Swipe Right

by Stephie Chapman

  ‘It’s not a big deal, and you’re probably right,’ I say. ‘Take as long as you like. This is nice anyway, right? You’ve never come out for work drinks before.’

  ‘You haven’t had a proper job for a while,’ he says.

  ‘I mean, I was freelancing, but okay.’

  My freelancing has always been something he feels worthy of commentary, though I don’t know why. I’ve worked in some nice places, and I’ve never been in a position where I haven’t been able to pay my way. Lucas raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything more. He swallows the last of his drink and pats himself down, checking for his phone and his wallet and his keys, the way he always does.

  ‘Come on then,’ he says. ‘Let’s fill that tummy of yours.’ He pats my stomach, and it’s massively embarrassing.

  I gather up my bag and my jacket and follow as he strides towards the door.

  ‘See you on Monday,’ I call back to Carlina and Mickey. And it’s at this precise moment that I learn that Carlina’s poker face is shocking. Absolutely shocking. Her eyes are wide and the bridge of her nose is wrinkled. She doesn’t even rearrange it when I look back. That did not go as planned. I’m certain she hates him.

  Outside, Lucas takes my hand tightly in his and we walk briskly away from the pub and down the street. I feel like a small child being handled by her parents. He whistles merrily as we walk and I wonder how he can traverse so quickly and whistle so loudly without his lungs getting all out of sync with his diaphragm. Seems like a recipe for hiccups to me. This thought consumes me until we round the corner and he has to stop to look at his phone for directions.

  ‘What did you think of everyone?’ I ask, a little tentatively.

  ‘They seemed like fun people,’ he says, still squinting at the screen. Fun. The sort of word you might use when you absolutely loathed everyone but don’t want to admit it. He looks up and down the road, up at the street sign and back at his map. He orientates his phone and tuts when the screen flips around ninety degrees.

  ‘I think it’s on the next left,’ I offer. He ignores me and keeps looking.

  ‘Aha, I have it. Next left.’ He takes my hand again and we’re off.

  The restaurant is heaving and Lucas tells me, loudly, and as if he’s explaining to someone who never goes out to eat, that we were lucky to get a table. He’s brash and a little bit condescending, and I ignore him in favour of the menu. We start off with creamy, soft burrata, which we drizzle with chilli oil and sink our forks into with gusto, and a little bowl of plump green olives which we stab at with wooden cocktail sticks.

  ‘So how is the job?’ he asks, and he looks at me earnestly from across the table and tops up my wine, and I let it slide that it’s the first time he’s asked, despite us having had a number of conversations since Monday.

  ‘It’s been full on, but great. I’m glad you liked my colleagues.’

  ‘Well,’ he says, popping an olive in his mouth, and then spitting out the stone. ‘I only really met a couple. We just sort of loitered at the bar and then left. Should have socialised at the table Franny. Felt like a bit of a French exit.’

  ‘Not really. I said goodbye to Carlina and Mickey, and anyway, we hadn’t really been sitting with the rest of them all evening.’

  ‘I just wondered why you didn’t introduce me, that’s all.’

  ‘Because I don’t know all their names yet and how embarrassing is that?’

  Lucas looks horrified. I bet he thinks he’s Mr Manners.

  ‘It’s fine. It’s only been a week. Who knows the name of everyone they work with when it’s only been a week?’ I stop short at betting he didn’t, because actually, I reckon I’d lose.

  ‘Hmm,’ he mutters, and I think this is his attempt at diplomacy.

  ‘How’s your week been? Feels like ages since I saw you.’ I take his hand across the table and squeeze it. He rubs his thumb over my knuckles.

  ‘Good. Great, actually. I’m thriving at work. Absolutely killing it on the McLelland account, Franny.’

  He’s been working on the McLelland account for a few months and I’m still unsure what it really is. But it’s too late to ask now so instead I just beam at him.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ I say. ‘So proud of you.’ I squeeze his hand again.

  ‘Yeah! I’ll get to go to Henley, Fran! Henley!’

  ‘Very fancy. What for?’

  ‘The Regatta, of course. I’m told they have their own riverside chalet!’

