Bella Summer Takes a Chance (8 page)

‘Is that where you sing? Cool.’

It was kind of cool, even though I fell into it randomly through a friend of a friend of a friend. And it wasn’t exactly a steady career. I only filled in when the regular singer was feeling off, or hung over, or had her sister visiting from Manchester. It was my admittedly rather lukewarm claim to fame in London. ‘I just help out the band sometimes. It’s not a regular gig.’

‘Oh.’ Said with judgment.

‘But I’m there in a few weeks. I’m thinking of doing more with my music, actually.’

‘What’s stopped you so far?’

Ah, the million quid question. Nothing technically stopped me. And yet I was stalled as surely as if I’d run out of petrol. How did it happen? I was so ambitious in my twenties. I truly believed that I was destined to be a singer. And I was willing to put in the effort to get there. ‘There’s nothing stopping me. I don’t have a manager here, and there were a few years where work got quite hectic.’ That wasn’t why. If I’d really wanted to pursue my singing, I would have. ‘But that’s not really a good excuse,’ I said truthfully. ‘I guess music just became less of a focus.’

‘What became more of a focus, then?’ His eyes were a pretty green, fringed with envy-worthy lashes. He had quite a public school accent. No matter how low he wore his jeans or how much he rolled his hips when he walked, that accent gave him away.

‘Living in London got in the way. My social life, my job. The usual things that sidetrack us from what we think we want. I’ve kept writing, though, on and off, even when I wasn’t performing. I’ve written quite a few new songs lately. I know some of it’s good enough to perform, and I do sometimes, but I wasn’t trained in music, not really. I had voice classes but my degree isn’t musical. What about you? Is your background in music?’

He chuckled. ‘No. Molecular biology, actually. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Beauty
and
brains.’

‘A bass-playing scientist. That’s not your usual combination. So you cast aside your microscope and followed your heart?’

‘No way, I love my microscope. When I’m not gigging I work part-time for a lab on Harley Street.’

‘At a lab? Do you diagnose illnesses from people’s blood?’

‘I’m not a doctor, I just run the tests. And it’s not always blood.’

‘Oh.
Oh
.’ Charming. My date handled people’s number twos. ‘Well, I’m sure it’s interesting.’

‘It’s a job. And I don’t have to get up too early, I work eleven to four. So I have time for my music.’

I envied him. And felt inferior. My date supported his art by rummaging in poo. ‘I admire your dedication. I sort of gave up on music when I moved here.’

Coming to London was a natural move, partly because my English grandparents gave me a cultural connection and partly because my dual citizenship made it easy. Dad’s parents emigrated to Canada just before the war, and Dad moved to Chicago, where I was born, to teach in the 1960s. ‘But I’m making more of it now.’

The exaggeration seemed necessary in the circumstances. Having unmusical friends meant they were easily impressed by the littlest step forward, but anybody in the business would quickly recognize me for what I’d become: a sometimes singer. I was relieved when the conversation moved to less exposing topics. The Musician was a traveller by nature, and more than happy to regale me with adventurous tales from far-flung lands.

I was excited by his itinerant nature. I’d felt the same thrill when Mattias talked about his upbringing. His Swedishness had made him exotic; every Scandi-inflected word he uttered captivated my imagination. I was an easy audience. ‘When’s your next gig?’ I asked.

‘The next big one’s at the end of the month. It’s a proper gig too, not a wedding. Maybe you’ll come along?’

‘I’d like that. And maybe you’d like to stop by The Boisdale a week from Wednesday when I’m singing.’

He nodded, smiling.

I had nothing to worry about. Hours passed. He was easy to talk to; there were no awkward silences. When he asked again about the gig at The Boisdale, he put the date in his phone. He was either an accomplished seducer, or truly interested.

‘I enjoyed this,’ he said, stroking my hand, which he’d held since we left the bar. ‘I’m not ready to say goodnight yet.’ He leaned in to kiss me. It was a good kiss. Mmm. It was a very good kiss. And just the right amount of body contact. ‘I’m definitely not ready to say goodnight,’ he murmured.

I was getting that impression. Literally. Something was poking me in the ribs. Yes, the ribs. Possibly he was taller than I thought he was. It was clear what he wanted.

The question was: what did I want? The sensible answer was to kiss him on the pavement and say goodnight. After all, I hardly knew him. He might be dangerous, or a thief. Oh, but he was a stellar kisser. Surely thieves weren’t good kissers.

