Rachel's Holiday
Page 87
He politely sat on the sofa and politely didn’t push me to the floor and ravish me. How strange it felt to be in the same room as each other for more than five seconds and still be wearing clothes!
‘I’ll be ready in a minute,’ I promised him.
‘Relax,’ he said.
I could feel his eyes following me as I bumped awkwardly round the flat looking for my keys. Here a hipbone crunched against the counter, there an elbow skinned on the doorhandle. Nothing like the feeling of being watched by a man I desire to bring on my incipient clumsy oafness. Eventually I turned and demanded in contrived exasperation, ‘What?’
I knew it’d be good, see.
‘You look…’ he paused, ‘… beautiful.’
Correct answer.
I didn’t know the restaurant he took me to, hadn’t even heard of it. But it was lovely. Thick carpets, lighting subdued to the point of sulkiness, and humble, murmuring waiters with French accents so exaggerated that they couldn’t even understand each other.
Luke and I barely spoke all evening.
But this didn’t indicate discord. In fact, I’d never felt so close to anyone, ever. We couldn’t stop smiling at each other. Huge, face-splitting, glowing smiles right into each other’s eyes.
He continued with the polite, not-wrestling-me-up-against-a-wall behaviour that he’d kicked the evening off with. Instead, we had more cab-paying and door-opening and non-contact-ushering than you could shake a stick at. And with every gesture, we grinned out loud.
When he politely held my hand and helped me into the cab, we both beamed our heads off. Then after we’d arrived at La Bonne Chère (The Good and Dear) he deferentially helped me out of the cab and we gave each other dazzling smiles that rushed up from our toes. A brief pause while he paid the cab, then we turned to each other, crinkling our eyes so much we could barely see.
He said Are you right?’ – the Irish version of ‘Shall we?’ – extended his elbow for me to hook, and off we swung into the restaurant. Where we were greeted enthusiastically, if indecipherably, by the waiters. And that made us catch each other’s eyes and smirk.
We were led to a table that was so discreet and dimly lit that I could barely see Luke. ‘This do for you, babe?’ he murmured. I nodded gleefully and beamed my assent. Anything would have been wonderful.
There was a brief moment of awkwardness when we sat down opposite each other, because after all, we’d never been in such a situation before. There’s only one thing more shy-making than the first time you go to bed with a man and that’s the first time you go to dinner with a man. Luke attempted conversation with a cheery ‘Well?’ And I thought about replying, but then that joyous feeling filled me up and spilled out at my mouth, forcing it to burst into another ecstatic grin, and I realized there was no need to say anything. Luke replied to my smile by return of post and we both dazzled each other like a pair of village idiots. And so we remained, smiling and glazed, until the frog waiter arrived and unctuously proffered the menus.
‘I suppose we’d better…’ Luke indicated the menu.
‘Oh right,’ I said, and tried to concentrate.
After a few seconds I looked up and found Luke staringatmeandwebothburstinto smiles again. Slightly embarrassed, I dropped my eyes. But I couldn’t stop myself looking up at him once more and he was still staring at me, so we both had another smile for our trouble.
Again, I felt delighted, yet embarrassed, and murmured ‘Stop.’
And he murmured back ‘Sorry, can’t help it, you’re so…’
Then we both had a lovely, warm little chuckle and he reindicated the menu and said ‘We’d really better…’
And I said ‘We really should…’
I felt as if I would burst with the happiness of being with him. I was sure I must bear some resemblance to a bull-frog, puffed-up to the max with joy.
He ordered champagne.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because…’ he paused, looking at me speculatively.
‘Because…’ he said again, a smile in his eyes. I held my breath because I was certain he was going to say he loved me.
‘Because you’re worth it,’ he finally said.
I gave a secret little smile. I’d seen his face, I knew how he felt about me. And he knew that I knew.
All night I felt quite calm on the surface. But under that I was pleasurably breathless. Every part of me. I felt like my lungs were barely managing to inhale, my heart just sustained a beat, my blood dragged itself sensuously through my veins. I’d slowed into a different rhythm, drugged by what I felt for him.
All my sensations were heightened. My nerves were raw, exposed, on the outside. Mine was the Pompidou Centre of central nervous systems.
I took pleasure in each breath that I drew. I savoured every bump of my heart in my chest, every flutter in my stomach.
Each breath felt like a victory, as my chest rose and fell, then after an infinitesimally-too-long pause, rose and fell again. Like conquering a small hill. And then another. And then another.
‘That nice?’ He nodded at my pomme au fenêtre or whatever it was.
‘Yairs, lovely,’ I murmured, managing to swallow a good two or three atoms of it.
There was a lot of picking up our forks and letting them hover over the food – which probably was delicious, but neither of us seemed to be able to eat – then smiling at each other like two morons. Then putting our forks down and catching each other’s look before exploding into wreaths of smiles again.
Apart from the sensation that my stomach and oesophagus had been filled with quick-setting concrete, I felt floaty and elated.
We both seemed to know that what we felt for each other was a fragile, precious thing that had to be carried carefully and kept very still. We couldn’t disturb it or unsettle it, but despite its lack of activity we were both completely aware of it. Aware of little else.
There was no need to outdo each other with funny stories because we both knew we could tell funny stories. There was no need to lep on each other and tear our clothes off, that would happen all in the fullness of time.
The only rockyish patch in the whole night occurred when Luke said ‘How’s Daryl?’
‘Look,’ I said awkwardly, electing to put some of my cards on the table, ‘nothing happened with me and Daryl.’