  ‘Isn’t the Regatta in July? That’s already happened this year.’

  Lucas’ face changes slightly. Twists just a little. A flash of a wrinkle appears over the bridge of his nose. Then it’s gone again. ‘Yes, well as I said, I’m killing it at work. So no doubt I’ll still be invited next July.’

  ‘Well, that’s brilliant,’ I say. I eat another mouthful of the burrata and sip my wine. ‘Maybe you’ll get a plus one. Hint hint.’

  ‘Ah. Well, I suspect Annoushka will want to come.’ He looks apologetic.

  ‘Annoushka Annoushka Annoushka-ya-ya,’ I sing, Kate Bush-style. ‘Who’s Annoushka? And why does she get dibs on a fancy day out with my boyfriend?’

  ‘She’s one of the girls at work,’ he shrugs. ‘Also, I believe the song is “Babooshka”.’

  ‘I know, I was making a joke. Anyway, does she work on the McLelland account as well?’

  Lucas nods and takes a long slug of his drink and the waiter appears to clear our starters.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to come to Henley, Franny,’ he says.

  ‘Oh really? What makes you so sure about that? I could put on a pretty dress. Some nice heels. Hobnob with the McLelland crew. Then we could sneak off and I could perform a sex act on you somewhere we shouldn’t.’

  ‘Erm…’ His cheeks colour, and I know he’s thinking about it. ‘I mean, I think I’ll probably be encouraged to take Annoushka,’ he croaks.

  Fuck this broad, who the hell even is she? I’m going to look her up on the internet. I don’t offer any more talk about what we may or may not get up to on a hypothetical trip to Henley Regatta as it doesn’t sound like I’ll ever get to go anyway. I wish I’d never said anything.

  ‘Right well, have fun with Annoushka,’ I mutter, and look out of the window whilst we wait for our pizzas to arrive. Outside it’s getting dusky, and I wonder if they’re all still back at the pub, or if it’s wound down and they’ve called it a night. If we hurried up and didn’t get dessert we could pop back in on the way home to see. And if so, I could chat more with Lily and Lexi et al. I could get to know them all. I could corner Ollie and ask him why he was staring at me in that antique mirror. But he could turn round and quip that I’d only know that if I was looking back at him, and he’d be right.

  I can’t shake the look on his face though, and it wasn’t even anything obvious. If Carlina’s poker face is bad, then Ollie’s is very, very good. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and I think that’s what’s unnerved me the most. It was impassive. Expressionless. Blank, but still focused on me. Almost as if he was staring into space and space happened to be my reflection in that mirror. Everyone else was engaging in conversations around him. His girlfriend was sitting next to him, scrolling through her phone, and he was just ignoring it all, allowing it all to happen around him, watching me through the glass.

  Our pizzas arrive and Lucas talks throughout. A lot more about his job. A little about how his housemate Simon’s car failed its MOT, and instead of getting it fixed, he just threw money at buying a new one. And about some terrible service he got in HMV the other day.

  ‘I didn’t even realise HMV was still a thing,’ I laugh.

  ‘You’ve entirely missed the point of the story,’ he huffs.

  ‘Alright, sorry,’ I say. ‘How’s your pizza?’

  ‘Delicious,’ he says. ‘Save room for dessert.’

  ‘Actually, I was wondering if maybe we could pop back to the pub. You were right; I did sort of just stick with Carlina and Mickey
. And it would be nice to show you off to everyone else, too.’

  But Lucas doesn’t look into it.

  ‘Would you mind if we didn’t, Franny, darling? I’m bushed after this week.’

  ‘Oh. Right, okay then.’

  ‘You’re coming back to Battersea though, right?’

  ‘Guess so,’ I say, folding up a slice of pizza and tearing off some of the crust with my teeth. His eyes linger over me doing this, and then he cuts off a neat mouthful with his knife and fork.

  ‘Are you disappointed? I suppose we could pop back quickly, if you really wanted. You’ll see them on Monday though. Anyway, I haven’t seen you for a while and I’d quite like you all to myself.’

  ‘Won’t Simon be in?’

