hung-over. Outside the sky is already bright and from my bedroom window I can just see a patch of daffodils pushing through, down by the banks of the canal. I consider going for a walk to clear my head – past the colourful boats and vast white stucco houses – then think better of it and climb back under my duvet to replay last night’s conversation.
According to Pete, there’s nothing untoward about James’s behaviour. My instinct tells me something is strange, but I can’t put my finger on it.
When James is with me, he’s highly attentive.
He notices everything. If I apply lip balm when he’s popped to the loo, he’ll notice as soon as he walks back in. Not gloss. Clear lip balm. Nick wouldn’t have noticed if I’d grown a Salvador Dali moustache and started speaking Aramaic, as long as I was still padding around the flat.
If I leave the room, James asks where I’m going.
When I’m cooking a meal, he’ll watch me, try to impress me, touch me.
When we’re in bed he is generous and energetic and passionate. He has the libido of a man half his age.
Afterwards we lie for hours having iPod shuffle conversations, flicking from time travel to Bernie Winters to why mosquitoes don’t get AIDS. We should be sleeping. Our combined age is seventy-eight, we both have work in the morning. It’s 3.47, 2.48, 4.15am. Neither of us ever wants to stop the conversation. Eventually we fall asleep, my hand curled around his fingers.
But when he’s not with me, I feel like ‘we’ don’t exist. The randomness of meeting someone in a bar, of having no mutual friends, of having entirely separate lives, is brought home. He could disappear and I would never cross paths with him again. Sometimes I wake up and wonder if he’s even real.
On days when we don’t speak, I feel laden down with the things I didn’t get to share with him. He won’t call for two, three days. Then, it’s like he has a CCTV on my psyche, and at the precise mid-point between when I’ve done a deal with the devil so that he’ll call, and the point at which I think fuck you, James Stephens, this is not acceptable, he’ll ring. My anxiety will be punctured, he’ll come round and we’ll carry on mid-conversation where we left off, and I’ll realise I am a paranoid, silly woman.
Come on, paranoid, silly woman – get out of bed. Go to work.
It’s four in the morning on Good Friday. James and I are at his house, lying in bed, facing each other. My head is resting on his arm. Everything feels so entirely natural and comfortable and right. I think we are falling in love. He looks at me intently. ‘What’s wrong with you, Sophie Klein? There must be something.’
‘Plenty.’
He shakes his head.
‘I’m impatient,’ I say. ‘I’m not very thoughtful. I never remember birthdays. I forget to send my godchildren cards at Christmas. I’m greedy. I’m sarcastic. Sometimes I get a bit depressed and can’t shrug it off.’
He shakes his head again. ‘No, you don’t. You’re generous. You’re a good woman.’ Why does that sound so church-y?
‘What’s wrong with you, James Stephens?’
He pauses and shrugs. He doesn’t answer. He will never show a weakness. He is a master at evading questions.
‘Say something.’ I mean say something nice. I feel like I’m trying to force a compliment out of him and I know this is bad but he’s looking at me like he adores me, but nothing is coming out of his mouth.
‘Who was the last person you went out with before me?’ I ask.
‘Svetlana.’
Beautiful Russians are two a penny in this city. James has a lot of pennies. I see these women slicing down Bond Street, hard bodies, steely eyes, spiky boots; russet-faced older men in bad jackets dragging behind in their wake.
‘How long did that last?’
‘Two years.’
‘Why did it end?’
‘It wasn’t going anywhere.’
‘Why not?’
‘I couldn’t talk to her the way I can talk to you.’
‘What did you do for two
According to Pete, there’s nothing untoward about James’s behaviour. My instinct tells me something is strange, but I can’t put my finger on it.
When James is with me, he’s highly attentive.
He notices everything. If I apply lip balm when he’s popped to the loo, he’ll notice as soon as he walks back in. Not gloss. Clear lip balm. Nick wouldn’t have noticed if I’d grown a Salvador Dali moustache and started speaking Aramaic, as long as I was still padding around the flat.
If I leave the room, James asks where I’m going.
When I’m cooking a meal, he’ll watch me, try to impress me, touch me.
When we’re in bed he is generous and energetic and passionate. He has the libido of a man half his age.
Afterwards we lie for hours having iPod shuffle conversations, flicking from time travel to Bernie Winters to why mosquitoes don’t get AIDS. We should be sleeping. Our combined age is seventy-eight, we both have work in the morning. It’s 3.47, 2.48, 4.15am. Neither of us ever wants to stop the conversation. Eventually we fall asleep, my hand curled around his fingers.
But when he’s not with me, I feel like ‘we’ don’t exist. The randomness of meeting someone in a bar, of having no mutual friends, of having entirely separate lives, is brought home. He could disappear and I would never cross paths with him again. Sometimes I wake up and wonder if he’s even real.
On days when we don’t speak, I feel laden down with the things I didn’t get to share with him. He won’t call for two, three days. Then, it’s like he has a CCTV on my psyche, and at the precise mid-point between when I’ve done a deal with the devil so that he’ll call, and the point at which I think fuck you, James Stephens, this is not acceptable, he’ll ring. My anxiety will be punctured, he’ll come round and we’ll carry on mid-conversation where we left off, and I’ll realise I am a paranoid, silly woman.
Come on, paranoid, silly woman – get out of bed. Go to work.
It’s four in the morning on Good Friday. James and I are at his house, lying in bed, facing each other. My head is resting on his arm. Everything feels so entirely natural and comfortable and right. I think we are falling in love. He looks at me intently. ‘What’s wrong with you, Sophie Klein? There must be something.’
‘Plenty.’
He shakes his head.
‘I’m impatient,’ I say. ‘I’m not very thoughtful. I never remember birthdays. I forget to send my godchildren cards at Christmas. I’m greedy. I’m sarcastic. Sometimes I get a bit depressed and can’t shrug it off.’
He shakes his head again. ‘No, you don’t. You’re generous. You’re a good woman.’ Why does that sound so church-y?
‘What’s wrong with you, James Stephens?’
He pauses and shrugs. He doesn’t answer. He will never show a weakness. He is a master at evading questions.
‘Say something.’ I mean say something nice. I feel like I’m trying to force a compliment out of him and I know this is bad but he’s looking at me like he adores me, but nothing is coming out of his mouth.
‘Who was the last person you went out with before me?’ I ask.
‘Svetlana.’
Beautiful Russians are two a penny in this city. James has a lot of pennies. I see these women slicing down Bond Street, hard bodies, steely eyes, spiky boots; russet-faced older men in bad jackets dragging behind in their wake.
‘How long did that last?’
‘Two years.’
‘Why did it end?’
‘It wasn’t going anywhere.’
‘Why not?’
‘I couldn’t talk to her the way I can talk to you.’
‘What did you do for two
Similar Books
