by Shari Low
‘Someone’s changed the locks!’ I wailed, as I slumped against the doorframe, defeated. Had I not paid my rent in time? Had I been invaded? Was there, right this minute, a gang of drug-addled teenagers sitting on the other side of my door, eating the contents of my fridge and raking through my knicker drawer while talking to their civil-liberties lawyer about their latest claim for squatters’ rights?
Just as I was contemplating calling the Citizen’s Advice Bureau, the door swung open and an amused face peeked through.
‘You’re at the wrong door, Leni, love. Had one or two sweet sherries, have we?’
‘Sorry, Mrs Naismith.’ Every sinew of my body cringed in embarrassment yet again. ‘I’ll bring you in a packet of Garibaldis tomorrow to make up for disturbing you.’ At least, I’d like to think that’s what I said, however, I was over a bottle of wine down and my cognitive powers were somewhat diminished.
‘Och, no need love, you’re fine. It’s good to see you enjoying yourself. Am I not always saying you’re only young and it’s time you got a life?’
Indignity complete. I was receiving yet another life lecture, and indeed a public one this time, from the well-meaning but brutally honest septuagenarian who lived next door.
I turned ninety degrees, hiccuped, pushed my key into the correct door and staggered inside. Then I realised that I’d left Nurse Dave standing next to Mrs Naismith, so I reopened the door and stood to one side to give him room to enter. Mrs Naismith watched him until he’d disappeared out of sight. Even in my confused state, I knew what she was doing: she’d once confessed it was her lifetime ambition to appear in a Crimewatch reconstruction, so she was just making sure she’d got every detail of the scene stored correctly in her mind.
‘Straight ahead,’ I directed (slurred to) Dave, then walked (staggered) behind him as he made his way through to my lounge. I had a sudden (delayed) realisation that I’d left my pyjamas from that morning lying on the couch. Great. He was about to be confronted with my Christmas present from Trish, flaming-red nightwear that announced I was ‘Barry Manilow’s Number One Fan’ on the front. I made a mental note to show Dave that it then said ‘So please give me drugs’ on the back. Actually, maybe not–he might think he’d been coerced here so that I could blackmail him into giving me the keys to the A&E pill cupboard.
Even I could see that the room hadn’t been diligently prepared for the arrival of guests. This morning’s half-finished bowl of Frosties was still on the IKEA walnut coffee table. Purple IKEA cushions were scattered all over the cream IKEA sofa. The dust was thick on the IKEA walnut TV unit. My Billy bookcase groaned under the weight of my book collection. And the small balls of cotton wool I’d used to separate my toes when I’d given myself a pedicure the night before were now scattered all over the side table. The one I’d got in IKEA. All I needed was Ulrika Jonsson and Sven-Göran Eriksson and I could claim to be an official Swedish colony.
Other than being the place where flat-pack furniture came to die, my lounge, like the rest of the flat, was simply decorated with a goldish-coloured cord carpet and white walls. And a bit of green was added by those twisty plants that were called ‘lucky bamboos’. I ignored the fact that since I’d got the bloody things I’d had nothing but strife and disaster. I should really return them to where I’d bought them: IKEA.
‘I thought you said you had a view of the castle?’ Dave asked.
Uh-huh. That’s how I’d done it. I’d tempted him back with the immortal line, ‘Want to come see the view from my bedroom?’
Kidding! However, the thought did make me dissolve into uncontrollable fits of hilarity, causing Dave, not exactly stone-cold sober himself, to stand in the middle of the room looking completely bewildered. That made the giggles even worse.
‘It does,’ I spluttered. ‘If you’re seven foot four and in possession of the Bubble telescope.’
Oh–shame, shame, shame–I swear I knew it was Hubble but it somehow came out wrong. That pretty much sums up why I never, ever drink without Trish or Stu.
‘I’ll get the coffee then,’ I volunteered, following up on the real reason I’d given for luring him to my lair. Actually, it had seemed like a good idea at the time–the pub was closing, we were still in the midst of a great chat that had flowed seamlessly since his brother had informed him that he was standing him up, and in my wine-soaked mind it made perfect sense to carry on the conversation at home. Dave had already told me he lived with two doctors in the hospital’s staff accommodation, so logic and a bucketful of Shiraz had dictated that we retire to Little Sweden.
