Natalia slipped off Neill’s lap to one side, as French breakfasts, salads, avocados on toast and cassoulets were handed around with a mouth-watering murmuration, although, it seemed for the girls, the priority was to photograph it. Natalia nervously caught sight of Claire and Monica hovering phones over their plates, followed by a giggling selfie together.
Her knee nudged Neill’s.
Neill piped up. ‘Just to say, don’t get me in any photos guys. Nor Natalia. Neither of us do Facebook nor want to be on it, so…’
Claire and Monica looked over.
‘Keep your selfies selfies, and your food pics, food pics, is the message, ladies,’ Justin added.
‘Guess with your job,’ began Max, ‘dating an 18-year-old student is a bit…’
‘Yeah. Close to the bone let’s just say,’ replied Neill. ‘Not a fan of social media regardless. How’s your bean stew?’
They tucked in, as Monica spoke up between mouthfuls, in a rippling sun-kissed voice: ‘So, Rich, flying visit, I take it?’
‘Yes, we drive back tomorrow.’
‘You’re still a Head at the school, right?’
‘Yep.’
‘You were an English teacher to start, weren’t you?’ joined in Alice. ‘I was always amazed at how quickly you even became a Deputy! Aren’t you one of the youngest Heads in the country? Most don’t get in till their forties!’
‘Cream rises, Alice,’ winked Neill.
‘And just in case, he’s got Natalia to feel even younger,’ added Max.
‘Yup, an excuse to never grow up,’ laughed Ed.
‘What are you up to these days, Claire?’ Neill grunted whilst forking his Caesar salad. ‘Still in teaching, or…?’
‘Writing a film script! Well, trying to!’ replied Claire, mid-biting her toast. ‘Ed’s helping me. But I also want to go travelling again. Have you been away at all?’
‘Not since the Caribbean.’
‘That was what, three years ago? With Han—?’
‘More than four I think. I wanted a change of life instead,’ answered Neill.
‘Well it’s great to see you happy again,’ she grinned as she inclined forward, ‘you look pretty loved up!’
‘That’s very sweet of you Claire,’ as Neill turned to Natalia who had managed four mouthfuls of dressed salad without grimacing. ‘What do you reckon, my darling? Do you feel loved up?’
‘Not as much as this Winner’s-Sauce-dressed salad.’
Neill and Claire hooted in laughter.
‘I’m sure he’ll give you chance to demonstrate undressing one,’ retorted Ed.
‘Ed!’ stared Monica.
‘Not if he’s booked us at the Travelodge,’ smirked Natalia.
The table laughed.
‘And yourself Mon,’ Neill continued, ‘how’s the agency? Did you expand as you wanted?’
‘Only around the waistline,’ came back Ed, as this time Claire frowned, ‘Ed!’
‘I meant you Claire.’
Claire gaped.
‘We opened the office in Oxford, and we’re doing Brighton and Southampton,’ Monica replied proudly, ‘and hopefully two more next year.’
‘Pretty good going!’ Neill raised his coffee in a toast to the smiling Monica, as she now looked to Natalia, and with the kind of wide, supportive smile that Natalia suddenly realised she’d always missed from her mum or really anyone in her life: ‘And you’re an artist, right?’
‘Studying,’ replied Natalia, ‘although I also want to be a writer.’
‘Wow! Multi-talented girl!’
‘So what drew you to Rich?’ laughed Max.
‘The fact he likes me of course,’ Natalia came back.
The table cackled again.
‘Sounds like he’s met his equal for boisterous sarcasm. Bravo, young lady,’ Ed raised his coffee in mock sincerity.
‘Shut up Ed,’ chuckled Neill. ‘Have you met someone yet as much of a fuck as you are?’
‘Well if you take that word to be literal,’ began Ed, and they laughed and wise-cracked till their empty plates were pushed away, including Natalia’s half eaten-one, and bodies reclined as fag packets came back out, lighters were clicked and the mood was lubricated by satiated midday bellies.
Neill lit up and puffed, bringing his arm around Natalia, who inclined her head to his collarbone, as another cloud of his smoke fell slowly upon them, which to her for all the world could have been scented rose mist; resting her ear between his chest and neck, feeling each grunt of acknowledgement that came deep from his chest to punctuate the surrounding conversation, which had now turned to the topic of latest movies.
Feeling more acclimatised, she traced her fingers briefly along Neill’s smoking hand, as he twitched his head round to her in surprise, to see her gently plucking his fag to take a drag herself, which Max noticed and remarked:
‘I’ve never seen you share a fag with anyone, Rich!’
‘I don’t have much of a choice with this one,’ said Neill.
