One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [72]
Clearly not. There was no confirming and no hesitation, he just nuzzled right back. In fact he did more than that, and before long, I was shedding clothing again.
I wouldn’t say the trouble with going out with a younger man is their insatiable carnal appetite, but there are times when a boiled egg in front of a Sunday night period drama, just me and my spectacularly greasy hair, appeals. When the sex kitten in me is not necessarily purring ferociously. Having said that, if anyone can persuade me to lay down my boiled egg spoon and take the hand that leads, not necessarily up the stairs, incidentally, to a king-sized fully sprung divan, but to who knows where, it’s Ivan. Which brings me to another occupational hazard of not punching one’s age weight: location. Or location location location in Ivan’s case, because really, it could be anywhere. The kitchen floor has seen a fair amount of action in its time, as have the stairs, and even the cupboard beneath them, where a Hoover attachment in my back ensured spine-shattering sex in every sense. Ivan was the master of invention, and tonight, whilst one hand attended to a tricky belt buckle on my jeans, another was already clearing the computer table – Victorian pine, stripped to within an inch of its life, not unlike its owner was about to be – for action. The kitchen lights blazed down like the Gestapo – I made a long arm to snap them off – and over Ivan’s shoulder, my son on my screen saver looked on in a quizzically amused fashion. It wasn’t terribly conducive to the moment and I lunged for the mouse, pressing randomly, convulsively, only for Seffy to be replaced by a stern warning: ‘Stand By’. Yes, indeed, I thought, turning my full attention to Ivan’s appetite and shutting my eyes. You don’t have to tell me.
Later, when I’d fled to the bathroom and the supreme comfort of a long hot bath, Ivan languishing happily on my bed in front of the telly in a dressing gown he kept here, I thought: this is more like it. I stroked the bubbles right up to my nose. More like marriage, perhaps. This – afterwards bit – at any rate. The cosy familiarity. I wondered if he’d stay. He did, occasionally. But then again, he often went home, claiming it was closer to work, and he was so appalling at getting up in the mornings. I’d rung once, when he’d gone, to tell him he’d forgotten his wallet, something making me ring his land line instead of his mobile, and a girl had answered, bright and breezy. His flatmate’s sister, he’d said quickly when he came on the line. I didn’t pry. He had to get back at weekends too, when Camden Passage was certainly at its busiest, but tomorrow was Monday: a quiet day. And it was well after nine now. Surely he was here for the duration?
Moments later a head came round the door, followed by a fully dressed Ivan.
‘See ya.’
‘See ya.’ I grinned gamely back. Ah.
He came across to the bath and kneeled down. Naturally I’d carefully arranged the bubbles to cover me completely, and naturally the room was candlelit.
He carefully cleared a few bubbles from my lips and kissed me. ‘I’ll be back for more next week,’ he warned, resting his arms on the bath edge. ‘I thought we might go to that new Italian on Lillie Road.’
‘Sure, why not?’
Out. We didn’t generally do Out, Ivan much preferring In, regarding anything further afield as a retrograde step. Which was fine by me. I’d got over that stage of needing to be wined and dined long ago. And anyway, we did a lot of that in France, on our jaunts, which were frequent.
‘Or on second thoughts,’ he said, clearing a few more bubbles and gazing contemplatively, ‘perhaps I should just hop in with you?’
‘Perhaps not,’ I smiled, rearranging the bubbles.
‘You haven’t finished your wine.’ He plucked it from the tiled shelf at the side and put it to my lips.
I took a sip, but wrinkled my nose. ‘I can’t drink in the bath,’ I confided. ‘It gives me wind.’
‘That’s erotic.’
I grinned. ‘It