When I wake the next morning, it’s still dark. I am naked under the sheet with Guy’s arms wrapped around me. His breath is fluttering across the back of my neck. My head is sore, the pain behind my scar immense. The ease with which we lay together the night before seems lost to me now. I shouldn’t be here like this, tucked against this stranger in his bed. But last night all I wanted was something new, something that might bring me peace, and the chance to feel the comfort of another person’s touch. And for a while I found it.
I sense him stirring behind me. I use the opportunity to slip out from underneath his heavy arm. He fidgets for a moment, but doesn’t wake, burying his face deep into the pillow. Rain strikes the window, and it feels like violent condemnation, passing judgement, screaming at me: What did you do, Chloe? What did you do?
What did I do?
What am I doing?
The sex comes back to me as flashes of memory. As guilt. As pleasure. As relief. I stand up, my feet on his family photographs, the cold hitting my body. My movements are awkward and stiff as I collect his old tracksuit from the floor. With no curtains at the window a weak grey light bathes everything silver, including my naked skin. I feel as if the whole world can see me as I creep from the room like I’ve done something wrong. Have I done something wrong? I just don’t know any more.
I move to the bathroom, dress in his old clothes and splash my face with steaming hot water. I rummage in the cabinet for something that looks like pain relief, but all I find are Band-Aids, a spray for athlete’s foot, and a half-used box of condoms. The realisation that we didn’t use anything last night scares me. The idea of being pregnant is terrifying. How could I protect any child I bring into this life when I don’t even know the truth about who I am?
I find my clothes creased in a pile in the tumble dryer; I slip them on and leave his old tracksuit in its place. I move into the living room and stand at the bare window, looking out to sea, watching the waves, endless in their efforts. The air outside is grey, full and heavy, a mist hanging over the horizon. I can just make out the outline of the seafront Ferris wheel, little more than a ghost appearing through the haze.
I glance down to see a light flickering on the answering machine beside me. Five messages in total. I don’t even want to think about who they might be from. I make a cup of tea and find some paracetamol in one of the kitchen cupboards, then sit down at the table, the flat and me both silent. I think about leaving, even though I have no idea where I would go. Still, it’s tempting to slink away, to avoid the shame of admitting that last night shouldn’t have happened. What was I thinking?
But then I hear the handle of a door, footsteps coming down the corridor. Seconds later Guy is in the doorway, just his boxer shorts between us. His body looks so good, tanned and strong. I can still feel him on my skin, remember the way he touched me. The memory feels so good I have to look away.
‘Good morning,’ he says, ruffling a hand through his hair.
‘Morning,’ I say, my eyes cast down at the table. ‘I’m sorry about last night.’
‘Really?’ He looks almost disappointed. He flicks the kettle back on, reaches for a mug. I watch his muscles rippling, the contraction across his stomach and the movement of his hip.
‘I just … I guess I just feel like we shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Why not?’ He sits down at the table with his mug of tea, prodding at the bag with a teaspoon. When I don’t answer, he says, ‘Listen, Chloe. You wanted it and I wanted it. There’s no harm done, is there? Did I hurt you, force you into it?’
I shake my head. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Well then,’ he says, as if that is that.
He splashes some milk into his tea and takes a sip. I take in his puffy eyes and messy nighttime hair. For some reason I think of Julia, the girl he blew off last night so that he could be with me. Did he know what would happen when he made that decision? Did he expect it? Can he read me better than I can read myself?
‘We agreed yesterday to put the kiss behind us and nothing has changed,’ he adds.
It’s a relief that he doesn’t have any expectations of me, but strange to feel a twinge of disappointment too. But it’s for the best, I know: I couldn’t manage anybody else’s feelings on top of my own right now.
‘When I woke up and you weren’t there, I wondered if you had done a runner,’ he tells me. ‘I’m glad you hadn’t.’
Perhaps I should have left. But although I have nowhere else to go, it all comes down to one simple fact: I didn’t want to leave. I felt something here with Guy last night. It was a genuine connection to another person, and no matter how loose or physical it was, it was more than I’ve had elsewhere. I stayed because I don’t want to give that up just yet, for it to be over almost as soon as I found it.
He reaches over and his fingers brush against mine. At first I hold back. But as he persists, doesn’t give up on my touch, I allow his fingers to weave around mine. And as we sit there holding hands, I realise that right now there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
‘You should check in with your parents,’ he says. ‘Call them, let them know you’re OK.’ He stands up and grabs a couple of bowls, sets them on the table. He reaches into another cupboard and holds up a box of chocolate muesli. ‘After we get some food inside us, I believe we have an office to visit, right?’
‘Don’t you have work to go to?’ I look at the clock. It’s coming up to 8 a.m.
‘I’ll call in sick.’ He tips some cereal into his bowl, then he smiles, and his eyes meet mine. ‘I’d rather be here with you.’