I left him in the lounge and went into the kitchen to do the essentials: flick on the kettle and rest my forehead against the cool, soothing surface of the fridge door.
‘Is it okay if I put a CD on?’ he shouted.
‘Of course,’ I replied, emitting an internal scream that probably terrified the life out of every dog within a two-mile radius. Now he was going to open my CD player. Now he was taking out the disc that was already in there and staring at the wording on the front. And now he was racking his brain for excuses as to how he could make a swift escape from the woman whose choice of easy listening extended to Cliff Richard’s Greatest Hits.
I wasn’t even going to try to explain that it had been a Christmas pressie from Mrs Naismith–no stranger to the bargain bin at Woolies–and I put it on every now and then while I was in the bath (with the door firmly shut) just so she could hear it through the wall and take pleasure in the belief that she’d brought a new disciple to the Cult of Cliff.
It was amazing how the thought of three verses and a chorus of ‘Bachelor Boy’ could sober a girl right up. I didn’t even get a head spin when I reached up into the cupboard for the coffee and the sugar, and I didn’t spill a single drop as I carried the brimming mugs back through to the lounge.
‘Two sugars and milk, wasn’t it?’
His last drink at the pub had been a coffee and I’d obviously paid attention.
‘Thanks. Sorry, I couldn’t find any Barry Manilow,’ he said with a straight face. Then burst out laughing.
‘No, I keep Barry’s stuff in the vault so it doesn’t get damaged.’
I grabbed my pyjamas, tossed them over the back of the couch and then sat down.
‘It was nice of you to bring me home. Thanks.’
He took a sip of his coffee, then pressed a button on the CD player.
‘No problem. It’s all part of the NHS service. Accident prevention–saves the paramedics coming out when you walk into a lamppost. But don’t forget to go back for your car in the morning.’
Shit, my car! I’d forgotten all about it. I’d have to collect it on the way home from work tomorrow night.
He’d obviously had the good sense to change the CD because the opening bars of Dolly Parton’s ‘9 to 5’ filled the room. Have I mentioned before that I love country and western music? I just get cooler and more hip by the minute.
‘First thing I came across,’ Dave explained. Phew–I must have removed the Cliff CD last night. ‘Except for Cliff Richard’s Greatest Hits,’ he added.
I flushed to a bright puce. ‘Mrs Naismith next door–he’s her favourite,’ I stammered by way of explanation. ‘She’s trying to convert me.’
We sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, before I opened with an ill-thought-out, ‘My best friend Stu would love you.’
His instant reaction was to stop just short of splurting his coffee across the room and settle for tortured choking instead.
Not for the first time in the last hour, I was utterly confused, until he regained a limited power of speech and gasped out, ‘But…but…I’m not gay.’
‘NO! No, I didn’t think you were! Sorry, you misunderstood me. My friend Stu would love you because he’s a hypochondriac. He loves talking to people in the medical profession because it saves him from looking up his latest symptoms on the Internet. He’s always convinced that all the typing will give him a repetitive strain injury.’
Nurse Dave was now staring at me with an expression that conveyed his deep conviction that I was certifiable. And so, obviously, were my friends.
Another silence.
‘But my friend Trish wouldn’t like you…’
Cue another horrified reaction.
‘…but only because she doesn’t like anyone.’
Stop talking. Stop talking right now. Why did I always have to translate nervousness into the rambling of incoherent nonsense? Thank God I wasn’t a world leader or I’d end up wittering on about the latest bargains in Superdrug in the middle of crisis talks at the United Nations.
Thankfully, he interrupted me before I could spout another round of inane drivel.
‘Can I kiss you?’ he asked softly.
