Chapter Text
This is not a love story, but love is in it. That is, love is just outside it, looking for a way to break in.
Lighthousekeeping, Jeanette Winterson.
Track List:
Helpline Operator, The The
Leave Here, Jacques Greene
Border Line, King Krule
Fingerbib, Aphex Twin
Under My Thumb, The Rolling Stones
Little Freak, Harry Styles
Alrighty Aphrodite, Peach Pit
April, 2018
The washed-out blue stain of evening light is drawing itself across London. If it weren’t for the reminder text from Lydia, Ray would still be at her desk. She loves it when the office is empty and she has the space to herself. But Lydia was dictatorial: if Ray got there later than eight, she would be excommunicated for the evening. Although Ray highly doubts Lydia’s follow through on that particular threat - Lydia has never really exorcised any personality from her life, not exes and certainly not friends - she nevertheless leaves her office dead on seven. It should take less than an hour to get up to the address that Lydia sent her, although God knows why they’re heading this far North. It’s miles out from their usual stomping ground, closer to Ray’s childhood home. And she knows Lydia and their friends have absolutely no reason to go gallivanting in Harlesden, unless an up-market restaurateur decides to finally gentrify the area. Ray pulls a face as she checks the address again; it’s across the river and in the opposite direction from her flat. She marches past the crowds pouring out of Borough Market and crosses the road, straight into London Bridge station and down the escalators.
When she eventually makes it to the house hosting their entertainment for the evening, she’s surprised to see something so architectural . It stands out from the rest of the street, not the bland mansion flat she’s come to expect from the friends of her friends. But she knows she’s in the right place. The musky, heavy scent of weed carrying through the air is confirmation enough. She fires off a text to Lydia, and another into the group chat for good measure.
Here before 8. Let me in and give me a drink.
Blaise’s reply is instant: omw raymundo.
She rolls her eyes at the nickname but quickly finds herself enveloped in Blaise’s arms, the door left open while he greets her. His dark hair has been cropped short, boyish and juvenile. She runs her hand through it as he rocks her side to side in the doorway.
“Ray! You made it!” He mumbles it into her shoulder and she laughs in spite of herself. He smells like clean sheets and lemony shampoo. In the dusky half-light he looks elfin and beguiling, and Ray wonders, not for the first time, if there’s a secret partner hidden in the labyrinth of Blaise’s life. She wouldn’t put it past him to keep such things quiet, although for as long as she’s known him he has never introduced a romantic interest to the Gordian knot of their friendship group.
“Where are the others?” She asks despite knowing the answer. They’ll be crowded together in the kitchen, or outside smoking, caught up in their own world. She loves her friends but she’s not blind to their isolationist tendencies. Wordlessly, Blaise leads her through rooms that all look the same, through the crowd towards what she assumes is the kitchen. It’s hard to tell, with the floors and walls all the same poured concrete. Whoever owns this place must be a bastion of fun , she thinks to herself. She doesn’t voice this to Blaise, partly because he has never seen her flat and partly because she knows that this judgement is born out of something weak and contemptible.
The sound of a Jacques Green track picks up and Ray glances around. She finds Lydia easily. Perched on a counter, she talks with hands that move rapidly and widely, Scouse accent carrying over everyone else - Lydia is beautiful in a classic way, with honey blonde hair and almond eyes, and Ray is unsurprised to see a tall, blonde man facing her and nodding as she speaks. As Blaise slips away from Ray’s side, disappearing into the shifting lights and shadows cast by the huge windows, she observes her closest friend like an outsider. Lydia is the only other person in their group who didn’t get their life handed to them on a plate. You wouldn’t guess that from the way she carries herself, even in a house like this, an enviable confidence that draws people in. As Ray approaches her, people move out of her way and a rush of shyness courses through her veins like mercury or lead. She’s often the tallest woman in the room, and it never gets easier; it has its uses at work, but in situations like this she feels freakish, an ungainly giraffe surrounded by slinky, petite jungle cats. Lydia spies her out of the corner of her eye and turns, reaching out with an open hand. Ray tangles their fingers together and kisses her cheek, drawn into conversation and away from the eyes gawking at her.
