Little Elephant

"It's ok, Ben. We don't have to talk about it. Probably best we don't, actually."

His eyebrows tweak into a frown. "But --,"

"Let's pretend none of it ever happened," I suggest, praying he'll agree.

Before he can respond, Hedy arrives back, inserting herself between us and asking who's having another drink because she's up for one more.

I stand and return to my own seat. The smokers return from outside, more drinks are ordered, more in-jokes and stories and news traded across the table, another toast to the birthday boy. I sneak looks at Ben which is how I catch him doing the same at me. This time, I offer a small smile and he returns it. Not the full wattage smile, but it's better than no smile at all, and I decide it's enough for now. And it's late, so I pull at my coat, putting money down towards the bill, waving at the table to say goodnight.

He catches me up at the door, practically bundling me outside.

"You going without saying goodbye?" he asks, sounding weirdly breathless.

"Uh, no, well --"

"Can't I at least walk you to the station?"

"Sure. Ok." But as we walk along the dark, wet street, we're silent and awkward, his shoulders hunched and eyes down.

The tube station is a bright box of light, the handwritten sign in front of the ticket gates warning us to step carefully in this weather. 'Slippery when wet', it says in capital letters, and even I, still a foreigner to this insular nation, understand the cultural reference and the humour.

"Look, Nella --"

"Honestly Ben, I know how you're feeling. It was embarrassing, but we can forget it, ok?" I say, desperate to get us off the hook. To let him off the hook, anyway. "Let's go back to normal. Can we?"

He doesn't look happy and I wince at the thought he's not going to let it go without a fuller explanation of what a mistake it all was. It was a purely physical reaction that meant nothing. He doesn't see me that way. We're just friends. It's been looping through my head for weeks now and I can't bear to hear him actually say it out loud, here in the street. So I grab his arm and give him a tight smile.

"Anyway, I'm off home now. But see you soon?"

"Ok."

I daren't look at his face and turn away instead, fumbling for my bank card to tap onto the ticket gates and escape into the station.

+++

-Hey. What's going on and where are you? B.

I drum my fingers on the bar, eyes on my phone to see if she's replying or not.

-Hi! Just about to leave Chambers. How are you?

I grin. Ok, at least she's replying. It's been a week since Josh's birthday curry, since when I've not known what to do. The times I've begun typing out a text only to delete it again have been ridiculously frequent. I spent the weekend brooding over it, which got me nowhere, my head still stuck in that weird afternoon of faking/not-faking. I haven't been able to square the way she brushed me off, made as if it had been nothing, with the way she'd been during the shoot, when it'd felt sure as fuck that she wanted me. Hadn't it? The doubt is eating away at me.

-Ask where I am and I'll tell you I'm 5 mins from you in the White Hart. Wanna drink? Got something to celebrate

I watch the three dots pulse as she composes her reply.

-Something to celebrate? Sounds good. Be there in 10

I blow my breath out.

"Got yourself a hot date, have you?" the bartender gives me a sly look that I don't like so I give him one of my least friendly shrugs and make my way back to the table.

I raise my drink. "Cheers."

The beer slips down easily. I remind myself to take it slow, and keep half an eye out for her as everyone else talks about the job we've just landed. When she pushes through the doors, hair blown about by the wind, dragging that suitcase full of files and law books behind her, I intercept her before she can get to the table.

"Nell! Hi."

"Hi."

She looks startled. There are flecks of rain in her hair and on her face.

"Here, let me take that. What d'you wanna drink?" I grab hold of her case, pulling it over towards the bar where the same smarmy bartender gives me a sceptical look, the fucker, before I order a glass of white wine for her and another beer for me.

"So, what's this good news?" she asks, smoothing a hand over her hair.

"We just landed a sweet job. Probably a months' worth of filming and editing," I offer, sliding my card into my back pocket before handing the glass to her.

"That's brilliant. What is it? Tell me all about it."

I sneak a look at her as she takes her first sip, wishing it felt better than it does to see her again. I can't shake the fear she's going through the motions with me, and would rather be anywhere else than here. I fill her in on the job, standing with her at the bar, reluctant to share her with everyone else over at our table. I'd messaged her impulsively and now I'm second guessing myself, more and more certain she's come out of politeness only.

"That's great news, Ben. Cheers," smiling as she takes another sip. Then, "I'm glad you called."

