The Interview

Parting is such sweet sorrow?

I never thought I’d say it, but I can’t wait to put a little distance between myself and Whit. It’s not that I want to leave him, I just can’t stop being awkward, swinging between I’m going to climb you like a tree and you deserve better than me.

I need to regroup—I need a day to decompress. I’ll be fine by Monday morning. Equilibrium restored, all grab-life-while-you-can cylinders set to go. But for today, I find I need to hate myself.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Whit’s tone is concerned as he glances briefly my way.

“Of course.” I want to say it’s not you, it’s me, but that would require an explanation I can’t give. I’m not even sure I can make sense of my feelings. I just know I thought being with Whit would be uncomplicated and now I realize there’s no such thing. “I just wish you’d let me make my own way home,” I add when I realize he’s staring at me again.

“Give it up, he murmurs as the lights change and he merges into the traffic. “Not happening,”

A glimpse of last night flashes in my head and my belly, the thoughts a pleasurable undertow impossible to resist. The thatch of his midnight ink hair between my legs and the rasp of his cheek against my inner thigh as his gaze rose to meet mine. His devilish grin as he—

“Have you got any plans for the rest of the weekend?”

“No.” My insides pulse and pound and I duck my head as though the sensation might show on my face. I absently pluck a thread at the hem of my dress, and as it begins to unravel, I make a frustrated huff. I shove my hands under my thighs against the temptation to pull it. To ruin it like I’ve ruin my plan. I wasn’t supposed to feel like this about him. It was just supposed to be sex—his heart and his feelings weren’t supposed to be my concern. No, that’s not right. I’m not so callous. I just saw Whit as I remembered him. A man irresistible to women. A man always down for a little no-strings tryst. And I suppose he is, but it doesn’t stop me from hating myself a little bit. Turning my head to the side window, I watch the London streets spin by. Well, crawl, maybe. Knightsbridge traffic is no joke, even on Saturday.

“Next time, you should bring a bag?”

“Sorry?” My head spins back. “What was that?”

“Next time we get together, you should bring a bag.” He does that thing men everywhere seem to have perfected—you know the thing where it seems like they barely glance your way but take you all in.

“To save me looking like I’m doing the walk of shame?” I adjust my definitely not for daytime sparkly clutch on my knee.

“I’d say last night deserves a victory lap.” He swipes his thumb at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t hide the way his lips tip.

“Thanks for the loan of the cardigan, anyway.” I tighten the navy fisherman’s knit tighter over my dress. It’s long enough to hide the way my dress splits. And its length, I guess. My sparkly bag, heels, and sex hair, not so much. At least Aunt Doreen won’t make a fuss. Her being a woman of the world and all. “I’ll bring it into the office on Monday.”

“There’s no hurry. It’s been at my place for weeks.”

“Well, thanks to whoever it belongs to.” I have no business sounding snippy about who he spends time with (read: bangs) when I’ve told him I want to date half of London. I mean, who does that? Tries to solve a man problem by throwing a few more fictitious ones into the mix?

This idiot. Even if it is for the right reasons.

“Prim.” The accusation seems to hang in the air between us.

“I am not!” Just because I don’t have your kind of experience—” His lips tip kind of ironically. “Just because I want to see more of London doesn’t mean I’ll be banging men indiscriminately!”

“Primrose, my sister. That’s her cardigan.”

“Oh. Good. I mean, God. I mean, thanks to Primrose,” I say… primly.

“She hasn’t missed it yet. And I haven’t missed that this isn’t about you playing tourist.”

“Don’t, Whit,” I say plead softly.

“I’ll play along. For now.”

We fall quiet, the low hum of the radio filling the space between us.

“Well. That didn’t go as planned.”

“What didn’t?” The words fall from my mouth before I can stop them, and I frantically scan my mind for something else to say. “What kind of car did you say this was again?” I ask as he flicks on the turning signal, feeding the leather steering wheel expertly through his fingers.

“A Bugatti. Why, do you like it?”

“It’s cool.” And expensive, at a guess.

“Would you like to drive it sometime?”

“In London?” I ask, aghast. “Thanks, but no. Some of the streets look like they belong on a Harry Potter set. Ye olde world tiny,” I add when he doesn’t seem to follow my meaning.

“We could go out of the city. Find a quiet country lane.”