‘So you say you met at Art College?’ asked Justin.
‘I was up there one afternoon on an Open Day,’ began Neill, as Natalia wondered where he was going with this one. ‘It was rather dull till I got to one room where they had a life drawing session…’
‘Oh, here we go,’ hooted Ed. ‘Like a sniffer dog you drooled straight into the room, into the middle of the model’s legs, barking, ‘I’ve found it!’’
Justin chortled. ‘Ed!’
‘No no, Natalia was not naked but she might as well have been. Because there she was, this absolutely stunning girl sitting in this exact red dress who happened to be drawing the best sketch in the entire room— ’
‘Oh, that’s sweet!’ enthused Claire, as Natalia kept decidedly quiet.
‘Tits! Tits everywhere he looked! Naked, clothed and drawn! What more can Rich want!’
‘Ed - shut up,’ repeated Monica.
Natalia lifted her head to add: ‘Actually it was a man we were drawing. A bald man who looked a bit like you, Ed. He was posing with his cocktail sausage like he’d just taken it from the freezer,’ as she heard a chuckle erupting from Neill’s throat, as Ed rejoined:
‘And the generosity with which she portrayed his manhood, confirmed to Rich that this girl will have no problem making up for his.’
Justin wheezed.
‘On the contrary Ed,’ said Natalia, ‘it was when Rich walked in that I had the inspiration to embellish bald baby prune into grown man’s girth.’
Neill’s body shook beneath her heartily at Ed’s now indignant face exclaiming:
‘Ooh! Such impertinence for a first meet, Art student!’
‘You started it, making references to my parts, mister.’
‘That’s you told,’ Neill winked, as Ed grinned back.
‘Now, now guys,’ piped up Justin, ‘can someone make the next one decaf for Ed? And Rich, finish your story, as cleanly as possible.’
Max laughed. ‘Cleanly if possible.’
‘Well I approached this gorgeous girl and she told me to fuck off, she’s busy drawing cock, not talking to one,’ said Neill, as Natalia rolled her eyes bemused, ‘and so I asked her for her number. She said the only number I need to worry about is 18, when she saw my greying side roots; and when she saw Headmaster and English teacher on my name badge she told me to fuck off back to my damp and stained pages of Vladimir Nabokov —’
‘Who? Was he the…?’ Claire muttered, as Monica and Ed waved a cursory hand, and Neill continued:
‘So I told her how impressed I was that she knew her literature too, and that if she came back to my wolf’s cottage I could read Little Red some fairytales instead, and as I smiled at her she said — ’
‘Oh Grandad, what a big bookmark you have!’ high-pitch-interjected Ed.
‘That was exactly! She screwed up her drawing and took my hand all the way home and— ’
‘Screwed you instead, and it was sleazy ever after,’ finished Ed, as Justin’s frown dissolved into laughter, and by this point Natalia’s face was in the same helpless bewilderment as the other girls’, settling on the ridiculous account of half-truths with a sarcastic smile:
‘Yeah. It was something like that.’
Her face weary with forced smiles and sighing for a break from the adrenalin, she excused herself to the toilet.
Claire was applying lipstick at the sinks.
‘Hi lovely! How are you enjoying your trip so far?’
‘Very good, thanks Claire,’ as Natalia washed her hands. ‘Nice to meet Neill’s friends.’
‘Must be five years I’ve known him now!’
‘You were a teaching assistant where he was, right?’
‘Yes at Richmond! We became fast friends and I met the others through him.’ She turned to Natalia who was now drying her hands on a paper towel. ‘You’re so young, 18, wow. Well, 19! I can’t believe it.’
‘Why’s it so weird?’ smiled Natalia.
‘Oh, it’s not weird at all - I don’t mean that sorry - I just mean, you can tell he really likes you.’
‘Really. How?’
Claire blinked momentarily at Natalia’s terseness with slight surprise, but nonetheless relished supplying a full smiling explanation.
‘Well, just look at him with you. Oh, I mean, he might be touchy feely with all the women he has!’ she laughed, ‘oh, probably shouldn’t say that! But - with you - aww, I don’t know. It’s like he adores you.’ She leaned closely, glancing to the door and said: ‘He already told me, actually, on the phone before - how much he likes you.’
‘Really,’ said Natalia, her face now twitching into new appreciation for Claire’s exaggerative manner.
‘Yeah, he told me he’d met someone, who was quite young for him, but he can’t get her out of his head. And that he was now seeing you, and was really excited to bring down to London.’
There was a pause as Natalia digested which part was real and which had to be part of his ‘story.’
‘You must be happy,’ her hand came to Natalia’s shoulder. ‘Goodness, only 19! What’s he like? What’s the sex like?!’
