by Jane Green
And I know I’m being a bitch. I know I’m behaving like a spoiled brat who hasn’t got what she wanted, but the more disgusting I am to him, the more he looks at me with these sad puppy-dog eyes, the worse I become.
So what was his terrible crime?
The sex was crap.
A joke.
Make that a complete farce.
I mean, here’s this guy who’s supposed to be one of the most eligible bachelors in the country, who has, he says, been out with people, and all I can say is he hasn’t got a damn clue.
Not a clue.
And I’m furious with him for it, which I know is completely unfair, but I can’t help it.
So okay, you’re probably now dying to hear just how bad it was, so fine. I’ll tell you, but before you think I’m being a total cow, just put yourself in my position, and ask yourself whether you might not be feeling exactly the same way.
I pulled Ed into my room and started kissing him, and the kiss wasn’t brilliant, still way too much saliva if you must know, so I stopped kissing him on the mouth and started to plant tiny kisses over his cheek and down his neck, which is when I realized what it is about him that somehow turns me off.
It’s his smell. Not BO, or anything like that, but just his natural body smell. It seems to be kind of sour, not massively pleasant, so I decided I’d better keep my tongue firmly in my mouth from there on in.
I know, I know. I should have stopped there. I should have realized that the sexual chemistry quite obviously hadn’t grown, at least not for me, but I kept going, thinking that Julia Roberts admitted in Pretty Woman that she never kissed the men she slept with (up until Richard Gere, of course, and who could blame her?), therefore I could have sex with Ed without having to kiss him either.
And because I didn’t want to taste his skin, Ed obviously thought that these strange birdlike pecks I was giving him were the way to turn me on, so he started doing the same thing to me, at which point I promptly stopped, because it didn’t feel the least bit sensuous, or sexy, or anything other than bloody irritating.
And then he said, “Do you want to use the bathroom to get undressed?” which was a bit odd, because I thought in the heat of the moment he would just rip my clothes off, but I went into the bathroom anyway with my T-shirt. When I came out Ed was lying in bed with the duvet tucked up under his chin, and my first instinct was to run far, far away.
But, being the determined woman I am, I squashed that instinct flat, and gingerly climbed into bed beside him. He cuddled up to me and started kissing me again, and I thought, this will be okay, I can do this.
And after a while I moved my hand down and felt the very thing that I had been completely dreading.
Y-fronts.
So I prized them off as gently as I could, given the fact that he had an enormous erection, and Ed started squeezing—actually, perhaps kneading would be a more accurate description—my breasts through my T-shirt, and he did it for so long that I figured I may as well take my T-shirt off myself, which I did, and then he carried on kneading, and I have to say I was about as turned on as a loaf of bread.
And then, before I knew it, Ed was on top of me, and, even though penetration was now the very last thing on my mind, I reached for a condom and put it on for him, because, although he tried, he didn’t seem to know what to do with it. Then he was inside me, and there was a look of pure bliss on his face, and he started moving a bit, and then, I kid you not, about six seconds later he groaned very loudly and collapsed on top of me.
And I lay there fuming.
Absolutely fucking fuming.
And while I was staring at the ceiling with his huge weight on top of me and thinking that this, without doubt, was the worst sex I’d ever had, the worst sex it was possible to have, Ed moved his face above mine, grinning like a Cheshire cat, and said, “That was wonderful, darling.”
And then he must have seen that my face was completely blank, and he kissed me and said, “Was that okay?”
Well no, actually, it wasn’t bloody okay. It was abysmal, and maybe I should have been more ladylike about it, maybe I should have just nodded, rolled over and gone to sleep, but I couldn’t, I was just too damn frustrated, and disappointed, and angry.
So that’s what I said.
And Ed rolled off me, looking as if he were going to cry, and this in itself made me even more furious, because he’s not exactly a child, and how could a man of his age be so completely pathetic in bed?
But he didn’t say anything, so I just kept ranting about how sex is a two-way street, and did he really think I would get turned on by ten minutes kneading my breasts, and hadn’t he ever heard of the clitoris, and premature ejaculation wasn’t exactly enjoyable, especially given that I’d had no foreplay whatsoever, and come to that, did he even know what the word “foreplay” meant.
And the more I ranted—because by this time I was really getting into it—the more upset he looked. Eventually, when I finished, he tried to put his arms round me and say sorry, but I just stormed off and went into the bathroom.
I sat on the loo seat, wishing to Christ I could talk to Jules. After a while I got a bit cold, so I went back into the bedroom, and Ed was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head hung low. He looked up and sighed.
“I really am sorry,” he started. “I feel awful, it’s just that I suppose I’m not terribly experienced, but if you help me I can learn, you can show me what to do. I really do think that we can work this out if we’re both willing.”
I harrumphed a bit and said that I didn’t want to be his teacher, but then I started to feel really nasty, so after a while I said okay, we could work through this, and I got back into bed and allowed Ed to cuddle me, and, I suppose, we both fell asleep.