“George, this is Regan Farrell. Ray, this is George.”
“How’s it going?” Ray leans forward, kissing the air near his cheek. He returns the gesture, greeting her in an accent she struggles to place.
Lydia continues the introductions: “Ray owns her own consultancy business, it’s very exciting and complicated. We actually met at university.” George nods. Ray should drop her gaze or pretend to be humble. But she isn’t. Lydia’s right: her business is exciting and complicated. It would probably fly over the heads of most people here , she thinks with bland cruelty.
“George is in a band. The 1975.” Ray nods despite the evidently blank expression on her face. “We met when I was dating Ben - you remember Ben?”
“The boring guy with the recording studio,” she summarises. George barks out a laugh and Lydia giggles behind her hand, pretending to be shocked by Ray’s candour. But Lydia isn’t shocked. Her wide-eyed laughter is a social grace to hide how much she enjoys it when Ray turns her icy gaze on someone with the misfortune to fall from favour. “Lydia said you’ve just finished recording something else?” She frames it as a question aimed at George, who nods. Pride lights up his features.
“New album - we’re just mixing it now.”
“I’d ask when it’s out, but I’m sure I’ll hear it at the first opportunity - Lydia’s always playing your records.” Everything Ray knows about this band, she knows against her will. Lydia is immensely proud of them, and takes every opportunity to play their vinyl records. It’s not that Ray thinks their music is bad, as such. It’s just that she’s never tried to listen to them outside of the context of Lydia being fond of them.
“Really?” George looks at Lydia in surprise, who colours slightly. Ah , thinks Ray.
“You promised me a drink, “ Ray reminds Lydia, saving her from potential embarrassment and eyeing up her glass hungrily. Lydia tilts her head towards the bottles lined up on the counter, but makes no move to help. Instead, George crosses the small space and produces a large glass for her. Ray smiles at him as she grasps it by the stem. The collection is almost showing off - Cabernet Sauvignon, Burgundy, Malbecs that she knows cost at least £60 a bottle. She finds an open one and pours, her eyes on the rushing red liquid instead of George.
“Taste for the finer things?” She asks.
“Not mine, those are Matty’s.”
“Matty.” She repeats it after him, one eyebrow arched. He points out a face in the crowd, a crown of dark curls bending over the speakers and fiddling with the sound. Jacques Green gives way to King Krule. She sets the glass down and rummages in her bag for cigarettes and a lighter. She’s down to her last two - she should have stopped at a shop on the way here.
“My singer,” George tells her with a conspiratorial wink. “This is his place; didn’t you know?”
“No, I didn’t. D’you mind? Desperate for a smoke,” she picks up her full glass and gestures with the lighter. He nods and she takes her cue, heading out the glass doors to a small and mercifully empty courtyard. The hit of nicotine as she lights her cigarette pushes past her lingering feelings of awkwardness. Ray has the vaguest impression of the band based on half-remembered comments from Lydia. I hope tonight’s worth the time off-project , she thinks, as she alternates cigarette and wine and hides from the people she’s meant to be socialising with.
***
Matty didn’t even want to host. He only agreed to it because the lads were going to keep it small, intimate. And then they invited Lydia without considering the fact that she’s friends with half of London, so now their small gathering is graced by Lydia’s troup of best friends. He recognises some of them: Blaise Laurie, Wil Sullivan, Pearl Mars. Nepotism kids who float from party to party, cracking open their Macbooks once in a blue moon to send an email and call it a day’s work. He’s under no illusion that he might have been the same if not for the lads. Pearl wiggles her fingers at him from across the room and he offers her a smile pulled taut to hide his growing bad mood. He turns his back on the scene; it’s not their fault that he’s not sure how to be at a party while staying clean.
He looks out and spies a lone figure in the courtyard, staring up at the sky. She’s noticeable, even hiding out there, and he doesn’t recognise her. He wonders idly if she’s a model, or somebody’s girlfriend. He feels George wander up beside him, more than he actually sees him. They’ve been friends for so long that they have an almost extrasensory perception of each other.