Natalia’s eyes widened.
‘Oh, sorry, such a question!’ Claire rubbed Natalia’s shoulder affectionately, hurriedly adding: ‘I’m so nosey! Too much coffee!’
Natalia half-smiled, at a loss of what to say back.
‘The thing is,’ said Claire, who had no problem filling the silence herself, moving closer: ‘I did once go for Neill. I liked him, but he didn’t want me’ - she laughed again - ‘but I never felt bitter because we stayed pals, that I didn’t feel jealous when he got married. Oh, wait, you know he was married right?’
‘Yeah, yeah…’
‘He always went for the beautiful, tall and charismatic women I knew I’d never live up to anyway!’
‘Aw, don’t be hard on yourself,’ smiled Natalia - wondering at the same time that neither was she tall and felt anything but charismatic.
‘Oh, bless you, I know how it sounds. But you’re different.’
‘How so?’
‘Oh, I can see it in the way you talk to me,’ she winked. ‘You’re so frank, so forthright, there’s no waffle. Is it a Northern thing?’
‘Maybe. Do you think that’s why he gravitated up North?’
‘Think he went looking for you!’ Claire laughed, then saw Natalia’s startled face, adding: ‘Oh, I’ve been keeping you too long in here, sorry. Let’s head back to the others.’
As they walked out, Claire whispered into her ear: ‘Sorry about the sex question. That was weird.’
‘No no, it’s alright…’
‘I’ve just always wondered, because we’ve all always known him as such a sex fiend. Always at it. Always talking about it. It’s a long running joke with us, I mean I’m sure you know all about his ways, but I threw the joke at you without you knowing!’
‘Mmm.’
Natalia’s thoughts ran amok. Christ, how about a virgin misconstrued. Had Neill brought her to London expecting sex with her? Was the kiss earlier a lead-up Claire said he adores her, which warmed her heart because she adores him too… he made her feel fuzzy and floaty and happy, and today he brought his lips to hers as part of their ‘pretence’ and it felt lovely and alien and spiky and soft all at the same time. But the idea of exposing, sharing, the lower half of her body with his, turned her cold, because to her, sex with any boy or man was far off; this trip was just peeping-in on that world like a little girl looking admiring a lion in the zoo till the keeper suggests opening the cage to feel its claws.
For the adult world of sex painted in Ed’s words - man as sniffer dog drooling for naked tits and undressed salad - was somehow more vulgar than even all of Neill’s words, because he wasn’t Neill… and it suddenly served to brutally highlight her own young naïvety. Was she the butt of a giant joke between them all?
They came back to find the men talking cars.
‘We test drove a beauty last week, the i8,’ Neill was purring to Ed. ‘Or the red roar as we called it…’
‘You test drove her red raw?’ Ed was chuckling back, as Neill turned his head up to Natalia.
‘Oh, there you are! Are you stealing her from me, Claire?’
‘Oh, well, I like her,’ winked Claire.
‘Hand her back to me immediately.’
Shortly Neill stubbed out his fag and then patted Natalia on the leg. ‘Actually it’s my turn to use the gents.’
There was a lull in conversation as Ed politely poured water for the girls, then Monica swished her jet black fringe round to Natalia, with another silky smile:
‘So what kind of art do you make, Natalia?’
Natalia slipped her glass to her mouth to buy a moment of thought as her mind flashed to her GCSE sketchbooks of Splash film poster clippings. Quick, college level answer!
‘Well, I really like to do…’ glancing up to see Neill’s face heading back over, ‘portraits of people.’
‘Oh, you paint?’
‘Yeah, photographs initially, and I paint them. Or rather try,’ she smiled modestly.
‘You should paint Monica, she’s posed a few times,’ interjected Claire, as Monica blushed. ‘She had some stunning images back when she was modelling. You were in Vogue twice weren’t you, Mon?’
‘Yeahh, London and Germany,’ she sighed.
‘All good?’ said Neill looming over. ‘Ready for dessert?’ He gestured to Claire who nipped away to the waitress, and Neill was sitting back next to Natalia, pulling her into his lap again; his hands clasping around her waist and pressing into her fluttering stomach, as a hush fell over the friends and Natalia looked up surprised to see the waitress looming with a candle-lit cake, and she knew now what was in Neill’s bag earlier.
‘Happy birthday, to you!’ they all began to sing in their ebullient Southern accents, as Neill arranged the blushing Natalia forward-facing on the pedestal of his kneecaps, purring into her ear along with the song - oh God, a serenade now by Neill and his six London acolytes - as a white-iced cake adorned with sugar flowers landed in front of her, and she laughed at the lie of the ‘19’ number-shaped candle, as the last ‘to yoooou!’ was harmonised with drumbeats on knees and tables, and Natalia duly blew out the candles upon exhortations from Neill and Monica to ‘make a wish, make a wish!’
