Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
“Why? Why not just… I don’t know. Get a situationship?”
“A situationship.” He pushes his head deeper into the pillow. “Which is what?”
“Low pressure. No labels. Just sex.”
“So all of the complications of a relationship with none of the honesty?”
“How’d you mean?”
“Someone always begins to want more. The other partner pretends not to notice until they can’t ignore it anymore.”
“Sounds like a lived experience if I ever heard one,” I mutter, maybe because that hit a nerve.
His next smile is a touch enigmatic. “At Ardeo, everyone knows why they’re there. There are no false promises. No wondering or worrying. It’s the physical touch of another person, the illusion of connection. I don’t have to answer to anyone or feign interest in the person I fuck, beyond the obvious.” And he laughs as my eyes drop to his crotch.
“Shut up,” I mutter, smacking him. I bet he’s really popular there. Stupid thought. He’s no pony.
“But I was there by chance that night. I hadn’t been for a long time.” He looks down at me. “I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
“Is that what you thought his would be?” I rush on. “Us, I mean.”
He inhales deeply and shakes his head. “These are uncharted waters.”
And I am drowning, I think to myself.
“What about you?” he asks, reaching for my hand. Palm to palm, we marvel silently at the size difference of our hands. “Because I don’t believe for one minute you were there to charge your phone.”
“It’s true!” I bury my head to his chest as he begins to laugh.
“We both know there are no phones at Ardeo.”
“I had mine. Or Sabine did.”
“And? No one goes to a sex club without an agenda.”
“Well, I didn’t have an agenda, but obviously, I was curious.”
“And?” The word is literally ten syllables long.
“I made a promise to myself a little while ago,” I find myself saying. As the words sink in, I come to realize that promise might’ve been playing in the back of my mind, like a subliminal message. “It wasn’t a promise I intended to keep,” I admit as my brow furrows, then widens almost immediately. “I sort of have.”
Wow, how crazy.
“A few months ago.” My eyes dart his way to check I haven’t put him to sleep. “I was at work, not quite a fully qualified doctor, but the ward was shorthanded, so I stayed after my shift had ended. There was a woman on the ward who we knew didn’t have long.”
“Yours must be a difficult job.”
“She was ninety-odd years old.” My words don’t diminish but I hope they explain. “She hadn’t had any visitors, and I suppose I wanted to bring her some comfort.” His fingers tighten on mine in reassurance. “We’re all going that way eventually,” I add, ignoring the sudden lump in my throat. “I held her hand and listened to her story of a daring life. A life full of adventure and love. Multiple loves,” I say with some emphasis. “But ultimately, it was a life that ended small. In a ward full of elderly snoring women in North London.”
“But at least she was holding someone’s hand.”
“Yeah.” I give a small smile. “There is that.”
“You’re a special person, Primrose Whittington.”
I shrug off his words because I’m not. “Anyway, speaking with her made me think about my life. And, in the moment, I suppose I promised myself I’d make a little space for my own adventures. Sometime.”
“So you were on an adventure,” he says softly. He means Paris and Emmy.
But I still am, I think. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
“Do you like being a doctor? Living and working in London.”
“London is home. And I love treating old people.”
“I’m saying nothing.”
“I think that’s best.” I set off laughing and the moment changes. “How old are you anyway? And don’t say old enough to know better.”
“I’m forty-two,” he says with a touch of asperity. “I know. Far too old for you.”
I think of Lavender and Raif, but I don’t offer him that tale.
“What can I say? I’m a fan of the older models.”
“Charming. I expect that is something to do with their reliable undercarriage.”
“As a doctor of oldies, let me tell you, the older the model, the leakier the undercarriage. Prostate problems are no joke.”
“Then why do I feel you’re taking the piss?”
“Good pun,” I say, patting his chest. Just because. “But, yeah, I love my job. It took me a while to get there, to find my thing, but when I’m at work, I feel like I’ve found my place in the world. I love my patients—even the crotchety ones. Old people have a lot to offer, I find.” He makes a noise of agreement that makes me giggle. “Sadly, most of us don’t want to listen to the older generation.”
“Hmm.”
“I know. If I’d listened to you, we wouldn’t now be looking at just days.” The thought makes me feel ill.