I can’t picture the male character. Every time I try to write something, that’s where I get stuck. And I think that if…if I had someone I could base him on, I’d be able to do it.’
‘Like a muse?’
‘Yes,’ I say, clinging onto that word, because it makes it sound like something arty and serious, instead of kinky and weird. ‘Exactly like that. I need a muse.’
‘I could do that,’ he says, his tone thoughtful. ‘Shall I come round tomorrow, after work?’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Yes. Fine. See you then.’
And then I end the call. I toss the phone onto the bed and stare at it, my hands pressed against my cheeks like a real life version of The Scream. What have I done? When did I become the sort of person that does this sort of thing?
And when did I start to like it?
A little while later, reality hits me like a truck. I get my laptop and sit up in bed until three in the morning, typing, deleting, typing, deleting, trying to prove myself wrong. Trying to prove that I don’t need help, especially not from Phil. By the time I give up and surrender to exhaustion, I’ve got three sentences. It’s not much, but it’s more than I had, and I cling to that knowledge. At the bookshop, I keep a notepad on my desk, and scribble in it every chance I get. Every time someone comes in, I jump about three feet in the air and flip the notepad over. The last thing I want is for someone to ask me why I wrote ‘his cock was big and long’ and scribbled it out. Several times. By half four, I’ve written another three sentences. I’ve also drawn 78 cartoon penises. I’ve never been so relieved to have a day end.
I grab my bag and my jacket and make my way home. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Six sentences is more than I had, but it’s not enough to win the bet. And I’m not even sure they’re good sentences. Several times, I take out my phone and think about calling Phil and telling him not to bother, but I don’t. Because those six sentences are all about a woman listening to a man masturbating on the other end of the phone. What happened last night changed something. I don’t just want to win the bet any more, I want to put these words on paper. I need to.
Phil knocks on my door at half past six exactly, and I open it. ‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Hi,’ he says back. And for a moment, we just stand there and stare at each other.
‘Can I come in?’ he asks, eventually.
I step back. ‘Sure.’
He’s never looked out of place here before, but now he seems like a giant, all long legs and big hands. He drops his bag on the floor next to the sofa, and makes himself at home, resting his scruffy Chelsea boots on my coffee table. ‘How was work?’ he asks, as he pulls off his tie and shoves it into his bag.
‘It was OK.’ I don’t sit down. I stand and fidget. ‘Want a drink?’ I hastily disappear into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I don’t know how to deal with him, or what to say. All I know is that I need a minute alone to sort through my disordered thoughts and get my head together. It would help if those thoughts didn’t keep pushing in Phil’s direction.
He’s wearing a white shirt today, with a sleeveless jumper pulled over the top, and the swirls of coloured ink that cover his left arm are visible though the fabric, and that makes me feel strange. I’ve noticed all these things about him before, of course I have, but I’ve never been so aware of him, and I don’t know what to do with the way I’m feeling. It’s bound to spill out. He’s bound to notice. And then what will I do?
When the kettle flicks off, I turn to find him lounging in the doorway. ‘So,’ he says. ‘How are we going to do this?’
‘I haven’t worked out the details yet.’ Other than a very vivid, very hot dream last night that involved asking him to strip off in the middle of my living room, and I’m not sure either of us is ready for that.
‘Have you written anything?’ he continues, taking mugs off the tree and setting them out.
‘Six sentences.’
‘Amy.’
‘I know, I know.’ I pull open the fridge, take out the milk. ‘I’m seriously thinking about just telling Dave he wins. It’s easier that way.’
‘Do you really want to do that?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘But I don’t want to make a complete fool of myself either.’
‘You won’t,’ he says.
‘How do you know?’
He reaches out, touches my shoulder. That’s all it is. He’s touched me that way a thousand times before. There’s nothing sexual in it, I’m sure there isn’t, but I couldn’t have felt it more if he’d put his hand down my top. ‘Because I won’t let you,’ he says.
Milk slops onto the worktop. ‘Bloody hell.’ I set down the bottle, flap around for a cloth, clean it up. At least it stops me from having to look at him. But he doesn’t let me get away with it. He moves in, closer, and takes the cloth from me, and gently cleans up the mess. His hands are so big, so warm, and my gaze settles on that rose tattoo, and I can’t seem to make myself look away. I know he doesn’t see anything but a friend when he looks at me, and I don’t want to see anything other than that when I look at him, but I can’t seem to help myself.
‘These six sentences,’ he says. ‘Are they good sentences?’
‘They’re OK,’ I say. And something changes inside me. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what makes me say it. ‘I…I think reading to you helped.’
His hands stop moving.
We stand there like that, side by side, not moving. Neither of us speaks.
‘Would you like to read to me some more?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’d like that very much.’
I turn towards the doorway. He moves back, and I move past him. I go into my bedroom, pick up my iPad. I take it back through into the living room. I don’t tell him to take a seat. Instead, I curl myself up in my armchair, which is my favourite place to sit. I tuck my feet under myself, keeping my gaze on the screen as I turn it on and open up Spank Me Sir.
The words swim a little before my eyes, then settle down. My heart doesn’t, though. My pulse feels strange, too fast. I swallow, as if I can eat my nerves, then I begin.
‘What do you want, Sally?’
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