“Don’t worry; there’s nothing political in there at all. It’s all just memories. So did you like it? What do you think of the writing?”
I hesitated. I had enjoyed reading it but parts of it were a bit clichéd. The line drops of dew hanging off his lashes hovered in my mind. I decided to be honest. “I really liked it, Jack. It’s well-written and it’s . . . it’s calming. It makes me think of . . . childhood. There’s a couple of lines I would change but on the whole I like it.”
His face broke out into a beam and he looked so hopeful and sweet that I felt a rush of affection for him. “Thanks, yeah, that’s exactly what I was going for,” he said enthusiastically. “It’s supposed to be kind of lyrical. I don’t know—I just thought I’d do something different and take a break from the political satires. This is a bit out of my comfort zone.”
“I think it’s really good you’re trying new stuff, and that you have all these ideas. It took me almost three years of university to get my act together and apply to write for the magazine.”
“Oh shit, I forgot to ask—did you get the columnist position?”
I sighed. “I still haven’t heard back. They said they’d let us know by the end of the week so I guess I haven’t got it.”
He squeezed my arm and I smiled at him from over my sashimi. “You never know, they might still give it to you,” he said. “And even if they don’t, I’m sure you’ll find something else.”
“Yeah, maybe I will,” I said. “I applied for a bunch of internships so hopefully one of them will reply at some point.”
“Hey, get you,” he said, looking genuinely impressed.
I was enjoyed his admiration. I took it a step further. “And I kind of started an anonymous blog with my friend.”
“Tell me more.”
Shit. I couldn’t really tell him any more without giving away that I was a virgin who spent a lot of time freaking out about vaginas. “Um, it’s kind of just about womensy things. Strictly girl stuff.”
“You’re not really selling it to me here, Ellie.”
I laughed. “Yeah, there’s a reason I prefer writing to speaking. I’m not so good with the latter.”
“Ah, I don’t know, I think you’re doing pretty well,” he said, looking straight into my eyes.
His eyes were so green I was momentarily distracted from the fact that he was flirting with me. I closed my mouth and pulled myself back to reality.
“Um, thanks,” I said. Damn, that wasn’t the come-hither response I’d been aiming for.
He grinned. “But, if you’re done with talking, I know something else we can do instead . . .” My eyes widened and I stared at him. Oh my God, sex. He was about to invite me back to his place and I hadn’t even finished my sashimi. “Drinking. Do you fancy a couple of pints?”
Two hours and way too many pints later, I felt bloated and uncharacteristically giggly. I wasn’t used to drinking beer but hadn’t wanted to come across like a girly princess who could only drink rosé or vodka and Coke. Now I was twenty-five quid down from buying a round along with my half of dinner, and he was about to get his next round.
“Wait, Jack,” I said, and put my hand on his shoulder as he stood up with his wallet in his hand. “I really can’t have another one.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll just get the one, then.”
He walked to the bar and I sunk happily into the leather sofa. It was going well. He was really funny, and he seemed to fancy me. Okay, so he loved splitting bills equally, and he hadn’t swept me off my feet the way I’d always imagined guys would on dates, but life wasn’t an eighties movie. Besides, we were having great banter and the more beers I had, the more I fancied him. His eyes were undeniably attractive and he had more stubble than usual.
I was definitely going to give him access to my untouched hymen tonight.
He came back with his beer and sank onto the sofa next to me. I turned to face him, looking up at him from my slouched-down position. I hoped my face didn’t look moon-like from the unflattering angle. He looked at me, taking in my very unsubtle please kiss me body language, and obligingly leaned in. I moved my face towards his, and we started snogging. Feeling tipsy, I wrapped my hands around his face, kissing him gently, whilst imagining Audrey Hepburn kissing George Peppard in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and wondering if we looked as romantic as they did. I wished we were outside in the rain.
He put his arms around me and grasped me hard. Whoa. I was getting turned on and, judging from a look down at his trousers, he was too. I couldn’t help grinning excitedly, and as a smile spread across my face, he murmured, “What are you smiling at?”