She couldn’t help wishing she was really nineteen - or that she could stop blushing, or had brought a second pair of knickers - as a round of applause and hurrahs thankfully turned the attention to ‘that cake looks delicious!’ - ‘Slice for me please’ - ‘Birthday girl first,’ and Ed took up a knife and served it up to tastebuds exclaiming at its velvety sponge and sweet vanilla filling that was leagues beyond what Natalia felt she could ever make in Food Tech.
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The group back in small-talk about politics, Neill reached for the candle numbers that had been removed to the side, and arranged them before Natalia so that the 9 was inverted to 6, and unnoticed by the rest of the company to whom it looked like he was sharing a private snuggle into Natalia’s ear, he whispered:
‘There you go. Happy birthday honey.’
His sweet words combined with a mouthful of saccharine cake made Natalia quite dizzy, murmuring a thank you, to another squeeze back from him, as the waitress took another round of coffee orders.
Slipping off Neill’s lap, they forked their slabs of cake.
‘God this is sweet - sixteen calories per chew isn’t it Ed?’
‘More like sixty,’ retorted Ed.
‘God I hope not,’ Neill lips brushed into her ear, as Natalia let out a long giggle, catching Ed’s look of bemusement, as she now composed herself to ask:
‘So what do you do, Ed? Rich says you’re a writer?’
‘Yes, I am,’ he laughed, gazing mid-air to some thought about his job that she was not privy to, or assumed she was about to hear - ‘well, my job is to be given briefs, you see, to write books about various things, topics; research them, map out the content, and so on —’
‘And then have it edited beyond recognition,’ input Neill.
‘More often than not.’ Ed grunted, sipping his fresh coffee. ‘It’s not stuff that I would choose to write. I want to do my own stuff, you see, but to make a living from it requires some compromise.’
‘And what kind of topics do you write begrudgingly about?’ Natalia asked.
Neill chuckled as he lit up another fag.
‘Everything from economics to gardening. Mostly how-to and handbooks, that sort of thing.’
‘Andrea still proofing your copy, so to speak?’ Neill asked.
‘On and off.’
‘You should visit me up North. Oulton has the course there that you’ll love. With Andrea if she still qualifies as a hole-in-one.’
‘Haven’t played golf in a while.’
‘You want him to come to the mouth of Hell?’ tittered Natalia.
‘Well technically I live in the philtrum. It was Justin who sent me that video. Justin!’ Neill called. ‘If Ed comes up to visit me in the mouth of Hell do you think you’d join him through gritted teeth?’
‘I’d bite my tongue,’ he grinned, ‘because Monica is fighting, literally tooth and nail, to travel everywhere before baby comes.’
‘Before life descends into the screaming mouth of Hell?’
‘The baby’s or Monica’s?’ chortled Ed.
‘Justin’s,’ prompted Neill.
There was a murmur of laughter from the men and Natalia. Soon there were just plates of crumbs, cold cups left, and achy bottoms arising.
‘Right, this one’s all on me guys,’ Neill announced to a chorus of ‘are you sure?’ along with thank yous and happy birthday Natalias and the customary double-peck of goodbyes.
‘Are you coming out tonight to the Blagclub, Rich? We’re all heading down, even Monica.’
Neill reading the wide stare in Natalia’s eyes, smiled back: ‘Not sure about that Claire. We have other plans.’
Natalia, at once relieved not to be roped into a risk-taking nightclub venture, also wondered at the plans Neill had inferred, and the gnawing worry returned of what Claire had said to her earlier. The sex fiend, taking her hand and walking her back out to the car, yawning - was that a fake yawn? - piped up, ‘hotel’s just five minutes in the car. Shall I try for an early check-in? Says 2pm and it’s only 12.45 but I’m knackered.’
As they climbed into the car, Neill had got through on his phone to the hotel and confirmed with an: ‘Ah! You’re a gentleman!’ that indeed, they could go straight to check in.
‘Well well birthday girl!’ as he started the car up. ‘Are you feeling ok after all that?’
‘Thanks so much for the cake,’ she smiled. ‘It was very kind of you.’
‘It’s the minimum for a birthday really isn’t it? Especially after all the desserts you’ve delivered to me! Were my friends just as sweet?’
‘Yes, they’re very nice…’
‘But what? You know I can read you like a book.’
‘Well, you know, it’s all a bit new to me. The topics, maybe the age difference, conversation can be a bit… esoteric.’