“Who’s that?” Matty asks bluntly.
“'One of Lydia's friends, I forget her name. She's got a business or something. Consulting ,” George puts the last word between air quotes and shrugs. Matty nods at this nugget of information, opens his mouth to speak. But Wil has joined them now, is asking George about the track playing through the speakers. Matty takes the opportunity to slope away from his own party. He joins her noiselessly, lighting up two cigarettes and holding one out to her. She regards him for a moment before she takes it from him with her mouth like she’s receiving communion. He arches an eyebrow. The silence between them is thick and something knowing glitters in her eyes. Her face looks different somehow, and Matty can’t tell if it’s the light or the silence or the smoke that creates the effect. He stares at her, almost on the verge of rudeness, before he realises what it is. Despite her height, despite the fact his chin is tilted to look up at her, she is looking at him from beneath her lashes. He catches up with her, raking his eyes over her body once more. She allows it without comment. Does he imagine the way she leans away from him to offer a better view?
“Thank you,” she says slowly, gaze still trained on him. He remains silent, absorbing this newly revealed facet of the stranger in his house. “I’m told this place is yours. Very… Soviet.”
“Depends on your aesthetic sensibilities. I think it’s more Japanese.” Matty turns his head slightly to take a drag. “Who told you?”
“Your tall friend.” Ray pauses as she ashes her own cigarette. “George?”
He laughs shortly, shaking his head. “I hope he’s not trotting out the Soviet line. I might be a leftie, but I don’t fetishise it.” The words curdle in the air, and Matty feels a twinge of guilt for being such an arsehole straight off the bat. “You’re one of Lydia’s friends.”
It’s a statement, not a question. Ray wonders briefly if this comes with a preconception. “I’m Regan. Or just Ray, I prefer that.”
He purses his lips around the cigarette. “And you… consult? To whom about what?”
“Businesses,” she replies blandly. She’s under no illusions as to what creatives think about business . “Branding. Strategy. Organisational direction, culture.” She lists them off, counting on her fingers and hiding from his judgement behind practised indifference. He nods slowly all the same; perhaps it’s practised politeness. “I’m a trustee for this charity as well.” Matty pictures gold-edged certificates hung on a wall, framed photographs of her trotting out a goat in some village on the other side of the world. The silence stretches between them, and he becomes aware of her analytical gaze.
“Yeah, must be nice to get space from all the profit-driven stuff I suppose.” He’s trying to be kind, but he’s tired and he doesn’t have the patience to deal with someone he’ll never meet again.
“Only briefly, though. I’m capitalism’s animal,” she says it out of spite, out of a desire to shock him from his banal politesse. If he’s going to judge her for being profit-driven, he might as well get what he’s angling for.
“And how’s that working out for you?” His tone drips sarcasm like a poison. Matty didn’t take Lydia to be the type to hang out with Tories.
“Fucking fantastic.” She takes a drag on the cigarette perched between her fingers. The boxy, concrete courtyard is making her feel trapped, uncertain. Claustrophobic. “Might even be able to afford my own Soviet - sorry, Japanese - concrete block.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be a glass house, would it? What with your habit of throwing stones,” He waves his hand, feeling grimly pleased with the line. He makes a mental note to remember it - there’s potential for a lyric in that. He doesn’t catch the way Ray winces, pulling her elbows tightly to her body like she’s been physically struck.
“Witty,” her glass is empty, a useless prop in this exchange. She imagines throwing it against the wall so it shatters right by his head, just to watch him jump.
“I’ve heard.”
“Arrogant, too.”
Their eyes meet.
“Confidence, actually.”
“Semantics.”
He observes her coolly. Her heart pounds in her chest. She wonders where he’ll go in this verbal sparring match, if he’ll push back even further. She’s struck by the sickening thrill of their barbed words, eager to see what he’ll do.
“Nice to meet you,” he says finally, turning on his heel and leaving her in silence.
