Page 59 of When We Were Young

Emily

FHD is already sitting at the bar as I descend the spiral staircase into the basement gin bar he suggested.

I take the steps carefully to stop my heels from catching in my hem.

I’m wearing the green dress I bought for Scott’s parents’ barbecue last summer.

It’s simple but elegant – everyone said it was lovely, and I remember Scott’s eyes roaming over it, giving it the male seal of approval.

Maybe I’m a tad overdressed tonight though.

I make it to the bottom of the stairs without tripping and FHD says, ‘Wow, great dress.’

We sample different gins with their corresponding mixers and garnishes and taste each other’s drinks; we declare our favourites. I don’t finish my third cocktail. I’m at the perfect stage of merry.

‘How do you feel about Billy?’ I ask.

He frowns. ‘Who’s Billy?’

I laugh. ‘You.’

‘Oh, me. You mean how do I feel about you calling me Billy?’

‘Yes.’

He thinks about it, draws his mouth into a line, then nods his head. ‘I like it,’ he says, ‘makes me sound like a cowboy.’ He raises his glass. ‘Yee haw!’

I tap my glass to his with a chuckle. ‘Yee haw.’

‘Shall we talk about why you want to call me Billy?’

‘No.’

That straight-line mouth and nod combo again.

I lean in. ‘Billy?’

He inclines his head towards mine. ‘Yeah?’

I whisper into his ear, ‘Let’s go.’

The dress is in a green puddle around my feet.

I didn’t know it would slip off like that.

FHD/Billy is behind me, scooping my hair to one side and kissing my neck.

The copper artwork above his bed is abstract, but it looks like an aerial view of waves breaking on a beach.

I’m having trouble staying in the moment.

I drag myself back into my body and concentrate on the sensations.

Stepping out of the dress, I turn to face him.

Billy’s gaze sweeps over my body and suddenly I’m self-conscious standing there in my best underwear.

According to the magazine I read in the hairdressers, I have way too much pubic hair.

The confident woman whispering in his ear half an hour ago is long gone.

I pull at the buttons on his shirt and tug at his belt.

It’s as though I’m eager to get to it, but I just need him to be as undressed as me.

It’s normal, right? To think of the last time you had sex, even if it was a long time ago?

Even if it means Scott’s on my mind as Billy circles my nipple with his tongue?

I tense up as these thoughts intrude on the moment.

I tell myself to let go. It takes all my concentration, but I relax.

The sex is good, but I don’t come, and I don’t pretend to.

We lie side by side in his bed, catching our breath. He turns on his side, his face close to mine on the pillow, eyes glinting in the lamplight. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t… did you?’

‘It’s fine really, it’s been a while and I… it’s different with…’ This is excruciating.

‘Would you like me to––’

‘No, honestly. I’m good. It was great.’

I stay the night. Falling asleep is easy with a warm body curled around mine and soft breath on my neck.

I wake with the birds. Billy still has his arm around me, and it makes me smile.

I need to go home to shower and change before work.

The green dress and last night’s make-up will not pass Magda’s scrutiny.

I check my watch: there’s still time for at least another hour of sleep, but I’m wide awake.

Billy removes his arm and turns onto his back in his sleep.

I prop myself up on my elbow gently, so I don’t wake him.

Studying his face unobserved, I take in his strong, square jaw and defined cheekbones. It’s the kind of face you want to draw.

I lay back on the pillow. When was the last time I sketched?

That drawing for Scott. I’ve drawn his face once before.

Back in college, we did portraits of each other in class.

We only had ten minutes. Mine came out well, but I remember he disliked my interpretation of his nose.

His sketch of me was flattering, but it didn’t really look like me.

I run my fingertips across Billy’s cheek and down to his chin. The long stubble is soft. His eyes flicker open.

He smiles. ‘What time is it?’

‘Early,’ I say and lean in to kiss him.

The morning sex is much better. I could get the hang of this.

We eat a breakfast of toast and coffee. Billy offers me every conceivable spread for the toast but I plump for Marmite. We eat at his kitchen table chatting, me overdressed in the green frock.

He’s looking at me like an eager puppy and it makes me laugh.

‘What?’ he asks.

‘Stop looking at me like that.’

He raises a playful eyebrow. ‘Like what?’

‘Like that.’

He bites a semi-circle out of his toast, chews and swallows. ‘I was thinking it might be nice to go away together.’

‘Away?’

‘Just for a weekend, somewhere in the UK or maybe a bit further: Paris or Barcelona or something.’

Barriers go up inside me. The toast in my mouth takes a long time to chew. He’s waiting for a reply, so I say, ‘That would be nice.’ But my voice is flat.

‘Have you ever been to Paris?’

The Arc de Triomphe framed by the window of a tour bus flashes into my mind. ‘Once.’ Inside, mild panic is rising. Which is very confusing. He’s gorgeous. I was – am – very flattered to be his flavour of the week. I thought he was a bit of a player, on dating apps, seeing lots of people.

‘Too soon?’ he asks, making light of his faux pas.

I smile. ‘A bit.’

He leans in, kisses my neck, and whispers, ‘You get me all carried away.’