Bella Summer Takes a Chance Page 6

  She finally had an epiphany during a wedding reception, compliments of an aged widow. She’d wheedled Clare’s entire sorry story out of her by the time they’d finished their starters, as only old people could do without you hating them. At the end of Clare’s explanation the wrinkled moral compass asked, ‘Well, if he’s so wonderful, dear, why is he behaving like a feckin’ arsehole to you?’ Maybe it was the shock of hearing a nana curse, or the common-sense truth of her question, but Clare took it to heart. She quit her addiction cold turkey.

  Oddly, once the prospect of nudity was taken off the table, and the tears dried, she and the addiction became friends. He was really quite likeable, commitment issues aside. Not that we didn’t worry when they started sleeping together again, but Clare had finally discovered the uncomplicated joy of having great sex with a man she didn’t want to date. She likened him to slippers – super-comfortable but never seen on her in public. So far there’d been no regrets, not a single incontinent conversation (when ‘we’ slipped out).

  ‘That’s right, Clare,’ said Faith, brightening. ‘Your man in the wings disqualifies you. What’s that look for?’

  Clare squirmed. ‘Now’s probably not the time to say that I’m stopping by his place after this, right?’

  ‘I rest my case. And you, B., you can’t complain until at least a year of horror dating has passed. Four months does not qualify you to moan. You’re still driving on a provisional licence.’

  ‘She’s right, buttercup. Come talk to us after you’ve been vomited on.’ This was Clare’s best worst dating story. They were having sex at the time. Missionary.

  ‘Or been taken out for a romantic dinner and told your date has an alter ego named Paula.’

  Nobody thought Faith’s judgment was harsh that time. My friends constantly toiled at the coalface. Smug in my cohabitating life, I’d secretly assumed there was something wrong with them. It never occurred to me that I’d be there alongside them futilely wielding a pickaxe at the meagre lode, and coming away with fool’s gold.

  They were right. My paltry few months of singledom didn’t give me a leg to stand on. No wonder they mocked my whinging. I’d do exactly the same thing if a fresh-faced newbie complained about how hard the music industry was. After decades, I knew how hard the music industry was. My last gig was not exactly a career-defining high. I was a little tired, I guess. And I hadn’t wanted to do it. I was depping for another singer, filling in while she had her bunions shaved or something. The room was stuffy and the equipment wouldn’t cooperate. Every time I hit high C the feedback threatened to deafen the patrons. And I was flat. Even on my best songs. The audience clapped politely. That was worse than being booed off stage.

  My phone bzzzzd with a text. Faith glanced at the table before I could snatch it away. ‘B., what’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing, why?’

  ‘Oh really? Then why did Mattias just ask you out in a text, and say Friday encore?’

  ‘You shouldn’t read my texts.’

  ‘Please. I’ve held your hair out of the toilet bowl so you could be sick. Of course I’m going to read your texts. What’s this all about?’

  ‘It’s nothing. I’m not going to say yes. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Remember? I’m going out with The Musician on Friday.’

  ‘Yes, we know that, don’t we Clare?’ Clare nodded. It had been fodder for discussion at work since he called. ‘Don’t change the subject. The mystery remains,’ she continued, as I knew she would. ‘What did Mattias mean by Friday encore?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

  ‘Pssh,’ Clare snorted. ‘You don’t really think we’re going to drop it, do you?’

  Of course not. My friends had the Gestapo’s tenacity. I ordered us another bottle of wine and told them about Friday. By the end of the story I’d just about convinced them that it was nothing. I was nearly as persuasive with myself.

  Chapter 6

  The date arrived on Friday as scheduled but my confidence was taking its own sweet time. I hadn’t had to flirt seriously since Oasis were at the top of the charts. What if I had to relearn all my skills? What if… What if I didn’t have the touch any more?