‘The conversation was too esoteric for me, says the girl who knows the word esoteric!’ he chuckled. ‘I thought you made a valiant effort to be part of the conversation whilst being authentically yourself.’ He paused. ‘I love that.’
‘And I love a flat white with four sugars.’
‘You bloody Northerner,’ he laughed.
‘And true to being Northern, I saw the bill in that place was a shocker. Thornwood High paying you well Mr Neill?’
‘We did have a fair brunch banquet. What was more shocking is Monica being up the duff. Must be going all mumsy maternal. She always said she never wanted kids.’
‘Do you?’
‘Perhaps,’ he said coolly, after a pause. ‘With the right person, which I didn’t find in two marriages.’ He sighed. ‘Justin’s got his hands full. Seems happy though.’
They were pulling up in a tight street. ‘Bentley Hotel, here we are,’ as a suited concierge dodged Neill’s huge black bonnet coming over the kerb.
‘Careful, you’ll squash his toes!’
‘He’s not on his earphones like somebody was,’ he chuckled.
They gazed up at the white well-kempt building with a gently swaying Union Jack flag. ‘This place is built from 600 tonnes of marble imported from Turkey, Italy and Northern Africa…’
‘Wow, swanky.’
‘We’re only staying in two Queen suites. If you were really my girlfriend I’d get a suite, with room to swing a…’
‘PE teacher?’
With a slam of the doors and boot, Neill handed over his keys to the concierge, grimacing at Natalia’s bag as he tossed it to her: ‘Personal Shopper available here at additional cost. Get one pronto.’
She laughed.
‘Madam,’ cocked the concierge’s head as he held open the doors.
‘Bloody hell. Now I do feel like the woman in Pretty Woman.’
‘More like the kid in Home Alone.’
‘Neill, what’s the plan here? Niece?!’
‘I’ll have to be your father. I’ll put you down as Natasha Neill.’
Natalia looked mortified.
He smiled. ‘Don’t worry! Just act normal. Go loiter by that painting.’
Natalia tried to act ‘normal,’ squeaking her shoes across the most jawdropping, high-ceiling, bright gleaming lobby, feeling just like Kevin McCallister now, Lost for Words in the New York of the UK, as her mouth hung upward at unfathomably crystalline chandeliers, marble floor, and plush bright red, gilt-bordered chairs; arriving squinting at the oil painting of a lady that she imagined she would double-peck and say, hi, yes I’m Natalia from Leeds, yes I’m his girlfriend - oops no! I’m Natasha, his daughter…
Neill shortly sauntered over with papers and key cards.
‘Hi dad.’
‘All done, all good, didn’t even give your name. Room 391 and 392,’ as he pressed the button for the lift to the third floor.
Locating their rooms, wedging open their doors with their bags so that Natalia’s imminent coos of ‘wow! Oh my god! Have you got one of these?’ were heard by laughing Neill.
‘King size bed. Huge TV…’
‘Does yours have the same geriatric powder blue decor as mine?’ as he wandered into hers, scrunching his nose at the walls. ‘Marble bathroom’s gorgeous though.’
‘Wow yes! I can have a bath!’
‘Gipton out of water?’
‘My mum won’t fix the broken tap.’
‘Hmm, well tonight my little mermaid, you have an authentic Hamam. London’s only hotel with a Turkish bath, apparently.’
‘Is your room the same?’ as she followed him into his room.
‘Yours is no bigger so there’s no reason for me to swap,’ he grinned, flicking on his TV, throwing off his shoes and laying back on his bed with an exaggerative exhale. ‘Oh, this is a classic…’
Natalia glanced to see the opening film credits of The Guns of Navarone.
‘Come and sit with me.’
‘Oh, er. Would you like tea, Mr Neill?’
‘No, I’m caffeined out. Come, sit,’ he patted the bed, his face, crocked up almost at a right angle to his chest, drooping dozily; he looked harmless enough, but she bristled a little. Was this going to be the start of an ‘I’m sorry Natalia, you’ll have to learn on the job,’ before he prises her knickers off to the sound of gunshots?
She leant casually against his bed edge. ‘Is this it for our festival of culture? Cake, war film and bed?’
He laughed. ‘No, you scamp. We’re going out again in a bit.’
‘How long is this?’ she gazed at the screen.
‘Two and a half hours. That should do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Get me off.’
Oh god. Throw in more cynicism because he must be talking about sleep.
‘Ok, I’ll go back to my room and see if they’ve got CBeebies,’ as she made a start to slip away, but he put out his hand to deftly catch her by the wrist.
