“Mum said you got a bit frustrated.” He raises his eyebrows. “All that kneading?”
“It was the rising.” I raise a rueful smile. “Having to wait. I’ve never been good at waiting.”
“Uh-huh.” Nathaniel’s steady blue eyes meet mine.
“For anything.” Somehow I seem to be edging closer and closer to him, I’m not entirely sure how. “I have to have things now.”
“Uh-huh.”
We’re inches apart, and as I gaze up at him, breathing hard, all the frustrations and shocks of the last couple of weeks are distilling inside me. A huge block of pressure is growing, until I can’t bear it. Unable to stop myself, I reach up and pull his face down toward mine.
I haven’t kissed like this since I was a teenager. Arms wrapped around each other, oblivious of anything else in the world. Completely lost. Trish could be standing there with a video camera, issuing directions, and I wouldn’t notice.
It seems hours later that I open my eyes and we draw apart. My lips feel swollen; my legs are staggery. Nathaniel looks equally shell-shocked.
The bread is totally squashed, I suddenly notice. I try to reshape it as best I can, putting it on the table like a deformed pottery exhibit while I gather my breath.
“I don’t have long,” Nathaniel says. “I have to get back to the pub.” His hand runs lightly down my back and I feel my body curving toward his.
“I don’t take long,” I say, my voice husky with desire.
When did I become so brazen, exactly?
“I really don’t have long.” He glances at his watch. “About six minutes.”
“I only take six minutes,” I murmur with an enticing glance, and Nathaniel smiles back, as though I’m joking.
“Seriously,” I say, trying to sound modest yet sexy. “I’m fast. Six minutes, give or take.”
There’s silence for a few moments. An incredulous expression is coming over Nathaniel’s face. Somehow he doesn’t look as impressed as I thought he would.
“Well … round here we take things a bit slower,” he says at last.
“Right,” I say, trying not to look at all disappointed. “Er … well … I’m sure …” I trail off.
I should not have started that sentence.
He looks at his watch again. “I must be off. I have to drive over to Gloucester tonight.”
I feel an inward drop at his businesslike tone. He’s barely looking at me anymore. I should never have mentioned timing, I realize in dismay. Everyone knows, you never bring up any kind of numerical measurement during sex with a man. It’s the most basic rule.
“So … I’ll see you,” I say, trying to sound casual yet encouraging. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I’m not sure yet.” He shrugs noncommittally. “Are you around?”
“I guess so. Maybe.”
“Well … I may see you.”
And with that he’s striding away again over the grass, and I’m left with nothing but a misshapen loaf of bread and total confusion.
Seventeen
Like I said. There should be a different system. There should be some kind of universal arrangement that leaves no room for misunderstanding. It could involve hand signals, perhaps. Or small, discreet stickers placed on the lapel, color-coded for different messages:
AVAILABLE/NOT AVAILABLE
RELATIONSHIP ON/RELATIONSHIP OFF
SEX IMMINENT/SEX CANCELED/SEX MERELY POSTPONED.
How else are you supposed to know what’s going on? How?
By the next morning I’ve thought long and hard and have got nowhere. Either: a) Nathaniel was offended by my references to sex and isn’t interested anymore. Or b) he’s fine, it’s all still on, he was just being a man and not saying much, and I should stop obsessing.
Or somewhere in between.
Or some other option I haven’t even considered. Or …
Actually, I think that might cover it. But still. I’m totally confused just thinking about it.
I stumble downstairs in my robe at around nine, to find Eddie and Trish in the hall, dressed up very smartly. Eddie is in a blue blazer with shiny gold buttons, and Trish is in a white slub silk suit, with the biggest corsage of fake red roses I’ve ever seen. She also seems to be having the teeniest problem doing up the buttons of her jacket. At last she edges the last one into its buttonhole and stands back to look at herself in the mirror, panting slightly.
Now she looks as though she can’t move her arms.
“What do you think?” she says to Eddie.
“Yes, very nice,” he says, frowning at a copy of Road Map of Britain 1994. “Is it the A347? Or the A367?”