Bright Burning Things(51)

‘The kitten is on its way to being trained; doesn’t shit now every time I leave the room.’ What am I doing? He doesn’t respond, just takes out another white starched handkerchief and wraps the conker in it. Does he have a nature table at home? Uncontrollable laughter rises.

‘What’s so funny, Sonya?’

He regards me from a wary distance, then surprises us both by tickling me in the ribs. I wriggle against him like a little kid. A charge is ignited between us that has nothing to do with being a kid. Inhale him, his signature citrus scent masking salt and sweat.

And just like that, he invites Elation in. My breath is caught high in my ribcage, my body saturated with beats. Frothy wisps of clouds gambol overhead, grass green and shining, drops of rain still clinging to individual blades, trembling. The air shimmers with music.

‘You ok?’

What does he see when he looks at me? An overwrought, strung-out woman of a certain age, too thin, ribs jutting through and all lustre gone from her hair. Washed-out blonde. Washed-up actress. I hope I wasn’t humming.

‘You seem brighter today, Sonya.’

Is that good? Bright, as in happy-bright, up-bright, intelligent-bright, or over-bright?

‘Yes. I guess I am.’ I shiver, quite dramatically.

‘Cold?’

‘A bit. Shall we go inside?’ I’m careful not to use the words ‘home’ or ‘to my place’.

He doesn’t say anything, just walks in tandem beside me, breath hawing in the cold air, as if we were both chasing down some fantastical dragon.

‘That’s quite a shade of pink!’ he says when we reach the front door. I smile. My fingers feel thick and clumsy; the keys drop, he picks them up, our hands touch. The kitten at my ankles, rubbing, purring. How sweet, how achingly sweet. I pick her up, kiss her, go into the yard. He follows me and leans against the door, observing me observing the kitten.

As I move past him to come back inside, my body brushes against his, one breast accidentally pushing against him. He grabs me, presses me against the fridge, its vibrations thrumming through me. He freezes, pulls away. I draw him back. ‘It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok.’

‘Sonya, this is not wise.’

When have I ever done anything because it’s wise?

‘You’re not my counsellor, right?’

He considers this a moment. ‘Not in an official capacity, but still…’

I want this man in this moment more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

‘I’m a big girl, David. I’m sober and I’m making this choice sober.’

‘Very early days, though, Sonya.’

No more talking. I pull him back to me. I wrap my arms around him, and his stiff body softens. We kind of rock like that for a few moments until the tension becomes unbearable. We’re no longer fixed versions of ourselves; we’re in the process of becoming something else entirely. David’s eyes glaze over as he pulls my jumper down over my shoulder and traces his lips over my hot skin. He seems instantly pissed on the moment; all semblance of control gone. His tongue is inside my mouth, tang of metallic, kick of coffee.

I give myself over to the thrill of being afraid. Fear equals adrenalin equals aphrodisiac. Standing up there in the spotlight, all eyes trained on me, all ears tuned in to my words, the spell I would weave, the orgasmic terror.

This is that: close attention being paid to me. I had forgotten the power of that rush. A kind of obliteration. A moment that seems both holy and depraved. I am turned on in a way I haven’t been since I was with Roberto in some forbidden place. We shouldn’t be doing this. A forbidden encounter! How romantic, and how undeniably sexy.

After, somehow having made it to the bed, we lie in each other’s arms, drenched in sweat. I know what’s coming, the whirring, the back-pedalling, the wishing it had never happened. Neither of us speak. Outside: a clear night sky, like navy velvet shot through with brilliant diamonds. Take him and cut him out in little stars. Where are you, my Mister Man? My breath gets stuck high in my throat and I’m scared I’ll spill into tears. This is the part I dread, when I feel as if I have vacated myself. I hate this moment of bare-arsed vulnerability.

David falls asleep easily, his face relaxed, his body twitching involuntarily. I lay a hand on his cheekbones, tracing the line of stubble down towards his jawline. Can’t bear the feelings this closeness brings. This is something I’ve always experienced: this post-coital surge of excess emotion, while whatever partner is lying beside me is out cold. I go into the kitchen, fill a saucer of milk for Marmie and lay it in front of her. The little girl laps at the milk with her baby-pink tongue. I am entranced by her intense concentration, her defencelessness.

David sleeps for a solid seven hours, while I pace, watch telly on low. A Mystic Meg rip-off is on, her phone number flashes on screen. I get my phone, dial, and am greeted by an automatic voice to dial in a credit card number. Fake Meg’s bland, pretty, young face fills the screen. The casting department got it very wrong – they should’ve cast a wrinkled hag with searing blue eyes; this one is as inane as a catalogue model. I wonder at the type of person who would pay for an out-of-work actress’s advice at 3 a.m.

Fall at some point into some semblance of sleep on the couch; must do, because when I wake he’s standing over me.

‘Mind if I do?’ he says, as he sits beside me, drawing me close.