  There. I said it. I was afraid that my charms had begun to fade. Not to mention droop. There was definite drooping. Was that something I needed to worry about? In my twenties I went (briefly) to a gym where I was forced to discuss my flaws with a Lycra-bound woman posing as my personal trainer. ‘What are your problem areas?’ She’d asked with the concern of one discussing a death in the family. Looking back, I’d have killed for the body I found such fault with. Wasn’t it always the way? We didn’t know what we had till after it was covered in orange peel. At the time I told her I wanted bigger boobs. She drew me close and imparted her version of the secrets of the Sphinx. Religiously I did those workouts, but there wasn’t a squeeze, stretch or lunge that could win the battle against the draw of gravity. That hadn’t bothered me with Mattias. He’d had the benefit of the early, perky days, and a certain amount of settling had to be expected over time. But even with one careful owner they weren’t exactly showroom quality any more. Thank God for the efforts of Rigby & Peller. If only they made foundationwear to support a woman’s confidence.

  ‘B., if you don’t stop pacing, I’m going to tie you down. Now what an interesting thought. What do you say, darling?’ Frederick was digging at his eyebrows with my good tweezers.

  ‘Fred, I told you to go to the brow bar like the other metrosexuals. A quick threading and you’ll be sorted.’

  ‘I’m not plucking, dear heart. What do you take me for? There’s just one very long hair that keeps getting in my eye.’

  If he said he had an errant brow hair, who was I to doubt him? The fact that he wielded those tweezers with well-practised accuracy wasn’t necessarily a damning indictment. ‘Just stop using my wax.’

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘You do. I found hairy strips in the bin the other day.’

  ‘Perhaps you should wax more often.’

  ‘Don’t be catty. How do I look?’ The contents of my closet were knee deep on my floor. I didn’t have the stomach for another wardrobe change. I settled on the first wrap dress I tried on at the beginning of the process.

  ‘Divine, I already told you. Stop worrying, he’ll love you. Just pull that down a bit.’

  I slapped his hand away. ‘Tsch. What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘I have an exciting date with a gorgeous woman. Stop making that face. It’s unattractive.’

  ‘Sorry. Who’s this mystery woman?’ I was willing to bet she had an Adam’s apple.

  ‘My colleague set us up. She’s a stunner. Perhaps we should work out a system in case we’re both lucky in love tonight. I have it! Whoever gets back first hangs a sock on the door.’

  ‘What are we, in The O.C.?’

  ‘Have you got a better system?’ He asked, plucking hairs off his fingers. I vowed to buy new tweezers.

  ‘Yes. How about I don’t bring him back here?’

  ‘Planning to sleep away?’

  ‘Planning to sleep alone. It’s a first date.’

  ‘Darling, you’ve been out of the game too long. You did wax, right?’

  ‘Frederick! That’s none of your business. I don’t even know this guy. It’s hardly likely I’m going to sleep with him tonight.’ Of course I’d groomed.

  ‘It has been awhile, though, hasn’t it? Ouch. Come on, you can tell me.’ He gasped in shocked horror. ‘B., you have had sex since Mattias, right?’ My face answered him. ‘Angel cupcake, but there are things you need to know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Techniques and such. Honestly, this shouldn’t be attempted without proper tutelage. You’re right, definitely don’t sleep with him tonight. You need guidance.’

  ‘Whatever. I’ve got to go.’ He suffered my school-marmish kiss on the forehead with minimal adolescent face-pulling. ‘Have fun with your date tonight. We’ll talk in the mo
rning.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll meet her in the morning.’

  ‘Okay.’ I doubted that.

  The Tube to Islington offered precious little to distract me from the fact that Fred was right. It would be my first real chance to sleep with another man since Mattias. What if everything had changed in the last decade? Not that I planned to sleep with The Musician on the first date. Definitely not. Almost certainly not. Even so, my nerves didn’t calm.

  He saw me right away. His dark blue jeans were faded in just the right places, his jumper well-fitted and casually elegant. He was under-shaven, probably through careful grooming rather than a lack of it. He looked cool. I felt flushed. ‘Ah, just in time for me to buy you a drink,’ he said, kissing me on both cheeks as I shrugged out of my heavy coat. ‘What would you like?’

  Ten years of elasticity back, please. My heart raced as we stood at the bar. I noticed he had great hands. Big hands. All the better to play his instrument. Hmm. ‘Glass of red please, er, Rioja. Is this a favourite haunt?’ It was a nice old pub with silly-sounding ales on tap like Bishops Finger.

