Carl was going to sleep on the sofa. We drank a great deal of red wine with this friend. Sometime after we all went to bed, Carl knocked on the door and said he was cold on the sofa and could
he please just sleep in the bed. At least I think that’s how it happened. We spent the night on separate sides of the bed, I slept; Carl slept. I woke early to find him very close to me, I
was lying on my back and he was on his side, I could feel his breath, his arm and erection touching me. He was still asleep. I want to blame Carl, I do blame him, but of course it was not all his
fault. On this May morning for example, in the bed in his friend’s house, it was me that woke him with a kiss.
I didn’t want to leave Carl after we’d spent this night together: I felt close to him and the sexual tension was cranked up high. And so I didn’t see Johnny until evening.
He’d been expecting me home for lunch. He knew I’d been on a business trip with Carl, and he must have been suspicious when I said I’d be back late. Johnny and I were going to a
party and he wasn’t pleased when I called to say I would meet him there. He tried to read me when we reunited, I didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want him to see my face. The
party was dark, loud and crowded, which gave me some cover but the feeling that there was something wrong spiked every exchange, coded every movement. It was as though we’d gone for dinner at
our favourite restaurant and found the white tablecloth spread over the candlestick and glasses, wine bottle and water jug, transforming the familiar into a miniature mountain range, and we were
sitting at this table, refusing to acknowledge the strange landscape between us.
Alongside my attraction to Carl, there was my love for Johnny. But my love for Johnny was dying because I was putting all my attention into Carl and the only energy I spared
Johnny was to hold him at bay.
The first time I had sex with Carl, Johnny had left me only the night before. I last saw him in the silver car, drinking his beer and driving away. I was shocked to see him go
and spent a miserable night, but I was also a little relieved; at least we didn’t have to keep pretending. The next day Carl and I had another long drive (sometimes I think none of this would
have happened if it hadn’t been for work taking us all over the country). It was decided to stay somewhere en route, to avoid the morning rush hour and reach our destination on time. The real
reason was that we intended to spend the night together.
The town where Carl and I went also happened to be the town in which my grandmother lived. The streets were so familiar. I had been going to Peterborough three or four times a year for my whole
life. My sister and I call it Peter-boring. My grandmother was eighty-eight and her philosophy about presents was this: if I can’t read it, eat it or put it in the bath, I don’t want
it. So we would take fruit and cake and biscuits and eat together on her big squashy sofa. I was close to her and it was strange being in that town and not going to visit her.
The hotel was on a long narrow road near the train station. There were several hotels along the road; I can’t remember how we chose this one. Asking for a double felt unnatural. There was
none of the secret elation of the time we’d shared a hotel room before. The whole journey had been awkward. I couldn’t stop comparing Carl to Johnny: the way Carl gripped the steering
wheel with one hand at the top of the wheel, where Johnny held it loosely with both hands at the bottom; the way Carl avoided making eye contact with me as he walked back to the car after paying
for petrol, where Johnny would have smiled in through the window. Because of this constant comparing, Johnny was more present on this journey than the other times I had been with Carl when I had
shut Johnny out of my mind.
The hotel room was small. Along one wall was a fitted wardrobe with mirrored sliding doors
he please just sleep in the bed. At least I think that’s how it happened. We spent the night on separate sides of the bed, I slept; Carl slept. I woke early to find him very close to me, I
was lying on my back and he was on his side, I could feel his breath, his arm and erection touching me. He was still asleep. I want to blame Carl, I do blame him, but of course it was not all his
fault. On this May morning for example, in the bed in his friend’s house, it was me that woke him with a kiss.
I didn’t want to leave Carl after we’d spent this night together: I felt close to him and the sexual tension was cranked up high. And so I didn’t see Johnny until evening.
He’d been expecting me home for lunch. He knew I’d been on a business trip with Carl, and he must have been suspicious when I said I’d be back late. Johnny and I were going to a
party and he wasn’t pleased when I called to say I would meet him there. He tried to read me when we reunited, I didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want him to see my face. The
party was dark, loud and crowded, which gave me some cover but the feeling that there was something wrong spiked every exchange, coded every movement. It was as though we’d gone for dinner at
our favourite restaurant and found the white tablecloth spread over the candlestick and glasses, wine bottle and water jug, transforming the familiar into a miniature mountain range, and we were
sitting at this table, refusing to acknowledge the strange landscape between us.
Alongside my attraction to Carl, there was my love for Johnny. But my love for Johnny was dying because I was putting all my attention into Carl and the only energy I spared
Johnny was to hold him at bay.
The first time I had sex with Carl, Johnny had left me only the night before. I last saw him in the silver car, drinking his beer and driving away. I was shocked to see him go
and spent a miserable night, but I was also a little relieved; at least we didn’t have to keep pretending. The next day Carl and I had another long drive (sometimes I think none of this would
have happened if it hadn’t been for work taking us all over the country). It was decided to stay somewhere en route, to avoid the morning rush hour and reach our destination on time. The real
reason was that we intended to spend the night together.
The town where Carl and I went also happened to be the town in which my grandmother lived. The streets were so familiar. I had been going to Peterborough three or four times a year for my whole
life. My sister and I call it Peter-boring. My grandmother was eighty-eight and her philosophy about presents was this: if I can’t read it, eat it or put it in the bath, I don’t want
it. So we would take fruit and cake and biscuits and eat together on her big squashy sofa. I was close to her and it was strange being in that town and not going to visit her.
The hotel was on a long narrow road near the train station. There were several hotels along the road; I can’t remember how we chose this one. Asking for a double felt unnatural. There was
none of the secret elation of the time we’d shared a hotel room before. The whole journey had been awkward. I couldn’t stop comparing Carl to Johnny: the way Carl gripped the steering
wheel with one hand at the top of the wheel, where Johnny held it loosely with both hands at the bottom; the way Carl avoided making eye contact with me as he walked back to the car after paying
for petrol, where Johnny would have smiled in through the window. Because of this constant comparing, Johnny was more present on this journey than the other times I had been with Carl when I had
shut Johnny out of my mind.
The hotel room was small. Along one wall was a fitted wardrobe with mirrored sliding doors
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