One Thing Leads to Another. Jamie Holland

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СКАЧАТЬ a steady string of sleeping partners: Alex and Sophie in his first year, then Susannah for over a year, and finally Nell, whom he only split up with because he was going travelling and he didn’t want to have to feel guilty if he met anyone else. But since coming back, nothing.

      Catching his own face in the mirror, he suddenly noticed a line had developed down one side of his face, etched between his nose and the corner of his mouth. Where had that come from? He was sure it hadn’t been there last time he looked. Had he really already reached that stage in life where the ageing process was beginning to set in? And his spindly round glasses were smudged and getting loose. This was too much: he was twenty-five, stuck in a traffic jam on the M4 and wrinkling. How had he let his life lead him onto this course? What had he been thinking when he left university? The truth was: Not a lot. The options open to a graduate with a lower second in zoology had seemed a bit limited, and since he had a bit of family money, he’d decided he might as well delay the career for a year or two and explore a bit more of the world instead. He flew east first, to Thailand and then on to Australia and New Zealand, where he skiied and surfed and hung out, and then worked for a bit in a bar. From there he moved on to conquer South America, finally pausing for just over a year in Buenos Aires. He’d loved Argentina; and the cost of living was so cheap, meaning he could work little and play hard. There were plenty of Europeans and Americans out there too, providing him with friends. He had a girlfriend there too: a lovely Argentinian who’d dazzled him with her Latin allure.

      At some point, however, Geordie had realized that he was going to have to get on with life. So, to the relief of his parents and friends, he’d come back to England and almost immediately moved up to London, on the lookout for a ‘proper’ job. Jessica had been looking for a new place to live, so he’d moved in with her. And here he was, he thought to himself, his career under way, sitting in a traffic jam on the edge of London and rapidly ageing.

      He felt faintly depressed. Having exorcised his wanderlust, his life now felt mundane. The lack of girlfriend was just beginning to really get to him. Christ, he hadn’t even had sex for over a year. What was it? Was he becoming boring? He was certainly feeling bored. Or was it just that it was harder to meet people these days? How did you meet new girls? Walk into a bar and start chatting someone up? Hardly. He thought about all the girls he knew. Most were spoken for; of those that weren’t, either he’d already been out with them, or didn’t fancy them, no matter how desperate he felt. And others, like Jessica, were just friends and always would be. This competition was all very well, but just how was he going to achieve these goals? Rooting around in the glove compartment, he found his much loved ELO Greatest Hits. Best not to brood. In the safety of his car, he could listen to whatever he liked, and sing as badly as he liked without anyone complaining – he liked ELO even if no one else did. Singing along the wrong words to ‘Mr Blue Sky’, he felt his good humour slowly return.

      Geordie had phoned Jessica to relay Flin’s news, but she found it hard to feel too excited. She knew what Flin was like, knew that he always jumped in head first without pausing to think and that often his early enthusiasm came to nothing. And anyway, she could tell that Geordie was only phoning her because he was bored: he always repeated himself when he had nothing to say, and on this occasion told her for the second time that day that he and Flin would be out all evening. Still, she was quite pleased about that: it had been a bad day at the office and she felt in need of some quiet time to herself. Of course she adored Geordie and Flin, but they could be so noisy and exhausting sometimes.

      Arriving back at the flat, she made a beeline for the sink, washed her hands, then applied a generous amount of hand-cream and morello cherry lip-balm, and poured herself a large glass of wine. Then she kicked off her shoes, switched on the television, and lay full-stretch on the sofa, checking through the post. Letter from the bank – boring; some mail for Geordie – boring, boring. But then an envelope that always cheered her up – her weekly edition of Bunty. Her friends found it extraordinary that someone who was normally so elegant and poised at all times should still subscribe to such juvenile drivel. But Jessica had read it ever since she was about ten, tenderly bought for her each week by her mother: it was comforting and she liked the assured regularity of this weekly package.

      Leafing through pages of schoolgirl drama was as soothing as ever; after that she was looking forward to what she considered essential ‘me-time’ – time in which to unwind, have a bath, read a magazine or two and not talk to anyone. To her annoyance, though, she found she couldn’t stop thinking about Richard Keeble. How dare he make a pass at her! Then to make matters worse, Rob was still trying to sit next to her, even though she’d told him nearly a month before that nothing further was going to happen between them. Despite looking as immaculate as the moment she had left the house that morning, she now felt soiled and unclean. Even the restorative powers of lip-balm and hand-cream had failed her on this occasion. It was too much.

      Richard Keeble always flirted with the younger girls. Although forty-something and acne-scarred, he was convinced they loved being chatted up and that his particular line of amusing cuff-links and bright ties made him a consul of contemporary chic. Rumour had it that he had had his way with one of the receptionists at last year’s Christmas Party, but Jessica could not have possibly cared less – she found him utterly repellent. That morning, however, she had been trapped by him between the third and ground floor as she was on her way to a meeting.

      ‘That dress is invitingly short,’ he had said to her, smirking and looking up and down her legs. Red with embarrassment and anger, Jessica had not been able to think of anything to say, so shot him a look of contempt instead. ‘Although, of course, I’d much rather see you without any dress on at all.’

      Then he had winked, the doors had opened and he’d waited for her to walk out before following after her. He’d not actually touched her or been aggressively abusive, but Jessica had felt degraded and foolish, and to her horror had not been able to help imagining him writhing around on top of her, dribbling lustfully. Too disgusting; so she tried to picture lying on a Bermudan beach to erase the image.

      Working for an advertising firm with progressive ideals meant that no member of staff had their own desk; instead each employee at Farrow and Keene had a trolley and a locker, a lap-top and a mobile phone. Having been forced to arrive early as she was suddenly frantically busy, despite feeling in a bean-bag mood, Jessica had settled down on one of the most coveted spots in the building. Then there had been the contretemps with Richard Keeble, and she had only just arrived back at her work-station when Rob turned the corner and appeared beside her.

      Older than her by four or five years, Rob was a senior account executive whom she had initially quite liked; she had certainly been flattered that he had so obviously developed a crush on her. He was also much taller than her – always an important consideration – and she thought him reasonably pleasing to the eye. Ever since splitting up with Ed eight months before she had remained more or less single. She’d had a few flings, but nothing serious, and so when six weeks before Rob had asked her out for a drink, she’d accepted. He’d hardly bowled her over, but he had made her laugh and she’d quite enjoyed herself. Emboldened, he had then asked her out to dinner. Knowing the implications, Jessica had accepted – after all, he was offering to take her to Sartoria.

      They had drunk good wines, followed by liqueurs, before going back to his flat in Notting Hill. By now quite drunk, she got into the cab with him, and he started to kiss her, gently at first and then hard and urgently. Vaguely aware that his style of snogging was a little aggressive for her tastes, she broke off. But by then they had reached his flat, and headed straight for his bedroom. Slightly cursing her drunken lack of self-control, she found herself looking up at his face, now etched with grim concentration, while he humped up and down on his black-sheeted bed.

      That Saturday morning she made a quick escape. She hated mornings at the best of times, but on this occasion she had a persistently throbbing head and was disgusted with herself for letting things go so far the previous night. The last thing she wanted was any sort of conversation. СКАЧАТЬ