I shake my head. “I’m no good with a stick.” His laughter fills the space between us, deep and rich and so… him. “You know what I mean.”

“We don’t have to drive. We could always try that other thing you haven’t done in a car yet. Maybe you should make a list.”

“Like a bucket list?” Why does that feel like a sudden weight on my chest?

“A fuck-it list,” he amends. “Put car sex at the top of it, if you like.”

“I haven’t had sex in a car. I also haven’t eaten octopus. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna do either.”

“I have. Truthfully?” he adds, his attention sliding my way. “Vastly overrated.”

“Octopus?”

“Both. But if it’s on your fuck-it list, I’ll give it another go.”

“I’m not a fan of seafood,” I say, turning my smile from him.

“And the other.”

“I’m not having sex with you in a country lane.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying,” he replies, unrepentant. “Next time, bring a bag when you come to stay.”

“Okay.” The word comes out small, my stomach a mess of knots. Pleasurable knots mixed in with the conflicted ones.

“You’re not going to ask, are you?” he says, sounding mildly annoyed.

“What is it you want me to ask?”

“When we’ll see each other again.”

Of course, it would be right now that the lights up ahead change to red. Meaning he turns to me with that expression. The one that seems to say: give it up, you know you’re going to.

“I mean, I’ll see you at work on Monday.”

“Amelia.”

The sound of my name in that tone makes me want to shimmy and sigh. “I just meant I assumed we’d talk about it then.”

“We’ve got time to talk about it now, given you’re staying in the arse end of London.” The latter he adds in a mutter.

“Which is why I wanted to take the Tube home.”

“Give it up, blondie.” Reaching out, he pulls on the end of my braid.

“Blondie?” A pet name shouldn’t feel mildly thrilling. I mean, it’s not even a pet name yet. Just because he said it once doesn’t mean it’ll stick. Anyway, I’m not supposed to be simp-ing after him.

“Have you got a problem with that?”

I shrug. Whatever. Secretly, I’m thrilled.

“You’re like sunshine, you know.”

“Bright and cheerful?” I reply with a tiny preen.

“Deceptively dangerous. Something tells me if I’m not careful, you’ll leave me burned.”

“Don’t say that,” I whisper. “This is supposed to be fun, not painful.”

“You didn’t answer my question. When?”

“I guess, one weekend—”

“Not one weekend, Amelia. Multiple weekends. Don’t tell me you’ve had your fill because I’ve barely scratched the surface.”

Interested is the least of what I am. Whit might be an obsession in the making, and that’s exactly why I need to be careful.

“Interested and that you can find time to fit me into your busy dating schedule,” he adds caustically.

Someone upstairs must think I need a break as the driver behind us leans on his horn, shifting Whit’s attention to the now green light. “All right, wanker,” Whit mutters, glaring in the rearview mirror as the car glides forward.

I find myself sounding the word out silently. I like Brit speak.

“I hope that wasn’t meant for me.” I turn my head and watch mild amusement flit over Whit’s face.

“I would never presume to call you anything so… insulting. But fun. London swearing feels so… continental.” Whit barks out a laugh. “Is a cheeky wank the same as a cheeky wanker?”

“What?” He barks out the word, amused.

“Isn’t it?” My shoulders move with bemusement. “Are they the same thing?

“Who’ve you been listening to?”

“El.” That wipes the smile from his face. “Well, I overheard him calling someone a cheeky wanker, and the other I heard on the Tube one ride in last week.”

“In what context?” he asks, “because the mind boggles.”

“I was eavesdropping. One girl was describing to another how she’d given her boyfriend a cheeky wank. She made it sound like she was doing him a favor.”

“Well, a cheeky wank can be fun,” he offers, trying hard to fight a smile. “Especially if there’s another party involved and they’re into it. But an appeasement wank sounds pretty sad.” His chest rises and falls as though to prepare himself, his eyes sliding briefly my way. “You sure you’re not having me on?”

“That means teasing you, right?” I give my head a shake. “Definitely not winding you up,” I say with the authenticity of the chimney sweep in Mary Poppins.

He laughs again and, ah me, I love making his mouth tip up and that chest heave with amusement. It’s addictive—like love crack, without the illicit connotations or actual love. Romantic love, I mean. I’m totally prepped against that.