It's all I can do to restrain myself from leaning in to kiss her. "Yeah?"

"Yes. Today was hard. We had to tell some of the pupils we're not taking them on, so -- you know."

"Right, yeah. Tough day."

"Mm. And it's good to see you."

So few words, but they unleash a loud, unruly, gorgeous riot of angels in my chest.

"It's good to see you too, Nell," I mumble and because I can't trust myself not to say something ridiculous, I walk her over to the table and watch as she greets Ed and Rehana warmly, scolding them for not being at Joshi's birthday, and I try to kid myself everything's ok between us now.

If only.

She falls easily into conversation with everyone, catching up on their news, learning more about the new job, sipping her wine so delicately. It maddens me, frightens me even, that she can be this close to me but feel so distant. And whether it's the spent adrenaline from today's winning pitch or the beer on an empty stomach or just her proximity, I fall into a weird reverie, images of Nell snapping into focus as if through an old-fashioned slide viewer; images from our school days right up to the fateful Saturday afternoon of the photo shoot. Me watching her, probably open mouthed, as she'd flown round the running track after school one day, challenged to a race by the supremely dick-ish Martin Miller, her hair bouncing high in a pony tail as she'd beaten him soundly into second place. Us in the dark at a music festival we'd gone to on a whim, the stage miles away but loud enough to dance to, her arms aloft until they'd draped over my shoulders for a few glorious, unguarded, seconds.

I chew at my thumbnail to make it stop, because thoughts like this can't go anywhere good. She's not interested in me that way and, after I lost it and allowed my dick to get involved, no doubt she's more than happy to keep her distance from me. And furthermore -- my inner voice is getting all court-like and M'lord-ish and frankly idiotic -- if she knew anything about my, uh, tastes and preferences, she'd run even further. Which makes me the prize fucking idiot for even entertaining the notion. If it hadn't been for Joshi's bloody photoshoot --

"Nelson. Hey, mate," Ed's clicking his fingers in front of my face. "Another beer?" he's asking, looking amused at my spaceyness.

"Yeah, please."

Ed makes for the bar, and Rehana out to the street for a smoke.

After long and uncomfortable beats of quiet between us, Nell glances at me from over the table. "You ok, Ben?"

I wave it off. "Yeah," even as it's hard to be nonchalant and I grip my empty glass to distract me from the fact she's still looking at me.

"I'm not sure if I believe you."

She's used a gentle voice but it still cuts.

"Don't you?"

"Shove those glasses out of the way, will you, mate?" Ed intervenes, hands full of a new round of drinks already.

Me and Nell reach for the empties littering the table, grabbing for the same glass in an unfunny but comical way. She offers me a half-smile that I don't know what to do with, so I get up and head off to the lavatory. When I get back, she's laughing widely at something Ed's said, a look of delighted scandal on her face.

I beg with myself to shut out the white noise and the carousel of images in favour of the here and now. The pub is loud and humid, the windows steaming up and reducing the traffic outside to blurs of slow-moving red and yellow lights. I let it divert my attention, to reduce the tension of being so close to her. The drink infiltrates my veins and cells, and helps soften my brain. But nothing feels right.

As she finishes off her second glass, I anticipate her departure, listening to her leave-taking of Ed and Rehana as she stands up and pulls on her coat and scarf, half-dreading, half-eager for what she'll say to me.

She bends down, just slightly, and I catch her by surprise, upturning my face to meet hers.

"Don't go," I beg, staring into her eyes.

She hesitates. Actually fucking hesitates and my pathetic hopes soar. I grab one of her hands and pull it down to my thigh as if to tether her there. We share a few seconds of tense silence.

"I can't. It's late and I have to be in court tomorrow."

And yet she hovers. I try to read her mind. Or her mood, at least.

"There's drinks tomorrow night. Malcolm's got Silk and I know how much you like him, so you should come."

The curve to her lip is slight and completely tantalising.

"Malcolm, the old dog."

"Yes. Him. We'll be there any time after six, and I expect he'll be buying all night."

I release her hand which she removes but doesn't snatch. Not reluctant, but not in a mad hurry either. As if it's something we've done before, as if we're usually that sort of touchy-feely.

"I'll take that," I say, and she gives me a quick nod before threading her way around the rest of the punters and out of the pub.

