Part 1 – jazz music
I have arranged to meet you in a pub in Islington but I've forgotten about London travel, how the connections don't all work out, how one double parked car can cause chaos and now I'm late, terrified you won't be there. I can't explain about this because you refused to give me your number even though you have mine. You can't have noticed that I'm late and I'm not surprised that you haven't used it to check on my progress. Still, I foolishly recheck my phone for messages, anything.
I don't know who to look for or what to expect and I know the real you could never match the image in my head. You, on the other hand, know what I look like because I finally cracked and sent you a photo of me – one I immediately wished I hadn't. I kept looking at this photo afterwards, wondering what you thought, aware that it gave you all the power.
"You're gorgeous." you wrote but I couldn't tell if you meant it. "Why wouldn't I mean it?" you said, surprised at my question.
It's always the last part of a journey that I hate and as I walk out of Highbury Station I grip my A to Z frightened you won't wait and I almost run to Upper Street certain I won't be able to find the place or that you won't be there. I don't know who to look for. What if you've gone?
I feel uncomfortable and foolish in my red silk dress and as I enter the pub the heat hits me and I worry about the silk sticking to me in the humidity.
I settle in a booth with my glass of red wine and take in the people around me – thirty somethings, amber lighting, bevelled etched mirrors behind the bar and jazz music which I don't usually like. Tonight, however, I find I do; this new experience somehow needs a new soundtrack – and if it doesn't work out I can tell myself it was a shitty place. There's a tall, narrow hipped guy sitting alone diagonally from me. He checks me out and then spends a long time sending a text message. He has shoulder length curly hair, a black shirt – very expensive looking. Calvin Klein, I say to myself, pretending like I know. Practicing my self assured mode. In case you do arrive.
Now it's an hour since we were supposed to meet- four cigarettes in the ashtray, one in my hand. I look up from my book – and there you are. I want to say,
"You're late!" but you're smiling, beautiful – not what I expected. You're wearing something very feminine but my brain isn't able to make out shapes and colours all I know is that I expected something butcher, I don't know, more deconstructed.
"I came from work." You say dropping a large canvas bag on the bench next to you. That would explain the unexpected outfit, I think. You didn't bother to change. You're smiling. I like your mouth a lot – full lips but too narrow like you're drawing on a cigarette. I glance at the ashtray,
"Hope you don't mind the fags." I say. My voice sounds plummy, stupid. I smile foolishly waiting for you to light up as well but you just say,
"I knew you smoked, remember? "
I fetch us a drink self-conscious as I walk away but you get your mobile out and send a message as soon as I leave and because you aren't looking at me I take the opportunity to examine you in case you decide to leave. The guy in the booth stands as I return to our table and gives me the tiniest of smiles as he leaves.
"Pretty." I say nodding in the direction of the swinging door.
"Gay." You say, taking your drink, your long polished nails relax around the wine glass, steady, elegant.
We order food but I don't feel like eating although I can't seem to stop talking. You ask a lot of questions. You look at my hands, my neck, and the ashtray and people in the pub but hardly ever at my face. You're sitting with one leg under you leaning on you elbow smiling.
I hold my fork in the air a lot; trail it past my lips then put it down again. I'm feeling a different kind of hunger and when I drop my napkin and lean down to pick it up I see your painted toes in jewelled flip flops and I imagine pressing my tongue between them, breathing in your scent from under your skirt. My face must be a little pink when I emerge because now you're looking at me, full on. Green blue eyes, eyebrow raised and I have to look away. It hurts – it's too deep. I can smell myself; surely you can smell how much I want you? We talk about writing some more. I sound pretentious, like I'm making it up as I go along and I know just know that I'm not fooling you. For me, this isn't about conversation. It stopped being that too long ago.
"Back in a minute." I say.
In the loo, I take a long glug of water from my bag and sit on the toilet for ages composing myself.
I wish I had worn knickers for I am so wet it terrifies me and I know that it will show through the silk when I stand up. I grate my fingers across my vulva astonished at the desire I feel. What must you think? I decide I'm going to play it cool before I make a total arse of myself. Slow down with the wine. Get a grip otherwise it will be over. I try a couple of deep breaths to try and calm down but all this does is swirl my arousal around my belly and the snapshot of my face in the mirror when I reapply my lipstick is of someone I don't recognise – of someone with no control and I head back to you like a crack addict.
And there you are, leaning against the wall of the corridor.
"Oh, hi!" I say, glancing past you nervously, "There's no queue. You should have gone in."