I didn’t want to be sensible. And I definitely didn’t want to stop kissing. ‘Want to have a drink at my place?’ I said instead.

Did I plan to sleep with him as we took the taxi home? No, not then. As I let us into the empty flat? Not yet. We poured the wine only to ignore the glasses. His hand crept inside my dress. In the language of love it was only second base. Eleven-year-old girls probably let their dates get that far. Though eleven-year-old boys probably weren’t as adept at snapping open a bra as The Musician proved himself to be.

This put me in a compromising position for, as long as the bra stayed on, I was clothed. Undone, it was a useless defence against the assault that (I hoped) was coming. It was impossible to stop proceedings and say goodnight in a dignified manner with a lacy cup snuggling against my throat. Did men intuitively know that the social awkwardness of an undone bra substantially increased their chances of nudity?

The thought popped into my mind as my dress came off. I wanted to have sex with this man. It seemed a rational decision. First, I’d have to take the plunge eventually, right? Second, by all accounts I had a willing participant, which might not always be the case. Third, if I was sexually deficient in some way, as Fred seemed to suspect, I’d rather find out with someone I wasn’t yet emotionally attached to. ‘Let’s go to my room.’ I led him by the hand (though another option naturally presented itself), remembering too late that my floor was covered with the contents of my wardrobe. ‘Excuse the mess, it’s not usually this bad.’

‘I like it bad,’ he said. ‘Do you like it bad?’

‘Yes, I like it bad.’ It had been awhile. Bad, good, as long as it was with a living, breathing man.

‘Mmm. Good. Come here.’

He had me out of my pants in just a few seconds while we stood kissing. The moment had come. My first time with a new man this century. He knew what he was doing all right. Ooh, that was new. Who needed a vibrator with fingers like that? Seriously, seriously good. He manoeuvred me to the bed. ‘Lie down.’

I knew what was coming, and it made me uncomfortable. Oral sex wasn’t something that I entered into lightly. It was too intimate. Gently I tried moving his head back into kissing range but he didn’t budge. I could have put him in a headlock between my thighs till he stopped breathing but that seemed a bit drastic. Fine. I didn’t want to rain on a man’s foreplay.

‘You’re hairy.’

What did he–? He did
not
just say that I was hairy. I wasn’t. I didn’t get five o’clock shadow on my bikini line. It hadn’t sounded like an accusation, though, more of a surprised observation.

‘I’m so horny for you. Would you like me inside you? Tell me.’

I didn’t want to talk him through it like an IKEA assembly pamphlet. ‘Yes, please.’ I just hoped he brought his own Allen key. ‘Do you have an, em…’ Do not say Allen key.

‘I think I do. One sec.’ Conveniently his wallet held the key. ‘Do you want it?’ He growled. ‘Say you want it.’

Sigh. ‘I. Want. It.’ I wasn’t used to having to sing for my supper in bed, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t plan to… Oh my. He certainly did eat all his spinach growing up. He was the sort of man whose endowments became legend in the annals of history, or at least in the wine bars of London.

He certainly was rushing things a bit, though. It wasn’t the gentle stroll I hoped for. More of a gallop.

And. We were done. ‘Did you like that?’ He said through a sweaty smile. Which was fair enough, after that sprint.

Try as I might, I couldn’t banish the miniature sports announcer that materialized by his shoulder. ‘Well, B., what did you make of the first half? That was some performance, eh?’

Must not giggle while a man lay naked beside me. ‘Very nice, thank you.’ I felt like I’d just had subliminal sex – it had flashed so fast that I had only a vague notion that something had happened.

‘You know what? I like that you’re hairy. It’s very natural. Old school. Do you ever wax?’

There are some things that should never be said to a naked woman. Like ‘You haven’t got much use out of that gym membership’, ‘My mother is coming at the weekend’, and ‘You’re hairy’. I was not hairy. I’d shaved, I was as smooth as I’d be for a day at the beach. Unless. Unless the shaving wasn’t the issue. He thought he was seeing me the way nature made me. That I hadn’t spent ten minutes with my leg cocked up on the side of the bathtub trying not to slice into an artery. That was his idea of hairy? Jesus, what did he expect, a Hitler moustache? Honestly, men had no idea. ‘Er, thanks. And yes, I do groom.’

