Confession is, they say, good for the soul. I rather think that my little story will prove that it is not just the soul that can benefit.
Last spring I spent a fortnight with my sister back home in Wales. Although Gwen is only five years older than me I'm often taken for her daughter rather than her sister. I would love to able to say that this is because I look so much younger than my fifty-five years, but in truth it is more of a case of Gwen looking much older that her sixty years. Fortunately, my sister takes this in good part and puts it down to the fact that she has stayed at home in the hills while I've enjoyed the youth-giving properties of a life in London.
On the journey back to my apartment in Kingston-upon-Thames I mused on her words. London is indeed an invigorating place for those with a mind, but I had never been that type of person. Since George died some ten years ago, I had kept myself to myself and my socialising had been limited to the occasional celebration at work and the odd visit to an opera. Life for me in London had been, in short, rather dull.
I was in a reflective mood as much because of my sister's words as the fact that a new neighbour had moved into the apartment opposite mine on the day I had left for Wales. The apartments are built in an H-block formation with one property on each branch of the H, meaning that pairs of apartments faced each other. There was a space of some six feet between the kitchen windows of opposing apartments, so even standing at the back of the living room behind the kitchen you were no more than twenty feet from the next property.
The rooms were light and airy and I had grown used to the place opposite being empty. With no curtains or blinds in the empty place, I had enjoyed sunlight all day long, and, since I was on the sixth floor, complete privacy. Not only would a new neighbour threaten these pleasure, I had noticed that it was a younger man – thirty maybe – and was concerned that he might enjoy loud music or parties.
My fears proved mercifully groundless. His apartment was free of curtains and far more importantly, free of loud music or partygoers. In the first week after my holiday, I saw the young man, Jonathan, moving through his rooms a couple of times, and was delighted to see that he wore a smart suit every morning before setting off for what I presumed to be his work at eight o'clock sharp. The one evening I saw him at home, he was busy in his kitchen preparing his supper, dressed smartly but casually. We exchanged a wave across the divide and went happily about our business.
By the time summer rolled around I had met Jonathan a few times – in the lift, at the local convenience store, and on the landing – and he seemed a very pleasant young man. He was polite in an unforced way, had a ready smile, and he had even offered his assistance should I ever find myself in need. Much like myself, his days seemed to be regulated by the clock – leaving at eight every morning and returning around nine each night – and even his weekends followed a pattern of a late start Saturday, and Sundays out and about all day. The eight o'clock departure every morning was a blessing for me since it reminded me that I had to be out of the door myself in a couple of minutes – something that I mentioned to Jonathan and which he found amusing.
He was, in virtually all respects, the perfect neighbour. My only tiny problem with Jonathan was his striking resemblance to my late husband in his youth. Like George, Jonathan was tall and slender, although he seemed well-muscled. And like George, he had that shade of black hair that could look almost blue in certain lights. In all honesty, it was more a case of missing the more youthful 'me' that troubled me, since I had allowed the weight to creep on a little in the years following George's passing. I had thought that George would understand in the circumstances, but occasionally I would spot Jonathan strolling around his living room or kitchen and for the briefest of seconds I would think that it was George there, and that I should have made more of an effort... Foolish, perhaps, but true.
However, it was another rather remarkable coincidence that brought me to my confession.
In early July the company I worked for underwent a takeover and I found myself with shorter working hours – a later start each day, earlier finishes and no work at all on Tuesdays. The first Monday I found myself awake and sipping at my morning cup of tea before I even realised that I could have spent another hour in bed. I was just about to fetch the vacuum and fill a few minutes with some quite unnecessary cleaning when I saw Jonathan dash into his kitchen. It was a little after eight by now, and he was obviously late for work – something of a first – and didn't notice my wave. I smiled as he grabbed his iron and proceeded to slip off the wrinkled shirt that he'd thrown on, run the barely warm iron over its front, back and sleeves, and then slip it back on.
It was only after he'd left that I felt the tiniest pang of guilt, realising that I had rather enjoyed seeing his bare chest and the glimpse of a private moment in his life. I told myself not to be so silly and put it out of my mind.
The next day I found myself up and sipping tea once more and cursed myself for a fool even louder than the previous day – since, as it was Tuesday, I was not even going to work at all! Out came the vacuum and off I went to begin filling my newly freed-up time. A little while later I looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly nine. I hadn't heard Jonathan leave and assumed that he must have departed while I was busy with the Hoover – which is, I suppose, one of the reasons that what came next was quite such a surprise.
I went through to the kitchen and knelt down to fetch a new duster from under the sink. As I was bent over I heard a click and then the sound of voices, quickly realising it was a TV. Since the only one I could ever hear, and even then only quietly, was Jonathan's. I stood up ready to offer a smile and a wave, and hoping that he was merely taking a well-earned day off, and didn't have a cold or something like that.
As soon as I saw him, my smile froze. Jonathan was standing in his living room, not fifteen feet away from me, staring down at the news on his TV, his back three-quarters turned towards me. Around his shoulders was a large bath-towel and as I watched, he sort of shrugged it higher and began rubbing at his damp hair. My breath caught in my throat as the movement lifted the towel high enough so that I could see his naked bottom, the muscles jumping and twitching as he dried his hair.
For the first time in a decade I felt a surge of heat within me accompanied first by guilt and then by panic that he would turn and see me watching him.
Shock, they say, makes you do the strangest things, and that morning I reacted completely out of character. Instead of dashing off and leaving Jonathan to his ablutions, I stepped backwards into my living room and off to one side of the doorway from where I could still view the scene in his living room, but couldn't be easily seen myself. Guilt had been pushed firmly to one side as my suddenly excited brain rationalised my behaviour in any way that it could – as long as he couldn't see me, no one would get embarrassed or hurt; it was just a harmless one-off experience and I should make the most of it; it was something that my body needed after so long without any excitement and sometimes the body had to rule the head.
However I explained it to myself, I knew one thing very clearly – that I was shockingly, incredibly, and wonderfully turned on. As Jonathan rubbed at his hair I began to wonder what he would do next. Would he tie the towel around his waist and head back to his bedroom or bathroom? Would he back out of the living room with his eyes still glued to the TV? Or would he... my heart was pounding in my chest now... would he turn around so that I could see his nakedness in all its glory?
I tried to make myself as small as possible and as still as possible, and waited for what seemed an eternity. At one point he made to turn away from the TV but then turned back before I could see more than I already viewed, the frustration making me smother a whimper. After ten years my juices were well and truly flowing again, enough to make me aware of a damp patch spreading in my panties. The excitement was so out of proportion and yet so demanding that I knew that I would have to relieve the pressure within me before many minutes passed – and yet dare not move for fear of missing anything.
