Then Art breaks the silence. ‘Morning,’ he says.
The expression on his face as he looks at me suggests he is not dying of embarrassment. He looks like he’s trying not to smile at me.
‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Sleep well?’ says Art.
‘Very.’ Then I remember the reason that our encounter was cut short the night before. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Um, I’m fine,’ says Art. ‘Of course! Areyouokay?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s just the phone call last night …’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Yeah. That was … that was nothing bad. Just … sorting out some life stuff.’
Another unwelcome thought hits me. ‘You were telling the truth when you said you weren’t seeing anyone, weren’t you?’ I say. ‘Because if you are then I wouldn’t have—’
‘Iwastelling the truth!’ says Art indignantly. ‘And look, speaking of last night …’
Here we go. I brace myself. If he’s going to tell me he’s so horrified by what we did he can’t bear to look at me, we might as well get it over with so we can stop being officemates and then never talk again.
‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ he says in a matter-of-fact way. ‘And once is a moment of madness. But twice is something else. There’s clearly this … thisthingbetween us. Whether we like it or not.’
I’m insulted by the implication that he’s drawn to me against his better judgement, but in fairness, it’s pretty much how I feel about him. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’re right. Whether we like it or not.’
‘It’s clearly just … pheromones or something,’ says Art.
First Roo, now Art. I’m about to tell him that the power of human pheromones has never been proved but this probably isn’t the best time to have an argument about science, something I suspect neither of us knows much about. So I say, ‘Something like that. It’s biological.’
‘Exactly!’ says Art. ‘Okay. So if this … thing between us is going to be there anyway, why don’t we accept it for what it is?’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘You mean … stop fighting it?’
‘Well, yeah,’ says Art. ‘Just … letting what happens happen.Ifit happens. I mean, maybe it won’t. Maybe we’ve got it out of our systems now. But if we haven’t, let it be a sort of friends-with-benefits thing. No expectations, no strings attached.’
I think of him reading my script, insulting my dream job. ‘I wouldn’t call usfriendsexactly.’
Art rolls his eyes. ‘Fine. Enemies with benefits, then.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘That sounds a bit harsh.’
‘Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re seriously arguing about the terminology,’ says Art. ‘Frenemies with benefits. Whatever. Look, McDermott, what happened last night – I enjoyed it, you certainlyseemedto enjoy it …’
‘Oh, I enjoyed it.’ I feel anyone who’s that good at giving me an orgasm needs to be encouraged to keep doing what he’s doing. For the sake of everyone with a clitoris.
‘Well then!’ says Art. ‘Let’s keep … doing it. As long as there’s this, I dunno, vibe between us. This tension. Whatever this is.’ He looks at me. I get a sudden memory of the way he looked at me last night when I was lying on the couch.
‘Sure,’ I say, as lightly if he’d just suggested getting a coffee.
Now we’ve made this sensible decision, it’s clear neither of us knows what to do next. I feel I should lighten the mood.
‘So,’ I say, ‘will we pencil in a quick shag in the stationery cupboard for this afternoon?’
Art blinks. ‘Sorry?’
I instantly regret saying anything. ‘Oh God, that was meant to be a joke! We don’t have to, like, do anything for the sake of it.’
‘Agreed,’ he says. ‘That would be ridiculous.’