‘I’m sure it didn’t,’ he said.
‘I’ll be ready in a minute,’ I promised him.
‘Relax,’ he said.
I could feel his eyes following me as I bumped awkwardly round the flat looking for my keys. Here a hipbone crunched against the counter, there an elbow skinned on the doorhandle. Nothing like the feeling of being watched by a man I desire to bring on my incipient clumsy oafness. Eventually I turned and demanded in contrived exasperation, ‘What?’
I knew it’d be good, see.
‘You look…’ he paused, ‘… beautiful.’
Correct answer.
I didn’t know the restaurant he took me to, hadn’t even heard of it. But it was lovely. Thick carpets, lighting subdued to the point of sulkiness, and humble, murmuring waiters with French accents so exaggerated that they couldn’t even understand each other.
Luke and I barely spoke all evening.
But this didn’t indicate discord. In fact, I’d never felt so close to anyone, ever. We couldn’t stop smiling at each other. Huge, face-splitting, glowing smiles right into each other’s eyes.
He continued with the polite, not-wrestling-me-up-against-a-wall behaviour that he’d kicked the evening off with. Instead, we had more cab-paying and door-opening and non-contact-ushering than you could shake a stick at. And with every gesture, we grinned out loud.
When he politely held my hand and helped me into the cab, we both beamed our heads off. Then after we’d arrived at La Bonne Chère (The Good and Dear) he deferentially helped me out of the cab and we gave each other dazzling smiles that rushed up from our toes. A brief pause while he paid the cab, then we turned to each other, crinkling our eyes so much we could barely see.
He said Are you right?’ – the Irish version of ‘Shall we?’ – extended his elbow for me to hook, and off we swung into the restaurant. Where we were greeted enthusiastically, if indecipherably, by the waiters. And that made us catch each other’s eyes and smirk.
We were led to a table that was so discreet and dimly lit that I could barely see Luke. ‘This do for you, babe?’ he murmured. I nodded gleefully and beamed my assent. Anything would have been wonderful.
There was a brief moment of awkwardness when we sat down opposite each other, because after all, we’d never been in such a situation before. There’s only one thing more shy-making than the first time you go to bed with a man and that’s the first time you go to dinner with a man. Luke attempted conversation with a cheery ‘Well?’ And I thought about replying, but then that joyous feeling filled me up and spilled out at my mouth, forcing it to burst into another ecstatic grin, and I realized there was no need to say anything. Luke replied to my smile by return of post and we both dazzled each other like a pair of village idiots. And so we remained, smiling and glazed, until the frog waiter arrived and unctuously proffered the menus.
‘I suppose we’d better…’ Luke indicated the menu.
‘Oh right,’ I said, and tried to concentrate.
After a few seconds I looked up and found Luke staringatmeandwebothburstinto smiles again. Slightly embarrassed, I dropped my eyes. But I couldn’t stop myself looking up at him once more and he was still staring at me, so we both had another smile for our trouble.
Again, I felt delighted, yet embarrassed, and murmured ‘Stop.’
And he murmured back ‘Sorry, can’t help it, you’re so…’
Then we both had a lovely, warm little chuckle and he reindicated the menu and said ‘We’d really better…’
And I said ‘We really should…’
I felt as if I would burst with the happiness of being with him. I was sure I must bear some resemblance to a bull-frog, puffed-up to the max with joy.
He ordered champagne.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because…’ he paused, looking at me speculatively.
‘Because…’ he said again, a smile in his eyes. I held my breath because I was certain he was going to say he loved me.
‘Because you’re worth it,’ he finally said.
I gave a secret little smile. I’d seen his face, I knew how he felt about me. And he knew that I knew.
All night I felt quite calm on the surface. But under that I was pleasurably breathless. Every part of me. I felt like my lungs were barely managing to inhale, my heart just sustained a beat, my blood dragged itself sensuously through my veins. I’d slowed into a different rhythm, drugged by what I felt for him.
All my sensations were heightened. My nerves were raw, exposed, on the outside. Mine was the Pompidou Centre of central nervous systems.
I took pleasure in each breath that I drew. I savoured every bump of my heart in my chest, every flutter in my stomach.
Each breath felt like a victory, as my chest rose and fell, then after an infinitesimally-too-long pause, rose and fell again. Like conquering a small hill. And then another. And then another.
‘That nice?’ He nodded at my pomme au fenêtre or whatever it was.
‘Yairs, lovely,’ I murmured, managing to swallow a good two or three atoms of it.
There was a lot of picking up our forks and letting them hover over the food – which probably was delicious, but neither of us seemed to be able to eat – then smiling at each other like two morons. Then putting our forks down and catching each other’s look before exploding into wreaths of smiles again.
Apart from the sensation that my stomach and oesophagus had been filled with quick-setting concrete, I felt floaty and elated.
We both seemed to know that what we felt for each other was a fragile, precious thing that had to be carried carefully and kept very still. We couldn’t disturb it or unsettle it, but despite its lack of activity we were both completely aware of it. Aware of little else.
There was no need to outdo each other with funny stories because we both knew we could tell funny stories. There was no need to lep on each other and tear our clothes off, that would happen all in the fullness of time.
The only rockyish patch in the whole night occurred when Luke said ‘How’s Daryl?’
‘Look,’ I said awkwardly, electing to put some of my cards on the table, ‘nothing happened with me and Daryl.’
‘I’m sure it didn’t,’ he said.
