‘It’s a yes,’ I say, my voice raw.
‘Good,’ says Art. And undoes his belt.
I’m about to suggest that we move to my room – I’m pretty sure I’ve got a couple of hopefully not-expired condoms somewhere in my desk drawer, and I think we’ve already gone more than far enough on Roo’s nice Ikea couch – when there’s a buzzing and vibrating from Art’s pocket. He ignores it and I try to ignore it too, but no sooner has his phone stopped buzzing than it starts again. Whoever’s called him isn’t giving up.
‘Fuck,’ says Art. ‘I’d better … sorry, it could be an emergency.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Yeah, of course.’
He takes out his phone just as it stops buzzing again, and when he looks at it his face changes. He stares at the screen for a second and then looks down at me as he puts it back in his pocket.
‘You okay?’ I say.
‘I can’t believe I’m saying this,’ says Art, ‘because I really,reallydon’t want to leave you right now, but I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.’ He starts to buckle his belt. ‘And believe me, it’s nothing to do with you. I wouldn’t leave if it weren’t important.’
I remember him telling Bernard he came home to Dublin for personal reasons. Maybe there’s some serious family issue. Whatever it is, there’s something in his voice that makes me believe him when he says he doesn’t want to leave.
I push my hair back from my face. ‘It’s okay, Art,’ I say. ‘Really.’ And I mean it. I’m still floating on the rush of that orgasm and I don’t feel rejected or humiliated. Yes, I’m sorry we can’t keep going but I’m already very,verysatisfied. I grab my strawberry top and slip it back over my head before I stand up, pulling down my skirt. Art buttons up his shirt and looks around for his laptop bag, which got chucked on the floor somewhere between the front door and the couch. He spots it just inside the sitting-room door and picks it up.
‘So … goodnight,’ he says. ‘And sorry again about rushing off.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ I say.
‘See you— oh, fuck it,’ says Art. He strides back across the room and pulls me in for one last kiss. I feel myself rising up on my toes to meet his lips, then he dips me backwards – seriously, hedipsme, like someone out of an old film – and for a moment it’s like time stands still again.
Art gently lifts me to my feet. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Okay, I’m really leaving now.’
And then he’s gone.
I’m still in a daze as I pick up my knickers – which Art had apparently flung halfway across the room and which I find hanging off the back of a chair – and get ready for bed. I’m waiting for the reality of what I’ve done to hit me. I’m waiting to be horrified by the fact that Art Sullivan has seen me half naked, that he knows what my face looks like when I come. But it doesn’t happen. The horror never arrives.
And when I finally go to bed, I sleep better than I have in weeks.
Chapter Fourteen
INT: ANNIE AND ROO’S HOUSE / INT:NORTHSIDEOFFICES
‘Pheromones,’ says Roo, a workday vision in black chiffon and red lipstick, as she places a large cup of coffee in front of me. Roo may love her witchy tisanes, but she knows that sometimes only a strongly caffeinated drink will do. ‘It must be pheromones.’
‘Hasn’t that human pheromone stuff been debunked?’ I say. ‘I think it might have been debunked.’
‘Well, then it’s clearly something biological,’ says Roo. ‘I mean, you claim you’re not into him—’
‘I’m not!’ I say. And I mean it. ‘Seriously, Roo, everything about him rubs me up the wrong way …’
‘Sounds like he was rubbing you up the right way last night,’ says Roo.
‘Shut up!’
‘Well, do you regret it?’ she says. ‘The—’
‘Don’t say rubbing again,’ I say.
I’ve had a good few hours to think about this question now. And miraculously, the answer is no. Logically, I know I should. Logically, I should be dreading the thought of seeing Art again. God knows I felt hideously awkward after our first kiss. But now … now I feel different. I don’t feel any regret or shame. Maybe Roo’s right. Maybe this was just some biological thing, someanimalthing, and we can accept it as such. It had nothing to do with me and him as people, two people who clearly clash with each other. It was just … nature. A natural phenomenon. Like … like the weather.
‘I don’t regret it,’ I say.
I still don’t regret it when I walk into our office an hour and a half later and Art turns around in his seat and meets my eyes. For a moment neither of us says anything and then, all of a sudden, I’m filled with fear. I can’t tell what he’s thinking and somehow it’s only hitting me now that maybe, despite everything he said last night,Artis regretting what happened. My blasé attitude only works if both of us feel the same way. If he’s dying of embarrassment, then this is going to get very, very awkward indeed.