Later, lying in bed and watching the play of light and shadow over the walls and ceiling, I replay the moment when, as Ed had recounted the best bits of our pitch to the client today, Nella had leaned in to say, 'Fortune favours the bold, isn't that correct?'. She'd said it to Ed, but her gaze had been on me, the precise look in her eyes cast in shadow, but it'd chased electricity and hunger around my body anyway. Was she merely playing with her delight in English proverbs, or were the words themselves the point?

+++

"My days, if it isn't Bad Boy Ben Nelson."

I swivel on my heels and, indeed, Ben's taking the three steps down into this back area of the wine bar, living up to Malcolm's silly nickname in his oldest jeans, barely-laced boots and scratched leather jacket, even as Ben's face creases with irritation at the greeting.

"Is this your doing, Nella?"

It's my turn to frown at Malcolm, because who else's 'doing' would it be that Ben's here except mine?

"Yes, I didn't think you'd mind. And," I adlib, "he's taking me out to dinner later."

The look Malcolm shoots at me is one he usually reserves for opposing Counsel and I wonder if I should pay Ben's assessment of my fellow barrister more careful attention. Perhaps Malcolm does have his eye on me.

"Nella," Ben's voice is soft but close to my ear and when I tilt my face to see him, he's got a very mixed look on his face. Expectant and cheeky with an unnerving dash of trepidation, I think.

"Hey, glad you could come," and somehow, because I can feel Malcolm's eyes on us, I'm brave enough to brush a kiss over Ben's cheek and squeeze his wrist. And heat up when he returns both the kiss and the squeeze. "Champagne?"

He nods, eyes roving over the assembled crows -- his name for barristers -- Malcolm already holding out a fresh glass of bubbly.

"Here, Ben, partake of some of this lovely stuff."

"Cheers, Malcolm, and congrats on getting Silk," Ben lifts the glass in a toast and takes a sip. "Very nice."

"It's Pol Roger," Malcom's voice is smug.

"Ah. Churchill's favourite," Ben parries, and I have to look down at my feet to hide my sudden grin.

"Indeed it is," Malcolm retorts, working hard to sound unimpressed.

Ben squeezes my arm again, reminding me he hasn't let go. I turn in to him, still grinning at the floor before rising onto my toes to reach his ear. "I, um, told Malcolm you were taking me out to dinner later, as a reason for you to be here. I hope you don't mind."

He grips me more tightly, pulling me closer, and with no warning, we're slammed back into the unfamiliar, wonderful proximity of the photo shoot, bodies close and warm, and ambitious for more. Or that could just be me and my body.

"Indeed," he mimics Malcolm's Home Counties accent. Then, "I'll take that," an echo of last night's promise. "When are we leaving?"

Which widens my madly grinning mouth even further. "Not long. I missed lunch and can't take more than two of these on an empty stomach," I hold up my glass.

"It's a deal, then," and he releases me, leaving a sweaty absence in place of his hand.

It's noisy and overcrowded and we're pressed together more often than not, even as we're pulled into separate conversations with my colleagues. Some of them know him from previous nights out, and some of them (it's a sub-set) are more than a little fascinated by him, coming as he does from a completely different kind of world. A creative, of all things!

I take part in the usual early evening gossip. How the computer system at Maidstone Crown Court crashed today, leading to chaos, no-one knowing which court to turn up at, or when, until one of the clerks had hijacked a long-forgotten whiteboard and ground the information into it with anger and ballpoint pen. The usual complaints about incomplete paperwork from the CPS, chippy attitudes from police officers waiting to give evidence, the terrible food in the canteen at Barking, some salacious speculation about the relationship between one of the judges and her clerk. Standard stuff.

"Hungry?"

His hot breath slides down my neck and, as I turn towards him, his eyes flash light and dark.

"Famished." It passes between us again, this odd state we're in, the change in us since the photoshoot; the unresolvedness of it vacillating between anxiety and euphoria.

Or, again, perhaps that's just me.

I can't seem to remember how Ben behaved with me before. A veil was lifted on that afternoon in front of Joshi's camera, calling everything I thought I knew into question. Is Ben behaving differently than before or not? Does he look at me differently? Touch me differently? Or is the difference just inside my head, put there by the fact I now know what he feels like? And that right there is what's changed for me, for sure. The way my mind and body light up at the memory is unlike anything I've felt before. I can't account for it.

