for his number. He gave her one but it was made up. It was one digit too many.
‘He called me Zoë,’ she wails. It’s true Zoë isn’t generally the accepted shortening of Isabelle, however familiar the parties involved. ‘How could he forget my name?’
‘I don’t know, honey. I really don’t. What’s your room number?’ I want to stroke her hair, hunt a tissue from my handbag, blow her nose and pour a substantial G&T. I want to make her better. I hurriedly climb out of bed. Momentarily noting the slight strain in my groin. I turn and have a last wistful look at big boy. I wouldn’t have minded a bit of early morning naughtiness. But it is out of the question. Issie needs me. I don’t even have time to wash off the sperm and smell of rubber.
‘Hey big—’ I stop myself. ‘Hey.’ I shake him gently. He opens his eyes and tries to pull me back into bed.
‘What’s the rush?’ he asks with a lazy grin. I manoeuvre away from all his hands, pull a jumper on and throw his shirt at him.
‘My friend called. I’m going round to her room.’
‘I’ll wait for you,’ he offers.
‘No, that would be’ – I play with the idea of saying tedious and opt for the more polite approach – ‘too kind but unnecessary. She’s very upset; I might be gone all morning. All day.’
‘Should I leave you my card?’
‘Yes, great. Do that.’ I kiss him on his forehead and feel a bit like his mother. How young this guy looks in the daylight. Of course I have no intention of calling him, but I’d like to have his name. I keep immaculate mental records in these matters.
Issie opens the door; she’s wrapped in a sheet.
‘Oh Issie.’ I hug her. Fighting down the swell of irritation that washes over me when I see her tear-stained face. I’m annoyed at him for doing it to her. I’m annoyed at her for doing this to herself. ‘Have you called Josh?’
‘He’s incognito.’
‘Oh, makes sense. I saw him slope off with that woman in the huge navy hat.’
‘Which one?’ asks Issie. ‘There were a dozen navy hats.’
‘The Emu one.’
‘Oh.’ She grins, despite herself, and I think, not for the first time, that Issie is too nice to be treated like this.
I put on the mini kettle and throw the biscuits to her. She needs the sugar. She catches them with one hand and this simple gesture makes my heart swell with pride. It is so unfair. There is no way Issie would ever have managed to do something so cool in front of a guy she fancied. Women are always so much nicer, more composed and funnier when blokes aren’t around. Why can’t we be our best selves in front of them?
‘Did you have full sex?’ I ask, trying to establish the level of disappointment.
‘Yes.’ She sounds guilty.
‘Don’t sweat it, forget it. I’m not your mum.’ But I know she’s wracked with shame and an overwhelming sense of self-loathing. She’s explained it often enough. I try to cheer her up. ‘I also had full sex and I’m not expecting to see him again either.’
‘But you don’t care. You have no feelings.’ Fair point. I shrug. I’m as hard as nails on the outside. Scratch the surface and I’m as hard as nails on the inside. Impenetrable. Well, emotionally impenetrable, not the other. Not frigid. Technically, I guess, for want of a more user-friendly term, I’m a slapper. I start to run her a bath. I’m overly generous with the bubble bath. Bubbles are so frivolous. They never fail to cheer me up.
‘Was it good sex?’ I shout above the running tap.
‘Not particularly – we hardly know each other.’
So why is she so upset? I walk back into the bedroom and start to drag her towards the bathroom.
‘What did I do wrong?’ she wails. I’ve heard this question so often that I have a stockpile of answers. ‘You did nothing wrong.’ ‘Men are simply incapable of more.’ Etc., etc. None of it helps. She still regularly has her heart stomped upon.
Whilst she’s in the bath I order room service. We require serious comfort food so I order a big, greasy fried breakfast (powerful medicine for hangovers and broken hopes), a pile of pastries and huge steaming mugs of hot chocolate. I quickly shower whilst Issie flicks through the Sunday papers. We eat breakfast lying on the massive bed, wrapped in luxurious, white towelling dressing gowns. I couldn’t