When I returned, you took it off me and gulped it all. Wiping the excess from your mouth before running your fingers through your wet hair, revived.
‘And so I make it home, barely alive . . . then realize I hadn’t taken my bloody keys with . . . Didn’t have my phone.’ You handed me the empty glass.
‘Oh no . . . Shall I call a locksmith?’
‘No, no. Thank God I always keep a spare in my desk. It’s not the first time I’ve done this: I have form. I’m so bloody lucky that Harris was in today . . . Thank fucking Christ, eh?’ You headed towards your office. I followed you. ‘Why am I such an idiot, Constance?’
‘I don’t know, Dr Stevens.’
I’m sorry for that. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. Though I don’t think you were listening anyway, as you continued babbling.
‘I asked someone for the time . . . then regardless of the heart attack I was already having, I ran here too, to catch you. Constance . . . can you open up for me? No keys.’ You smiled, but your face flooded with blood and irritation.
Once inside, I was desperate to get back to my computer to finish up, in the hope that we could leave together, but you kept talking. Mainly to yourself, but it felt rude to walk away.
‘Right, well, I’m certain I put it here.’ You scrambled inside the top drawer of your desk. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake . . . don’t tell me that I— Ah . . . yes . . . Thank you.’ You lifted the two keys that hung from a red plastic fob and kissed them. ‘Sorry . . . Thanks, Constance. Where’s Dr Harris? I’d better pop my head round.’
You dropped the keys into your pocket before lifting the bottom of your T-shirt to wipe your face. I tried so hard not to look at your stomach.
It was one o’clock. I’d finished everything, so I knocked on Dr Harris’s door to ask permission to leave.
I’d interrupted your talk. Harris was sat back in his chair, chubby hands clasped behind his head. You were leaning against the filing cabinet. Molecules of sweat covered every inch of your exposed skin. I imagined zooming in on them like a photographer. Perfect spheres filled with your natural perfume. It wasn’t exactly lemons you exuded that day, but neither was it something I could add to my negative list.
‘Yes, yes, you get off, Constance. I didn’t realize the time. And thank you for today. I’m suitably impressed with all you’ve done.’
I felt a twinge of something unfamiliar. Pride, perhaps. I didn’t dare look up as my face grew warm. To conceal it, I turned to leave.
‘Wait for me, Constance . . . I should get off as well, Bill . . . but yeah, let’s look into that properly next week.’
You had no idea how happy walking with you made me.
Good things come to those who wait, Mum would say. Usually when I’d grow impatient at her taking forever to pack the shopping at the till in Morrisons. Or when she’d forget to make the cup of tea she’d offered two hours previously. Situations that never truly fitted the phrase. But as I hobbled side by side with you, it was finally relevant.
‘Should I run ahead and get the car? Drive you to the station?’ you asked, looking towards my limping foot.
‘No . . . no, I’m fine. It’s doing me good. Just slow down a bit.’ It hurt like crazy, but I didn’t care. My joy overrode the pain.
It was so easy between us, wasn’t it? How we talked. The seamless flow of conversation. From the fact you were wearing uncomfortable socks, to how men shouldn’t wear Lycra, to you having run a marathon in your late twenties.
‘I can’t even run for the bus,’ I said. ‘At school, I once came second to last in the annual cross-country race. Only beating Mathew Sims, who’d broken his foot and did the whole thing on crutches to raise money for Cancer Research.’
You laughed. ‘You crack me up, Constance.’
I dug into my bag, pretending to search for something so you couldn’t see the happiness on my face.
The junction of Church Street had arrived all too quickly and I was forced to stop.
‘OK . . . so which way are you? Because I can either cut through the graveyard, which is quicker, or go down Church Street, which is longer but less scary.’ I was pleased at my acting. There wasn’t a hint of my knowing where you lived.
‘How’s the foot?’
‘It’s fine, actually. I think the walking is helping.’ I smiled to block out the throb.
‘OK, that’s good. Why don’t you come the Church Street way with me, then? You can tell me more about your sporting prowess.’
As we continued, our bodies gravitated towards each other and my hand brushed yours on more than one occasion. I lit up inside when you laughed, head back, free, as I recounted the story of how I had to be rescued from the climbing-frame section of the Sports Day assault course because my arm got tangled in the metal.
We were approaching your road.
‘This one’s me,’ you said.
‘Oh right, well this is my route to the station too.’
‘Of course . . . You know, I’m glad this has happened. It’s shown me how bloody near I am. I’m definitely going to walk to work from now on.’ Did you notice my joy when you said that? Imagining all the stories we’d share.
When we turned the corner, two lads in their late teens, wearing grey trackies and interchangeable faces more suited to the estate back home than this leafy idyll of West London, were on bikes, propping themselves up against the wall of the first house. You pretended you hadn’t seen them as we walked past. Talked about how you were desperate for a shower. I replied about being more of a bath person, but we were both conscious of their presence. They laughed, loud, towards our backs. Forced, attention-seeking laughs. Again, we ignored. Talked. Until one shouted, ‘She looks like she’s got a nice tight pussy, mate.’
You stopped. Then I stopped. You looked at me, not them. I was certain you didn’t want to do anything and were seeking my approval not to.
I gave you what you wanted. ‘Ignore them,’ I said. ‘They’re idiots.’
‘OK . . . No, no, you’re right.’ You walked on. I followed your lead. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry for all the sweating.’ You tried to spark another conversation.
I dryly answered, but neither of us was concentrating and everything became awkward and strange until you slowed to a standstill.
‘This is me, but I don’t want to leave you while they’re knocking around.’
I glanced over at the boys, who were mounting their bikes. ‘I think they’re going now,’ I said under my breath.
Like your car, the town house that contained your flat was more impressive in the sunlight. The door wasn’t the black I’d taken it for but racing green. I turned towards the canopy of the opposite mansion block I’d sheltered under that night. That too appeared different, swankier. I almost slipped up by saying so, but was thankfully saved by the sound of cycles whizzing past.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ you said.
We watched as they wheelied down the road. Waiting until they became nothing but the tiny specks of shit that they were.
‘I’m sorry about that, Constance.’ You placed your hand on my shoulder.
‘It’s not your fault there are idiots in the world.’