Free Another Country by Anjali Joseph Page B

her head, and felt uneasy.

    At some point in the night, Richard joined her in his bed; his cold hands and feet crept towards her legs. She flinched and withdrew. He chuckled and persisted.
    â€˜What time is it? Stop it, your hands are freezing.’
    â€˜I don’t know, about two. We had to work late. The presentation’s done though.’
    He fell asleep soon. Leela lay watching a parallelogram of light, ugly, indifferent, from the road. Slowly it moved across the ceiling. She felt helpless against the threat of loneliness, and replayed part of her conversation with Amy.
    The morning was both more and less frightening. Grey light came under the blinds; she made out the comforting shape of the large duvet, but the day was about to begin. She woke with Richard’s hard-on tucked between her legs from behind. He sighed, and rocked closer as though to jog her memory. Leela tried to edge away. She craned her neck to look at the clock on the bedside table, but couldn’t see it for his head.
    â€˜What time is it?’
    â€˜Come here.’
    â€˜I don’t know if I –’ The duvet, the room depressed her, but she would have liked to stay in bed for a long time, and get up after he’d left, as on days when the agency had no work for her and she sat in the flat, using the internet, reading, or writing things on pieces of printer paper. By mid-morning, all traces of him gone, she could wash up, tidy, then enjoy a sullen complicity with the furniture, and the blush-coloured carpet.
    His fingers rooted about between her legs.
    â€˜Your nails –’
    â€˜Sorry sweetie, I’ll trim them today.’
    She tried not to think of the infection she’d had, which never showed up in tests, but reappeared to make her sore. She’d begun to simulate orgasms a while ago, she’d forgotten why; now she worried she couldn’t remember how to come normally.
    â€˜I’m really turned on,’ he said.
    â€˜Do you want me to go down on you?’
    â€˜Do you want to?’
    â€˜I can.’
    â€˜Not if you don’t want to.’
    â€˜I want to.’ She wanted to pretend the morning hadn’t yet happened. She snaked under the duvet towards his crotch, and he began to masturbate and to palpate one of her breasts, eyes closed, while she stuck out her tongue. His fist accelerated; she moved back so it wouldn’t hit her nose. Underneath the duvet, the air was warm and humid, a strange alternative world. When he came it was salty and viscous.
    She resurfaced. He put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. ‘That was lovely.’
    â€˜Did you smoke yesterday?’
    â€˜Only half a sneaky fag outside the office. Could you smell it?’
    â€˜You taste different.’
    She lay against the pillow, the padding of her sleep gone.
    â€˜I’ve got to have a shower, sweetie.’ He got up, mock-groaning, and peeked through the blinds. ‘Ugh, still raining.’
    She watched him walk, tall, hairy, thin, out of the bedroom. Suddenly his head reappeared. ‘Jesus. What have you done to your hair?’
    Leela watched his expression. ‘I cut it.’
    â€˜Yesterday?’ He came closer.
    She turned to show him the nape. ‘I like the back.’
    â€˜The back’s nice.’ He stood, irresolute and naked, a towel in his hand.
    â€˜It’s my hair.’
    â€˜It makes your shoulders look nice,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get ready.’

    Leela, unbreakfasted, opened her bag. Yes. Lurking at the bottom, with a couple of wrapped tampons and one glove, was a slim dark chocolate wrapped in cellophane. ‘Merci,’ said the label in faux-cute serif font. Richard’s ex-girlfriend had left them for him on a visit. Leela had mocked the name; she ate the chocolates with cannibalistic satisfaction when she was hungry, which was often. Richard ate irregularly, though he ate well, and his fridge was full of