***
With no cigarettes and an empty glass, Ray is forced to return to the party. She catches Lydia shooting her a questioning look but pretends she doesn’t, pretends to be engrossed in her phone. But all her inbox is showing her is the same emails she’s already seen, updates on social media from the party she’s already at. An arm slides around her shoulders and she jumps, staring at Blaise in shock for a moment.
“Ray, come on, you haven’t even said hi to anyone except Lydia. We get it, you have this sapphic psychic link or whatever but it’s not fair to leave us out all the time.”
Ray smiles in spite of herself, but waves her glass in front of his face. “I’m empty, B.”
“Fuck that, smoke with us.”
She sighs, knowing she might as well. Time moves weirdly when she’s stoned, and with any luck, the hours will gently roll past until she can leave. She follows Blaise through the house, eyes scanning the crowd for Matty. But she’s quickly enveloped into the circle of Wil, Pearl, Blaise, and George, passing a joint around and lounging on the floor. She gets comfortable, leaning against Blaise with casual intimacy. He drops his head against her shoulder, dreamlike and gentle despite the people milling around them. The weed is good , and Ray smokes more than she means to. The conversation floats around her and she welcomes the quiet, empty space that expands in the space of her mind. It isn’t until Wil has left and the crowd is thinning that the whitey hits her. She stands up suddenly.
“You good?”
She nods, mute for a second before mumbling in reply. “Need some air,” she hums, turning woozily and heading for the courtyard. The stars whirl above her, her fingers twitching by her sides. She finds the wall furthest from view and leans against it heavily, shutting her eyes as she slides to the floor. She slows her breathing, in through her nose and out through her mouth. She hasn’t been this bad since she was a teenager, and she feels embarrassed at the loss of control. The cool concrete is solid, comforting, and all she can do is wait out the nausea.Through the haze, she hears Blaise and Pearl call out to her. She leans her head back against the wall and waves.
“I’m fine.”
“We’re getting a cab back to Earl’s Court; you coming?”
The idea of crashing at Pearl’s flat makes her instantly decline. If anything, she wants to be curled up under her duvet with her cat next to her. Pearl’s flat will just become the after-afterparty, her model friends courting all hours and expecting everyone around them to do the same.
She shakes her head. “I’ll get a cab in a bit.”
“You sure?” Blaise crouches in front of her. She opens her eyes to slits.
The sickness is subsiding, and Blaise’s face is no longer a smear. She can focus on him, at last. She could get a cab with them, drop them off and carry on to Battersea. But she’s adamant. She doesn’t want to be around them - she wants something else , something that eludes her but drives her to say no all the same. Stoned, the spectre of Matty’s quiet disregard makes her skin prickle with tension. She could scroll her phone in search of a substitute for what she wants, if the screen wasn’t so bright.
“Yeah, I’m alright. I’ll get a cab in a bit, just need to have some water. I’ll text when I get home.”
Blaise looks sceptical at this but doesn’t push it. He kisses the top of her head and disappears within the house. Ray lets out a breath, shutting her eyes once more and letting the last tendrils of the high slowly ebb away. When she finally feels ready to stand, she realises that the buzz of voices has dispersed. Poking her head into the house, she finds it empty and darker than how she left it. The gentle drone of an Aphex Twin track has replaced the voices and the bodies. All except one: Matty stands alone in the kitchen, a bottle of wine trapped between his arm and his body. She watches mutely as he struggles with the corkscrew before wandering in, letting her fingers trail over the walls and the countertop.
“You don’t look like you’re in the habit of doing that for yourself.”
Ray leans back against the cold grey countertop, putting her weight onto her elbows and fixing Matty with a mocking expression. She reaches forward, as if to take the corkscrew from his hands, and Matty’s patience cracks; his hand darts out and grasps her wrist. He only touches her for a second, and drops it quickly, pushing it back again as if batting away a burning object.
“Do you ever stop finding things to criticise?” He glares back, turning to face her squarely.
