White Bodies(36)

As he speaks, I’m aware that, because of our rolled-up sleeves, our bare arms are touching, lightly brushing each other. The sensation makes my chest feel tight, and my hands are shaking slightly. I hope he doesn’t notice, and I say, almost under my breath: “I could help . . . if you like, with the paperwork.”

His face contorts, like he finds that funny.

“What?”

“Who knew that the word paperwork could sound so . . . what’s the word? . . . alluring.”

He leans over, puts one hand round the back of my head, and pulls my face towards his. And we kiss—first, little kisses on the lips, then a proper full-on kiss, me taking in his woody smell, the roughness of his lips. We pull apart, and Wilf says, “Would you like to come and see my flat?”

“Oh no! I have to get home. . . .” I pull away, stymied by a blast of fear.

“Oh, okay.”

He gulps down his beer, putting the glass down with a thump of finality, and I summon up my courage: “I didn’t mean to say that. What I meant was, I’d like to see your flat.” I try to smile at him, but my mouth is dry and the smile won’t come.

“Good!”

He steers me out of the Albany and we walk to Kensal Rise, his arm around my waist, stopping twice to kiss, then speeding up, in a hurry to be inside.





18


I’m preparing for dinner at the Wolseley and reflect that I’ve become suddenly grown-up. This dress, these boots, and the fact that I’ve acquired a boyfriend. I make up my face, taking Daphne’s advice to go for smoky eyes, and follow a method I found on YouTube. I use a “natural” shade lipstick, sort of creamy and glossy, and think it’s possible that I actually look sexy and sophisticated. At one point, I skip around the flat singing the “I Feel Pretty” song from West Side Story, but come to an abrupt stop when reality hits. An evening with Felix, just the two of us. Now I feel sick. Before I leave home I log on to Controlling Men and have a quick chat with Belle.

I’m so nervous. How will I be able to talk naturally? My instinct will be to insult him and walk out.

Stay focused. It’s important that u use ur time well, to find out as much as poss. Be strong!!

I take the bus to the Wolseley and, although I’m five minutes early, I find that Felix is already there, sitting at the bar, sharp shoulders, straight back, drinking something clear—gin or vodka or, knowing him, fizzy water. He glances up and stands up, surprise in his eyes. “You look beautiful.” He’s kissing my cheek, placing his hand on my back as he leads me to our table, making me think of those long cold fingers. As we sit down he explains that he has already ordered champagne, and I’m not surprised when he goes through the menu, advising me what to order. The roasted sea bass is “excellent,” the calf’s liver “very acceptable.”

“Do you like oysters? I recommend the oysters here.”

“Not really. I like beluga caviar, though.” I had read 50g for ￡255.

He laughs. “If you like. This is my treat.”

“Just testing.” In fact I order a lamb dish, reasonably priced, and I look round the restaurant, at the self-satisfied men and wealthy women, jewels hanging in clusters from their necks and ears, like fruit. I say, “Do you come here often?” I’m trying to sound natural. At the same time, I’m examining Felix, his white wrists and knuckles, his composure, his eyes. Scanning him for clues—but it’s hard to get beyond the veneer, the slight smile, the perfect teeth.

“Oh, we only come here on special occasions. . . . Tilda likes it.”

“So why didn’t she come today, why is it just us?”

“I wanted to mend fences . . . and to spend time getting to know you better.”

“Why? I’m very ordinary.” Thinking, I have to stop saying that!

“Ha! You’re wrong—you’re an unusually perceptive person. You’re bright and you’re funny. Those wry observations of yours—you have perfect timing . . .”

“Why all this flattery, Felix?” I’m too stressed, too nauseated, to pretend that I’m charmed.

He brushes an invisible crumb off the table. “It’s not about flattery. I’m trying to tell you that I like you, Callie. And I want to convince you that I’m right for Tilda. I’m in love with your sister, and I’m good for her. . . . It pains me that you don’t see me that way.”

His voice is practically a whisper, an articulated hush, and I lean in, not wanting to miss anything.

“Are you always like this with your girlfriends?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, taking a close interest in every aspect of her life. What dress she wears, what perfume she uses, who she sees, how she manages her work, how she decorates her flat . . .” I use a soft aspirated voice, mirroring him, and I’m reminded of the quiet hissing that swans do, before they get angry.

He leans back in his chair, inhaling as though he’s stifling a yawn, then, looking into my eyes, he comes forward and places his hand on mine. It takes all my willpower not to pull away.

“You’re wrong to be suspicious of me, you know. Those character traits of mine that you don’t like, they’re innocent— Don’t smirk like that. It’s not sinister to care about organization and order. . . . In a clean, uncluttered room you can think; you can be your true self. It’s the same with worries and anxieties, keep them under wraps, and you’re free to excel in activity that matters, whether it’s the strategic management of capital, or something creative, like acting.”