I’d once stood there, kissing a guy, both of us a bit drunk, not wanting to go anywhere, or take it any further, just enjoying kissing, late night, pubs shut. A few people heading towards the Tube had whistled at us, I remembered, and we just ignored them. Not that long ago. Of course I wasn’t as pure as I thought—what the hell was I doing judging him and his conquests? Wasn’t it just life? If you were ok looking and could get people to want you, didn’t you carry through with it? He wasn’t a saint—here I couldn’t help smiling, thinking of him gesturing at the man in the car—and didn’t I like that? A lot? I’d probably get further if I just opened my mind, and stopped being so fucking frightened and judgmental. I could do this. I was going to listen, and not be critical, and learn something, for once. We pulled up in front of a small purple cottage, one of a multi-colored row, just ground floor and first floor, with white painted window frames and a climbing white rose reaching over the doorway to the upstairs.
