It's Friday evening, and Ian has manoeuvred me into having dinner at his place. We manage to cook something together before ending up sprawled across his lovely sofa, exhausted after a week of unrelenting work.
“Stay over tonight,” he tries to persuade me, rubbing my back.
I can't say I'm not very tempted, but I must hold out.
“No, you know my rules,” I reply, in a voice that's very much influenced by his hands.
“Oh, to hell with your rules,” he says, kissing me.
He knows that there are some things I can't resist, and so he always tries to win these arguments by making me lose my head. And in general it's a tactic that works, unfortunately. He would have been a great military strategist.
“You're not playing fair,” I moan breathlessly, much later. He looks at me, obviously not feeling at all guilty.
“Each of us uses the means at our disposal,” he says sagely.
“Please, don't insist,” I plead again, seriously this time, and he raises his hands in surrender.
“Ok, if you don't want to sleep at your boyfriend's house it means that your boyfriend will just have to sleep at yours,” he tells me calmly.
“Ian—” I say plaintively, in an attempt to dissuade him. When he's in the mood, he certainly knows how to be really stubborn.
“Yes?” he asks with perfect innocence.
I sigh in annoyance. “Ok, I'll stay here, then. But let's get one thing straight, you're not my boyfriend,” I say. I don't have many defences against him, and I have to keep a tight grip on the ones I've got.
He nods in satisfaction, managing not to gloat too much and totally ignoring my last statement.
“Can we talk about something serious for a minute?” I ask.
Ian picks up the change in my tone. “Sure,” he answers, trying not sound alarmed.
“I know we've never spoken about it, but what exactly do you feel for me?” I ask him.
Ian looks at me in amazement – it's clear that it wasn't the type of question he was expecting. “What is this, the moment of truth?” he asks, trying to make a joke out of it. Typical man.
“That's one way of looking at it,” I answer, smiling.
“I'll answer honestly if you do you too,” he says calmly, after a short pause.
“Ok—” I agree, unsure as to how to wriggle out of it.
He takes my hand and starts to play with it. “Well—” he begins nervously, more to himself than to me, “where shall I start?”
I don't say a word as I wait for his answer. I don't know what to expect, honest to God.
“Err, to be honest, I think I'm in love with you,” he confesses after a few moments. “As I imagine you've realised—” he adds, laughing nervously. “Did you need to hear me say it? I mean, because, you know, I'm not exactly brilliant at expressing my feelings, but—”
I stop him. “No, that's enough,” I say, my heart beating furiously. “Really.”
The embarrassment of both is evident. “What about you?” he asks, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
Here it is – the million dollar question.
“Seeing as everybody else keeps telling me I am, I suppose that I must be too,” I confess. In the end, his grandfather is convinced, Laura and Vera are convinced and even my family suspect it. It's obvious that it must be so. I have indeed fallen for this bizarre man, even though I try not to think about it too much and I avoid admitting it to myself altogether.
“I was thinking,” he says then, “that if, despite all our misgivings, we're in love, how about moving in together?”
Am I hearing things? I glare at him.
“What?” I say incredulously. “You can't really be asking me to go and live with you, knowing full well that I don't even really consider you my boyfriend.”
“Yes you do consider me your boyfriend, you just don't like giving in when you've set your mind on something. We could make the leap straight from being from colleagues to flatmates. That way you wouldn't have to worry too much about what to call me,” he offers half seriously.
“Don't talk rubbish,” I snap.
Ian's expression changes completely and becomes frosty. “Frankly these obsessions of yours are starting to get on my nerves a bit. I've been waiting six months now for you to accept this change in our relationship, and I'm getting a bit sick of it,” he says, frowning.
“Exactly! And I've got an awful temper. You'd actually want to live with someone like me?” I ask in an attempt to talk him round.
But it doesn't seem as though Ian has been rational for about six months now, if I'm honest.
He snorts. “As if I didn't already know,” he says, offended. “But despite that, and despite knowing you pretty well, I want to live with you anyway. I stress the 'anyway'.”
“Ian, it would be a nightmare,” I say. I really think it would. Living together is a balancing act, and we're like two bulls in a very small china shop.
“No, it wouldn't,” he replies stubbornly.
“And how would we manage all our differences?” I ask worriedly.
“What differences? I don't see all these huge differences,” he says, folding his arms.
“We've both got very short tempers, and if we lived together it would be very stormy, to say the least,” I confess sincerely. “Not to mention the fact that we move in different social circles, we have different interests, different hobbies—”
“What hobbies!? We're always stuck in the bloody office and we never have time to do anything,” he blurts out.
“Actually—” I begin, but am immediately interrupted. Ian moves closer and puts his hands on his knees.
“Can you stop for a moment?” he asks sweetly.
I nod, losing myself in his deep blue eyes. He ought to be a hypnotist.
“I understand that the idea of living together is scary. But we're not two little kids. And you'll keep being elusive and distrustful of me if I don't find a way to convince you to come and live with me. I warn you that I'm not going to give in. I'll be a pain, I'll go on and on about it, and I will not let up,” he says, smiling. He sounds sincere but determined.
I emit a strangled sound. How the hell can I get out of a situation like this?
“You're the most absurd, stubborn person I've ever met.”
“I know,” he answers, almost cheerfully. Clearly, for Ian that's a compliment.
But when soon after he starts kissing me again and drags me off towards the bedroom, I have to admit that, strangely, much of my frustration has subsided.
At this rate, I'm doomed for sure.