My mouth took that opportunity to clam up completely. Speak! Say yes! Now! Vocal cords, stand to attention! But hang on, what the hell was I doing here? I didn’t do one-night stands. I didn’t do random meetings. Were my experiences of the last few months finally chipping away at years of hesitation and fear of change? Was this project somehow changing the very fabric of my being, making me stronger and more resilient? Was Zara’s barking-esque behaviour bringing me out of my shell?
Or was I just wellied and horny?
I knew I should say no. That I should definitely speak up with my objections.
So I nodded instead.
He leaned over, and to the soft, gentle, romantic sounds of ‘I Never Promised You a Rose Garden’, Nurse Dave puckered up and snogged me.
An hour later our fingers were still intertwined, my head had cleared, Dolly had been replaced by Snow Patrol and we were having a lovely time, alternating between kissing and talking. Although I had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs Naismith was standing against her wall with a glass to her ear.
‘I should go,’ Dave said softly, ‘I have to be up early in the morning.’
‘Okay,’ I agreed, before boldly leaning over to kiss him again. ‘You definitely should.’ Another kiss. ‘I’ll see you out.’ Another kiss.
Now his hand was touching my face while our lips were still locked, and then it slipped down and cupped my neck, unwittingly mimicking that bit in Pretty Woman where Richard Gere kisses Julia Roberts in the posh frock. Mmmm, I loved that bit. And I loved…this. This was good. Actually, it was better than good. If this was what you got on the NHS then I was never going private.
Okay, his hand was moving again, down the front of my neck, onto my breastbone, and there it stayed for ages. I wasn’t sure if he was attempting to grope my boobs or give me CPR.
He pulled back. ‘I really need to go, because if I stay here I’ll want to do things to you that involve naked stuff,’ he confessed with a shy smile.
‘Okay then.’
He gave me one sweet final kiss, then pulled back and stood up.
‘What are you doing?’
His brow furrowed in the middle, giving him cute little vertical wrinkles of perplexity.
‘I’m…erm…going.’
And then, and I swear this has never happened before in all of my twenty-seven years, my whole being was possessed by the spirit of a Fifties sex siren, forcing me to glance down demurely, then look at him through hooded eyelids, while saying in a voice that I’d obviously borrowed from Mae West for the night, ‘I meant “okay then” to the naked stuff.’
The unmistakable sound of smashing glass permeated through the wall from Mrs Naismith’s flat.
He eyed me quizzically–not the reaction I’d expected when I’d just offered a red-blooded male a guided tour of my reproductive system.
‘Are you sure? I mean, you had a lot to drink tonight, and we can see each other again and…’
I momentarily tuned out at that point to consider his argument. Yes, I’d had a lot to drink, but I’d pretty much sobered up now and was definitely thinking relatively clearly. Yes, we could see each other again, but then there was the slight obstacle of seven dates with other men that I’d yet to go on–how was I going to explain that to him? How long would the rest of Project Bloody Zara take? It could be months. In the end I considered the potential deed from all angles, and finally invoked an ancient law of physics to make the decision: when you can’t remember what year it was when you last had sex, it’s time to get your kit off and go for it.
I realised that he was still staring at me, waiting for a response to his objections–objections that I realised were an admirable attempt to be chivalrous and gentlemanly as opposed to being a heartless attempt to batter my ego to death.
I stood up and kissed him again. ‘I’m sure.’
His tongue did a celebratory dance around my tonsil area. Time to turn on the really romantic, sexy stuff. ‘Er, Dave?’
‘Mmmm.’
‘There’s just one condition.’
‘Mmmmm.’
‘We have to turn the lights out because my bra and knickers don’t match and I haven’t shaved my legs for a fortnight.’
I never knew a bloke could laugh and kiss at the same time, and that it could be so damn sexy. Still joined at the lips, with me walking backwards, I guided him through to my bedroom, which, personal detritus aside, bore a striking resemblance to page 89 of the IKEA catalogue.
There was a rustling sound underfoot (that would be the magazine pile that never quite made it to the recycling bin), then a squirty sound (the contents of one bottle of baby lotion now sprayed across the wall), and finally a squashy sound as we fell, with all the grace and synergy of an Olympic synchronised-swimming team on banned substances, onto my white cotton waffle-effect duvet.
