. I hear the opening of kitchen cupboards and the running of a tap. When he returns his face is damp, the curls that frame his face darkened and shiny. He’s holding a soft white towel in one hand and a fresh glass of water in the other which he offers to me. We stand on the rug facing one another.
‘Femi’s right you know,’ he says, pressing the towel into his face once I’ve taken the glass from him. ‘My sisters can both handle spice much better than I can. But I also don’t think traditional Indian food has as much heat as people think. I think a lot of the spicier stuff people have here was made for restaurants. The food my grandparents make is fragrant and rich, but I don”t think it ever hurts to eat it.’
‘Do you feel okay now?’
‘I’m fine. I’m a big boy.’
I feel a twinge of guilt at his flushed cheeks, and I have to confess.
‘It’s my fault,’ I say, folding my arms against myself. ‘I moved the menu when you had your eyes closed. I made you pick pepper soup. I was trying to be funny but it was probably quite mean. I didn’t realise it would be that spicy.’
To my surprise, George smiles. ‘Okay well, then we’ve both got a confession to make.’ He looks around as though someone could be listening in, then leans towards me. ‘I know you moved the menu because I had my eyes open.’
‘Oh god, you already knew.’ I put my face in my hands, cringing at myself.
‘Hydie, stop.’ George reaches out and gently pulls my fingers away from my eyes, holding them as though if he lets go I’ll cover my face again. ‘I like the pepper soup and I like spicy food just fine. If I didn’t want it I would have just ordered something else. You didn’t do anything wrong, you were just playing. You have to stop feeling so guilty about things.’
‘I was already feeling guilty about missing the barbecue.’ I say, ruffled.
‘I’m sorry I hassled you about it.’
‘It’s okay. You’re right I’ve not been a very good friend lately.’
‘Neither have I.’ He’s still holding my fingertips in his hands. All I want in that moment is to ask him if he remembers what I told him when I was younger, to ask if that still shapes how he sees me. Because it’s never felt more important that I know these things as George steps closer and I tilt my head to meet his lips.
George is tentative at first, his mouth parting in a barely there kiss as he waits for my reaction then, when I press my mouth against his, he drops my hands and slides his arms around my waist pulling me close. I slide my fingers up his arms to lace against the back of his neck, feeling the soft curls at the base of his skull. I gently push my hands upwards and into his hair. Need shimmers in my body as I feel his hands tighten around my waist. He grips me hard, and the slight pain makes me gasp, just enough for him to press his tongue into my open mouth. I taste the lingering spice, the flavour gone, but the sharp sting remaining. He could lift me if he wanted to, I realise. He could do anything to me if he wanted to. I become aware of the way his hands are moving gently across my back, his fingers feeling out the buttons on the back of my dress. Unsure of how best to tell him what I want, and unwilling to break the kiss to use words, I drop my hand to his waist behind his back and slide the tips of my fingers just beneath his belt.
He hisses through his teeth and makes a low guttural noise that resonates in my bones, as though it is activating something ancient in me. I pull away slightly, freeing my mouth to ask if we can go to his bedroom, and look into his face, his dark eyes more fiery than I’ve ever seen them, his usually sweet, smiling face is intense. I decide I can’t wait, I can’t take my eyes away from him. Instead, I take his shirt roughly in my two fists and, smiling at my own assertiveness, pull him firmly towards his couch. I drop myself down and, before he can crash down into me, pull his belt off. He puts a hand out to graze the top of my head as I undo the buttons of his jeans and pull them down with his underwear to reveal his hardening cock beneath.
‘Oh fuck.’ George says, almost to himself, as I open my mouth and take the whole length in. He hardens completely in an instant, and as I move my head back and forth I feel him grow too big for my mouth. I put a hand up at the base of his dick to steady myself and take it firmly, feeling the tip against the back of my throat. George’s knees buckle slightly and as I slide him out of my mouth, dragging my tongue beneath his length I see him plant a hand flat against the wall behind the couch, his eyes shut tight in that way people do, where intense pleasure looks like pain. I find myself smiling round his cock as I take him in again and feel his breathing deepen as I fall into a steady rhythm, sucking him hard and fast, beads of salty precum finding their way to my tongue. As his heavy breathing turns to moans I speed up, surprised at myself. I want him to finish in my mouth, to find out what he tastes like.
