Don’t You Forget About Me(88)

Make a move, make a move.

‘One for the road?’ I call, as Lucas puts the phone back. I’m not sure why pubs still have landlines, really. I shouldn’t have let him call it. I could’ve pretended I was getting one on my app.

‘Ack, go on,’ Lucas says.

Gleefully, I pour out more as he comes back to our table. He picks up the glass, clinks with mine, the back of his fingers making the faintest contact against my own. Our eyes meet as we down it. I unconsciously lick a drop from my lips and his eyes flick towards this movement so briefly, I can’t tell if I saw it or saw what I wanted to see.

Car lights sweep up to the window and Lucas stands up and says, his tone impossible to read: ‘Oh, that was quick.’

I think no no no no, getting to my feet. The lights travel onward and Lucas says ‘False alarm.’

I’m right by him, and I’m looking up at him as he’s looking down at me and the world is holding its breath and I know that it’s now or never.

‘Lucas?’ I say.

‘Yeah?’ he replies.

‘I feel a bit drunk,’ I say. ‘I should go. But …’

‘What?’

‘I don’t want to.’

He reaches out and brushes a stray hair away from my face because touching each other now seems to be a thing we do, and I think: signs won’t get stronger than this.

Before I’m even fully sure I’m going to do it, I close the distance between us, put my arms around his neck and kiss him.





37


It’s still terrifying, but inebriation makes it slightly less terrifying to tough out the seconds of not being sure if he’ll respond. Never mind dancing on your own, kissing on your own’s the truly lonely activity.

The moment I worry it won’t happen, suddenly Lucas is kissing me back, with equal passion, his hand on the back of my head, fingers wound into my hair.

No one kisses as well as this. I’d thought my teenage memories were rose tinted, but if anything they had faded like an old photograph. Everything he used to do to me is still there. It’s like my body remembers him and lights up in response, a ping-ping-ping of recognition and lust travelling the length of my body. I’ve had dozens of kisses-with-grappling in the years in between, and they were all pale shadows of this: the push of him, the pull of him, the whole effect of him.

I’d told myself: well yeah, but you mythologise your first love, don’t you, it’s nostalgia playing tricks. It wasn’t. My God, it wasn’t.

He needs to know how much I want him. Since I’ve not had the courage to tell him, I throw my efforts into this mode of communication instead.

Not only am I making it a deep and quite filthy kiss, I slide my hands under his t-shirt and on to bare flesh underneath, hopefully making it clear this is not a ‘let’s have a quick snog at the end of the night’, this is a full on, ‘take me to bed’ bid.

Lucas slides a hand under my top in response – yes! – and I put my hand over his and move it straight up to my breast, my hand over his. I am certainly not playing hard to get. The euphoria of the moment is carrying me. He squeezes me gently and tugs at the lace of my bra cup and his fingertips brush my left nipple. We’re miraculously back at that same second base (I never understood the bases) we dexterously managed to achieve undetected in the Botanical Gardens. Only this time, we don’t have to go home separately, aching with unfulfillment.

When I fumble around his flies, he grabs my hand and says: ‘Stop.’

I step back an inch, getting my breathing back.

‘What?’

‘We can’t.’

I look at the windows. I suppose he’s right, the blinds won’t be foolproof and there’s still enough light in here we could be seen.

‘OK. Upstairs?’

My clothing is rumpled and my face is hot.

‘No. I mean, best not do this.’

I don’t understand. He steps back a little further and it feels like a million miles.

‘Wh— what? Did I do something wrong?’

He looks at me from under his brow and says in a thick voice: ‘Hardly.’

Nnnggg. I am in a state my mum would deem unladylike. I go to kiss him again and he stops me, hands firm on my upper arms.

‘Seriously, Gina. We’re both being pissed and silly.’

Gina?

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Hah,’ he shakes his head and says: ‘Maybe not for you.’

Eh? A performance issue? ‘How do you mean?’

‘It might be fun now but we have to get up and work together tomorrow.’

‘I don’t care,’ I say, forcefully.

‘Well, I do. Your taxi will be here any second. Got your coat?’

I’d thought he was kidding, maybe making me work harder for it. Now I know this is not a bluff, and I’m bewildered.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘I don’t like getting involved with anyone I work with,’ he says, voice still low. ‘I don’t want the complication.’

‘Oh, my God!’ I say, hurt, offended, a little too loud. There’s no job on earth I’d sacrifice a night with Lucas McCarthy for.

‘What?’ Lucas says, quietly, far more in control. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’