Jon McGregor - So Many Ways to Begin

Shall I put some music on? he asked her, standing at the table and flicking through the records.

No, she said, whispering, lifting a finger to her lips. It's late, the folk next door don't like the music this late. He looked up at the wall, startled, wondering how much they could hear. She waved her hand at the bed. Come sit down, she whispered, and as he moved back towards her he was suddenly conscious of the sound of his footsteps on the bare floorboards, the sound of his breathing. She laughed at his tiptoe steps, covering her mouth with her hand. You don't need to be that quiet, she said. It's not as if they're listening up against the wall or anything. He sat down carefully, looking at the wall again, unconvinced.

She said, have you done this before?

She was looking down, at her hands in her lap, twisting one of her fingers from side to side. No, he told her. He was too embarrassed to ask in return. He assumed by the way she asked that she hadn't. She looked up at him, shifting her weight towards him on the small narrow bed. They kissed, and her hand resting on his thigh felt suddenly charged with anticipation. He lifted his hand to her hip, fitting his fingers to the curve of it, easing his fingertips beneath her shirt and on to her bare warm skin. She lifted her mouth away from his, pulling back a few inches and opening her eyes. They stayed like that for another long moment, uncertain, nervous. He dipped his head and kissed the soft part of her throat where her collarbones met, the way he liked to do. He liked the way it made her tremble very slightly, the faint sighs brushing against the top of his head. He did it again, but the second time she lifted her head and moved away a little, resting her fingers on his chest. Wait, she said.

It had been a long day. They hadn't met until late in the evening, by the clocktower, barely catching each other's eyes before turning and walking quickly to the cinema, heads down, not touching. Neither of them, when they talked about it later, could remember a single scene of the film. They'd held hands, briefly, but she'd pulled away. She'd kept looking over her shoulder, as though the usher might have seen them sitting too close together, as though somebody might be standing waiting to catch them as they left. Her parents had gone away to Glasgow for two days, but it felt as if they were still lurking behind every corner.

It wasn't until they'd got back to her house that she'd kissed him; and even while she was kissing him she'd been looking carefully over his shoulder until she was sure that no one was watching from behind any curtains. When she was sure, she'd opened the door and quickly pulled him inside, leaving him standing in the hallway until she'd rushed around the house and tugged all the curtains tightly closed. And finally, then, she'd come to him, and slipped her hands inside his jacket, around his waist, and kissed him slowly, and said hello.

Hey, she said. It's getting late.

She leant towards him, kneeling up on the bed, putting her hands on the blanket either side of him and dropping her head to kiss his upturned face.

Her weight, resting on his, her hand sliding inside his shirt and across his chest, his hands tugging at the buttons of her shirt.

She sat up, kneeling astride him, and undid the rest of her buttons, letting her shirt hang loose and watching his gaze fall to her chest. She slipped the shirt from her shoulders with a wriggle, pulled her arms loose, and dropped it on to the floor. Now you, she said, smiling, and he took his shirt off, undoing the top few buttons and dragging it over his head. He felt cold for a moment, awkward.

Her flat hand on his chest, polishing his skin. His fingers compassing around the curve of her breasts, his thumb pressed flat against each of her nipples. The way she closed her eyes, the sounds she made.

She lowered herself again, kissing his throat, his breastbone, his nipples, his shoulders, and as she did so he felt the weight of her breasts pressing against his skin. He had to bite both his lips to keep from calling out. And as she rolled away from him, on to her back, and drew him towards her to kiss and stroke her bare chest in turn, they were both thinking of the same thing, of the only other time they'd been exposed to each other in this way, that long hot afternoon at the start of the summer when they'd walked up past the brow of the hill, and looked down at the flat grey sea, and somehow dared each other into unbuttoning and removing their tops. Then, they hadn't kissed each other the way they were now, too embarrassed perhaps, too afraid of some stray walker or farmer appearing suddenly, and so they'd only looked, and laughed, and blushed slightly, and turned away from each other to get quickly dressed again.

Take your trousers off, she said.

And the rest, she said.

She looked for a moment, tilting her head to the side, curious. She stood up and pulled her skirt and her tights and her knickers to the floor, stepping gracefully from the gathered heap like a magician's assistant. The sight of her made him want to applaud. His whole body was straining and taut, arching towards her.

There was so much skin to touch, and so much skin to touch it with. They stood there, shivering a little, pressing their hands together, their chests, their legs. He held on to her hips for balance and brushed his mouth across her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She did the same, and then, delicately, cautiously, knelt down to kiss the very tip of his erection. She looked up at him and laughed quickly, and he turned his face away, smiling, embarrassed.

She lay on the bed, waiting, looking up at the ceiling. He couldn't get into the packet. He was worried about ripping the thing itself as he tore it open. When he'd eventually got it on, and knelt between her legs, she looked down and smiled briefly behind her hand. Sorry, she said. It looks funny though, in its wee mackintosh like that. Sorry.

He couldn't get it to go in. He wasn't sure about the angle, or the position. She waited for a moment, not looking at him, and then reached down to try and help. It didn't seem right at all. It was uncomfortable, for both of them. She said, you should probably — I think you need to — you know. He didn't know what she meant, but when he looked down he saw that she was pushing him away a little and rubbing at herself, and then he thought he understood.

She made little gasps and sucking sounds, winces, like the noises he'd once heard her make when she got her hair caught up in the zip of her coat and was trying to untangle it. Are you okay? he asked. Is it; does it? She nodded, quickly, it's okay, she whispered, it's okay. She laid her arms across his back and clung tightly to him. His face was pressed against the pillow beside her head, his arms squashed either side of her. He felt fragile, overbalanced. He held his breath.

She shifted uncomfortably beneath him, and the movement made him spill over into sudden regretful delight.

Don't stop, she whispered, it's okay. He mumbled something, his face still pressed into the pillow. No, he said, I've finished.

Oh, she said. He lifted his weight away from her. Oh, she said again.

They lay on their sides, looking at each other for a long time, wondering about what they'd just done. The room seemed suddenly very quiet and still. She smiled, and he brushed his finger against her lips, resting a knuckle in the squeeze of her teeth. She moved her leg very slightly, bringing her knee up towards his hip. He let his arm slip from her shoulder to the small of her waist.

He said — he whispered — bloody hell, Eleanor.

She smiled, pulling the covers up across them both, her eyes dimming and closing. He looked at their clothes, spread out across the room like stepping stones. He asked her if she was okay, if she was glad they'd done that, and she kissed him and stroked the side of his face, her eyes closed, her breathing slowing and deepening.