“Do you ever not rise to it?” It’s out before she can stop herself, quick like the crack of a whip. But she watches him and the signs of anger are clear on his face. More than that, he’s frowning at her in a way that suggests she’s missed something crucial. She hates that feeling, hates looking like the ignorant poor kid at the party. She tilts her head slightly, reassessing, and choosing her next course of action. “I mean, I’m enjoying watching you but maybe you’re not having as much fun.” She pauses, pushing herself upright from the kitchen counter.
“And are you? Having fun?” he replies witheringly.
Ray shrugs. “Aren’t you ?” At her full height, there’s a few inches difference between them. She’s in no mood to intimidate him, though. She leans back again, tilting her head so her hair falls back and her chin is angled towards him. It’s a last-ditch attempt to salvage his impression of her, she recognises that, but their antagonistic exchange is also charged with something she knows all too well. “Do you want to?”
Matty’s eyes narrow, his hands stilling on the bottle. His lip is still curled upwards in disdain at her behaviour, the bottle is still in his hands and in the space between them. He watches as she reaches out and plucks it from his grasp, setting it on the counter and promptly ignoring it. Do you want to? He hasn’t answered her because it’s a question he’s not sure the answer to. Her gaze is intense, inescapable, but he meets it.
“You’ve got a fucked up definition of fun,” he asserts, watching the way she shrugs at him, insouciant and Gallic. He can’t deny that she looks good. No wonder she doesn’t bother to moderate her behaviour with social etiquette; girls like her never need to. People just fall down on their knees, and he’s willing to bet she never even bats an eyelid. It makes something churn inside him, a defiance in the face of her presumption. He steps forward into her space, reaching past her to reclaim the bottle. It’s mistimed, bringing him too close to her face, her jaw, her mouth. She turns her head. They’re millimetres apart.
“You’ve no idea,” she murmurs, voice fracturing as her pupils blow wide. It could be the low light around them, or whatever she drank. But her gaze dips from his eyes to his mouth and back again. His hands find the counter, boxing her in despite their height difference. It could be a bluff or an impasse. But now he’s here, in front of her, trapping her with his body while she stares at him. He’d be a fool to miss the eroticism of the moment, and Matty’s no fool.
“Try me.”
Her mouth parts slightly, but she makes no move to challenge him. He starts to pull away, gratified to see her floundering, but the experience is over as soon as it begins. Her fingers find his belt loops, pulling him back towards her by his hips. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that,” he warns her, allowing his hips to meet hers. Bone hits against bone, painful and sharp. A dangerous expression is wavering across her mouth, but she still isn’t giving anything up. And he’s sick of it, sick of her smart, snide comments, her knowing glances, the way she’s invading his space.
She leans forward and a shiver races down his spine as her tongue flicks over the shell of his ear. “So are you,” her voice is husky. She sounds like smoke and lust, and the effect is instant. Matty grips her forearms, rears his head away from her. She blinks at him, and he wonders what it takes to shake that self-satisfied glint from her eyes. He’s willing to try, whatever it is. It’s a challenge, a brick wall to batter his head against until there’s a breakthrough. Maybe he should be trying to embody the desire to harm nothing, but unfortunately she’s created a perfect storm and seems more than willing to sit in the eye of the hurricane.
When he kisses her, it’s all violence. Their bodies press up close, their mouths hard and demanding. He bites down on her lip, feels her gasp in response. Her nails dig into his back, through his shirt, and he arches his back in response. There’s a rush to this, the feeling of something verboten . She palms him through his jeans, and he grins into her touch. Eager little thing , he thinks, enjoying the feeling of her tongue flicking behind his teeth. His hands find the button of her trousers, fiddling with the delicate silk for a moment. They break apart and she takes the opportunity to shed her shirt, pulling it over her head and letting it fall to the floor. He notes with vague interest that she isn’t wearing a bra; she doesn’t need to. She’s pretty flat-chested. Everything about her is bony and delicate, almost boyish.
