Page 74 of Things We Never Said
‘Perhaps we could go for a walk out in Brampton Wood?’ he said. ‘It’s a lovely evening.’
And because I had decided to tell him that nothing between us was ever going to happen, and because I was going to tell him to stop stalking me, and because I was in no real hurry to do either of those things, I said, ‘Yes.’
When we got to Brampton Wood, he pulled on the handbrake and then gently touched my knee. I didn’t move. I bit my lip. I stared straight ahead.
‘Please,’ Jake said. ‘Just a kiss.’
And I caved in. I know, I know, I should have been stronger. But I wasn’t, and I lost track of myself. I launched myself at him. I ran my fingers over the cotton of his collar, over his silky tie, and then I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him. And, just for a moment, I wasn’t myself. For one fantasy instant I was a completely different person, a woman in a film, perhaps, kissing a very elegant, confident man on the leather seats of his perfectly restored MG. I’m pretty sure a shrink would say that it all came back to my lack of self-confidence. The bit of rough from Margate was still haunting me, I think.
We kissed for a bit and then I pulled away. I said something like, ‘I thought you wanted to walk in the woods, not frolic in them.’
Jake laughed and said, ‘All right then.’ He was always the gentleman. He was never pushy. It was always as much my fault as it ever was his.
He pulled on his jacket and we walked into the woods together. The bluebells were in flower and it was like a sea of blue and I wished I’d had my camera with me. But then I realised I’d never be able to convincingly explain why I was out in Brampton Wood in the first place.
As both of our ‘real’ lives were off limits, for obvious reasons, it seemed hard to find things to talk about. Jake spoke about the cats, I seem to remember, and I eventually mentioned what a snappy dresser he was. He told me that one of the partners in the law firm had walked him to his tailor on the day he had started twenty years ago and he had never changed tailors since. ‘It’s just a uniform, really,’ he said. ‘As a lawyer, you can’t even vary it very much. I allow myself some quirky cufflinks and a flashy tie or two, but there’s not much else you can do. It’s a bit boring, if you ask me.’
I told him that I didn’t find it boring at all. I said that jeans and T-shirts were boring.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’ve heard that before. Women do seem to like a man in a suit. Considering how much effort guys seem to put into attracting the fairer sex, it’s a wonder more of them don’t wear them.’
When we got back to the car, we sat, side by side, in silence.
‘We need to stop this,’ I said, eventually. ‘I’m married.’
‘I know,’ he said sadly. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll stop if you want me to.’
‘I think that would be best,’ I said, ‘for everyone concerned.’
He nodded, stroked my fingers briefly with his big smooth hand – the contact felt electric – and then started the engine.
We drove in silence all the way back until we reached the first roundabout on the ring road, when he said, sounding miserable, ‘So, left or right?’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Right,’ Jake said. ‘Please say right. Just for five minutes?’
I nodded silently. I don’t know why I did that. I really don’t. I seemed to be on some kind of autopilot.
When we got to his place, he closed the front door and we kissed against it, and there really was something powerful and animalistic – something fetishistic, almost certainly – about being forcefully kissed by him dressed like that. Between the smooth wool of his suit, the satin back of the waistcoat and the crisp white collar, between the softness of his skin and the stubble of his five o’clock shadow, there seemed to be so many textures to run my fingers over. I’ve always had a thing for textures, and I couldn’t get enough of the feel of him. I couldn’t, somehow, get close enough to him.
We kissed frantically for a few moments and then I let Jake pull my top over my head and lead me by the hand into the lounge.
A big candle was burning in a glass lantern and there was a bottle of champagne sitting in an ice bucket. The ice had almost melted.
It had all been planned from the start, I realised, and I suddenly had second thoughts. I suddenly wanted to stop the whole thing and run away. But Jake was pouring champagne and walking towards me and I felt bad for him and bad for you, and confused and guilty. It seemed like an unsolvable riddle.
He kissed me and pulled me towards him, and it felt heavenly again, and the sensible, doubtful, faithful parts of me were all momentarily drowned out by a rush of hormones or endorphins or something.
We did the wicked deed just once, there on the couch, and the truth is that even as it was happening, I had already changed my mind. But I liked Jake. He really was a very likeable guy, and I suppose I didn’t want to hurt his feelings either. And there was something about his willpower to move forward that overwhelmed my own desire to stop. When he pulled a condom as if from nowhere, I realised again what I already knew, that this had all been planned and that Jake was way too cocky – way too sure of himself. What had attracted me to him was already pushing me away.
Nothing about it was violent or unpleasant; Jake was nothing but respectful and, though I thought about it a hundred times, I didn’t say no and I didn’t say stop. And yet, by the time it was over, everything felt wrong. It was as if I had come back to myself, as if I had woken up and couldn’t work out, suddenly, what I was even doing there. I had broken out in a cold sweat.
Jake was looking smitten. He re-zipped himself up (sensitive to my fantasies, he had remained fully clothed throughout) and refilled his glass with champagne and said, ‘Sorry, I’m not usually that quick. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about you for—’
‘Don’t,’ I interrupted.
‘I’m sorry?’
