‘Of course. Come in.’
‘If I was a vampire, you’d be screwed.’
‘I wouldn’t mind if you were,’ I said.
‘Well, if you want me to bite you . . .’ She laughed. ‘I feel a bit hyper. Sorry, I’m not normally like this.’
‘Me neither.’
A look passed between us and I knew that any fears I’d had about awkwardness or not liking each other had been foolish. People talk about chemistry, about sparks flying between people, and that was exactly what was going on here. I had been strongly attracted to other women before, even thought myself in love, but I’d never experienced something as intense and fast as this.
I led her up the four flights of stairs and into my flat.
She handed me two bottles of wine. ‘One white, one red. I wasn’t sure which you prefer.’
‘I’m easy. But you’re red, yes?’
‘Hmm, yes please.’ Her eyes had gone over my shoulder, taking in the room. I left her to look around while I went into the tiny kitchen to open the wine. I grasped the worktop for a moment, telling myself to get a grip. Be cool.
When I returned she was looking at the computer, scrolling through my playlists.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’
I handed her the glass of red and took a sip of mine. ‘Of course not.’
‘In the old days – or so I’ve heard – you could go round someone’s place and rifle through their record collection, take a look at their bookcases. Now you have to scroll through their iTunes or click on their Kindle. It’s not the same, is it? I’m pleased to see you have some real books though.’
She stepped over to the bookcase and ran a finger along the spines. A lot of my books are graphic design tomes and photography, with a small collection of novels.
She took out an Ian McEwan book, flicked through it and said, ‘I love this. I can’t bear people who don’t read. I think they must have something wrong with them, don’t you?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Books, music, art, films.’ She held up her glass. ‘Good wine. It’s what life’s all about.’
I held up my own glass. ‘To books, music, art, films and wine.’
She had missed something off that list, but I decided not to mention it. It was in the room with us already.
We clinked and she crossed to the window. ‘Amazing view.’
‘I know. It’s even better from the bedroom.’
I realised what that must sound like but before I could speak she laid her hand across her breastbone and said, ‘Andrew. I’ve only been here five minutes. Oh, are you blushing?’
‘I think I might be.’
‘Quick,’ she said. ‘Change the subject before it gets awkward.’
She sat down on the sofa and I had a moment of indecision. Sit next to her or in the adjacent armchair? I sat beside her and we turned towards each other, knees almost touching. I groped for something interesting to say.
‘When are you going back to work?’ I asked.
‘That is a change of subject. I’ve got a whole week off. Bliss.’
‘So you’re a project manager?’
She pulled a face. ‘Boring, huh? I just happen to be very good at organising things and people. It’s not exactly what I want to spend my life doing.’
I waited for her to continue.
‘I did an art degree. That’s what I really want to be doing. Painting. But there are thousands of us out there and the world needs more painters like it needs more politicians. So at the moment I do it in my spare time.’
We talked for a little bit about her art, about how she was trying to get some of her paintings shown at a big exhibition that was coming up, and then we talked a little about graphic design, though I didn’t have that much to say about it. I mainly wanted to listen to her talk, to hear her melodic voice as she skipped about from topic to topic. She knew a lot about literature and music as well as art, and when she spoke, her passion for these things, for culture, for life, was infectious. She was funny too, and unusual. I had never met anyone like her.
I refilled our glasses.
‘You must be doing okay from being a designer,’ she said, ‘if you could afford to buy this place.’
‘Did I tell you I’d bought this place?’ I couldn’t remember much of the conversation.
‘Yeah, you said something about having a mortgage.’
‘Wow, Mr Interesting. But I can afford this place because of money I got from my parents.’
Charlie gave me another of her ironic looks. ‘Ooh, are you rich? Have I lucked out?’
I hesitated. I don’t really like to tell people about my parents straight away because I don’t want them to feel sorry for me, and it can be awkward. I certainly didn’t want Charlie to feel sympathy for me but, at the same time, I didn’t want to keep any secrets from her, so I told her, keeping my voice as light as possible.
‘Oh Andrew,’ she said, her eyes shining with compassion. ‘That must have really . . . sucked.’
I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You could put it like that.’
‘I’d like to meet Tilly. She sounds very brave.’
‘Yeah, she is. But if you said that to her she’d tell you to fuck off.’
‘Ha. My kind of girl. And then you had your eye thing. Sounds like you’ve had a lot of bad luck.’
I took another sip of wine, surprised to find that I’d finished my second glass.
‘I’ve had some good luck too,’ I said.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You won the Lottery?’
‘No, I mean meeting you.’
She grinned. ‘Oh God, that is so corny.’
But she put her arms around me and kissed me.
It was even better than the kiss we’d shared at the end of our night out. She was so soft, and her lips so warm, and heat radiated off her body as she pressed it against me. It was like being a teenager again: kissing for its own sake, not only as a prelude to sex. Charlie made little noises in her throat, her eyes shut tight, one hand on my chest, the other snaking around my back, slipping up inside my T-shirt.
‘You’re a very good kisser,’ she said, breaking off for a moment. ‘Have you had lots of practice?’
I just laughed.
We kissed some more, music playing in the background, our empty wine glasses at our feet. She took my hand and put it on her thigh, her dress hitched up, and soon my T-shirt was lying beside the wine glasses.