  ‘No, he’s gone to Canterbury. If you didn’t want dessert here, we could always pick something up on the way home? Or get something delivered? Make ourselves cosy up in my room…’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I say, and thoughts of going back to the pub are forgotten, and even though we walk by on the way back to the station, and my new colleagues are definitely still there, and even though Lucas stops at the door and tells me it’d be fine to go back in for a bit, I shake my head and kiss him instead and we carry on past.

  Instead, we stop off at the supermarket on the way back to his flat, pick up a tub of ice cream and chocolate Viennese biscuits and a packet of Reese’s Pieces and raspberries. He seems different when it’s just us. Like he has less to prove. He’s less showy and more relaxed, and this is the side of him I like better. This is the side of him I used to see more than I do these days. At home, he throws his keys down on the shelf by the front door and kicks off his shoes and I do the same and follow him into the kitchen. He squeezes the tub of ice cream and it gives a little under his grip.

  ‘This is perfect; let’s make sundaes and eat them in front of a movie under a duvet.’

  ‘Can we eat them out of your actual sundae glasses?’

  ‘Obviously,’ he says, ducking down and taking them out of the cupboard. He grins at me as he places them on the side and layers them up. Raspberries first, then ice cream, then the sweets, then more ice cream and biscuits on top.

  ‘Thank you. Pudding of glory,’ I say, as he holds one out for me.

  His room is such a boy’s bedroom, full of dark flat-pack furniture from IKEA. There’s a big TV mounted on the wall, and blinds instead of curtains and a guitar in a stand gathering dust in the corner. When we first started seeing each other I’d asked him to play me something, and he’d looked a little bit sheepish and admitted he didn’t know how, but he’d bought it because he knew girls liked it. He sits back on his bed and flicks on the television. Pats the spot next to him and puts his arm around me as I get under the covers and snuggle up next to him.

  ‘What did you feel like watching?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m not sure it really matters,’ he says. His hand drops down behind my back and over my bum and he gives it a squeeze through my skirt. ‘It’s probably just going to be on in the background.’

  ‘So why bother putting on anything at all?’ I ask, but I already know the answer. Lucas always likes something on in the background. He says he needs it or he can’t finish. ‘It’s not like there’s anyone else here.’

  ‘It’s not really because of Simon,’ he says. ‘I just like a bit of background noise. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘No, I just thought it was to, you know, drown out sounds.’

  ‘Nooo,’ he laughs, choosing a channel at random, and turning the volume down so it’s little more than a hum in the room. ‘I just like it.’ Then he switches off the side light and takes the half-eaten sundae out of my hands, depositing it on the nightstand next to his and kisses me, slowly at first, nibbling my bottom lip and flicking his tongue over mine and I feel a spark low down. The glow from the television casts bluey-green shadows on the wall, and I pull the duvet right up over our heads like a cocoon and push myself up against him.

  ‘Take off your top,’ he whispers, and I do. He unclasps my bra and throws it across the room, gazing at my breasts with the same wonder as a kid at Christmas.

  ‘Take off yours,’ I giggle, reaching for his belt and fumbling a little with the buckle. He’s hard against the palm of my hand.

  ‘Sooo, this sex act at Henley Regatta,’ he says, pushing his trousers down his legs and kicking them out of the side of the bed.

  ‘What, the one you won’t be getting because you’d rather take Babooshka?’

  ‘I wouldn’t rather take her, Fran, but I think I’ll be expected to.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I say. ‘I’ll just do it now, instead, shall I?’

  ‘I was hoping you would,’ he says, glinty-eyed, and I leave a trail of kisses down his body as I make my way south.

  * * *

  ‘Look in the mirror,’ he says, a little later on, after he’s recovered from what I think was a fantastic blow job and we’re having some pretty nice, albeit not very adventurous sex. I’ve angled myself for maximum G-spot access and I’m concentrating hard on getting off. This is something I’ve noticed happens when he comes first. It’s not that he loses interest as such, it’s just that he’s not quite so invested in my pleasure afterwards. I’ve also noticed that this has started happening more and more, but I try to push that particular thought back down to where it came from.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because… I want to watch us. It’s a bit porny.’

  ‘Porny, you say?’