But the thing is I thought I’d feel better about it this morning, but I don’t. I feel worse. Because while I don’t believe that sex is the most important thing in a relationship, it has to be, at least, okay. I mean, I know that sex with Nick was completely fantastic, but I also know that it’s very rarely like that, and that as long as it’s good, you can get by.
And Ed probably is right, I probably could teach him what to do, what I like, but the fact of the matter is he’s awkward. Awkward about his body, awkward about my body. Just gauche, and even if, say, technically he learns the right moves, it’s never going to be silkily smooth and sensual and delicious.
And this morning I start thinking about what sex was like with Nick, and of course the more I think about how good it was, the more I start to resent Ed, and this is why we’re driving home in a thick, tense silence.
Not that Sarah and Charles would have been able to tell. At least, I hope not, because they were so charming and so hospitable. I think, this morning, when we all met up over breakfast, I managed to hide the fact that I’d had the night from hell. When we said goodbye and I thanked them for everything, Sarah gave me a big hug and said we’d have to come up again.
So we hardly say a word on the way back, and when we reach my flat Ed brings my bag inside and says, “Can I call you later?” and I shrug and say, “S’pose so,” behaving like a six-year-old, and he just looks incredibly sad and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
And the minute he’s gone I pick up the phone and ring, naturally, Jules, ignoring the three messages on my answering machine from my mother begging me to ring her as soon as I get back.
“Uh-oh,” she says, hearing how flat my voice is. “Start at the beginning.”
“Just tell me first,” I say. “Any news from Jamie?”
“Well, yes,” she says slowly. “He called last night sounding absolutely miserable, so I said he could come over this evening and talk about it.”
“You’re kidding!” I gasp. “Are you going to forgive him?”
“I want to see what he has to say first,” she says. “because I know that even if I may be able to forgive him, I’ll never be able to forget, and I still don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust him again, and if you don
’t have trust, what is there?”
“Love?” I venture softly.
“Yes,” she sighs. “There is that. Anyway, enough about me. Tell me everything about last night.”
I try and forget how pissed off I am, and start at the beginning, describing everything to her, in graphic detail, what the people were like, what they were wearing, the atmosphere, the music, the champagne.
And then I get to the bit about going to bed and I stop.
“Go on,” she prompts. “You did it, didn’t you?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Please don’t tell me it was awful,” she groans. “I couldn’t cope.”
“It was awful,” I shriek. “No. I take that back. It was worse than awful. The worst experience of my life.” And I tell her, exactly as I told you, what happened, and when I’ve finished speaking there’s a silence.
“Hello?” I say. “Are you still there?”
“Hang on. I’m thinking.”
“What are you thinking? Don’t say that lust can grow, because I honestly don’t think I can go through that again.”
“Okay,” Jules sighs. “I don’t think that lust can grow, but I do think that he’s obviously inexperienced, and that can be resolved. But,” she adds ominously, “I also think that you mustn’t try to talk yourself round this one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, don’t ignore this and just carry on living out your fantasy.”
“So you think I should end it?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is just be aware of how you’re feeling now, because I worry that sometimes you jump in and do things that you know aren’t right, just because you really want them to be right. And I don’t mean that this isn’t right, I just mean don’t try to whitewash over the things that aren’t.”
And as she talks I can see my fantastic fantasy life slipping away, and I don’t want it to slip away, I want to marry a rich man, someone like Ed, I want to live in a house in Hanover Terrace, but I also see the point that Jules is making. Even if I don’t like it much.
“So what should I do now?”
“You don’t have to do anything. Just wait and see what happens. But Libby, you don’t have to be with this man. You don’t have to make a lifelong decision after three weeks, that’s all I’m saying. If it doesn’t work out, fine. You’ll move on.”
And I can see that she’s absolutely right, except it’s bloody hard to not think about the life you’ve always wanted when it’s right there, at your fingertips. And okay, I have been spending rather a large amount of time recently thinking about how I’d redecorate Hanover Terrace, and maybe it isn’t very healthy, but it’s a damn sight better than thinking about how to avoid nights down at the pub drinking pints with your mates.
“But do you think it is going to work out?”
“What do you want me to say, Libby?”
I want her to say yes, everything’s going to be fine. I want her to tell me that Jamie was a crap lover when she first met him and that he then became the best in the world. I want her to tell me that it is entirely possible that Ed will become as good, as perfect, as I once thought Jamie was. As I still think it is possible for a man to be. Just not Jamie. Which is all slightly ridiculous, really, given that this morning I was more than ready to dump Ed and never see him again.
“I just want you to say what you really think.”
“God, you’re high maintenance sometimes. I’ve already told you. Look, do you want to come over?”
“Nah. I’m going to stay in and watch the box.” I pause. “Unless you want me to.”
“No. Don’t worry about it. I should get ready for Jamie coming over anyway. Mentally steel myself and all that. But don’t worry about Ed, it will all work out.”
“Okay, thanks. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be saying to you?”
