Page 42 of The Happiness Blueprint
“A coffee, yes please.”
“Cool. Be right there.”
I sat and waited for six minutes, which was probably too long to sit and wait for a coffee order and a boyfriend collecting it, before I went to check on him. The rest is history, as they say. I came back with a hot beverage and no boyfriend.
The original plan was this: study architecture while in long-distance relationship with Tom. The newly devised one was: not study architecture and not have a boyfriend at all. I decided to do what those in gap years do—take a retail or hospitality job while continuing to attempt the English-language test.
To date I have sat for a total of thirty-one IELTS tests and my highest score is 6.9. I stopped three years ago and found employment with YourMove, accepting that this will be my all-time high score. Which, really, is my all-time low score, if you think about it.
We stay until the bottle of wine is finished, then head out onto the cobbled sidewalk with rosy cheeks. There are many reasons why I shouldn’t sleep with Tom. If you want them, ask Alice, not me, as I’ve now pushed them as far back in my mind as I possibly can. There is really just one thought there, playing on Repeat like an especially fascinating YouTube video.Please want me.I can’t mute it—it’s not really a YouTube video, is it? I’ve given up deciding. I leave the decision to Tom. Does he want me? It turns out that he does.
“Come to mine for a coffee, Klara?” he says as we stand next to the replacement car the mechanic has given me while they do up the van. It’s the perfect opportunity for me to say good-night, hop in and drive off into the night. The problem with me is that I’m very good at missing perfect opportunities (references can be provided on request).
“We just had an espresso after dessert.” I can still taste the bitterness of the coffee on my tongue. My memory hasn’t totally failed me.
“So have something else. At my place.”
“Do you live close by?” What is wrong with me? As if it mattered how close he lives.Oh no, that’s too far to walk for my little legs. I will call it a night.
“Very close.” He is now standingvery close.My heart beats faster. Tom takes my hand, and I follow him quietly, being led away, like a child.
“Okay then, let’s go.”Before I change my mind,I think.
His apartment is beautiful, on the top floor of an early nineteenth-century building. Spacious and extravagantly furnished. I would have been incredibly impressed, but I know that his apartment would cost less than a central London bedsit. I still tell him it’s amazing.
“Are you making coffee, then?” I ask as he walks around the living room turning light switches on, dimming them to perfection. The duskier the room, the clearer his intentions become.
“We just had coffee after dessert, remember?” He walks over to me and puts his hands around my face. He is slightly taller than me, and I lift my face up to him. The only thing I’m thinking is that I hope I look beautiful; I hope he regrets what he did to me all those years ago.
I don’t mind kisses or anything intimate, really, because it’s predictable. Every guy has the same script. Lips meet, tongue tries to sneak in, pulling them apart like curtains, hand on hip/breast/face (insert one), pull away and look into eyes. Repeat. Tom has read the script well. We are now on the third repeat.
In that moment I’ve decided to sleep with Tom. Google says not to sleep with a man on the first date, but I’ve dated Tom before and this would be date number sixty, or so I conclude after quick calculations. I can definitely sleep with a man on date sixty.
“Oh, Klara, I missed you.” It’s exactly what I want to hear. I take my dress off, looking at him for a reaction.
“God, you’re beautiful. So much better than I remember. How stupid was I? Come here.”
Mm-hmm yes, very stupid, keep going.
He undresses fast and pauses as if he’s waiting for a reaction. He’s fit, his pecs bulge, but all I can think of is how they are shaped exactly like the slobbery chicken breasts you slice up for a midweek stir-fry.
He places his hand around my wrist pulling me toward him, and I follow him into the bedroom where I sit down awkwardly on the bed, unsure what I should do next. It’s been months since I was last naked in front of a man. I’m painfully aware of the fact that my twenty-six-year-old body is very different to the slim, almost skinny girl that Tom undressed all those years ago.
“God, Klara. So damn hot. God, look at you.” I hadn’t anticipated quite so much God in the room.
Tom kisses me again and pushes me gently onto the bed. He massages my breast as if the glands in them are particularly stubborn knots in a tense back that he is determined to release. I touch his body and remember how I used to feel about it. Now it’s just a body, and not a particularly special one.
“Does it come off?” Tom traces the outline of the small round device that is my CGM, with his index finger. He has stopped stroking me.
“Uh, only every two weeks when I change it.”
“It’s just I find it a bit uncomfortable. Makes me think I have to be gentle with you.”
“The equipment that keeps me alive disturbs you?”
“You didn’t used to have it.”
“Because I injected myself four times a day and pricked my finger with a little needle twice as many. There’s been breakthrough technology since then.”
