Read Online The Twisted Heart by Rebecca Gowers - Free Book Online
Authors: Rebecca Gowers
Tags: General Fiction
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was the only girl in trousers, and they obviously all thought I wasââ
âWhat does it matter?â he said.
She looked back at him, saw that his gaze had become more focused. In another of his felicitous turns of phrase, delivered so that there was no possibility of her misunderstanding him, he asked softly, âWould it be good if we put things straight between us?â
Kit drank her wine down like water. The longer she stood before him, the more she felt vanquished.
âHey, Iâm not going to jump you,â he said, with a funny look.
âYou already jumped me,â she replied.
This is going to ruin everything, she thoughtâthough what everything? And so what if it did? How would that be different from usual? She felt nervously vague as she made a maladroit gesture of agreement.
âWas that a yes?â he asked, his lesser eyebrow raised.
Ah, the brink, she said to herself facetiously. What luckOrson had put âtransgressiveâ in his essay. Hurrah for pretty knickers and the lacy bit over her hm-hm.
âI donât have any protection,â she mutteredâand thought, against anything.
âDonât worry,â said Joe.
âDonât worryâyouâve got it covered?â she asked, wanting clarification.
âYes,â he said, providing clarification.
So much talk. Youâve got it covered âdismaying, the phrase that had volunteered itself.
Joe smiled at her again, another kind look. For a brief moment, she believed he was letting her go; but an atmosphere of surrender propelled them onwards.
  Â
Perched on his bed, Kit noticed what an evil colour the sky was, its louring clouds underlit by the street glare from across Oxford. She had been brought up to believe, somehow proof against the common run of her thoughts, that it was unseemly to sleep with a man you hardly knew. And then, once her career in this regard had begun, once she in fact did start sleeping with men she hardly knew, she found that any vestiges of seemliness felt perversely the more important. It was too unpleasant, too awful somehow, to have to say to a man you hardly knew, âNot like that, like thisâ, so she never did, not even when, by some peopleâs standards, she was being assaulted.
She accepted that this was all very ridiculous, mad even. Nevertheless, she conducted such sexual encounters in a manner both superficial and disengaged, taking comfort from the thought that if she felt disappointed, it followed that shecouldnât have given up, and must still be hoping for better. She wasnât always disappointed, either. Casual sex she considered a contradiction in terms, but pointless sex, she didnât. Sex for her was generally an unsimulated fiction; however, sometimes it seemed to work.
As she lay there bathed in the ugly light that seeped through the bedroom window, Kit found that, although ordering herself not to do this, she was unstoppably chanting, in her mind: the parts he likes he treats considerately , he is not unkind to the parts he likes . And being inexperienced in the matter of saying, ânot like that, like thisââshe took it. He had said they would put things straight between them, so she let him and she took it.
  Â
Whatever they both thought they were up to, it was over fast. As Kit reorganised herself in Joeâs bathroom, she felt restless relief. She still couldnât tell really what she made of him, or why she was there, why on earth sheâd acquiesced. But what she did know, with baleful certainty, was that she hadnât been much fun, and that it was all over, and that that was it.
It wasnât that you couldnât fake pleasure, she reflected, seating herself on the loo and trying to manage a trickle of pee not too loud. Supposedly that was the single greatest advantage women had over men, the ability to fake it, as much as you liked. But faking pleasure was one
âWhat does it matter?â he said.
She looked back at him, saw that his gaze had become more focused. In another of his felicitous turns of phrase, delivered so that there was no possibility of her misunderstanding him, he asked softly, âWould it be good if we put things straight between us?â
Kit drank her wine down like water. The longer she stood before him, the more she felt vanquished.
âHey, Iâm not going to jump you,â he said, with a funny look.
âYou already jumped me,â she replied.
This is going to ruin everything, she thoughtâthough what everything? And so what if it did? How would that be different from usual? She felt nervously vague as she made a maladroit gesture of agreement.
âWas that a yes?â he asked, his lesser eyebrow raised.
Ah, the brink, she said to herself facetiously. What luckOrson had put âtransgressiveâ in his essay. Hurrah for pretty knickers and the lacy bit over her hm-hm.
âI donât have any protection,â she mutteredâand thought, against anything.
âDonât worry,â said Joe.
âDonât worryâyouâve got it covered?â she asked, wanting clarification.
âYes,â he said, providing clarification.
So much talk. Youâve got it covered âdismaying, the phrase that had volunteered itself.
Joe smiled at her again, another kind look. For a brief moment, she believed he was letting her go; but an atmosphere of surrender propelled them onwards.
  Â
Perched on his bed, Kit noticed what an evil colour the sky was, its louring clouds underlit by the street glare from across Oxford. She had been brought up to believe, somehow proof against the common run of her thoughts, that it was unseemly to sleep with a man you hardly knew. And then, once her career in this regard had begun, once she in fact did start sleeping with men she hardly knew, she found that any vestiges of seemliness felt perversely the more important. It was too unpleasant, too awful somehow, to have to say to a man you hardly knew, âNot like that, like thisâ, so she never did, not even when, by some peopleâs standards, she was being assaulted.
She accepted that this was all very ridiculous, mad even. Nevertheless, she conducted such sexual encounters in a manner both superficial and disengaged, taking comfort from the thought that if she felt disappointed, it followed that shecouldnât have given up, and must still be hoping for better. She wasnât always disappointed, either. Casual sex she considered a contradiction in terms, but pointless sex, she didnât. Sex for her was generally an unsimulated fiction; however, sometimes it seemed to work.
As she lay there bathed in the ugly light that seeped through the bedroom window, Kit found that, although ordering herself not to do this, she was unstoppably chanting, in her mind: the parts he likes he treats considerately , he is not unkind to the parts he likes . And being inexperienced in the matter of saying, ânot like that, like thisââshe took it. He had said they would put things straight between them, so she let him and she took it.
  Â
Whatever they both thought they were up to, it was over fast. As Kit reorganised herself in Joeâs bathroom, she felt restless relief. She still couldnât tell really what she made of him, or why she was there, why on earth sheâd acquiesced. But what she did know, with baleful certainty, was that she hadnât been much fun, and that it was all over, and that that was it.
It wasnât that you couldnât fake pleasure, she reflected, seating herself on the loo and trying to manage a trickle of pee not too loud. Supposedly that was the single greatest advantage women had over men, the ability to fake it, as much as you liked. But faking pleasure was one
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