…’
He put on what he obviously thought was a caring face. ‘You can tell me.’
‘He masturbated for an hour, and I just sat there.’
‘Wow. What a wanker.’
‘Literally,’ I said, nodding.
He patted my arm. ‘Do you need some company tonight? We could go to the cinema or something, if you like.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but Cat’s got a few days off between shows, so I’m going to meet her for dinner.’
‘I haven’t met Cat yet,’ Owen said.
‘Sorry, Owen,’ I said. ‘You’re not invited.’
Cat took me for a curry in Brick Lane. We sat at a tiny corner table in the windowless downstairs room, next to a tank full of fluorescent fish.
‘At least you banged someone. You needed to get that out of the way,’ Cat said, ladling dhal onto my plate.
‘I’m never going to do it again,’ I said. I bit into a samosa, hoping that was the end of the conversation.
‘Never say never,’ Cat said. ‘Remember how I was feeling like a third wheel with Lacey and Steve, the new tadpole?’
I nodded.
‘I fucked someone last night. A year-five teacher.’
‘Is that ethical?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be? I’m not a student. I’m a pretend frog.’
‘I wasn’t sure where the line was drawn.’
‘The point is, it wasn’t the best sex, but it’s not going to put me off forever. You wouldn’t stop drinking just because you got one bad hangover, would you?’
‘This is different,’ I said. ‘I broke his penis.’
‘I wish you actually had broken his penis,’ she said. ‘Then he wouldn’t be able to inflict shitty sex on anyone else.’
But here’s the thing – the next morning I was writing a letter to a man who was very, very angry about the cost of prescriptions when I felt an unmistakable hollowness within me, a deep ache between my legs. I was turned on – turned on and bored, a very common combination for me – and I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate till I came, silent and hard, in the disabled toilets.
There was no point in trying to resist it. I locked myself into the cubicle, sat on the closed lid, pulled down my trousers and Googled Women’s erotica on my iPhone. I wasn’t in the mood to be fussy, so I scrolled quickly through the worst of it, looking for a story about two consenting adults fucking anonymously, preferably somewhere they could be caught. The words handcuffs and dripping pussy caught my eye – I like directness – and I wanked, leaning forward into my hand, rocking as I came, my face a wordless scream.
Maybe I needed to give sex one final chance.
6. A SEXY, WORDLESS TONGUE CONVERSATION
So when Alice and Dave invited me to a house party in Dalston at the beginning of February, I said yes. It was hosted by another of Dave’s arty friends – a designer who embellished H&M vest tops with sequins and sold them for huge amounts of money on Etsy.
‘You’re sure Finn won’t be there?’ I asked Dave, as we walked along Kingsland Road.
‘I checked,’ he said. ‘He’s home in Ireland for the weekend.’
The party was sedate compared to the one in Hackney Wick. There was no DJ, just a Spotify playlist, and the flat was lit by IKEA standard lamps rather than industrial strip lighting. The place was rammed, people pressed up against one another like rush-hour commuters. I went straight to the kitchen, poured three glasses of red wine and carried them carefully back to Alice and Dave, who had somehow found space on a sofa. They edged closer together to make room for me.
But soon they were arguing about a wedding they’d been invited to, that way couples do when they’ve been together for a few years and have stopped pretending to like each other’s friends.
‘We’ve got to go. She’s the editorial director. It’s flattering that she’s invited me at all.’
‘No. You’ve got to go.’
‘You’re coming. I’ve RSVPd for both of us.’
‘But I won’t know anyone.’
‘I’m sure she’ll sit us next to each other at dinner.’
‘Everyone will talk about books and wanky authors and I won’t know what to say.’
I looked around for someone else to talk to but I was hemmed in by a sea of legs. Legs in jeans; legs in dresses; legs that obviously spent more time in the gym than mine did. I drank my wine steadily, for something to do.
‘Do I have to wear a suit?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s not a traditional wedding. She got a tattoo instead of an engagement ring.’
‘Nice.’
I pushed myself up off the sofa and carried my wine glass to the toilet queue that was already taking up half the living room. I looked around; I vaguely recognized a few people from the Hackney Wick party – the couple in matching fur coats, and a bloke with an undercut who I remembered being a bit of a liability on the dance floor.
And then, in that mysterious way you often can, I felt someone looking at me. I glanced over towards the kitchen and there, framed in the doorway, was Jane, the conceptual artist. A woman with long dark hair was leaning towards her, gesturing and chatting away intently, but Jane was staring straight at me, as direct as one of her paintings. She raised her hand and smiled at me. I smiled back – but then two men stumbled out of the toilet, rubbing their noses, holding hands, and it was my turn.
I sat on the toilet staring at my fingers, the harsh halogen light throwing up every wrinkle, every nibbled nail. I decided to take myself home; I didn’t have anyone to talk to, and I was being stared at by a sexually confident lesbian. I had a feeling that something would happen if I stayed.
As I was putting on my coat, I felt someone walk up to me.
‘You’re not going yet, are you?’ said Jane.
‘I’m not feeling great,’ I said, trying to sound casual, though I could feel my heart speeding up. ‘Not in a sociable mood.’
‘Nor am I,’ she said. ‘But I’d make an exception for you.’
She looked at me till I had to look away.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Stay and have a drink with me.’
There