She brings his hand up to her mouth, presses kisses to his fingertips. Matty opens his mouth to say something, but stills in almost the same breath. He watches the way her lips part around his thumb, pink and warm and obedient . Her lips move over his knuckle and he twitches, anchors his fingers beneath her chin to force her head upwards. Shadows fall flatly across the angles of her face, hiding her eyes. He wants to see the way she looks at him. Earlier, in the courtyard, she’d lifted her face in defiance. Now, her chin is tucked into his palm , and he cups it, accepting her submission. He selfishly longs to push her onto her knees, to watch her face as she searches for approval that he won’t grant. Not yet, at least. He hisses through clenched teeth as she flicks her tongue, concordant movements in total harmony with the way she moves her lips. All this effort to please him. All this because of me , he thinks smugly.
It doesn’t take long to shed the rest of their clothes. He presses himself against Ray, reaching between her legs, and she arches her body towards him, responding to him like he has her on strings. It’s intoxicating, the way she moves in response to him. Hands and fingers give way under the tension, his pinpoint focus narrowed to only the feel of her body against him, him inside her, their skin slick with sweat. When he slams his hips into her, she cries out; again and again he wrests that noise from her until it sounds ragged and animal. In the back of his mind, Matty is distinctly aware that he’s exercising a facet of himself he doesn’t particularly like. That she's letting him. In fact, he’s never thought of himself as very dominant before, though he clearly has the capacity for it. Enduring her barbs earlier seems an adequate penance for indulging in this role for once.
His fingertips press into her shoulders, hard enough to leave bruises. He feels close, pinpricks of electricity climbing up his spine. Instead of yielding to the temptation, he hooks an arm around her waist and pulls her back sharply. She moves without being told, her back pressing into his chest, her head lolling backwards against his shoulder, eyes shut. His hips buck upwards in response to the serene, almost innocent expression painted across her face. She turns towards his neck, muffling her moans with fevered kisses pressed against the column of his throat.
He keeps one arm around her, although it’s largely unneeded. She’s maintained every position Matty’s put her in. His other hand trails across her skin, his nails drawing vicious red lines up her thighs as he alters their rhythm and she cries out. He repeats the action over the bony edge of her hip and she grinds against him. Her capacity to tolerate his punishing touch astounds him. He wonders how far he can push her, how much he can make her squirm and whimper for him. As if in answer, the circling of her hips becomes insistent, almost manic. A smile pulls at his mouth. He bends his head and sinks his teeth into her shoulder. The noise she makes is nearly a yelp, but he can still feel her pushing back onto him.
His fingers dance across her skin and he listens to her staccato breathing as he gets closer to what she wants. She tries to arch towards his touch but he removes his hand completely, slows the pace of his hips to an agonising tempo. It takes a couple of goes before she gets the message: he’s in control. He owns this moment. Her cries become whimpers. Strands of hair stick to her face as she moves with him, open-mouthed. Everything about her speaks to the practice she’s given to this particular form of entertainment. Slut. The word appears in his mind, unbidden, and he should stop. He should pull back from this, from the feelings she’s inspiring in him. This is not in the handbook for the recently sober. But he can’t bring himself to.
And then she’s twitching against him, her fingers digging into his arms, his sides, anywhere she can find purchase. He turns her around roughly, spying the pink flush that crawls across her skin. She looks glassy-eyed, beautiful and debased. He pushes her back against the counter before he sinks two fingers inside her, straight up to the knuckle. His other hand finds her shoulder, and then, daring, her throat. She bares her neck for him as soon his thumb brushes over her jugular. He takes hold, squeezing sideways. A smile arises at her mouth and he thinks fuck, she’s enjoying it like this. His fingers beckon her towards the feeling she’s been chasing, and he watches as she cedes to it entirely. He’s almost envious of the way she seems to disappear into the high, and he knows exactly why. Still, he pushes her onwards until she falls forwards, dropping her forehead onto his shoulder and panting.
But he isn’t done. He pulls her down with him to the floor, her body stretching out beneath him. He’s transfixed by the way she abandons herself to the moment. He takes a moment, catches his breath and watches the feline stretch and arch of her back. He hovers over her, taking in the sight, anticipating the oncoming rush. And then he allows himself to fall into the feeling completely as their hips collide together. A horrible, tell-tale noise rips free from his lips but he doesn’t care. He falls forward against her as he cums, their arms bracing against the concrete. As he rests his cheek against her back, he distantly registers the pink dents in her shoulder.