She laughed. ‘You’re grabbing me like at the end of English. What are you going to say now? You can’t be fifteen?’
‘Sleep with me. A kid nap, Miss Unable.’
‘Oh, er… ok…’
She went round the other side of the bed and climbed up softly, noticing his eyes were closed already and there were gentle snores. She chuckled. That’s one sleepy sex fiend. She turned down the TV, and lay her face not far from his drooping mouth, high up on the pillows looking down at him: stiller and quieter than she’d never yet seen him; with confident license to get closer to his body, his breath; shuffling in increments till she was looking right into the follicles of his hair, his eyelashes, but without going too near that he would startle if he woke and saw her that close.
Eventually she slipped out to her own room, where she was surprised at how pleasant it was to close herself into her own quarters, and sit and admire its luxury, and wonder at everything that had happened that day - and the day wasn’t even over! Good heavens. Turkish bath time? Reset her armpits and cleanse herself of all the smoke and travel and gaucherie of the phenomenal day that was Haworth times ten? And then she could put on the luxuriously thick Terry bathrobe and too-huge slippers!
Relaxing into the warm water, she thought how it was like being in Neill’s lap; and now, his fellow-napper, his little mermaid, his sweet-sixteen scamp, would slip her hand down into her own wet lap, till his lap and hands woke to whisk her to who knows where!
Two hours later, dressed again, there was a knock at her door.
She opened it to a dishevelled looking Neill in his t-shirt.
‘Hello bedhead mum. Or should I say dad.’
‘Let me in, you little deserter.’
‘I stayed with you quite a while—’
‘Deserter being very apt, because do you want to go to the Tate Modern?’ he crashed down on her dresser chair with his phone in his hand. ‘It’s the building that used to be an old sugar factory for a sweet-Art student and master-baker like yourself…’
She frowned.
‘And how about this for aptness,’ he read from his phone, ‘they have a Russian exhibition on! The Kabakovs’ installation art, drawing upon the visual culture of the former Soviet Union…’
Natalia looked blank.
He glanced up. ‘Not au fait with your Russian roots, then? Well, today can be a start. They also have these giant swings installed in the Turbine Gallery.’ He turned his phone round to show her.
Her eyes widened. ‘Wow, cool!’
He sighed. ‘Nineteen going on nine. Well, we’ll leave the car here and get the tube there, and how about meeting with just Ed at the pub later for dinner? He’s asking about it.’
‘On which activities do I have to pretend to be your girlfriend?’
‘Any and all of them. I’m off to shower, although I’ll excuse you from that one. Meet you outside your door in twenty minutes! Remember to wrap up warm, it’ll be dark and cold!’
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*
‘Tube’s a four minute walk. Getting chilly but it’s not raining,’ as Neill took Natalia’s hand from the hotel door; she walking fast to keep up with his strides down two wide roads, till she she saw the distinctive red ring of the Underground on an old red brick building.
‘Gloucester Road. It’ll be getting busy, being a weekend. So keep close,’ as his continued firm grip led her through the bustling entrance towards the ticket machine, shortly handing her an orange card. ‘Keep this safe to swipe in and out, ok?’
The first time in a London Underground station proved to be quite exhilarating on the senses, as Natalia took in the immediate sight of people darting around, the bleating of tannoys, the mix of nationalities and characters already making itself known in shouts and greetings, and the rumbling of trains beneath them, like a monster they were heading to meet underground now, all whilst her hand was glued to Neill’s; learning quickly to keep right whilst the unapologetic thrust of travellers came down on the left; and then, approaching the platforms with gobbledygook signs she trusted Neill would decipher, where trains that rattled in at hair-raising speed, and stopped for a mere minute, before they continued on at full pelt, reminded her of high-energy Neill himself.
‘There’s ours now!’ Neill pulled her wrist through a crowd into a packed carriage with no free seats in sight. ‘Eight stops,’ he chortled, ‘come here, come here,’ as he reached up to grasp the rail, then pulled her back into him to stand steadied against him, his arm down diagonally across her chest with his hand implanting her armpit, almost at her breast by necessity, and she smirked at the inadvertent ‘naughty-part’ contravention, as the doors slammed and the train lurched loud like a rocket, and she would feel all the chills and butterflies from him talking into her ear.
‘Liking London?’ came his murmur as she shifted his thick arm from pressing into her nipple, and a fatherly breath came over her face like a waft of something divine, as she sighed and took in the characters on the carriage: a fashionable looking lady reading a novel in as relaxed a bubble as if she were on holiday; two loutish denim-jacketed blokes, one with a scarred forehead; a little old Indian lady with two huge shopping bags waddling to the door ready to alight; a stout African man whose head was almost at the ceiling; a podgy bald suited businessman scratching his ankle and frowning into his paper, and the sound of a baby crying like a wind-up doll; sights and sounds as random on every blink of the eye, but consistently punctuated by the tannoy announcing the next station in hallmark English, and the continual warning to ‘mind the gap!’
