‘Quite a list,’ he said.
‘Well, Mia tried her hand at a lot of things,’ I said, looking down at my hopelessly rucked and crumpled skirt.
‘And you enjoyed reading about them.’
‘Like I said,’ I mumbled.
‘Don’t be evasive,’ he said, suddenly stern. ‘Look at me, Ella.’
Instinctively, I was aware that, when he used my name, it meant trouble.
I looked up, feeling as if my cheeks had been slapped. They stung with the heat that had rushed into them.
‘We might as well be honest, don’t you think?’ he said, more gently. ‘You don’t need to pretend with me. Your list is my list, more or less, but from the opposite angle. I’m not ashamed of it. Why should you be?’
‘I’m not…it’s just…private.’
‘Not from me. You can play coy if you like, Miss Cox, but you know I can see straight through it, to what you want, what you need.’
I took a panicky breath. ‘What I need is a shower,’ I said. My thoughts were scattered, reeling all over the place.
There was a momentary pause, and then he said, ‘Right. I’ll drive you home then.’
I was confused. Had I said something to offend him?
‘I mean…I don’t mean I want to leave. Right now. I’m just saying…’
‘I know what you’re just saying. Come on then. Up you get. Did you have a coat? OK.’
He was so brisk that I couldn’t protest, or even speak, until we were back in his car.
‘Don’t you have a shower?’ I asked, once he’d pulled out of the car park.
‘What?’ He glanced at me. ‘Oh. Well, yes, I have.’
‘But I’m not allowed in? Or what?’
He sighed. ‘You’d only have to put those filthy clothes back on. Besides, I have a piece to write up.’
‘And is that it? Only I feel like I’ve upset you in some way.’
‘Upset me? No. I’m not upset.’
‘Well…’ I floundered. What, then? But I didn’t want to sound as exasperated as I felt. Or as vulnerable or desperate.
‘You just didn’t seem to be in the mood. Or in the zone. Or whatever you have to be in, in order to be honest with yourself.’
‘What? I’m honest with myself! Of course I am.’
‘So why all the head-hanging and foot-shuffling over that list, then? If you aren’t comfortable with what you want, then how am I supposed to be?’
I was caught up short. I had no idea whether he was being fair or not, but I felt unjustly accused all the same.
‘Tom, it’s not the easiest thing to admit, you know. Here I am, a twenty-first-century woman, independent, feminist, rah-rah-rah. I feel…well, I feel guilty about being into this kind of thing.’
‘You feel guilty,’ said Tom. ‘You aren’t the one who dreams of smacking a tied-up girl’s arse with a riding whip. How do you think I feel?’
I tried an indignant response to this, but I couldn’t. It was too absurd.