These thoughts preoccupy me throughout our bus journey and for half of the meal we eat together, sitting at one of the small tables in the local noodle bar around the corner from my flat. He's been steadily working his way through a pile of Pad Thai when he pauses, takes a long drink from the beer bottle then sets it down on the table.

"Everything ok over there?" he asks, "only you seem a world away."

I lower the chopsticks to rest them on the rim of my bowl. Because, ok, let's say something to get it out in the open, before I go mad with it.

"I think we still have a little elephant in the room with us, don't we, Ben?"

He half smiles, maybe just acknowledging the expression of speech. "An elephant? Yes, I guess we do."

"Mm. I thought so."

He leans forward. "What shall we do about him?"

"It's a boy elephant?"

"Huh. Well I thought so. You think it's a female?"

I drink more wine, ruminating over what to say next. But he grabs at my hand, not just meeting it halfway, but tugging it over to his half of the table, fingers tight in-between mine. Almost uncomfortably tight.

"Look, Nell, I get I'm not right for you, but I think we started something that needs finishing, don't you?"

I gape at him. Where's this aggression been hiding inside my quiet, self-contained Ben? Dangerous, delicious licks of desire slide down my spine. I shiver, but he only tightens his grip.

"Finished?" the server gestures at our table.

"Not yet," Ben's voice sounding clipped.

"Yes, we're finished here. Thank you."

He doesn't contradict me, merely watches in silence as the server clears everything but our drinks from the table. The café clatters and spins around and around us, as if on speed; shouts from the kitchen, the clacking of chopsticks and clinking of glasses.

A tremble runs down my arm and it's almost as if he's there to catch it, his fingers digging hard into my hand.

"Nella? Have I said the wrong --?"

"What? No!" I interrupt, unable to countenance an apology from him. Not now. "Not at all," I add. And then, even though I've never propositioned anyone in my life before, the brilliant words fall out of my mouth. "Take me home, Ben."

His expression shifts and it's a beautiful thing to watch; the transformation from tension to wonder. There are more than forty muscles in the face and I'm sure every one of them is working in Ben's face now to pull off this infinitesimal, fundamental change. He tugs at my hand, lifting it to his mouth and shocks me by sliding his lips over my fingertips, sucking them inside, stroking them with his tongue for just a second or two. It's completely and overtly sexual, leaving no room for doubt. I squirm on the chair, suddenly violently curious about what else he can do with his mouth.

His gaze flicks to mine, as if my pulse has carried my thoughts through my bloodstream all the way to my fingers and into him. He releases them just as the server comes back to smash our bill onto the table. It breaks the spell.

I look around us and notice the queue of people waiting at the door. Ben's already throwing cash down and reaching for my wheelie bag as I turn back. Grabbing my coat and handbag, I stand up and hurry after him into the street.

"You ok?" he asks, seeking out my hand as we turn into the quiet alley, a shortcut to my flat.

"Yes," my voice hitches, dry.

He swings me round, backing me up against a wall, the wheels of my case loud and echoing, the handle retracting with a snap when he lets go of it, his body hard and needy against me, hot breath gusting down my neck as he bends in to kiss it and then my mouth. I open right up, bright spots of desire burning inside me, a wonderful feeling of freedom after all the pent-up tension. He kisses with his whole body, crushing me, wanting me. And, too soon, my lips are left wet and sorry by his withdrawal.

"Shit," he mutters, dropping his forehead down to touch mine. "I'm trying not to get carried away. And failing, Nell. Sorry."

I practically giggle, awash with endorphins. "I think I like it if you get carried away like that."

There's a delay, a few seconds where it seems as though he's absorbing my words, checking them for truth, his chest moving up and down. "Would you?"

I brush the side of his face with the hand that isn't still locked in his grasp and hook one of my legs around his calf, as brave an invitation as I can manage in the circumstances. He grunts, a hot, frustrated noise, even as his hips undulate just enough to betray his conflicted state. I roll into him, inch my leg a little higher up the back of his leg.

"Shit, Nell, you don't know what you're doing to me," he exhales, drawing away until his face comes into focus in front of me.

My heart staggers in fear of him walking away.

"Please come home with me, Ben," and even as I cringe at how submissive that sounds, I hold his face.

The only light in the alley comes from the bigger streets at either end and it's not enough to see much more than the outline of his features, but I can see him closing his eyes, tipping his head down just a little way, almost as if in quiet prayer.