“So come on. Explain!” I literally bounce in my seat.

Whit signals left mutters over his shoulder something that sounds like “can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” then, “a cheeky wank is an impromptu act of self-love.”

“A what?” I feel my brow pucker.

“Meeting Mrs. Palm and her five lovely daughters.” Holding up his left hand, he wiggles his fingers before making a cylinder of them and, well, you know.

“Ohh.” The graphic gesture totally makes sense.

“So a cheeky wanker is someone who’s having a cheeky wank?”

“No, that one is more like a mild insult. Like someone is taking the piss, annoying you? Like calling someone a jerk-off, but less venomous.”

“Whit, you are so educational. I know oyu said you’d teach me, but…”

This time, the amusement that flitters across his face is a mite darker. “Tip of the iceberg, little fly. Tip of the iceberg.”

I dip my head to my lap and the loose thread again. “Flies are so…”

“‘So handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes.’”

“Do you know the whole poem?” I ask softly.

“I might’ve googled it recently,” he admits with a touch of amusement.

Danger. Danger! This is the kind of man a girl could easily fall for.

“Speaking of the internet,” I say with a forced brightness as pull out my phone, “what are the popular dating apps in London?”

“And you suppose I’d know.” His tone is suddenly gruff.

“Come on, Whit. You’re not a monk. The girl you were expecting a few weeks ago when I turned up didn’t just materialize. She came from somewhere.”

“Not a dating app.” The phrase ‘brooks no opposition’ springs to mind. “I take it that means you haven’t changed your mind.” Something unpleasant flits over his face, but a passive mask soon resumes.

“About dating?” Serious about making you think I am, anyway. I need to put more thought into this than letting knee-jerk ridiculousness spill from my mouth. Why the hell did I think asking would help?

“Forget it,” he mutters, grumpy CEO Whit taking over.

I wish I could forget. I wish I could take myself back to the moment I realized Whit deserved to do better because then I’d make sure to gloss over it. I’d think of only me and be greedy about my fill.

“I don’t think it would be a good idea to change my mind. That’s why I asked about dating apps,” I say calmly. Much calmer than I feel, anyway. It strikes me that I’m going to need to put more effort into my little ruse than I anticipated. It’s not like I have to date. I can just pretend. I’ll just download an app or two. Whit won’t need to know I’m swiping left (or is it right for refusal?) all the time. Because really, who wants to date in real life? Only masochists and people who can take a risk on love.

“So where do you meet the women you…”

“Fuck?” he finishes for me, all hard fricatives. “Nowhere suitable for you, little fly.”

Way to point out I’m one of the training-wheel brigade. “Too niche for my tastes, huh?”

“Have you ever used dating apps before?”

“Have you?”

“You do know there isn’t an app to meet people as friends, that most people out there are looking to hook up? Which you won’t need,” he adds with a sharp look my way.

“That might be the rule, but there are always exceptions to every rule.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Those looking for that special unicorn also known as the one.”

“There has to be more than that,” I mutter, swiping Google open as I begin to type.

Dating apps in London for Friendship.

“What about Feeld?” I announce, bringing up an article about the app.

“That’s mostly couples looking for a casual third.”

“How do you know that?” He slides me a look that’s hard to decipher. “But it has a tag for friendship,” I add defensively.

“I’m sure I read somewhere that it was created by a couple looking to introduce others into their sexual experiences. I might be wrong,” he adds with the confidence of someone who knows they aren’t. “You can do your own due diligence, I’m sure.”

I scan the text and, yup. I find something to that effect in the sales pitch. “What about Hinge?” I say, flicking back to Google and picking the second from my search.

“A bit like Tinder.” My brows pinch, and my mouth falls open, ready to protest when he adds, “Sign up. See how many people you match with, people who are looking for friendship and not a casual fuck.”

“Fine.” I go back to my search. “Bumble BFF,” I announce excitedly. “It says a simplified way to make meaningful connections—I can date women!”

“Women?” he says in that tone.

“Urgh! For friendship. For coffee dates and things.” On second thought, maybe I should stick to fictitious men. I don’t want him getting too comfortable. “Although, in my experience, women can be harder to befriend.”

“They’re certainly hard to fathom,” he mutters.

We leave the conversation there, the rest of our journey to Edgeware silent, slightly tense, and very awkward.