‘Aaaaaaaaargh,’ he yelled, frantically pulling something out from underneath him and holding it up. Even in the dark I could see the faint outline of Office Fantasies: what they mean and how to make them come true.
Do not let him read that. Do not let him read that. Nope, he was kissing me again, so I assumed he’d missed it.
The sensation of his hand creeping under my sweatshirt was very faint at first, and then, as he gained confidence, I felt the fabric being pushed firmly up.
‘Zip! It has a zip,’ I whispered urgently, followed by a fumble, fumble, fumble then a resounding howl as the zip caught a tiny fold of skin on my boob on the way down.
‘Sorry, shit, sorry!’
‘S’okay, don’t worry.’
The sweatshirt was finally pushed off, leaving his hand to explore my bra. Inside my head there was a definite groan as I remembered that this was the first bra that had come to hand that morning. Even in the semi-darkness it was clear that it was orange (courtesy of a boil wash with my tangerine towels), and the under-wire on one side was missing. It had popped right through my jumper the last time I’d worn it and I’d just whipped the damn thing right out. I’d meant to bin it, but then this morning I had been in a rush and it was the first one I’d found and…aw, sod it, I’d just have to distract him and hope he didn’t notice.
In a moment of (fictional cleaning-cupboard antics aside) uncharacteristic boldness, I reached for the front of his jeans and lightly traced my finger from button to groin, eliciting a deep moan of approval. I backtracked to the top again and somehow managed to flick open the button.
He was up on one elbow now, gently pulling down the cup of one side of my bra, his mouth then following his fingers and seeking out my right nipple. Time for a quick involuntary gasp of sheer wonderment, before I took my hand from his jeans, quickly slid it under my back, released the bra clasp and ping!
‘Aaaaaw!’
Bugger, I should have waited until his face was removed from the general bra area before doing that.
‘Have you still got both your eyes?’ I whispered urgently.
‘Leni, have you ever thought of having a paramedic on permanent standby?’ he groaned.
I giggled. ‘I think I’m taking advantage of our national healthcare employees quite enough for the moment.’
I managed to shrug off his T-shirt without strangling him, and then groped around, searching
for the top of his zip. I grasped it, gently tugged it down and felt the definite emergence of his cock, constrained only by the fabric of what felt like cotton boxers.
My stomach was fluttering as much with ovarian excitement as it was with nervous disbelief that I was both doing this and enjoying it, while my hand felt its way back up to his waistband, ready to push his jeans off. This was it! I was about to be in bed with a naked man. While naked myself. I really should have been freaking out and horrified by this extraordinary activity, but I was far too busy with the serious contemplation of how fabulous it felt to have my nipples sucked in a Hoover-type fashion.
Noooooooo, don’t stop. But he had. Still balancing on one arm, his body twisted and his kisses slowly worked their way down, down, further…
Panic stations! Panic stations! My brain emitted a noise that I imagined sounded exactly like an alarm that would go off when a nuclear missile was thirty seconds from impact. He was going down, doing that thing guys do because they think we’ll be grateful and…stop! My toes were literally curling. I know it’s not fashionable, I know we’re all meant to be striking a blow for female equality, I know I was supposed to just open wide, lie back and enjoy the ride, but it just wasn’t going to happen. He might be in my bedroom, we might be naked, he might have had a general chew around the breast area, but a mighty delve into the mighty bush was just a dropped inhibition too far.
But before I could gently steer or manoeuvre out of the path of imminent danger, my reflexes took over–namely the one connected to my knee joints, which flew up, making swift and sharp contact with his chin.
I was supposed to be making love to this guy, and instead he had a good case for charging me with breach of the peace, assault and grievous bodily harm.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I whispered, as he froze in midair.
I knew I had to do something and fast or his mood would be irrevocably shattered. Losing several of your teeth from a whack in the face could do that to a guy.
I reached down. ‘Come here and let me kiss that better.’
It was only when our faces were once again barely inches apart that I realised that I’d pulled him up by the ears–not a technique that I’d ever come across in the Kama Sutra.