(Continued from Single On Ice)
It’s like a swimming pool sign before my eyes. No lunging. NO LUNGING.
VP gives me a steady look. ‘So, what’s it to be? Hampstead…’
Which he’s painted as a den of debauchery.
‘… or Sussex?’
Shorthand for prim, coy, demure, virginal – his basic nightmare.
‘This is when you have to make a decision.’
My arm is around his neck; his hands are God knows where. Not in Sussex, that’s for sure. I badly want to kiss him. No, that’s not true. I want him to kiss me, well. I look down the street, seeking inspiration.
His hand comes up to caress my neck.
No lunging, no lunging.
I flap my arm – the one around his neck – in the air.
His kiss is… put it like this, it doesn’t make the dilemma in which I find myself any easier to resolve. And so, to delay the moment when I will have to say goodbye either to my – feminists, avert your eyes – spotless moral character, or to VP, I lunge.