  ‘Yeah, it’s got a nice atmosphere and it’s never too crowded. That’s not easy to say around here. Where do you like to go out?’

  My mind blanked on bars, alighting only on restaurants. I was unlikely to impress him with a recitation of London’s TopTable suggestions. ‘Zuma.’

  ‘That’s a bit expensive to be your local, isn’t it?’

  Probably so, but I wasn’t usually the one paying. Saying that, though, would open the Mattias can of worms. Was that appropriate on a first date? If I didn’t tell him and had to confront it later, it was a rather big piece of information to pretend to have forgotten. On the other hand, it was a rather big piece of information to digest before he’d finished his beer. ‘Er, I also like The Boisdale. But I work there sometimes so I don’t usually go when I’m not singing.’

  ‘Is that where you sing? Cool.’

  It was kind of cool, even though I fell into it randomly through a friend of a friend of a friend. And it wasn’t exactly a steady career. I only filled in when the regular singer was feeling off, or hung over, or had her sister visiting from Manchester. It was my admittedly rather lukewarm claim to fame in London. ‘I just help out the band sometimes. It’s not a regular gig.’

  ‘Oh.’ Said with judgment.

  ‘But I’m there in a few weeks. I’m thinking of doing more with my music, actually.’

  ‘What’s stopped you so far?’

  Ah, the million quid question. Nothing technically stopped me. And yet I was stalled as surely as if I’d run out of petrol. How did it happen? I was so ambitious in my twenties. I truly believed that I was destined to be a singer. And I was willing to put in the effort to get there. ‘There’s nothing stopping me. I don’t have a manager here, and there were a few years where work got quite hectic.’ That wasn’t why. If I’d really wanted to pursue my singing, I would have. ‘But that’s not really a good excuse,’ I said truthfully. ‘I guess music just became less of a focus.’

  ‘What became more of a focus, then?’ His eyes were a pretty green, fringed with envy-worthy lashes. He had quite a public school accent. No matter how low he wore his jeans or how much he rolled his hips when he walked, that accent gave him away.

  ‘Living in London got in the way. My social life, my job. The usual things that sidetrack us from what we think we want. I’ve kept writing, though, on and off, even when I wasn’t performing. I’ve written quite a few new songs lately. I know some of it’s good enough to perform, and I do sometimes, but I wasn’t trained in music, not really. I had voice classes but my degree isn’t musical. What about you? Is your background in music?’

  He chuckled. ‘No. Molecular biology, actually. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Beauty and brains.’

  ‘A bass-playing scientist. That’s not your usual combination. So you cast aside your microscope and followed your heart?’

  ‘No way, I love my microscope. When I’m not gigging I work part-time for a lab on Harley Street.’

  ‘At a lab? Do you diagnose illnesses from people’s blood?’

  ‘I’m not a doctor, I just run the tests. And it’s not always blood.’

  ‘Oh. Oh.’ Charming. My date handled people’s number twos. ‘Well, I’m sure it’s interesting.’

  ‘It’s a job. And I don’t have to get up too early, I work eleven to four. So I have time for my music.’

  I envied him. And felt inferior. My date supported his art by rummaging in poo. ‘I admire your dedication. I sort of gave up on music when I moved here.’

  Coming to London was a natural move, partly because my English grandparents gave me a cultural connection and partly because my dual citizenship made it easy. Dad’s parents emigrated to Canada just before the war, and Dad moved to Chicago, where I was born, to teach in the 1960s. ‘But I’m making more of it now.’

  The exaggeration seemed necessary in the circumstances. Having unmusical friends meant they were easily impressed by the littlest step forward, but anybody in the business would quickly recognize me for what I’d become: a sometimes singer. I was relieved when the conversation moved to less exposing topics. The Musician was a traveller by nature, and more than happy to regale me with adventurous tales from far-flung lands.

  I was excited by his itinerant nature. I’d felt the same thrill when Mattias talked about his upbringing. His Swedishness had made him exotic; every Scandi-inflected word he uttered captivated my imagination. I was an easy audience. ‘When’s your next gig?’ I asked.

  ‘The next big one’s at the end of the month. It’s a proper gig too, not a wedding. Maybe you’ll come along?’

