he’s breathing, panting.
‘Nick, stop. Please.’
‘Agh,’ he says, gasping from arousal, pushing me away. ‘Look what you’re doing to me.’
This isn’t how it was supposed to be. But, then again, Nick has a point. We haven’t seen each other in the flesh for six months, we’ve only spoken about what it would feel like to touch one another, and God! How we’ve spoken about that. For hours upon hours. We have been gentle to each other with words, and then gentle on our own bodies with our own fingertips, watching one another caress ourselves across a screen. Nick has seen every inch of my skin – not only have I opened my heart but also my legs to his view, my confidence soaring at how fucking sexy he’s made me feel from four thousand miles away. I’ve watched his cock grow hard in his hands, talked him into a climax, and listened as he brought me to multiple orgasms before the camera.
‘Tell me I got it wrong,’ I whisper, desperately.
The innocent faces from the photographs on the walls are closing in on me, their sweet round eyes all too similar to Nick’s. Yesterday, I was convinced the girls looked like their mother, but now, the truth is too difficult to ignore. As much as I want him – of course, I want him, I love him – this doesn’t feel right at all.
‘You got it wrong,’ Nick says, coming close to me again.
Surely I’m about to have everything I’ve ever wanted. A partner. Someone to brunch with, to watch movies with, to sleep with. What’s more, he isn’t looking at me down the lens of a camera: he’s right here, right now, needing me, wanting me. He begins to unzip his jeans, teasing me by pulling on my denim strap.
I think of Jim, waiting for me in his car. What would he make of me lingering in this strange house, my long-distance lover trying to fuck me without as much as a proper hello? But, why am I thinking of him? Some guy with a BMW and a bad attitude?
So I close my eyes tight. Lean in. I want everything to be okay, to be what I’ve been led to believe. I’m not feeling it, but I want to. The disappointment is overwhelming, so I try to ignore my gut, tell myself I’m tired. I move closer and allow my lips to meet Nick’s again.
‘Greg?’ says a calm, female voice.
Nick pulls away from me and stumbles into the banister as he reaches for his low zip. The name, ‘Abi,’ trickles out of his already drooling mouth as my attention flies in the direction of the doorway where a woman stands smiling at me. We’ve met before. Yesterday. When she politely, but firmly, told me that Nick does not live here. She’s wearing a baby pink tracksuit today, her black bob still shiny.
‘Greg,’ Abi repeats. ‘You know what time it is.’
Nick throws himself against the front door, his fists pounding the pinewood frame. Abi plants her hands on his shoulders and steers him away, turning him towards the stairs. As if I’m a ghost, utterly invisible, she gives him a hefty push up the first few steps.
‘It’s time for you to pack your bags,’ she says, as if telling a child to go and brush his teeth. ‘Now. Right now. You’ve got exactly fifteen minutes. Then leave this house, keep walking and don’t ever come back. I’m filing for a divorce.’
My lungs tighten sharp with each breath, as if an elastic band is being wrapped around them. I have to get the fuck out of here.
‘Where are you going?’ Abi asks.
It’s a struggle to get to the door. Although just feet away, I can’t get through it. As if stuck in a nightmare, one where limbs feel like lead, feet defeated by quicksand, I just cannot coordinate my fingers to find the door handle and pull. Once again, my army jacket is sliding off my shoulders, but now it’s Abi grabbing it with both hands, pulling it off in an attempt to stop me escaping. Wriggling my arms free, I open the door, run.
The grey white sky is brighter than I expect. I hear Abi call out ‘Oi!’ and she’s behind me. She yanks the straps of my pinafore, pulling me backwards, like a toddler in reins, and the sudden force makes me cough. I’m pushed onto my front, thrown down onto the garden path like a bag of trash being hauled