Another Country by Anjali Joseph Read Free Book Online

ruffled his hair. It made him look older, and slightly wild. ‘Yeah, it’s always good to have an eye at the exit, isn’t it?’ He put the cigarette in the ashtray, put the ashtray down, eyed Leela with a quick calculating glance that the quiet part of her consciousness noted – but wait and see what happens, urged the rest of her mind – sat down, leaned quickly over and kissed her. He took one shoulder to keep her steady, and she cooperatively kissed him back, noticing that his lips were soft, that he pushed his tongue into her mouth too soon but withdrew it as quickly, that he was good at this, that it wasn’t having any effect on her beyond the most automatic physical arousal, and that he tasted of both cigarettes and mint.
    He pulled back, smiled at her, a smile of elation with himself. ‘Stay here tonight?’
    Leela, the eternal wanderer with no destination to aim for, said, ‘Okay.’
    â€˜Come and see the bedroom.’ He jumped up, pulled her with him, raised his eyebrows, mocking the moment. She laughed. He came back for his drink. The cigarette had gone out. Leela followed him, turning at the door to look at her abandoned mug of tea.
    The staircase was narrow, the carpet plush and thick; she followed Simon up it, looking at his bum and wondering with the usual self-amusement if she was really about to become better acquainted with it. His trousers looked vaguely dad-like, she worried. Atop the stairs was an opening. She stepped into a large attic, with two skylights and pale blue walls. The bed was a white, messy island.
    â€˜It’s a lovely room,’ she said, but Simon was bending to kiss her again, more intent, and his expression – she kept her eyes open, alarmed at herself – was completely serious, admitting of no humour. She felt self-conscious, she wanted to make a joke; she put up her arms to hold his upper arms, and he put a hand up her top, moved aside her bra to rub her nipple, a gesture that made her flinch, or shiver, she wasn’t sure.

    When she woke it was early. Cold morning came through the skylights. Simon slept on his back, his breathing audible, like a standing fan. One arm came out of the covers. His hair was rumpled. She felt no desire to touch him, and recollected their long and exhausting feints in bed – the various things he’d done, with which she’d cooperated, increasingly wishing she’d gone home: his putting his fingers roughly into her to feel her wetness, then licking her, something she found intensely embarrassing, and this time, not particularly arousing, and finally sex. She had thought she might come, but hadn’t; had wondered whether to pretend, however that was done, but hadn’t; he had persisted for a long time before finishing. After that he’d tried to touch her, instructing her to move against his hand, but she’d said instead that she was tired, and he had rolled over. How was it possible, when you’d had an apparently urbane, socially competent time earlier, to find yourselves behaving so ineptly when unclothed? She had failed, she supposed; yet, obstinately, she still wanted to be loved.
    Confused, parched, and with an incipient headache, she got up from the edge of the bed where she’d lain all night for fear of being caressed in sleep, or the desire that if this happened it should be done deliberately. There were her clothes, strewn about the floor. She picked them up, looked back at Simon, who snuffled and moved the arm that hung off the bed. There was a book on the floor. She moved it to the armchair, then tiptoed down the stairs with her clothes clutched to her. In the beautiful living room, hunched near the bookshelves where she was least visible from the street, she put on her clothes, first her bra, then her pants, wincing at the slight soreness. She looked round the room when dressed, as though to gauge its expression – would she and this place meet