Page 17 of Love in Tune

Honey screwed up her nose. ‘Honestly, it’s stupid.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ he said. ‘Tell me, Honeysuckle. Why are you dating pianists?’

‘Tell me Hal, why do I suddenly feel like Clarice Starling inSilence of the Lambs?’

‘I’ll let you live as long as you answer the question.’

Honey puffed out hard. ‘I’m dating pianists because … because my friends think my sex life needs spicing up, okay?’

Hal laughed. Actually laughed. And then he stopped, and said, ‘But why a pianist? Aren’t they all dull as fuck?’

Honey scrubbed her hand over her forehead. Why was she telling him this stuff? It felt akin to being on a therapist’s couch.

‘I don’t know any pianists yet to tell you whether they’re dull as fuck or not. I’ll let you know after Friday night.’ She paused. ‘Although strictly speaking, Deano plays the synthesiser, not the piano.’

‘I’m going to ask you again, Honey, real slow,’ Hal said. ‘Why pianists in particular?’

‘Jeez, Hal! Do we have to do this?’

‘Stop avoiding the question. I’m your poor blind neighbour and you’re my only contact with the outside world. Have a heart.’

Honey gasped at his blatant manipulation. ‘That’s not fair and you know it.’

‘Life’s not fair. Take it from someone who knows. Why pianists?’

‘Christ, Hal!’ she burst out. ‘Because they’re bound to be good with their hands, okay? My friends have this crazy-ass idea that a pianist will make the perfect lover for me because they’ll be all skilled and clever and sensitive.’

Hal replied to her outburst with deafening silence. And then, ‘How old are you, Honey?’

She sighed. ‘Twenty-seven.’

He was quiet again, and then, ‘No fucking way. You’re twenty-seven years old and you’re still a virgin?’

‘No! No … I’m not a virgin. That’s not it at all. I’ve had my share of men, thank you very much.’ She spoke without thinking, and then half wished she hadn’t because now she’d backed herself into an even more excruciating corner. She shook her head, rolled her eyes, and decided to just get it out of the way fast.

‘Look. I happened to tell them that I don’t orgasm during sex and they went all batshit crazy on me. I tried telling them it’s no big deal, it’s just the way my body is, but they don’t believe me, and now they’re trying to set me up with men they think will prove me wrong and make me scream louder than Meg Ryan inWhen Harry Met Sally.’ She paused to breathe. ‘There. Happy now? My name is Honeysuckle Jones and I don’t orgasm. Is that interesting enough for you, or would you like more?’

She slumped against the wall, hot cheeked and suddenly exhausted.

After a few seconds, Hal spoke, and he sounded incredulous. ‘You mean you don’t come during sex, or you don’t come at all?’

This was turning into a carbon copy of her conversation with Tash and Nell. ‘At all. At. All. Can we talk about something else now, please? It’s your turn to tell me something I don’t know about you.’

She could almost hear Hal shaking his head. ‘Surely you can make yourself come though? On your own?’

Great. They were going to discuss masturbation and they barely even knew each other. ‘Hal. Let me spell this out.’ Honey crossed her arms over her chest. ‘My body doesn’t orgasm, not for me or for anyone else. It’s a basic, physical fact, one to which I have become well adjusted and believe it or not, am totally fine with. It doesn’t make me frigid; I still enjoy sex perfectly well. I’m pretty damn good at it, if you must know.’ Her chin jutted defiantly in the air.

He was laughing again, she could hear him. It made her glad and mad at the same time.

‘I’m sure you are, given that you’ve had more than your fair share of men and all.’

Terrific. Now she sounded like a slapper. ‘I didn’t say more than my fair share and you well know it.’ She could hear Hal screwing up his chip wrapper. ‘Pass me your rubbish. I’ll stick it in the bin outside, save it stinking out your flat.’

Would he open the door? She could hear him moving, and she balled up her chip paper and pulled herself up too. After a few moments of hesitation, the door slowly opened and Hal stood there, louche as always in his uniform of old jeans and t-shirt, his dark hair rumpled in a rock star sexy kind of way.

‘Thanks for dinner, Strawberry Girl,’ he said softly, holding out his wrapper. She took it and pushed it into hers, digesting the nickname with a half smile and pinpricks of pleasure down the back of her neck. She was almost relieved that he didn’t know that her cheeks were as pink as her shampoo.

‘I picked up some things for you from the supermarket,’ she said, bending down to the carrier on the floor. ‘Bread.’ She held out the loaf until the cellophane touched his fingers and he took it from her wordlessly, laying it carefully on the table in his hallway.

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