As I get faster and faster his eyes open and, with a look so intense he almost looks angry, he pushes off against the wall and takes me roughly by the shoulders, pulling me away from him. I make an involuntary mewling sound as my mouth is suddenly empty, but he moves me roughly around and places me on all fours on the couch, pulling my dress up above my waist and pulling my underwear down until they sit around my thighs.
‘Hey Hydie,’ I hear him behind me as he kneels behind me, feeling the tip of his cock, thick and hard against my entrance.
‘Yeah?’ I say, tilting my hips and trying to slide back into him. He stops me with a firm hand on my back.
‘Is there any angle I put can you at where you’re not unbelievably fuckable?’
I begin to reply, to cheekily suggest we try some, but he pushes roughly inside me and the words melt into a cry of pleasure. I’m shunted forward by the movement and bury my head in the couch, the leather warm and soft against my face as George holds my hips and fucks me. The angle lets him push deep inside me, the sensation such intense pleasure that I have to bite my teeth into my lower lip to keep from grunting or screaming. I arch my back more, trying to find a way to take him even deeper, as though I want to feel this in my whole body. My hands are slippy on the couch, and I feel my own wetness against the inside of my thighs. For a bizarre moment, it occurs to me to apologise for the state we’ll be leaving his couch, but I couldn’t form the words if I tried.
George shifts behind me, leaning forward over my back, his body completely flush against mine, filling me completely, and I feel him slide a hand from my hip down and between my legs, where his fingers touch gently against my clit. The sound I make is undignified, the movement ungainly. I say ‘fuck’ in a hiss between my teeth and lunge myself back and forth, against his hand and his cock. I hear him make a deep, satisfied sound as he lets me move the way I want, grinding against him. I cum quicker than I want, the intensity building and spilling over, and then I lie in the flooding pleasure, feeling him ride the wave of my orgasm until almost at his own. He pulls out and I feel him shudder as he finishes, spilling hot and wet against the back of my legs.
We stay like that for a few moments, both of us catching our breath. Then I stand and straighten my dress as George does his belt back up again.
‘Can I go to the bathroom?’ I say, ‘Just to sort myself out before I mess up your couch?’ I gesture to my legs
George tells me where it is and I follow the corridor round to a bathroom tiled in neat white squares. It’s as though I’m splashing my face in a sheet of graph paper. Above the sink is a set of grey men’s skincare identical to the set at his parent’s house. When I’ve finished cleaning myself up I walk back through the corridor and pass George going the other way. He gives me a kiss on the cheek as I walk past him and I sit back down on the couch which, miraculously, looks as though nothing at all has happened there. I sit myself neatly on the leather, tucking the skirt of my dress around my legs.
I make myself laugh, sitting so primly on a couch on which I have just been roughly fucked by its owner. I realise I still haven’t seen George’s bedroom. I wonder what it looks like, whether it has the same warm colours and rich fabrics as the living room. I think about searching for the patisserie George mentioned on my phone, choosing what to have in the morning when we go there together. I wish I’d brought the travel toothbrush from Frannie’s house. I wish I’d brought pyjamas, but why would I have? To think just a few hours ago I had been waiting for him at the door, unsure he would even turn up.
The bathroom door opens and closes, and I hear his footsteps approach his shadow on the wall before he comes back around the corner.
‘Are you okay?’ I say, reflexively as we make eye contact.
‘Yeah,’ he says, but his tone is unexpectedly strained. He sits down, a person’s width away from me on the couch. I go to move across to him. To close the gap, as I do so he catches my wrists, keeping me at a distance, holding them between us awkwardly, as though he’s not sure what to do with them.
‘Hydie, listen. I’m sorry,’ he says, and I feel a dropping sensation in my chest.
‘For what?’ I try to smile, ‘I thought it was pretty good.’
