God, he’s a talker. I’ve never been with a talker before. Hugh and I, we just got on with it, we seemed to understand each other without the verbals.
But Josh is going too slow for me and digging my nails into his buttocks and speeding up my own hips isn’t making any difference. ‘Could you do it faster?’ I’m embarrassed.
‘Like this?’
‘Um, yes, but …’
‘Yes?’
‘Harder.’
‘You want me to fuck you harder?’
I whisper, ‘Yes.’
‘Tell me.’
Oh, Christ. ‘Fuck me harder.’
‘Josh.’
‘Fuck me harder, Josh.’
‘Like this?’
‘Faster. Fuck me faster, Josh.’
‘I’m going to fuck you faster, Amy. I’m going to fuck you harder.’
It’s slightly silly. And, yet, sexy. Once more the thrills of pleasure build in me and Josh growls into my ear, ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard, Amy, you’re going to come.’
And then I do.
My centre explodes, my hips buck, my back arches, short gasps issue helplessly from my throat and I realize I’ve almost punctured his buttocks with the heels of my shoes.
While I’m limp with aftermath, he slides his way out of me, stands, takes off all his clothes, then rearranges himself to sit with his back against the headboard and pulls me to him. I lower myself on to him, place his hands on my hips and move up and down. We stare into each other’s faces but I begin to feel strange, like I’m dreaming.
I close my eyes and hear his breath coming shorter and shorter, then he says, his voice hoarse, ‘I’m sorry, Amy, I’m going to come. I’m going to – I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming.’
I open my eyes and watch his face as it contorts in ecstasy. It’s so strange, this force that makes people betray the people they love.
We slide down the bed and lie together, my head on his chest, his heartbeat in my ear. One of his arms is around me, his fingers tangled in my hair. The other is stretched tightly across my body, the hand on my hipbone.
As everything settles in me, one emotion above all others rises to the surface and that emotion is grief.
Sleeping with Josh – with anyone other than Hugh – is a milestone, and even though I’ve gained a new life experience, so much has been lost.
I cry without moving or making a sound. A tear lands on his bare skin and, although he doesn’t speak, the way he tightens his hold lets me know that he understands.
I wake up to find myself in bed. With Josh Rowan. We must have fallen asleep.
‘What time is it?’ I ask, anxiously.
‘Just after one.’
‘You can’t stay the night. Neither of us can.’
His eyes cloud.
‘Have a shower,’ I say, ‘and go home.’
‘You can stay the night.’
‘No.’ I’m going to Druzie’s.
‘Amy, is this hotel a problem?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘But?’
‘Maybe I’d prefer somewhere less fashionable.’
‘Yeah?’
I can’t decide if he’s being sarcastic or not. ‘There’s a small hotel near Marylebone we could book the next time?’
‘Next time?’
‘Next Tuesday.’ In a rush, I add, ‘If you want.’
‘I want.’
A thrill fizzes my blood.
‘I’ll book a room,’ he says.
I hesitate. I should pay for the hotel next week. We’re equal partners in whatever this is.
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘Leave that to me.’
71
Wednesday, 16 November, day sixty-five
The texts flood in on Wednesday: Thank you for last night.
And
I can’t stop thinking about you.
And
You’re amazing.
And
Next Tuesday is too far away.
When I arrive at the office on Thursday morning, Thamy greets me by saying, ‘Someone’s either really sorry or really grateful to you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Flowers. But not regular flowers. They came yesterday. On your desk.’
I hurry inside and – ‘Oh, my God!’ You can smell them before you see them and it’s not just the size of the bundle, it’s the nature of it – my desk looks like a meadow of wild flowers. Somehow, he’d got spring flowers: there are startlingly red poppies, their petals as thin as paper; graceful, lanky foxgloves in white and purple; yellow marsh-marigolds and stalks of bright blue speedwell.
The card says, ‘You’re a Goddess. Josh xxx.’
‘Who’re they from?’ Tim asks.
My face flames and I don’t know what to say. ‘A man.’
‘Hugh?’
I shake my head because I’m too uncomfortable to speak.
And here comes Alastair. ‘Wow, Amy. Some flowers. All credit to Josh Rowan, those flowers are very you.’
‘Josh Rowan sent them?’ Tim asks. ‘Why? Oh! Well!’ He coughs and hurries away.
‘I’d never heard of that florist,’ Alastair says. ‘Handy to know about them. So how’d it go?’
‘Strange. Good. Sad. Lovely.’
‘Excellent. Well, I’ve news of my own. I’m in love.’
‘Are you now? Fast work.’
‘I met her on Tuesday night at a salsa yoga workshop.’
‘Of course.’
‘She was the facilitator. Her name is Helmi and, Amy, the connection. It was instant and amazing. We stayed up most of the night talking and last night I went to a psychic –’
‘Oh, Alastair, you’re such a gobshite.’
‘Seriously, Amy, I need to know if she’s for me because I don’t have any more time to waste. And the good news is that Helmi and I are soul-mates!’ He flashes his dazzlers at me. ‘We’ve met in countless past lives, the psychic said. Sometimes I was the mother and she was my son. It wasn’t always like this manifestation.’
‘Oh, Alastair.’ I could weep for him and the utter shite he elects to believe in.
‘Helmi and I are soul-mates,’ he insists.
‘There’s no such thing,’ I say. ‘There are six billion people on the planet but how handy that most people meet their “soul-mate” within a few square miles of where they live and work.’
‘No –’
‘Cop on, Alastair! Seriously! This is how love works: you meet someone, you fancy them and that propels you to get to know them. Everyone has a checklist in their soul about what they want from their special someone, and this person won’t tick all of the boxes, but they’ll tick enough for you to decide, okay, I’m prepared to work to make this happen. But you have to learn to overlook the things about the other person that annoy and disappoint you, and you have to try to change the things about yourself that they can’t stand.’
‘No –’
‘You learn to compromise. For example, you go, yet again, on a beach holiday to the Algarve instead of the road trip in Serbia to find your favourite artist.’
Alastair looks baffled but I’m not done.
‘A soul-mate is like one of those seventy-nine-euro flights to New York – a lovely idea but they don’t exist.’
‘Wow, Amy.’ Alastair shakes his head. ‘That’s dark. Harsh.’
‘You need to be realistic, is all I’m saying.’
‘You’ve been burnt first by Richie and then Hugh leaving you. But maybe you’ve met a new soul-mate.’ He nods at the flowers.
‘I haven’t.’
‘What do you think, Tim?’ Alastair asks. ‘Are you and, ah, Mrs Staunton soul-mates?’
‘You’d have to ask her.’
‘Do you feel she’s the only one for you?’
‘Like I say, you’d have to ask her.’
Thank God Tim has reverted to buttoned-up type. That other version of him scared the daylights out of me.
But, thanks to the lecture I’ve given to Alastair, my mood has sunk low.
‘What’s up?’ he asks.
‘I’m going to be twice-divorced. It’s a bad track record. And it’s no good trying to pass myself off as an innocent bystander. I’ve to own my part in it.’
‘You were an innocent bystander with Richie “Think of the poor blind children” Aldin.’
‘Maybe. We were too young, we shouldn’t have got married. I didn’t want to do it – I should have listened to my instincts.’
‘And Hugh?’
‘I’m culpable there, all right. But I don’t want to think about it now.’
Something totally weird has happened. Raffie Geras is back in Edinburgh. Back at work, living her previous life. And without Hugh.