‘What! And you didn’t call and tell me?’
‘Was I supposed to?’ I answer, blinking back innocently.
‘Too right you were, you sneaky-sneak.’ For a moment, I think she might be planning to hug me. But no. She leans over and wallops me in the arm.
‘Ow, that wasn’t nice.’ I rub my smarting arm before flicking a chip in her direction. ‘What was I supposed to say? Hi, Jules. I did the dance with no pants last night?’
‘Yes! And I’d have squealed down the line and demanded details.’
‘A bit like now, then?’
‘Yes! Details!’ she demands with the air of a toddler on the verge of a tantrum.
My brow screws in concentration as I wonder where to start. Should I begin with my awkward and halting explanation in a foreign language as to why, at twenty-three, I was still a virgin? Or should I start on the night itself where, after some kissing and fumbling, I’d decided I could never be with someone who wore corduroy. I just couldn’t go through with it and though I said it wasn’t him, but me, that wasn’t really true. It’s almost as if I’ve waited so long that when I do eventually do it, I want someone who really knows their stuff. I’m not expecting acrobatics, multiple orgasms, and hour-long fucks, but I also don’t want someone with his hand in my knickers fiddling away like I’m a piece of troublesome plumbing.
God, the experience was mortifying.
Maybe I should just be done with it and make an appointment with a male escort?
‘It was nice,’ I reply, realising she’s waiting for my reply. But nice is stretching it a bit, both in terms of truth and experience. But much like Henri wanted to make it agréable, or nice, for me, I want to do the same for Julia. She’s waited to hear long enough.
‘Nice?’ Her expression is a mixture of horrified and bemused.
‘Hotel, champagne, that sort of thing.’ All that, and I still couldn’t do it. I just lay on the bed in my underwear as stiff as an ironing board. Eventually, Henri’s similarly stiff anatomy wilted with the effort.
‘But he didn’t . . . do it for you.’
‘Look, contrary to the myths about French men, let’s just say I doubt Henri would have found my clitoris if he was wearing a coal miner’s helmet and it was lit by a neon sign.’ Cruel, but true. It might’ve helped if he’d started in that vicinity. For sure it would’ve been more agréable.
‘Christ, that’s disappointing.’
That’s what Henri said.
‘Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to go your first time?’ I ask, genuinely curious, even if I’m still on the wrong side of the virginity line. I don’t think I’ve heard many lost-my-v-card tales without a moment of embarrassment or pain or ridiculousness.
‘Yeah, I suppose,’ she replies before cramming a few Doritos into her mouth. ‘Doesn’t sound any worse than when I lost mine in the back of a Ford Fiesta,’ she says, swallowing them down. ‘I just hoped it’d be better for you.’
‘Why, because I’m a desperate case?’ Through her munching, she pulls a disparaging face.
‘Because you waited. Because you’re older. And more confident.’
I snort. She really doesn’t know what goes on under this skin. I’m still the same awkward person I was at uni. Before I dropped out during my last year. The same wallflower trying to find her inner wild girl. To cut free. Be loose. Be someone other than, well, me.
‘You really don’t see yourself like others do.’ I look up and find my friend watching me contemplatively. ‘There’s modesty, Ella, and then there’s just plain ridiculousness.’
‘Stop talking about it. You’re making me feel icky.’
‘People who aren’t brave don’t move to a new country all by themselves.’
‘I came back, didn’t I?’
‘Yes! That reminds me, you were supposed to stay at least through the summer so I could visit during my holiday,’ she reprimands. ‘But it’s not your coming back that worries me. It’s your next plan.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I answer blithely. I’m not going to mention the very particular dance class I’ve enrolled in. An art form to push me from my comfort zone. I doubt she’d understand. She’d probably think me silly and my plan as nothing but high jinx. You see, Jules is very much at home in her own skin. This translates into her attraction to the opposite sex. In other words, she’s not a twenty-three-year-old virgin.
‘But speaking of plans, I am going back to uni in September.’
‘Really? That’s fab! Oh, I’m so pleased for you. Are you going to finish your degree?’
‘Nope. I’m starting again.’ So I may almost have a degree in finance, except I left during my final year.
‘I’m not surprised,’ she answers. ‘But I’m pleased you’re finally doing what you want.’
‘I’ll probably be the oldest first year there,’ I say, self-consciously pulling my pyjama top from where it clings to my chest.