  I feel like this is a turn up for the books, and I could definitely be into it, so I scoot around and gaze into the mirror doors of his wardrobe and he reaches over and plays with my nipple and kisses my neck, and he’s watching me all the time. He smiles lazily, and pulls the duvet back and we’re a mishmashed tangle of limbs and slightly sheeny bodies. I try not to focus on the fact that he hasn’t taken his socks off as he rubs his foot against my calf, and I look back in the mirror again, this time right into his eyes. This could be nice, right? A sexy way to connect. It feels really intimate. I take his hand and put his index finger in my mouth. But just as I begin to feel things happening, my other mirror experience of the evening drifts into the fore and all I can see is Ollie, and that antique, speckled, gilt-framed mirror behind the bar in The Whippet. Lucas nibbles my ear lobe. He grabs at my hip and speeds up his rhythm, and drops his hand down between my legs. I close my eyes.

  ‘I’m gonna come again, Franny,’ he mutters. I’m just glad one of us is.

  * * *

  I wake up, cosy and warm as the light begins to stream in through the window the following morning. Lucas is curled up, facing the other way, and I cuddle in and wrap my arms around his waist and nuzzle his neck until he stirs and reaches back to pat my bottom.

  ‘Hey, good morning,’ I whisper.

  ‘It’s early, Franny,’ he says.

  ‘Turn around and cuddle me then. Let’s not get up yet.’

  And he does, but only, I notice, for a few minutes before he rolls over again. Just long enough for him to make the assumption I’ve drifted off back to sleep, and now I feel odd about trying to be affectionate again.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask, taking his hand.

  ‘Of course,’ he says, and offers a perfunctory kiss on my forehead.

  ‘Good. What shall we do today? We have the whole day. Maybe we could do something? Have a mooch around somewhere or hang out at a pub, or walk around Hyde Park?’

  ‘Hmm. Actually, Fran, it’s Parkrun in a little bit.’

  ‘At Battersea Park?’

  ‘No. Wandsworth Common.’

  Christ, I think, that’s a mission. Is he really going to pass up a morning in bed with me to run around a dewy park with hordes of other people? I fear the answer might well be ‘yes’.

  ‘Well, I could come and be your own personal cheer squad if you like?’ I hear myself say and instantly regret it. ‘Or,’ I add, quickly, ‘how about I get some stuff in and make a nice breakfast? It’ll be ready when you co
me back.’

  ‘Ah, see well the thing is, I usually go for brunch after with the guys.’

  I don’t know who the guys are. He’s never mentioned the guys to me before.

  ‘Well, can I not join you at brunch with the guys? I haven’t really felt like I’ve seen you properly in ages.’

  ‘You saw me properly last night. And you wanted to go back to the pub to be with your colleagues instead of seeing me properly.’

  ‘But Lucas, we didn’t go back to the pub…’ I trail off. It’s like I have to fight to see him, and I don’t love it. I don’t like to admit it but he’s been getting more and more like this since he got his job on the McLelland account. Distracted, perhaps. Definitely more distant. We’ve been together long enough for me to notice a change, and I’ve been telling myself he’s just trying to make an impression or ramp up his career. But today is Saturday, and therefore he’s not at work. So why do I feel at the lower end of his priority list? He shrugs at me, and I could argue, but it won’t change anything.

  ‘Oh right. I get it. Well, shall I leave the same time as you then?’

  I’m not going to suggest doing something later on again. I want to see if he does. He could still turn this around. He could come over to Stratford. I could make tarragon chicken with tenderstem broccoli and wild rice. We could mop up the sauce with focaccia. We could fall into bed and carry on where we left off. We could try the mirror thing again. He wasn’t wrong about it feeling a bit porny. But he doesn’t mention any of that, and he doesn’t suggest anything either.

  ‘Yeah, if you don’t mind. It’s just you wouldn’t have a key and so if you left something it would be a pain for you.’

  Bit weird. I’ve never left anything here that I didn’t intend to. There was a time when we first got together that a sudden bout of insecurity made me plant a hairband in his bedroom. Call it marking my territory. It was small and innocuous enough for him to miss, but I knew if any other ladies were entertained, they’d notice it.