The only thing she could compare it to was the Dawn Bus in Enid Blyton’s Wishing Chair books, crammed with little folk coming home from the Moonlight Dance: tiny fairies sleeping arm in arm, dozing goblins with their beards sticking into the next passenger, driven by a feckless brownie at top speed who doesn’t know how to reverse, and falling asleep at the wheel as they rattled over ditches like a freight-train into the Land of Goodness Knows Where. Happy for eight stops tied to the Faraway Tree trunk of Neill, he let go of her five stops later when seats became free, ushering her into a seat whilst his thighs stood close enough to smell his laundry detergent, which was a fair consolation prize.
‘Blackfriars. Here we are,’ Hand-held through crowds of travellers, up the longest escalator she’d ever seen, and out of the huge glass building, they now met the waning light of central London, and Natalia took in the sight of the famous landmarks London now coming into view.
‘Eleven minutes walk to the Tate, across the bridge.’
He slowed his pace beside Natalia as she stopped to look over.
‘God, life in London is like being on fast-forward,’ as she leant on the wall.
‘Northerners need to recalibrate. Stop for a moment and take in your first sight of the Old Father Thames.’
They gazed over the waning light over the river.
‘Where did you live when you were down here?’ she asked.
‘Shepherds Bush for a while, then I moved out further west to Richmond. Central can get a bit much, but I’m a Londoner at heart really.’
‘You’re going to move back here?’
‘Eventually, once I’ve done what I can with Thornwood. Going North was more of an escape valve.’
‘From the last marriage?’
‘Yeah, and a range of other feelings about life. I was set on becoming a Head all this time so I could be the one in charge,’ he mused leaning, his face illuminated by passing boat lights. ‘And now here I am still batting about with compromise, restraints and protocols.’
‘You’re moaning you can’t have everything your own way as a Head, even though you quite literally had your Banana cake and ate it?’
They both smiled. Then she shivered.
‘Thought I said to wrap up warm?’ as he took his hands to pull her coat collars. ‘If I can’t have my way with the school then I ought to with you…’
‘Pardon,’ she giggled.
His hands were now the sides of her face, softly stroking, which felt like tingling, almost tickling, that made her smile grow like a weed in the sun.
‘Sorry I had to kiss you earlier at brunch. Did it frighten you?’
‘Shut up, no.’ Her eyes lowered shyly, as he drew away again to rummage for a fag, and she watched his lips pucker up illuminated, as he cast a sultry look of query at her.
‘Has a man or… boy, ever kissed you before?’
‘Er… no, that was the first,’ knowing that any attempt at a lie wouldn’t work; but with a cock of her head, looking away, she thought of Ryan, and what was a rather distinguishable conquest to have been asked out by him the other day, and murmured back:
‘But there’s someone at school I might, er…’
‘Who?’ his eyes glinted with the light of the lamp-posts.
She was silent.
‘Tell me who!’
‘Ryan. In my class,’ she said, glancing back over the river.
‘Ryan Welsh?’ he looked amused.
‘Well, I don’t know. He’s alright,’ she said coolly.
He chuckled, dragging on his fag. ‘Pretty naughty isn’t he, for a goodie-two-shoes like you?’
She stared at him with a frown of irony. ‘Opposites attract.’
‘You like bad boys?’
She shrugged.
‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,’ he sighed, putting his fag-holding hand on her shoulder. ‘And how bad do you like them to be?’
‘I saw Ryan once swear at a teacher. One that deserved it. I liked that,’ she pouted.
‘Meanwhile I just fire and… roast them. But the chances of Ryan having any experience with girls are the same as getting higher than a dismal D on a single one of his exams… ’
She laughed.
‘Shame, for a girl so bright as you,’ he continued, his eyes now lingering over her face wistfully, ‘although maybe that’s why he’d go for you. To help put him right again.’
She cast him a sceptical look.
‘And if you really want a date with… Ryan Welsh—’
She grinned, glaring, ‘shut up…’
‘Then this trip gives you a little practice, hmm? At least one of you two rigid, doe-eyed virgins should know how to kiss. So come here, and I’ll give you a lesson.’
‘Oh, really,’ as her face started to colour.
‘Besides, the weekend’s only half done and you need to get used to it.’ He crushed the remaining fag end against the wall and dropped it on the ground, as if it that were the starter and she were the main course, reached his hand to her shoulder in a most decided fashion - which prompted that rattling feeling inside her again - as he uttered:
‘Come here.’
