False Advertising (49 page)

Helen had found a couple of fresh tomatoes and an onion. ‘Do you have oil?'

‘I do,' he replied, passing her a bottle. ‘What are you going to do with it?'

‘I'll make us some bruschetta. Do you have any bread?'

‘Yeah, I hope it's not stale though,' he said, opening a cupboard door. ‘I always seem to be throwing out half-loaves.'

‘No problem, I'll be toasting it anyway,' said Helen as he passed her a Vienna loaf. ‘Perfect.' She made her way around the kitchen, collecting a chopping board, knives, a bowl and the toaster.

‘What can I do?' asked Myles. ‘Why don't you put on some of that music you promised?'

‘What would you like to listen to?'

‘What have you got?'

‘Do you want me to run through the whole thousand?'

‘Play something you like,' said Helen, chopping tomatoes.

Myles was over fiddling with the sound system. ‘This could be risky, Helen. What if you don't like what I choose?'

‘I'm sure it'll be fine.'

‘I don't know,' said Myles doubtfully, ‘you're bound to make assumptions about me depending on what I play.'

‘What do you mean?' said Helen, glancing over at him.

‘Well, take for example if I were to put on . . . I don't know, some boy band music.'

‘You listen to boy bands?'

‘No, I don't,' said Myles categorically. ‘I want to make that clear, it was just for example's sake. I swear I don't have one song by a boy band on this iPod,' he added, holding a hand to his heart.

‘Okay, because then I might have thought you were gay,' said Helen. ‘Not that there's anything wrong with that.'

‘This is exactly what I'm getting at,' said Myles. ‘You'll make assumptions about me based on the song I put on first. It's a
defining moment, Helen. So I want to make it clear right now that the song I'm about to play is not significant to me in any way. I like it well enough, but I could live without it. It wouldn't make it onto my list to take on a desert island, so don't read anything into it.'

Helen smiled, shaking her head. ‘Just get on with it, would you, Myles?'

She didn't recognise the song that came on, but that was hardly surprising. Helen didn't really know any music from the last decade, or even further, she had to admit. She was a ‘classic hits' girl, and deeply uncool, she suspected. But the music Myles had chosen was nice, easy to listen to without being bland, mellow without being soporific.

Helen passed the various plates of food over the bench to Myles, and he set them down on the coffee table. They soon found themselves sitting on the floor again, their backs against the sofa. Helen had discarded her jacket and shoes, and after another glass of wine she was feeling very relaxed, if not a little tipsy. But she didn't care. She felt comfortable with Myles. The only expectation he had of her was that she should say what was on her mind, be who she wanted to be. That was incredibly liberating, but also a little perplexing. Helen realised she wasn't sure enough of herself to actually be herself, if that made any sense.

‘I think it's your turn to pick some music,' Myles said after a while.

Helen screwed up her face. ‘I don't think I should.'

‘Why not?'

‘I don't have very good taste in music.'

‘Who says?'

‘Oh, David used to tease me about my penchant for bad eighties pop, and angsty teenage girl songs.'

Myles raised an eyebrow slightly. ‘What kind of music did David like?'

‘He was a Dylan man, big time.'

‘And let me guess . . . Neil Young, Crosby, Stills and Nash, Joni Mitchell . . .'

‘That's the stuff,' Helen nodded. ‘He always said I was lucky I had him to educate me.'

Myles was watching her thoughtfully. ‘Tell me something you liked before he “educated” you.'

‘No, I'm too embarrassed.'

‘Come on, I played my music for you.'

‘Yeah, but you have good taste,' she said. ‘I didn't recognise most of the songs, but they were kind of classy, and interesting.'

‘Why, thank you.'

‘My pleasure.'

They clinked glasses.

‘Come on, one song,' Myles persisted, handing her the iPod.

‘I don't know how you work one of these,' she protested.

‘It's easy,' he said, leaning over her shoulder. ‘You just scroll down like this to the name of a band or a singer, and then select . . .'

Helen was peering at the tiny letters on the screen. They were beginning to swim in front of her eyes. ‘Oh, Myles, you do it,' she said, thrusting it back at him.

