Snake bite and slushes - a love story - part 2

I spent the summer of the year 2000 doing a women’s writing course at UCLA. I’d been dreaming about it for years and for some reason had imagined eight weeks of classes under trees, protest rallies and poetry recitals in beatnik coffee houses. This is what happens when you watch too many student films set in the 1960s America. The reality was more air conditioned classrooms and Starbucks – the lack of romance was palpable.

Mixed in with my disappointment was a hefty dose of homesickness. I sent lengthy, tearful missives to my Mum and Mr M on a daily basis. Mr M wrote me handwritten letters and in my mind (we’ve already seen how reliable my imagination is) he became my chivalrous, blonde haired saviour. I dreamt of getting home and back into his loving, supportive arms, where I would cruise through my final year of university and skip off into the sunset en route to my surely upcoming wedding to him.

When I landed at Gatwick in early September Mr M was stood there with my parents, a bunch of flowers in hand. He wasn’t at all how I’d remembered him to be. He was all soft around the edges, with that irritating self-deprecating smile and those Labrador like eyes which said “tell me to do something and I’ll do it – right now – just to make you happy.” Hmmm.

I pushed these feelings to the back of my mind and blamed my irritability on jet-lag. Two weeks later and Mr M and I were moving in together – just the two of us – for our final year. I had been warned by my all knowing parents that this was a BIG MISTAKE – but with the self assurance of any 20 year old I knew what was best for me, and living with Mr M – away from the lazy, ungrateful, dirty kitchen floor loving pests that I’d lived with the year before – was the right move.

We played house for three months and the Friday nights in front of Gardener’s World began. I felt guilty for wanting to go out and stayed in weekend, after weekend, telling myself I should be concentrating on my work and that it was my third year and I really should be buckling down.

By Christmas I was starting to get weary of the whole thing. Not that I admitted it – even to myself. I kept telling myself it was a rough patch, that it hadn’t all been a mistake and that my desire to keep as far away from Mr M's family home over the Christmas break was just a yearning for a bit of “absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Three days before Christmas he called me. “Umm about New Year’s Eve,” he said. “I’m not sure I have time to go and stay with Mr Jones and Miss B – I think I should stay in and revise.”

“Are you joking,” I asked – not bothering to hide the incredulity in my voice.

“No I really do think that I need to get on with stuff – I mean we have exams in three weeks and I really want to get good marks.”

“Well I am certainly not staying at home to revise on New Year’s Eve – we’ve got plenty of time. I’m going so it’s up to you if you come or not. I think you’re being ridiculous.”

“Ok then – we’ll go,” he said in a – yes I’ve made the decision and it’s the right one – tone of voice.

So off we went. Mr Jones cooked spaghetti bolognaise, we drank a lot of wine. Mr M and Miss B ate Viennetta due to a mutual hatred of anything lemon flavoured – Mr Jones and I ate Tarte au Citron.

I was so drunk by the end of the meal that by the time we got to the local pub I had to go and be sick. But with the cast iron constitution of a hard living student I washed away the taste of regurgitated spag bol with a vodka lemonade and lime (no slushes were to be had) and we all continued to get steadily drunker.

The pub was rammed and we were all packed around a tiny table. I was sat next to Mr Jones – opposite Miss B and Mr M. We were stuffed in so tightly that there was no light between us and every inch of our sides were touching.

I don’t remember what we talked about and nor do I remember how Mr Jones and I came to be holding hands under the table. What I do remember is the tingly thrill of feeling his fingers intertwined with mine and my brain fuzzily registering that something about it felt so right – despite the fact that is was oh so clearly very wrong.

We sat like that for most of the night – until midnight drew close and we all stuck on our coats and headed out into the chilly town square. The clock struck twelve and we all hugged and kissed, wishing each other Happy New Year. I squeezed Mr Jones tight and gave Mr M a quick peck on the lips.

A big group of us started the long walk back to Miss B’s house where the party was to continue. Down a dark alleyway Mr Jones decided he could deny his urge to pee no longer (oh the romance of this tale) and for some reason I was lagging behind everyone else and walking alone.

Mr Jones jogged to catch up with me and linked his arm through mine. We gazed at each other blurrily and before I knew what was happening we kissed. Not a long and passionate kiss, but a kiss with intention, not the sort of kiss that happens between people who are just friends. It was a kiss that sent shivers down my spine, set my heart racing and left me wanting more. We turned and kept walking – not saying a word.

Back at the house the party was in full swing. I found a spot on the floor and started to chat with people I didn’t know. Mr M sunk down next to me. I smiled as I turned to face him. “Did I just see you kiss Mr Jones?”