At five o’clock, just as the movie I’ve been watching finishes, the phone rings . . . again. And again I don’t pick up the phone because it’s probably my mother, who hasn’t stopped ringing all day, and even though she hasn’t left any more messages, every time she puts the phone down I dial 1471 and it’s her bloody number.
I just can’t face talking to her right now. I wouldn’t know what to say, and actually I’m grateful as hell that there’s been good TV on all day, because I haven’t had to think about Ed, or last night.
But this time it’s Ed on the phone, and as I hear his little worried voice I start feeling really bad, so I pick up the phone, and before he has a chance to say anything I apologize.
“I can’t believe those things I said to you,” I say, more than a touch sheepishly. “I feel like a complete bitch, and especially after you took me to such a wonderful party and you’ve been so incredibly sweet to me.” I pause for a while. “I completely understand if you don’t want to see me again.”
“Of course I want to see you again!” splutters Ed. “I was phoning to apologize myself because I know last night was awkward, and I was just phoning to tell you that I’m willing to do anything, anything to make this relationship work. And I know that the physical side is very important to you, and I feel so ashamed that I’m so inexperienced, but I promise you, Libby, I’ll learn. I even went out today and bought The Joy of Sex.”
How could I have been so nasty?
“Have you started reading it yet, or are you just looking at the pictures?”
“No, no, I’m reading it, and I think I can learn how to, umm, well, satisfy you.”
“Oh, Ed,” I say, amazed at the lengths to which this man will go to make me happy. “You do satisfy me, and last night I was just in a really bad mood, and I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“I think so too,” he says, and I can hear from the relief in his voice that he really does. “You probably want to be on your own tonight, don’t you?”
“Why? What were you thinking?” Umm, hello? Libby? You did want to stay on your own tonight. God, why am I such a complete pushover?
“I just wondered, perhaps, whether you wanted to come over and have supper. It would just be nice to see you and, sort of, make up for last night.”
“Okay,” I find myself saying. “I’ll come over at eight, how’s that?”
“Do you want me to come and pick you up?”
“Don’t worry,” I say, thinking I’m going to organize my own transport because I definitely won’t be staying the night. “I’ll make my own way there.”
Why am I going over there? I can’t believe I’m about to go back and spend the evening with the man I wanted to kill just a few hours ago. But I so badly want this to work, and I’m not angry anymore, and he obviously is trying, poor thing. He must have died, going up to a cash desk to pay for The Joy of Sex, but look at the effort he’s making. I have to try as well, and I think he’s right about every relationship needing work, and I’m willing to work at it. I really am.
“I love you.”
A million things go through my mind. How much I wanted Jon to tell me he loved me, but he never did. How I’ve felt like saying it to so many men so many times in the past, but how I’ve never dared because I’ve known as an absolute certainty that should the L word come from my lips, they would have scarpered. How I have spent years looking for someone who treats me like a queen and tells me he loves me. Except I never thought it would happen with someone like Ed.
And in all my fantasies when the tall, dark, faceless but presumably handsome love of my life tells me he loves me, I melt into his arms, murmuring, “I love you too.”
But I really don’t know what to say.
“I know this might seem odd, Libby,” Ed says, holding my hand across the table, “because I know we haven’t known each other very long, but my mother always said when it’s right, it’s right, and I know that you are the right woman for me. And I know things haven’t been great, but I also know that we can work them out, so you might not be able to say that you love me too, which is fine, because I kn
ow that you will.”
“I love you too.” What else can I say? And the fact of the matter is, I may not love him, but I love the idea of loving him, and I think, for the moment, that might be enough. And Ed looks so happy I think his smile may well burst off his face.
“I really do love you,” he says again. “And you make me so happy.”
How can I not spend the night after this?
I walk upstairs, knowing that I have to try everything in my power to make this work, especially when I take in, once again, the softness of the carpets, the size of the bedroom, the grandeur of the swagged curtains, because I want this. This is exactly what I have always dreamed of.
And this time Ed seems to discover that nipples are an erogenous zone. That the clitoris is not just a useless body part. That I quite like soft, sweeping strokes down my stomach.
Okay, it’s not perfect. He’s still slightly clumsy, awkward, and he keeps on saying, “Is this okay? What about this? Do you like this?” And I try to show him by moving his hand, nodding, whispering back to him because he keeps asking me in a very loud voice, and it seems to be destroying the atmosphere somewhat, but eventually he slightly seems to get the hang of it.
And well before there is any question of actually having full-blown sex, I find that if I close my eyes and concentrate very hard, it starts to feel nice, and although I wouldn’t normally be so selfish as to just lie there and not do anything while someone is slowly stroking my clitoris and asking if it’s okay, I do feel that after last night I deserve at least the chance of an orgasm, and after what seems like hours, I feel a familiar warmth as the tingling feeling spreads up through my body, and I have an orgasm. I actually have an orgasm.
I open my eyes and smile at Ed, who’s looking half pleased with himself and half worried, and he says, “Did you, umm, well. Was that?”
And I nod, and he exhales loudly as I laugh, and plant a soft kiss on his lips.