‘You still have to tell me what you want to hear.'

‘You won't have the kind of stuff I like on there.'

‘You never know. Try me.'

‘Mm, well,' she hesitated, her head dipping close to his shoulder as she squinted at the miniature screen. ‘I used to love the Doobie Brothers.'

‘There's nothing wrong with the Doobies,' said Myles, scrolling down the menu till he came to D.

‘You do not have the Doobie Brothers,' she insisted.

‘Do so,' he said.

Helen smiled, dropping her head all the way onto his shoulder.

‘And I bet I know which song's your favourite,' said Myles, scrolling and selecting so quick that she didn't catch it.

‘But,' he went on, jumping to his feet, ‘you're going to want to dance to this one.'

‘No . . .' she protested. But then the music started. And he was right. She had to dance to it.

She put her hand out and Myles helped her up, drawing her close. It was probably a little upbeat for dancing arm in arm but Helen needed to hang onto him so she didn't fall over. At least till she got into the swing of it, then she found herself moving to the music independently, and singing . . . loudly. This was one
of those songs that carried her away whenever she heard it, all the way back to her teens, when a song on the radio had the uncanny ability to express every deep, hidden feeling locked away in her heart. She had still had her whole life ahead of her back then, anything had seemed possible. Just as well she hadn't been able to see too far into the future. Though it occurred to Helen that if she had caught a glimpse of this particular moment, perhaps she would have thought things were going to turn out all right after all.

Myles had taken hold of her hand again, drawing her back into his arms as the song began to fade. Helen leaned heavily against him, resting her head on his shoulder as another song started to play. She didn't recognise it, but it was lovely . . . lilting guitar, a man's tender, heartbroken voice.

Her face was close to his neck, he smelled good, all crisp and male. Helen was intensely aware of the feel of his body against hers as they swayed to the music. Urges that had long been suppressed, that she had forcibly suppressed, were rising up inside her so that she started to feel giddy and a little breathless. All of her senses seemed heightened; the smell of him, the touch of him, the reality of him in her arms was becoming intoxicating. She nestled closer and he leaned his head against hers, his lips brushing her hair. Helen brought her hand up to touch his face, and he covered it with his own, drawing it to his lips and kissing her palm. She lifted her head to look at him. They were both breathing hard. Helen moved first: she drew herself up taller, wrapping both arms around his neck, and brought her lips onto his. It was almost a shock at first. Actually, finally connecting, tasting his lips, kissing him. She was kissing another man.

She stopped suddenly, pulling back, her heart pounding, holding her hand to her mouth.

‘What's the matter, Helen?' Myles asked gently.

‘I, um . . . I don't know . . .'

‘It's okay,' he said. ‘Let's just pretend that didn't happen.'

‘No, no,' she said in a daze. ‘Unless . . . is that what you want?'

‘No,' he said quickly. ‘I mean, um, I want whatever you want, Helen, I just don't want you to think I planned this, trust me . . .'

‘Of course I trust you, Myles,' she said. ‘I was the one who started it.'

‘Okay, but it doesn't have to go any further,' he assured her.

‘Why not?' she asked, her heart beating fast. ‘Don't you want to?'

‘Oh Helen,' he breathed, resting his forehead against hers. ‘I want to, you don't know how much, but maybe this isn't the right time, maybe it's too soon for you, maybe we should wait . . .'

‘Maybe you should stop talking,' she said huskily, her lips hovering against his. Helen just wanted to do it, do it fast and hard and not talk, not say anything, not think. Especially not think.

But Myles still hesitated, drawing back to look at her. ‘Are you sure this is what you want?' he said, searching her eyes.

