‘He’s called Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre Dusollier.’
‘He’s French?’
‘No, Dex, he’s Welsh.’
‘No, I’m just surprised, that’s all.’
‘Surprised he’s French, or surprised that I should actually have a boyfriend?’
‘No, just that – well it’s pretty quick, isn’t it? I mean you’ve only been here a couple of weeks. Did you unpack first, or . . .’
‘Two months! I’ve been here two months, and I met Jean-Pierre a month ago.’
‘And where did you meet him?’
‘In a little bistro near here.’
‘A little bistro. Right. How?’
‘How?’
‘—did you meet him?’
‘Well, um, I was having dinner by myself, reading a book, and this guy was with some friends and he asked me what I was reading . . .’ Dexter groaned and shook his head, a craftsman deriding another’s handiwork. Emma ignored him and walked through to the living room. ‘And anyway, we got talking—’
Dexter followed. ‘What, in French?’
‘Yes, in French, and we hit it off, and now we’re . . . seeing each other!’ She flopped onto the sofa. ‘So. Now you know!’
‘Right. I see.’ His eyebrows rose then lowered again, his features contorting as he explored ways to sulk and smile at the same time. ‘Well. Good for you, Em, that’s really great.’
‘Don’t patronise me, Dexter. Like I’m some lonely old lady—’
‘I’m not!’ With feigned nonchalance, he turned to look out the window into the courtyard below. ‘So what’s he like then, this Jean . . .’
‘Jean-Pierre. He’s nice. Very handsome, very charming. An amazing cook, he knows all about food, and wine, and art, and architecture. You know, just very, very . . . French.’
‘What, you mean rude?’
‘No—’
‘Dirty?’
‘Dexter!’
‘Wears a string of onions, rides a bike—’
‘God, you can be unbearable sometimes—’
‘Well what the hell is that supposed to mean, “very French”?’
‘I don’t know, just very cool and laidback and—’
‘Sexy?—’
‘I didn’t say “sexy”.’
‘No but you’ve gone all sexy, playing with your hair, your shirt unbuttoned—’
‘Such a stupid word, “sexy”—’
‘But you’re having a lot of sex, right?’
‘Dexter, why are you being so—?’
‘Look at you, you’re glowing, you’ve got a little sweaty glow—’
‘There’s no reason for you to be – why are you anyway?’
‘What?’
‘Being so . . . mean, like I’ve done something wrong!’
‘I’m not being mean, I just thought . . .’ He stopped, and turned to look out of the window, his forehead on the glass. ‘I wish you’d told me before I came. I’d have booked a hotel.’
‘You can still stay here! I’ll just sleep with Jean-Pierre tonight.’ Even with his back to her she could tell that he had flinched. ‘Sleep at Jean-Pierre’s tonight.’ She leant forward on the sofa, her face cupped in both hands. ‘What did you think was going to happen, Dexter?’
‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled at the windowpane. ‘Not this.’
‘Well, I’m sorry.’
‘Why do you think I came to see you, Em?’
‘For a break. To get away from things. See the sights!’
‘I came to talk about what happened. You and me, finally getting together.’ He picked at the putty on the windows with his fingernail. ‘I just thought it would have been a bigger deal for you. That’s all.’
‘We’ve slept together once, Dexter.’
‘Three times!’
‘I don’t mean how many acts of intercourse, Dex, I mean the occasion, the night, we spent one night together.’
‘And I just thought it might have been something worth remarking on! Next thing I know you’ve run off to Paris and thrown yourself under the nearest Frenchman—’
‘I didn’t “run off”, the ticket was already booked! Why do you think that everything that happens happens because of you?’
‘And you couldn’t phone me up maybe, before you . . . ?’
‘What, to ask your permission?’
‘No, to see how I felt about it!’
‘Hang on a minute – you’re annoyed because we haven’t examined our feelings? You’re annoyed because you think I should have waited for you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘Maybe!’
‘My God, Dexter, are you . . . are you actually jealous?’
‘Of course I’m not!’
‘So why are you sulking?’
‘I’m not sulking.’
‘Look at me then!’
He did so, petulant, his arms crossed high on his chest, and Emma couldn’t help but laugh.
‘What? What?’ he asked, indignant.
‘Well you do realise there’s a certain amount of irony in this, Dex.’
‘How is this ironic?’
‘You getting all conventional and . . . monogamous all of a sudden.’
He said nothing for a moment, then turned back to the window.
More conciliatory, she said, ‘Look – we were both a little drunk.’
‘I wasn’t that drunk . . .’
‘You took your trousers off over your shoes, Dex!’ Still he wouldn’t turn around. ‘Don’t stand over by the window. Come and sit here, will you?’ She lifted her bare feet up onto the sofa and curled her legs beneath her. He bumped the pane of glass with his forehead once, twice, then without meeting her eye, crossed the room and slumped next to her, a child sent home from school. She rested her feet against his thighs.
‘Alright, you want to talk about that night? Let’s talk about it.’
He said nothing. She poked him with her toes, and when he finally looked at her, she spoke. ‘Okay. I’ll go first.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think that you were very upset and a little bit drunk and you came to see me that night and it just . . . happened. I think with all the misery of breaking up with Sylvie, and moving out and not seeing Jasmine, you were feeling a little lonely and you just needed a shoulder to cry on. Or to sleep with. And that’s what I was. A shoulder to sleep with.’
‘So that’s what you think?’
‘That’s what I think.’
‘ . . . and you only slept with me to make me feel better?’
‘Did you feel better?’
‘Yes, much better.’
‘Well so did I, so there you go. It worked.’
‘ . . . but that’s not the point.’
‘Well there are worse reasons to sleep with someone. You should know.’
‘But pity sex?’
‘Not pity, compassion.’