“What in the world…” Before we get to the red-bricked street I currently call home, we’re flagged to a stop by a policeman. The road ahead is cordoned off with blue tape. Beyond it stands a couple of fire trucks, police cars, and people in reflective jackets.

“No access to the road ahead, folks,” the policeman says, bending as Whit opens his window.

“What’s going on, officer?” I ask, ducking down to see him better.

“Unexploded ordinance was found in a garden in Barnaby Street.”

“Oh no. That’s Aunt Doreen’s street.” I glance at Whit, then back at the officer. “Unexploded ordinance? You mean, like a bomb?”

“Probably left over from the war,” he says. “The army’s bomb squad are on their way.”

“The bomb squad?” My heart begins to flutter rapidly. I press my hand to it, willing it to settle.

“Don’t worry. Your aunt will be safe,” Whit offers. “She will have been evacuated.”

“Yep.” The policeman stands. “The houses are all empty. Reverse at the corner when you can,” he directs Whit as he turns.

“Don’t worry,” Whit says, taking my hand. “They do this all the time.”

“They do?”

“Well, relatively speaking,” he amends. Pressing his arm across the back of my seat, he twists his head over his shoulder as he begins to reverse.

“The camera.” I point at the image that flashes up on the dash. “Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“It would also be cheating,” he says with a small grin.

Maybe there’s a class they teach somewhere. Driving: How to Make it Look Hot. It shouldn’t be sexy watching him reverse. “No one finds it sexy when I do it!”

“Finds what sexy?”

Damn. “Nothing,” I mutter, glancing out of the side window.

“You think it’s sexy when I reverse?” he asks, driving back the way we came.

“Shut up,” I plead.

“Sure you don’t want to give this a drive?”

I expect to find innuendo painted across his face when I look. But no. “No thanks.”

“The offer stands. And you can back yourself up on me any day of the week.”

“Funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.” When I don’t answer, he adds, “So where to now?”

“Oh, pull over! There’s my aunt.” Doreen is holding court, sitting on a low garden wall. She has a teacup in her hand and a bag and cat carrier by her feet. “Oh, good. She has moggy.”

“Her cat is called cat?”

“No, he’s called Moggy.”

“Moggy means cat. Like mutt means dog.”

“Oh. Then I guess Aunt Doreen is unimaginative.” Which can’t be the case at all.

“There she is!” Doreen announces as we make our way toward her. “I was just talking about you.”

“I hope it was all good.”

“What a thing to say,” she scoffs. “You’re an angel. Didn’t I say she was an angel?” she says, turning to the woman on her left. “This is Sadie. She lives here.” She gestures to the house behind her. “She was kind enough to put the kettle on while we wait.”

A chorus of “lovely cuppa, this is,” starts up from the china cup holding brigade of elderly women.

“How long before you get to go back?” As Doreen’s eyes widen, then flick slowly up then down, I realize how rude I’m being. “Oh, sorry. Where are my manners? This is Whit, Aunt Doreen. You remember I told you about Connor’s friend?”

“I remember you mentioning him, dear,” she says, suddenly patting the back of her hair. “And now the picture is becoming very clear. He’s her boss,” she announces, all wide-eyed and nodding head.

“Oh!” clucks the chorus.

Well, I don’t quite know what that means, but anyway, “Whit, this is Aunt Doreen.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he says, holding out his hand. His voice sounds deep and gravelly, like a fox in a house full of hens. Quite aggressive hens, actually, judging by the appraising looks he’s getting.

“Sorry, how long do you think?”

“Before we get back?” I nod, and Doreen shrugs. “How long is a piece of string? They’re talking about taking the thing away for detonation.”

“It’s that big?” Whit asks.

“What does that mean?” I ask, my head swinging between the two. “Isn’t anyone freaked out by this?”

“Of course we are, love. But they’ve been finding bombs in London since the Luftwaffe buggered off home. We just take it in our stride, don’t we, girls?”

Again with the agreeing chorus.

“So will we be allowed back, do you think?”

“Once they’ve moved the thing.”

“Can I offer you a nice cuppa tea, loves?” Sadie, the owner of the garden wall, asks Whit and me.

“We’ll budge up,” Doreen says, already moving the women along the wall with her butt. “Sit yourselves down. It won’t be long.”