He brought his hands to either side of her face again to seize her toward him, whilst she recollected herself as well as she could, trying to fast plaster a smooth look of nonchalance over her inner Niagara of nerves, as her darting eyes slowed onto his, and all of a sudden his face was on hers - and there was a moment of ‘oh my god’ coming from her lips as his lips caught them; moist softness and the taste of tobacco was upon her mouth, intermingled with those pricks of stubble again, as the motion slowly moved through three seconds and she was frozen in a moment of greater intimidation and awe than the kiss earlier; the blood drained from her legs and seemed to pop like fireworks in her stomach, as he now withdrew and dropped his fingers to either side of her neck, as she blinked at him. He smiled.
‘How did that feel?’
She recollected herself with a smirking ‘yeah,’ blinking to the river.
‘That’s not the lesson by the way. That’s just a hello.’
‘Er, oh.’
‘The Tate is eleven minutes’ walk from Blackfriars. We’ve walked six. I’m doubling the remaining time for this lesson,’ as his hands swivelled her bewildered face back to his: ‘So do your Maths, young lady, and tell me how many minutes this next one is going to be?’
Blinking in his hands, barely able to think where she even was:
‘Well, er, that kiss was like five seconds, so…’
‘Times that by how many calories Ed said a cake slice was.’
‘Oh God, I’m confused…’ she blushed at him, as he scooped her back to him saying:
‘Five times sixty is…?’
‘Three hundred.’
‘And three hundred seconds is?’ as he scooped her to him with a teacherly tone: ‘Five…?’
‘Minutes,’ she said sceptically.
‘Aww, you’re so much better at Maths than Ryan,’ he simpered, as he caught her laughing face into a thick arm around her neck and planted his lips again on hers; this time they were parted, on her parted lips, but just as slow, and she could feel his tongue slightly, just resting within, and this time she was moving her lips back on his, which lasered shock into her insides, to feel herself participating, as if in just that micro reciprocation she was approving of everything salacious said and ‘done’ to her by Neill and this illicit trip, and his little breathy moan of approval back, which only served to make her shudder and fall a centimetre from his lips for a second to gasp, during which he muttered softly, fag scent impregnating her nostrils:
‘So very good… but you’re got four and a half minutes left…’
She giggled now, clinging to humour as her shield for her awkwardness, but his hand clung just as fast to her, returning to her face to guide her cheek: ‘Back.’ - ‘Oh fuck,’ shot out her whisper, and he took both his hands firmly to her face again, and his lips uttered before they landed: ‘This time you open your mouth more,’ and kissed her heartily, for a full minute of pure delirium, slipping his one hand away halfway through, with an intermittent purr of ‘good, good,’ as his other hand shifted to clamp around the back of her neck, and her breaths, now deep but regular, sailed her through this ongoing odyssey of lips and tongue and saliva and breaths and stubble and tobacco, whilst figures walked past on the now-dark Blackfriars Bridge; they stood mouth-locked on the river, as though unseen amongst a mighty sea of important London no-ones; and oh my fucking god, she kept thinking, Neill is kissing me like a full-blown lover, Neill likes me, this can’t be bloody pretence, oh my god, when will this even stop, it’s weird, but it’s fucking lovely, it’s everything I wanted, but oh god…
By the time he came off, her pelvis felt like a mass of soft pulverised meat, softly throbbing in various vague areas that her brain, fuzzy and muddied, couldn’t even operate to identity. Gazing dazed at the pavement, half falling or being pulled by him, into his chest, his voice was now somewhere in her hair, saying:
‘Turns out I don’t mind teaching.’
She buckled over the wall ledge. ‘I can’t walk. How long even was that?’
‘Think there was about three minutes left. But come on.’ With a sudden thrust upwards he picked her up, as she gasped and laughed to find her hands around his neck and her legs wrapping somewhere around him below as he jostled her along like this a few yards in a frisson of squeals till she came slipping down his body.
‘Are your legs recovered enough to walk to the Tate, Art student?’
‘Umm, yes,’ she slurred, as if he could have said he was going to throw her off the bridge and she would have said the same, as his arm drew around her shoulder and they walked on through the drifts of people, whom Natalia looked upon with slow, intoxicated eyes and an inane smile fixed to her face, as though her brain was somewhere up by the moon and she had never felt so full of carefree delight, sauntering along with Neill as they slowed to a pace that allowed them to side-snuggle; as the looming Tate Modern, with its chimney like a huge crude cock drawn into the black sky, beckoned the continuing drama of their artful dodging.
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