‘Sorry.’
Kibby exhaled languorously, studying the glowing end of her cigarette. ‘You really mustn’t worry,’ she said. She stubbed out her cigarette and carefully put the plate by the side of the bed. She rolled over on to her front and looked at Johnathan. ‘So. Are you going to ask me to stay the night or are you proposing to banish me outside at this ungodly hour?’
‘Well, you can stay, of course. I was hoping you would.’
‘Good,’ said Kibby. ‘In that case do you think I might have something to wear? An old T-shirt or something?’
‘Let me go and see,’ said Johnathan, wearily whipping back the duvet a second time. He was starting to feel very tired. He rummaged around in the corner of his bedroom and found a T-shirt, which he passed to Kibby.
‘Thanks,’ said Kibby, slipping it over her head. She reached out and held Johnathan’s hand. ‘I don’t have to go anywhere tomorrow morning, so I think we should have another go then. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Got any breakfast?’
‘Cornflakes, but no milk.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Don’t worry, there’s a shop nearby. It sells most things. You can have whatever you want for breakfast.’
‘Goody. I’ll start off with some more of your delicious sausage.’ Kibby laughed again, more softly this time. She kissed Johnathan tenderly on the cheek, and then moved to the other side of the bed and settled down with her back to him. ‘Night.’
Johnathan stared up at the ceiling. He thought of how Chloe would have reacted to his performance. She would doubtless have begun explaining compassionately how he should not be embarrassed by this sort of thing, but should confront it–indeed, here was just the book to help him–90s Man in the Bedroom: Placid and Flaccid.
‘Night,’ he said absent-mindedly. Who was this woman who cared so little for social etiquette, the politics of sexual encounters? Who was this woman with the finely-honed bullshit detector? Who was this woman who didn’t mind sexual failure on a truly epic scale? And, above all, what on earth was she doing in his bed?
Ever since his university days, Sunday mornings in Johnathan Burlip’s life had been reserved for doing precisely nothing, except possibly for taking some pills to temper the Saturday night hangover, and then lying very still until it went away.
When Johnathan woke on this particular Sunday morning he was alone in the bed. From the kitchen came the clanking sound of pots and pans. Johnathan swung his feet on to the floor and went into the kitchen. Kibby was standing by the fridge, fully dressed, surrounded by green plastic bags. Schroedinger was sitting on his bean bag, watching her with benign interest.
‘Hello,’ said Johnathan.
Kibby smiled at him. ‘I’ve been to the shop.’
‘So I see.’
‘Do you want some coffee? I’m going to do scrambled eggs with mushrooms, bacon and sausages. Sound OK?’
Johnathan nodded. He surreptitiously pinched himself.
‘I think I’ve worked out how to use your coffee machine,’ continued Kibby as she began to unpack the bags. ‘Why don’t you go next door and let me deal with all this, and I’ll bring you a coffee and some mango and guava juice. Sounds disgusting, but it was all they had.’
‘Right,’ said Johnathan, feeling a little overwhelmed. He went into the sitting room and switched on the television. A very old children’s show which had been popular fifteen years earlier was on. He watched distractedly. A few minutes later Kibby came in with a glass of juice and a steaming cup of coffee. She put them on the table and came and sat down next to him.
‘Hello,’ she said, and kissed him on the lips.
‘Hello,’ said Johnathan, immediately worried about the danger of his incipient hard-on manifesting itself through the lightweight towelling of his dressing gown.
‘Are you hungry?’
Johnathan looked at her as innocently as he could. ‘Not particularly.’
‘Good,’ said Kibby. ‘Come on then.’ She took his hand and led him back to the bedroom.
Johnathan eyed the over-laden plate with ill-disguised glee. Mushroom, sausage, egg, bacon and fried bread were heaped on top of each other, jostling for space. He looked carefully for a spot to put his tomato ketchup.
‘Wow,’ he said.
Kibby grinned. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked up quite an appetite.’ She paused. ‘You’d better enjoy it though. Don’t think I make it a habit to cook men breakfast. Strictly first-time shags only, birthdays excepted. From now on it’ll be back to cornflakes.’
A carefully constructed forkful went into Johnathan’s mouth. He chewed contentedly.
Kibby watched him eat. ‘Tell me something,’ she said. ‘Do you really not mind people like Gavin having a go at you? Doesn’t it rankle?’
‘Not really,’ said Johnathan cheerfully. He thought. ‘Well, sometimes it does. Sometimes it pisses me off hugely.’
‘Because they’re right or because they’re wrong?’
‘God, I don’t know. It just pisses me off.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘All right then, both. They may be right. But what really infuriates me about people who criticize lawyers is that they don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. Lawyers are pretty easy targets, after all. People just make assumptions about how awful and greedy we are. That’s what really irritates me.’
‘Not the fact that most of you actually are awful and greedy?’
‘No. That I can live with.’
Kibby looked around his sitting room. ‘You don’t seem to be doing too badly for yourself.’
Johnathan put down his knife and fork. ‘Look, I’m not saying I’m particularly proud of what I do. I’m not. I don’t even enjoy it, really. I never wanted to be a lawyer. I never used to dream about a life of fighting injustice when I was younger. I just sort of fell into it. I work all the hours God sends and it’s usually pretty bloody boring. I won’t deny that the money isn’t bad, but there should be more to it than that.’
‘Such as?’
‘Recognition. Respect. More personable colleagues. Prospects. Better coffee.’
‘If it’s so awful, why don’t you leave?’ said Kibby.
There was a heavy silence. Then Johnathan said, ‘I can’t.’
‘Why