Despite his having likened me to Sasquatch, in the nicest possible way, I liked snuggling next to him. I missed the contact, the closeness. And the sex. I missed the sex. Mattias and I hadn’t been overly sexual and in all honesty, our love life in the past few years didn’t so much excite the imagination as tick the boxes. To say it was a duty was disingenuous, because it was still nice enough. It just wasn’t something I looked forward to. Maybe that was natural. Kat certainly thought so. But if you
had
been in love, with all the racing-heartbeat-short-of-breath feelings that went with it, then that excitement would still emerge sometimes, even after several years together. Wouldn’t it?

My phone bzzzzd on the bedside table. Reflexively I glanced at it.

How was your date? James told me. Spose if you don’t call back, you’re still on it. That’ll hurt a bit. xx

I could have kicked myself for looking. I lay there, thinking of every reason not to call back. Top of the list was the fact that I was in bed with another man. On the other hand, if I didn’t call back he’d know he was right. And it wasn’t worth hurting him for the sake of a two-minute conversation. The mood was ruined anyway. ‘Excuse me for just a minute. I’ll need to answer that.’

‘Hi Mattias,’ I said behind the bathroom door. ‘I just got your text.’

‘Hi.’ He sounded sleepy. ‘Did you have fun?’

‘Yes, it was all right. Are you okay?’

‘Fine, thanks. Just tired. What time is it?’

‘Erm, nearly three.’

‘You just got the text? I sent it hours ago.’

‘It definitely just came through now.’

‘Sorry about that. Blame Vodafone.’

‘Have I woken you?’

‘Yeah, but that’s okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?’

‘Sure, okay. Night.’

He sounded fine. I needn’t have worried.

‘Everything okay?’ Asked The Musician when I climbed back into bed. I nodded. ‘Good. Well, I’d better get going.’

His kiss on my nose in no way made up for that statement. Didn’t men spend the night when it
was
the night? ‘Okay, well, thanks, then.’

He hunted around in the dark for his belongings. ‘So, I’ll call you.’

‘Sure, okay.’

‘Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out. I’ll talk to you soon.’

‘Bye.’

I was never going to see him again.

Chapter 7

‘Tell me, B., are there any young men in your life?’ Marjorie asked between sips of tea from her beautiful bone china.

I was tempted to confess about The Musician. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned; it’s been less than twenty-four hours since my last shag.

I blamed my friends for the urge to brag to an old woman. Frederick wasn’t up when I left to run the inevitable Saturday morning errands, and it was too early to call Faith for a smutty breakfast brief. ‘Well, I went out with a man last night.’ Her smile broadened when I told her how we met, and about the date. ‘And then I took him home and we… we went to bed.’

Her face didn’t change expression. ‘How was it?’

‘Marjorie, I’m shocked! You want details?’

‘Dear, I’m ninety-one years old. I get my thrills where I can.’

My view of old people was forever altered. Or at least my view of Marjorie was. ‘I guess so. It was good, actually. It was nice.’ She didn’t need to know about the sprint finish, naked dialog or hirsute discussion. ‘But, then he left.’ That felt like a shameful confession.

‘You mean he didn’t stay the night? Well, perhaps he had things to do this morning. Or a dog to feed?’

‘I doubt it. I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.’

‘B., if you don’t mind some advice, you may want to keep your knees together next time. It doesn’t matter with some men, but with most, it does. It’s a double standard, of course, but it’s one as old as time, and isn’t likely to change.’

‘I know. I didn’t mean to.’ I made it sound like I lost my balance and fell on his penis. ‘I figured we’d just kiss but things got out of hand. Not to say I wasn’t a willing participant!’

‘Of course. Sex feels good,’ she said. Oh, how I wanted to keep the image of Marjorie having sex from running around in my head. Wrinkled, old-person sex. ‘I’ll tell you a secret if you like,’ she said.

If it had anything to do with vibrators, I would leave and never return. ‘What kind of secret?’

‘I have a boyfriend.’ If she were a cat she’d be full of cream.

‘What? Now?’

‘Yes, now, B.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound… That’s great. Who is he?’ I hoped he wasn’t imaginary. Or a young doctor crush.

‘I could introduce you.’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Hand me my make-up case, please, and we’ll go downstairs. And my shawl too, if you don’t mind. I’ll be glad when spring finally arrives. These old bones are better suited to the tropics.’