Breaking Up With The Hudsons
Michelle answers the door wearing faded jeans. Tousled, dark hair and a vintage lace shirt that gives you the impression it might be see-through. Smile wide, and holy fuck what a smile. Like I’ve just brought the summer early. Yes! You’re here! And right on time. James is just faffing about with lunch prep and wine and sort of tidying up. I tell them not to bother on my account. Oh darling I know I know, she ushers me in, a hand on my waist, her lips brushing my cheek. Argh, you smell divine as ever. So does she. Woodsmoke and spice.
Their home is a collection of antiques and plants and vinyl. Like most in this particular postcode, but there's an authenticity about it, worn in and loved and real. The table is cleared of the weekend’s papers and James’ writing paraphernalia. Tell tale marks of oil paint where Michelle has been colouring outside of the lines. There’s wine and salad and dressing and bread that I suspect Michelle has just taken out of the oven. And again I am pulled into this life where I think briefly I could live. This artisan, bohemian existence. Where we write and paint and fuck and someone else looks after the children, surely.
James emerges from the conservatory, color in his cheeks and I put two and two together pretty quickly that they’ve been warming up to my arrival already. Or maybe that’s just in my head. The idea of them, James unbuttoning her jeans, fingers slick with spit, whispering what he hoped he would be doing to me when I walk through the door.
Hey you, he smiles, kisses me on both cheeks. This sort of friendly formality. Because we aren’t dating. The three of us. Are we? How does that even work? We chat. The journey, the weather. I’ve brought some chocolates I picked up on a recent work trip to Amsterdam. We eat. It is delicious because of course it is, this life. This place. These people. We laugh. Anecdotes about politicians and a funny clip on TV and did I hear that new album and yes oh god I need to read that. And we get on really well. The three of us. Michelle lazily leaning her cheek in her hand, tracing the wine glass rim with her finger, watching James regale us with a story of a recent press trip. His whole face lights up when he speaks, high cheekbones and sharp chin adds to the overall drama of him. Offset by a boyish charm, he could be just about any age, but the grey at his temples hints at experience, seems to highlight his wry anecdotes. We are nearly three bottles in already. Lunch a collection of discarded plates and olive pips. My shoes kicked off by the door, I tuck my feet under me, happy and comfortable in a late summer daze of tipsiness and I am enjoying watching James, too. We are both somewhat in his thrall. Although really I am mostly here for Michelle. Which is why it can’t work. I am hooked on the small of her back, the way her incisors catch her lip when she’s thinking. Her cat-green eyes, the feel of her skin on mine.
They tell me again how they met. A party when they were fresh faced twenty-somethings. Before he got stationed in Kenya as a correspondent. Before the children. Before all of this. And all of this? I ask. Because I am intrigued. This perfect life. Is there a risk? Is that the thrill? To invite in another or more and see what cracks, what opens up, what fissures might lead to bigger caverns to explore? They fascinate me…
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