Short Fiction

Five Days in May
by Alex Keegan

He wondered what the sex would be like. She thought it would be good. When she asked him, "Do you think the sex will be good, Harry?" he knew it would be great. But that was later.

She went six stops by underground from her river-view apartment to work. Today she was re-reading a paperback of The Great Gatsby. Yesterday she had finally finished her Melville and next week she was going to have another try at Absalom! Absalom! A little bit of Greig hummed in her head as she did a pelvic floor squeeze and smiled at the man opposite. Lunch would be forty-nine minutes in the gym, a single M&S sandwich, a bottle of Perrier. After work she would do seventy-five minutes' step, shower, go home and play some Bartok on the NAD.

She thought about the new apartment, its ruthless white walls, the one wall that was sheet-brilliant glass, the staggering views, the model cars the other side of the Thames, the pin-prick people, the lifted silence, her books, and, where a television would be, her Nordic work-out machine.

The kitchen excited her. Everything white, shining, the microwave, the storage for her vegan books, the neat Tofu hideaway. She would see herself reflected in the shine of the stainless-steel kettle as she did her mid-evening stretch routine.

She got out at Green Park and cut through to the office, arriving ten minutes before the MD, twenty before the secretaries. The Japanese were due in from Heathrow at two o'clock; Paris and Nice were still to be arranged and there was a video-link into New York at twelve o'clock Eastern Time.

Harry still had the red-head's business card. He had made himself wait two days before he rang her, but he couldn't stop seeing those green eyes, the flick of her hair or the way she strutted away from him after their little accident in the Aldwych. "Thank-you!" she had said and smiled. His gut had turned over and she sensed something. "Give me a ring!" she'd said and clicked a card into his hand. He had forced himself not to chase her down the Strand.

He rolled out of his pit and stumbled past one of the chairs and into the bog. After a quick pee he washed and shaved then thumped through the lounge and into the kitchen. There were letters sticking out of the toaster. He swapped them for bread and slapped a kettle on. He was running low on Heineken and would need to get another box soon or maybe jolly over to Calais with the lads this weekend, next weekend...

He was feeling a bit better now so went through to do some weights. He only had time for a warm-up and a quick few benches but he felt he needed something to blow away last night - an Indian with Chas, Gup, the two Daves and Dave Eye's new bird.

He did thirty minutes in the end; took a quick look at the old pecs in the bathroom mirror and then had a lazy bath; hot, pink with matey and with that stupid duck (the one whatsername bought) at the deep end, slowly turning round, looking at him every now and again. He saw his reflection again as he dried, and grinned, remembering the card. As he dressed he barped out the opening of Eye of the Tiger. Suddenly he fancied booking a Rocky video out of Blockbusters again and getting a coupla the lads round with a few tins.

Harry was immaculate as he left his Victorian maisonette. His rooms were the exact opposite, clutter and crap but his Mrs Doings came in tomorrow and she'd sort him, no problem. He got in the 901 and flobbed off through Dock-lands, up past the Canary, off the Dogs and up town. He was supposed to be coming in to some World Cup tickets today and Merryll Lynch were looking promising for some nice Corporate stuff at Ascot in July. What he really fancied was another Arab job though; helicopters, Lims, the full wabash, and a nice earner at the same time. The spare from his last Arab do had bought him his wide-screen telly and vid; and Status Quo on that were like, Yee!

He cracked the tickets by ten, confirmed the terms with M-L for Ascot by eleven and pulled out the red-head's card. Seven pips, a quick bit of blish for the receptionist and he was through to her.

"Jennifer Harris."

"You said call."

They met on the Monday, this time without crashing into each other. She fancied la Traviata at the Garden or seeing if they could get in at the National. Harry was keen on a Blues band gigging in Peckham. They compromised with a walk up Piccadilly, and a Lebanese in Shepherd's market. Over salad they both knew and Jennifer said, "Do you think it will be good, Harry?"

Just like that, Harry was like a rock. He croaked out a yes.

When he looked into her face her eyes, deep green and sexy, drew him, and for a fleeting, lyrical second, he almost thought of a poem. He imagined walking round inside her head, blood red and sexy.

It started that night, her place. It finished Friday, his.

It would have been nice if it could have lasted mebbe three months; they had Wimbledon in common; she liked Agassi, he liked the Wombles.

He was good at getting tickets though and he sent her a couple for the men's final. She'd probably go with a bloke she met on the tube.

It couldn't have lasted. Not really.

But five days; the sex was damn good.