‘I'm sure, just don't talk.' This time she kissed him hard, opening her mouth against his and pressing her body into him. She heard him moan deeply, and finally he wasn't holding back any more. They were kissing almost ferociously now, their mouths tasting, biting, sucking, pleasuring. Helen wanted to feel his skin against hers. She fumbled to undo the buttons of his shirt as she felt his hands on the zipper at the back of her dress, his fingers sliding from her neck right down her spine, following the zipper as it opened. Helen knew she wasn't going to last much longer. She stepped back from him, slipping the dress off her shoulders and peeling it the rest of the way down, till it fell from her hips onto the floor. He was watching her, breathing heavily, as she stepped close again and opened his shirt, pressing herself against his chest, his warm skin, his heart beating against hers. His lips found hers again and he walked her backwards into the bedroom, taking the lead now, kissing her urgently. She could feel his hands tugging at the catch of her bra until it sprung open and he leaned back to look at her, his chest rising and falling, as Helen shrugged the bra off and tossed it aside.

‘You're so beautiful,' he murmured, burying his head into her breasts as he lifted her up, and in one or two strides they were on the bed, writhing around, discarding what was left of their clothes, till it was just them, skin to skin, nothing between them. Helen felt exhilarated, free, her sensations so charged she could barely stand it . . . but as Myles finally plunged deep inside her,
she felt tears well up all of a sudden. She held them back, wrapping her legs around him and thrusting hard against him, driving all thoughts away as she forced herself to stay in the moment, to focus on the sensations only, until they finally engulfed her.

And then Myles came, surging into her with a cry, before collapsing against her, breathing hard. His lips found hers briefly, and he buried his face into the crook of her neck, catching his breath.

Helen could feel his body pulsating on top of her, inside her still. But she couldn't seem to catch her breath, and then her limbs began to shake uncontrollably as the lump rose up again, filling her chest with a choking pain as tears sprung into her eyes. She couldn't stop them now, they came like an avalanche, building to loud, wailing, gut-wrenching sobs as Myles gathered her up in his arms and held her close, pulling the bedclothes around them, soothing her gently, patiently. Gradually she grew calm, her limbs still, her breathing steady. She felt as though she was floating along, with Myles, drifting with the tide. She imagined she could quite possibly stay like this forever.

‘Helen.'

His voice, bringing her back into the room, back into the reality of lying here, in his bed, naked. She lurched up suddenly, turning away.

‘Helen,' said Myles, sitting up behind her. ‘What's wrong?'

‘I have to get dressed,' she said, trying to cover herself with the sheet.

‘Helen, don't. Please stay, it's going to be all right.'

‘I have to put something on, Myles,' she insisted, her voice breaking.

‘Okay, okay, no problem. Here,' he said, hopping off the bed to grab his discarded shirt and wrapping it around her. She pushed her arms into the sleeves and crossed it over in front of her, hugging herself, while Myles found his trousers and pulled them on. He sat down beside her again. ‘Are you okay?'

Helen nodded, not looking at him, not daring to meet those eyes.

‘Do you want to talk about it?'

She shook her head. What would she say?

He brought his arm around her and leaned his head against hers. ‘I understand how you must be feeling –'

‘No you don't,' she cried, breaking away from him and standing up. ‘Myles, how can you understand what I'm feeling if I don't even understand it?'

He got to his feet, facing her. ‘Helen, it doesn't matter. Whatever you're feeling, it's okay.'

‘But it's not.' The ache in her throat was making it difficult to speak. ‘I've never felt like this before, Myles, never had feelings like that,' she cried, pointing at the bed as though she were accusing it. ‘I don't think I'm ready. I don't think I can handle this. I've never . . .'

‘What?'

Helen took a breath. ‘I've never had sex like that before in my life, Myles.'

He gazed steadily at her. ‘Neither have I.'

She stared at him.

‘Because I've never felt this way about anyone,' he went on. ‘I love you, Helen. You must have known, must have felt it. I fell in love with you from the start, I think, a little. And it kept getting stronger every time I saw you, till I didn't know how I could hold myself back . . . But I did, and I waited. I waited for something from you, some sign, some indication that maybe you felt the same way, that you were ready. I probably shouldn't have brought you up here tonight, and I didn't mean for this to happen. But I'm not sorry it did.'

Helen was breathing hard. Her mouth was dry.

‘Maybe the timing's wrong,' said Myles, ‘or maybe you would have felt like this no matter how long you'd waited. Did you think of that, Helen? Maybe you just have to get through this.'