I stare first at my knees, which are bopping up and down nervously without me even giving them permission, and then up at him.
He still looks steady, but not quite as calm. He glances away from me, at the window, for a few seconds, before turning back in my direction.
‘You’re married?’ he repeats, his voice low and an awfully lot less playful than it was a few minutes ago. Which I suppose is understandable.
‘Yep!’
‘But you’re not with him?’
‘No! God no!’ I say, emphatically. I have the sudden realisation that he was perhaps thinking this is all a lot worse than it is. My fault, for not explaining myself properly.
‘No,’ I say again, grabbing hold of one of his hands and holding it in mine. ‘It’s not like that. It’s not like one of those stories you read on the internet where I have a secret life, and a husband and triplets waiting for me on the Isle of Wight or whatever. Nothing like that, honestly. I got married, years ago, when I was much younger and much stupider and living in Spain, and we split up. I came back home, and I’ve not seen him or spoken to him in years. Years! He literally doesn’t exist in my life at all, apart from on paper. It’s completely over, and has been for so long, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, and …’
I trail off at this point, because I can’t think of anything else to add. He notices that I’ve stopped, and I see him churning it all over in his mind.
‘So,’ he says, slowly, ‘to recap – you got married to a man I don’t know. The relationship broke down years ago. You’ve not seen him since. I wasn’t at all part of the reason for it not working?’
Finn, I should have twigged earlier, was bound to worry about that. He is the product of a supremely messy divorce – his dad had an affair, and it turned into one of those lovely scenarios where two grown-ups decide to use a child as a bargaining chip. As a result, he’s fairly straightforward on the whole subject. He would never, ever forgive himself if he’d contributed to the collapse of a marriage.
‘I absolutely 100 per cent promise you that you were not.’
‘And I’m working on the assumption that now you’ve told me part of it, you’ll tell me the rest at some point?’
‘Of course I will,’ I reply. I’m going to owe this story to a lot of people.
Finn nods once, firmly, and stands up.
‘All right,’ he announces, walking from behind his desk, grabbing my hands, and pulling me into his arms.‘Then I see no reason why we shouldn’t proceed directly to the sex.’
We do in fact proceed directly to the sex, passing ‘go’ several times. It’s all pretty spectacular, which it usually is with Finn – but even more so this time. I suppose it’s the hint of drama, making it all feel more real and more special.
We’ve never even had an argument, so this is the closest we’ve got to make-up sex, and I find myself feeling quite emotional when I’m lying in his arms afterwards. His little flat is getting dim, the spring sunshine fading to a dusky evening, the last rays filtering through the closed curtains as we hold each other close.
There had been a moment there – when I’d told him, and he was all strong and silent on me – that I’d felt such a rush of panic. Panic that I’d lost him. Panic that this would all be over before it even properly began. I hadn’t even noticed how much I was starting to like this man until then – but I suppose I’m not the most self-aware of women, being the sort who can persuade herself to forget she’s actually someone else’s wife.
I run my hands over the silky fair hair on his chest – he’s not one for manscaping, I’m glad to say – and sigh into his skin. He has me bundled up tight against him, and is grinning the grin of a chap who knows he’s just shown a lady an especially good time.
‘I really am sorry I didn’t tell you,’ I say, quietly, running the risk of ruining the moment. ‘If it’s any consolation I didn’t tell anybody.’
‘Not even Willow, or Katie?’
‘Not even. And then today, at Laura’s bash, it all kind of came tumbling out. It was a race against time to get here and tell you myself before one of them told one of the menfolk, and you found out by accident and ended up hating me.’
‘I could never hate you, Auburn, you pillock,’ he says, sounding as romantic as it’s possible to sound with a sentence involving the word ‘pillock’.
‘You might say that now,’ I reply, semi-serious, ‘but you should give me some time on that front … Anyway, I am sorry. It was all so long ago, and feels a bit like a dream sequence or a flashback in a film. Like something that happened to a different person – my crazy alter-ego or my evil twin sister.’
He laughs, and twines his fingers into my hair, and I feel him holding strands of it up so the sun can fall through it. He’s fascinated with my hair, the weirdo.
‘I suppose it does perhaps lead us on to the bigger conversation, though, doesn’t it?’ he says. I feel him tensing ever so slightly beneath my palms – so subtle I barely notice it, but in Finn world a major event. He’s usually Mr Cucumber.
Of course, I get what he means, but I don’t have to like it – even if he is right.
‘Does it have to?’ I ask, sounding like a teenaged girl whining about doing homework when she wants to watch Love Island. ‘I like things just the way they are. You, me, naked, in bed on a work day. That’s pretty perfect.’
‘It is,’ he agrees, turning my face up so we’re looking into each other’s eyes. ‘Pretty perfect. And it’s not like I’m going to go all demanding on you – I know this is new. I know we’re both taking baby steps, that we both have our issues. But it’s also not … casual, is it?’
I remember my panic earlier, when I thought I was losing him. I remember how I smile whenever I hear his name. I remember the fact that this man blows my mind in bed. No, this isn’t casual – but I’m not quite sure what it is, either.
‘No,’ I reply, stroking his face, running my finger over the bump in his nose and kissing its tip. ‘Not casual. I really like you, Finn. I’m happy when I’m with you – even when you have clothes on. But my life is … complicated. Actually, that’s a cop-out – it’s not my life, it’s me that’s complicated. I’m a work in progress, but I can’t promise I’ll ever be simple.’
‘The fact that you’ve told me you’re married to another man kind of tipped me off to that – as has knowing you for the last few months. What makes you think I want simple, anyway? Maybe I like complicated. Maybe I’d be bored if you were straightforward. Maybe I’m an emotional masochist who likes getting involved with savage redheads.’
I think about it, and shrug. Maybe he is. Or maybe he’ll reach the point where I drive him mad enough for him to jump back into his longboat, and sail across the North Sea to escape my savagery.
‘You’re not simple either,’ I say, prodding him in the ribs. Offence is the best form of defence. ‘You do this whole cool, inscrutable Nordic thing, and you might fool everyone else – but I know there’s more to you. You’re not just saunas and A-Ha.’
‘They were Norwegian, you philistine,’ he replies in mock horror. Of course I knew that – but I enjoy winding him up a bit.
‘All the same to me. Anyway … as for the bigger conversation, I suppose my half of it goes something like this: I like you. I don’t want this to end. And if I think about it all too deeply, I’ll do my usual thing of tying myself up in knots and