  ‘I’d like that. And maybe you’d like to stop by The Boisdale a week from Wednesday when I’m singing.’

  He nodded, smiling.

  I had nothing to worry about. Hours passed. He was easy to talk to; there were no awkward silences. When he asked again about the gig at The Boisdale, he put the date in his phone. He was either an accomplished seducer, or truly interested.

  ‘I enjoyed this,’ he said, stroking my hand, which he’d held since we left the bar. ‘I’m not ready to say goodnight yet.’ He leaned in to kiss me. It was a good kiss. Mmm. It was a very good kiss. And just the right amount of body contact. ‘I’m definitely not ready to say goodnight,’ he murmured.

  I was getting that impression. Literally. Something was poking me in the ribs. Yes, the ribs. Possibly he was taller than I thought he was. It was clear what he wanted.

  The question was: what did I want? The sensible answer was to kiss him on the pavement and say goodnight. After all, I hardly knew him. He might be dangerous, or a thief. Oh, but he was a stellar kisser. Surely thieves weren’t good kissers.

  I didn’t want to be sensible. And I definitely didn’t want to stop kissing. ‘Want to have a drink at my place?’ I said instead.

  Did I plan to sleep with him as we took the taxi home? No, not then. As I let us into the empty flat? Not yet. We poured the wine only to ignore the glasses. His hand crept inside my dress. In the language of love it was only second base. Eleven-year-old girls probably let their dates get that far. Though eleven-year-old boys probably weren’t as adept at snapping open a bra as The Musician proved himself to be.

  This put me in a compromising position for, as long as the bra stayed on, I was clothed. Undone, it was a useless defence against the assault that (I hoped) was coming. It was impossible to stop proceedings and say goodnight in a dignified manner with a lacy cup snuggling against my throat. Did men intuitively know that the social awkwardness of an undone bra substantially increased their chances of nudity?

  The thought popped into my mind as my dress came off. I wanted to have sex with this man. It seemed a rational decision. First, I’d have to take the plunge eventually, right? Second, by all accounts I had a willing participant, which might not always be the case. Third, if I was sexually deficient in some way, as Fred seemed to suspect, I�
�d rather find out with someone I wasn’t yet emotionally attached to. ‘Let’s go to my room.’ I led him by the hand (though another option naturally presented itself), remembering too late that my floor was covered with the contents of my wardrobe. ‘Excuse the mess, it’s not usually this bad.’

  ‘I like it bad,’ he said. ‘Do you like it bad?’

  ‘Yes, I like it bad.’ It had been awhile. Bad, good, as long as it was with a living, breathing man.

  ‘Mmm. Good. Come here.’

  He had me out of my pants in just a few seconds while we stood kissing. The moment had come. My first time with a new man this century. He knew what he was doing all right. Ooh, that was new. Who needed a vibrator with fingers like that? Seriously, seriously good. He manoeuvred me to the bed. ‘Lie down.’

  I knew what was coming, and it made me uncomfortable. Oral sex wasn’t something that I entered into lightly. It was too intimate. Gently I tried moving his head back into kissing range but he didn’t budge. I could have put him in a headlock between my thighs till he stopped breathing but that seemed a bit drastic. Fine. I didn’t want to rain on a man’s foreplay.

  ‘You’re hairy.’

  What did he–? He did not just say that I was hairy. I wasn’t. I didn’t get five o’clock shadow on my bikini line. It hadn’t sounded like an accusation, though, more of a surprised observation.

  ‘I’m so horny for you. Would you like me inside you? Tell me.’

  I didn’t want to talk him through it like an IKEA assembly pamphlet. ‘Yes, please.’ I just hoped he brought his own Allen key. ‘Do you have an, em…’ Do not say Allen key.

  ‘I think I do. One sec.’ Conveniently his wallet held the key. ‘Do you want it?’ He growled. ‘Say you want it.’

  Sigh. ‘I. Want. It.’ I wasn’t used to having to sing for my supper in bed, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t plan to… Oh my. He certainly did eat all his spinach growing up. He was the sort of man whose endowments became legend in the annals of history, or at least in the wine bars of London.