He gives me a weak smile, humouring me, but looks so uncomfortable that I draw back, moving my arms out of his grip, and sit back against the other arm of the couch.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I just,’ he looks away, his expression one of shame. ‘You’re wonderful and I love spending time with you. But it’s not been that long since I ended things with-’ He chews his lip. ‘I think I’ve made a mistake.’
‘A mistake?’
‘I told myself I needed to wait at least until after Frannie’s wedding, but I couldn’t help myself. I should have been more disciplined. I should have controlled my feelings.’
‘You don’t have to control anything.’ I say. ‘I like you and, if I’m reading the signs right, which I assume I am, you like me, what’s the problem?’
‘It’s not right.’ He says. ‘I’m just out of a relationship. You’re Frannie’s best friend. You”re a lot younger than I am. There’s a lot to untangle. We should have talked before anything happened.’
‘Maybe things haven’t happened in the most ideal circumstances, or in the best timeframe. But now things have happened. We can’t undo that, so what do you want?’
‘That’s the problem though isn’t it?’ George says. He’s looking at his hands in his lap, as though he can’t bear to face me. ‘All I’ve been thinking about is what I want. My own feelings. When I should have been thinking about what’s best for you.’
‘Best for me?’ It was bizarre to hear him speak like this.
‘I should have made sure you were comfortable.’
‘I think me enthusiastically undressing us both was a signal that I was comfortable.”
‘Not in the moment. In general.’
‘George, what are you talking about?’
‘Look, you’re very young still. Thirty and twenty-five are two different stages in life. It’s not responsible of me to act like this with you. I should be looking out for you, not sleeping with you.’
‘You think my age is a problem?’ I feel hot, suddenly. The leather of the couch sticks to the skin of my legs. ‘I’m not a kid anymore. I’m twenty five not fifteen. You don’t need to ”look after me”. It makes me feel as though you don’t think I’m your equal. You don”t need to help me like you help everyone else. I don”t want to be helped, like I”m something to be pitied, I want to be seen as an adult who can make her own decisions.’
‘I didn”t mean it that way,” he says.
”Then how did you mean it?”
He doesn”t reply and we sit in a silence that I don’t know how to fill. I’m not going to plead like some lovesick puppy, and I’m also too bewildered to argue with him, or even to cover my feelings and make a joke to ease the tension.
Instead, I sit on the couch while George tells me that I’m still his guest, and that I should stay the night, that he’ll give me a lift home in the morning. His politeness is excruciating. His tone is that of a polite neighbour offering to lend me a lawnmower. He offers to stay on the couch while I sleep in his bed, but I gather the presence of mind to insist that I be the one sleeping in the living room. The idea of going into his bedroom and lying there without him is completely sickening.
‘Probably for the best,’ he tries to joke as he pulls a pillow and blankets out of a cupboard in the hall. ‘I haven’t hoovered in a couple of days and there’s a pile of laundry you could fall into and get lost.’
I don’t laugh, and there is a prolonged and nightmarish silence as he makes up a bed for me.
‘If you need anything else let me know,’ he says with a forced, friendly tone. He’s trying so hard to act normal that he’s doing everything as though being held at gunpoint. And I stand there, humiliated, utterly unwilling to lower the weapon.
After a few awkward minutes he bids me goodnight and tells me that he’ll drop me back home at about half past eight. He doesn’t offer to take me to the patisserie beforehand. He gives a strange little wave as he closes his bedroom door and I return it with a grim smile.
And then he leaves me there, standing by the couch on which I have just had incredible sex, and the most painfully bizarre conversation. Whatever liquid delight I had been feeling earlier in the evening has cooled to stiff marble. I sit in the dark on the couch, not touching the blanket or pillows he’s laid out. I stare grimly at the fern plant in its pot, resisting the urge to knock it over. I map out this part of London as best I can in my head, remembering which underground lines close at night. Then I pick up my things and leave the apartment, closing the door gently so George doesn’t hear, and take the stairs down to the street to catch a convoluted selection of tube lines home.