Gigi

With Adam, like so much in Gigi’s life lately, it wasn’t so much planned as it just happened, and it wasn’t at all how she thought it would be.

Adam had texted her, asking if he could cook for her. She had texted back saying she’d already shopped for dinner, and that he’d be welcome to join her. He’d sent back one line: ‘I’ll bring wine. See you at 8.30.’

She’d had time for a quick shower before he arrived. It was a warm night, and she’d pulled on a cotton dress and just combed back her hair from her face to dry naturally. She hadn’t put any on makeup. Or shoes.

The windows of the flat were wide open. The sounds of early summer drifted in. Someone was mowing their lawn. A few doors down, there was a barbeque, with laughter and clinking glasses. It would take until ten for it to get dark, the pink sun setting lazily. She lit a few candles.

Dinner had been a simple salad with new potatoes and cold salmon. There were raspberries and cream afterwards. They’d drunk the wine he’d brought and listened to music – taking turns to choose a song on the iPhone – her on the sofa, her legs tucked up under her, him on the floor, his back against the armchair. It was easy and comfortable, but it was charged too, with something new, and undeniably exciting.

And then, when it was very late, but she still felt very wide awake, she’d stood up, taken his hand and led him into the bedroom without any words at all. To the wide, white bed, where no one but she had slept. Where she had never made love to Richard, or fought with him, or ignored him to finish a really good novel. Where she had never given early-morning cuddles to their children, or opened their stockings with them, or taken their temperatures, sheets thrown back because their fever had made them so hot. Where she was just her.

She had pulled the cotton dress over her head, and, on the other side, he’d unbuttoned his shirt slowly. There was only candlelight from the open door, but, amazingly, it wasn’t because she was afraid to let him see her.

It could only be this way, she realized. She couldn’t decide to do it. She couldn’t think about it too much, or she’d never do it. And she wanted to do it. She’d only ever made love with Richard in her life. It seemed absurdly old-fashioned – Meg would splutter with incredulity if she knew – but it was the truth. Richard had been a little older than her, a little more experienced, although only a little, and she had never asked him for details, but she had been a virgin when they met.

Adam only asked her once, when they lay down on the clean, warm sheets. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Very.’ She kissed him, her hand on his face, remembering what he’d said to her that first night, by the car. ‘I’m very sure.’

And Adam was different. He felt different beneath her hands, more slender and more hairy than her husband, his chest wiry and tickling against her. And he touched her differently. He was less gentle and less sure at the same time. Richard knew her; Adam was learning.

He watched her carefully. She closed her eyes and let it all happen, momentarily amazed at how relaxed she felt. She thought she’d be terrified, to the point of finding it almost impossible to enjoy it, but it wasn’t like that.

When she came, she wanted to cry. He held her close and still, stroking her hair, and planting tiny, soft kisses on the side of her neck. He eased her around to lie spooned inside his embrace, and they stayed that way for the longest time, without speaking at all. His breath slowed and calmed and she thought he might have fallen asleep.

She was wide awake.

Eventually, he asked her, sleepily, if she wanted him to go, or whether he should stay. Telling him it was okay to stay was the first lie she had told him.