Is there a feeling like it? When the small envelope icon bounces onto your screen and suddenly it’s as though his fingers are on you again, in you again? We swap increasingly flirty emails, dozens every day. I wonder whether he is sending dozens of emails to dozens of women. Probably, but as I’m not planning on meeting up with the man, not allowing him in, it doesn’t matter. It’s just a game, a distraction. It is flattering, being rediscovered – reinvented even. We don’t speak. Our communication is confined to email. He tells me he works mostly from the offices in Amsterdam, that he is only in London once a month or so. I receive this news with relief. See, this man could not have a proper relationship with me. He is like all the men in my history, aloof, unattainable, unreachable. He tells me when he will next be in the UK. He writes that he’d like to see me again.
How many other women have you sent this exact email to?
He sends back the startled, pink-faced emoji. Just you!! He uses a lot of emojis and exclamation marks. I try to avoid both. I try not to trivialise or sensationalise. I’m walking a tightrope. He waits a moment. I wait too. His next email pings into my inbox. Heart beating quickly, I open it up. He explicitly tells me exactly what he wants to do with me. It’s a good thing I set up this account outside work, as the profanity filter would never have allowed it through. My heart beats even faster, and there’s the quickening between my legs too. I email back and tell him I can’t see him.
Can’t see me or don’t want to see me?
Can’t, I reply, honestly. I want to and I won’t lie about that.
There’s no such thing as can’t. What are you afraid of?
He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, not that I would have been able to give him one. He simply adds.
See you at 9 a.m. on Wednesday. Breakfast at The Wolseley.
He doesn’t email me again and I don’t email to confirm whether I will or will not turn up.
I do go, even though it requires me taking time off work. I tell them I am going to the dentist. Breakfast, what harm could there be in breakfast? We eat full Englishes, or at least we order them, but then both of us helplessly push the food around our plates. ‘You’ve put me off my food,’ he admits. ‘I’m never off my food.’ He sounds surprised and a little bit annoyed with himself. I haven’t eaten well for two weeks, since we met. I can’t deny it, I’m enjoying the hollowness that I feel in my belly. I’m bright-eyed, despite not sleeping. I look suspiciously like a woman falling in love.
We catch a cab to an apartment that he tells me his family own. He’s vague, the way rich people who are slightly embarrassed by their glut sometimes are. I call my PA and tell her that my face is too numb for me to come back into the office straight away. That I’ll work from home but try to get in later.
His apartment is breathtaking. Not my usual style, because it is minimalist, uber-stylish and functional. My home is stuffed with objects that I’ve kept long after they’ve ceased to have a practical use because of the memories they harbour. Still, I find myself admiring it for what it is. Other. The penthouse suite is sixteen floors up. We are surrounded by glass walls affording tremendous views. I am on top of the world. There are much taller buildings scattered across London’s skyline: countless offices, some hotels, the Shard obviously towers above us. Yet I think I am tickling the toes of the gods, miles away from being mortal.
‘You must get fabulous views of the fireworks on New Year’s Eve from here,’ I comment. He shrugs, accustomed to privilege, the best views, seats, service, wine. He probably doesn’t notice it. I feel silly, gauche. He continues to twist the champagne bottle he is holding, explaining this is the proper way to open a bottle, not forcing the cork with the thumb. He smiles as the discreet pouf sound heralds his success, no uncouth explosion, no mopping of the overspill. Although privately a tiny part of me misses the vulgar, celebratory pop.
He had the champagne on ice. He knew I was coming here. The whole thing feels suspiciously sleek; I try not to think of the women who have trodden this path before me. Or the ones that will come after. He hands me a glass of champagne, a coupe not a flute. Waves of desire throw me off my feet, wash sense out of my head. I barely manage to take a sip before he takes it off me, sets it aside and I fall back on to his bed. He briefly kisses my mouth but quickly moves on to lap the lips between my legs. He does so with such incredible vigour and enthusiasm, something I’ve always enjoyed, and he obviously loves, so I love it too. I push my hips towards him. Arch my back. Offer myself up. I burn for him.
Afterwards, I stand naked looking out of his window. Too high up to worry about being seen, much more interested in what I can see. London is shimmering. Blue skies and sunbeams bounce on the Thames, transforming the green sludge into a silver slithering snake. Light reflects and refracts off every window of every building. The city gleams. An illusion of frosting or gilding. I can see the Tower of London, London Bridge and HMS Belfast stately squatting on the Thames. The Tower is the size of a Lego castle. It is like a beehive with endless streams of tourists buzzing in and out. I watch boats chug