***
Dawn light finds Matty and Ray tangled on the sofa. Matty opens his eyes, groggy and disoriented. Ray is curled around him, her head pressed against his shoulder, her knees tucked up behind his. He fishes around for his phone, finding it on the floor. It’s early, not even quite six in the morning. The night before comes to him in jagged splinters, and he swivels slightly to lie on his back. Ray seems utterly insensible, dead to the world and his movements around her. Unlike last night, then , he thinks. Flakes of mascara fall over her cheeks, the last vestiges of eyeliner smudged across her eyelids. He breathes out slowly as he watches her and feels the unmistakable pang of guilt.
She’s pretty, slight and fragile despite her height. In this light, he can see the acne scars along her jaw, the soft fuzzy hairs along her arms. She was prickly last night but that’s the first time they’ve met; maybe she was nervous or had a bad day at work, or her boyfriend left her. God, he hopes she doesn’t have a boyfriend. She moves slightly, angling closer to him in her sleep. He hooks his arm around her thoughtlessly, chastely kissing her forehead. Her mumbled sleeping noise quieten, and he feels the warmth of sleep calling to him. Without drugs to sedate him, he welcomes the feeling of his eyelids drifting shut of their own volition.
The next time his eyes open, he is aware of the empty space beside him. He stretches, takes the opportunity to luxuriate and work the kinks out of his back. But there’s no familiar sound of someone pottering about in the kitchen, and when he gets up from the sofa he notices that Ray’s stuff is similarly missing. He yawns and glances around, padding to the kitchen. The wine bottle from last night is still sitting on the countertop, waiting for him to move it. The place isn’t too messy but the glasses need to go in the dishwasher, the ashtrays need emptying. But the principal thing he notices is not the glasses or the ashtrays or the wine bottle. It’s a conspicuous absence. No note, nothing to demonstrate that Ray was ever here.
“Fuck sake,” he sighs.
***
Across London, Ray checks her hair in the bathroom mirror and tries to wipe away the evidence that she slept in her makeup. Her hair is falling around her head in a fluffy, unbrushed halo. The only saving grace is that she went to Matty’s afterparty straight from work yesterday which means her outfit is entirely suitable for her eight A.M. meeting this morning. Still, she feels fraught and discomposed. She has ten minutes to get her head in the right space to meet her client, but all she can think about is him . Matty. Even his name feels suggestive, indecorous. Her reflection reaches up to touch her shoulder, bitemarks hidden beneath her white teeshirt. Nobody would ever be able to tell that a popstar fucked her on his kitchen floor last night. She colours, watches the blush spread across her counterpart’s face. It’s too heady, too easy to fall down the rabbit hole.
She confines those thoughts with all the zeal of a jailer. But still, as she sits through a meeting that could have been an email, her thoughts stutter and linger on the events of the night before. As warm and comfortable as it had been, pressed up against him with her face nuzzled into his neck, time ticked by and her real-life crept up on them. This meeting is in East London, and she had to run to make the Overground train from the station near Matty’s house. When she woke up earlier she was in a state of panic. Maybe she should have left him a note, given him her number. That’s what normal people do after normal hookups. But Ray wasn’t thinking about that; at the time, she was absorbed in finding her belongings (strewn around his kitchen) and not being late.
And what if she had left him a note? It was a drunk thing, a fuck that arose from a tense moment. Hardly the romantic overture or the start of a blossoming potential relationship. He was as likely to read her note as to throw it out with the empty bottles, doing his best to forget her name. Maybe this way she can play it off and act casual when she sees him next. That part is inescapable, after all. With the band free from their touring commitments, Ray knows that Lydia will be eager to invite them to the cosy get-togethers she hosts. Especially likely given the way she’d blushed in front of George, which is yet another complication to this strand of interpersonal drama. Ray stifles a yawn and orders another pot of tea for herself and her client. When she next sees Matty, whatever happens, she’s determined to keep things on an even keel.