‘Well, I work on our online service. People send in their questions about sex and relationships and we write back.’
‘Sex questions? You must get some fruity stuff.’
I laugh and finish my glass, feeling the warmth of it dribble through me. It is date six and I’m starting to feel comfortable with Simon. Nothing to do with all the wine, I’m sure. ‘Nothing shocks me any more,’ I tell Simon, my potential future husband.
‘Is that so?’
‘Oh yeah. You can’t be a prude with this job. I mean, on my first day there, I had to chair a meeting about our anal sex policy.’
He almost spits out his wine. ‘And what is your anal sex policy?’
‘Do you mean mine, or my place of work’s?’
He swallows hard, and I’m pleased with myself for that line. I laugh again and enjoy his squirming. ‘Told you I’m unshockable. In my defence, you started this conversation. Though my colleague, Matt, told me not to bring up work for a while longer.’
His head tilts. A smirk tugs across his face. ‘Oh, so you’ve been talking to your colleagues about me?’ He puts his glass down so he can reach over and take my hand again.
I nod shyly, unable to even describe how amazing his skin feels against my skin. ‘Why? Have you told your colleagues about me?’
It’s his turn to nod. ‘I may’ve mentioned I’ve been on a few dates.’
This is it. I told you this was it! If he’s telling people about me, that must mean he’s falling too. My muscles untwist themselves, heaving sighs as they relax into giddy abandon. I try to drink in the moment around me and commit it to memory, so I can recap it accurately for our grandchildren. The sweaty sun in the sky, the smell of the nearby Thames in my nostrils, my exact outfit, his exact outfit, the precise location of our barrel table, the noises of the groups around us. It’s all so wonderful that I make a fatal mistake.
I believe.
And therefore I start to relax.
‘I always wonder what it must be like to just have regular relationships with work colleagues rather than really intense ones,’ I ponder, brushing the rim of my wine glass against my bottom lip. ‘When you work for a charity like We Are Here, in order to be professional, you have to immediately have highly-personal and unprofessional conversations.’
‘What do you mean?’ Simon asks, tipping his head back a bit too far to get to the wine in his glass. It’s not the most attractive look but it doesn’t matter because he’s potentially my future husband and therefore everything he does is adorable.
‘Well, if you work with upset people telling you upsetting things, like we do, it’s unhealthy to have an I’m-at-work bravado, you know? We’ve got to feel healthy in ourselves to handle the users appropriately. You can’t take on a shift on a helpline if you’re in a bad way. That’s irresponsible. You may accidentally let it seep into your responses. So, my colleagues and I are, like, super close. We always have a buddy to debrief to after each shift, and we have to talk about our emotions all the time. I know basically every terrible thing that’s ever happened to them, and vice-versa. That way we can all know our triggers, and look out for one another during shifts.’
Simon’s face screws up. ‘Triggers?’ he asks.
I nod. I really do love talking about my job. Our little charity. It’s been such a source of good in my life since Ryan. ‘Yes, subjects that upset you – usually because of something that’s happened in your past. At work, if you’re triggered by a particular topic, you may be too upset and therefore need to let a colleague take over.’ I smile fondly, thinking of Matt and Katy and all the others in our little microcosm of support. ‘So, we are all very close. Like, I know my buddy cannot handle anything to do with alcoholism because his dad was an alcoholic. And, my manager isn’t so good on the STI type questions, because she’s phobic of germs, and one of our volunteers, bless her, isn’t so good on anything to do with drugs.’ I look up at Simon, still grinning, expecting him to be grinning too. So, it’s a shock when his face isn’t the face I imagine. Instead, he’s leaning back, looking slightly bored. I see him punch his thumb onto his phone to check for notifications and my stomach twists.
‘Whoa, all a bit heavy, isn’t it?’ he says, nose wrinkled.
I can taste the change of vibe in the air. I detect his discomfort and feel instantly self-conscious and stupid.
‘Do you want to go somewhere else?’ Simon very deliberately changes the subject, arms crossed in front of him. ‘Or,’ he says, raising one sly eyebrow and changing the vibe further, ‘we could just grab a drink at mine?’
I’m still emotional when he drops the sex hint, trying to locate how and when I messed up. I make myself smile, while I do the basic-level psychology needed to figure out what’s going on. ‘I guess we could head back to yours?’
I’m stressed that I’ve upset him, feeling like I’m wobbling backwards on the edge of a ledge, arms flailing to keep balance. But sex … sex always grounds you with them again. I now want to have sex with him, not because I’m horny, but to make things OK. Offer myself as an apology for being myself.
He stands quickly and puts his arm around my back as I scramble up. A crowd of drunken suit-wearers push past, claiming our table before I’ve even disentangled my handbag from my stool. I’m still mentally processing as we’re spat out onto the pavement next to Embankment, where a Big Issue seller mumbles a desperate plea for sales. I’m trying to get back into the good feeling. Have I just imagined our connection vanishing? Probably. Especially as …
There’s no time for further thinking. Simon has pulled me into him, moaning as our lips meet. We make out in front of the Big Issue vendor for twenty solid minutes, London blurring to nothingness. I forget how much kissing renders me incapable. I lose all sense of fear as biology takes over, flooding me with the druggy high of chemistry. Simon breaks off, takes my hand and drags me to the Tube station, all eyebrows raised and the-sex-is-going-to-happen-soon. I instruct myself to feel excited rather than tense.
There’s four minutes until the next Circle line train so we kiss again, breaking apart only to debate whether to change at Tower Hill.
‘It’ll save us two minutes,’ I say.
‘What’s two minutes?’ Simon replies, pulling me back into him.
The Tube hisses its arrival. We stagger onto the half-empty carriage. Under the glaring lights, we silently agree to shelve the PDAs, and sit opposite one another. The kiss escapism lasts a whole Tube stop before my anxiety shows up. I stare over at Simon and start oh-so-predictably freaking out about everything that’s happened and is about to happen. He’s pulled out his phone, scrolling through with a glazed expression. Why isn’t he staring over at me adoringly, like I am him? That’s the first twinge of angst. Then, just as we’re clattering past Monument: Why did he go all weird when I brought up my job? Was I too much? I’m always too much. Why haven’t I been practising with my trainers? Will it work? Will I be able to?
Don’t say anything, I instruct myself. Don’t bring it up. Enjoy this. Have the sex. Get the closeness back. You know how to have sex. You’ve done it before. Fall in love. This man clearly likes you. Look! He’s just looked up from BBC Sport and winked! A wink! What a lovely, romantic wink … oh, he’s gone back to looking at his phone now, but that’s OK. You can’t expect him to gaze at you adoringly the whole Tube journey. That’s asking too much. You’re asking too much, just like always.