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You had your excuses last time. You were stoned and bored and there was nothing better to do.
She’d been crap at it and honestly so had you. Your wrist had gotten a cramp and she’d tired of manhandling your breasts, couldn’t be bothered to dot the awkward “j” she’d worked at raising in purple stops and starts along the underside.
You’d still spent the rest of the night side by side in her bed, faking orgasms—Sting, the Bee Gees, and the Queen—even though neither of you could be bothered to fake your own.
You remember perfectly, Jen stripped to her knickers, face pinched and mouth drawn into a thin line, lips parting to emit a carefully enunciated “Oh.”
You’ll both have your excuses this time if anyone asks. Too much adrenaline, too much champagne. And if they ask again, then you’ll point them towards the two gold-masked statues currently holding court amongst the army of half-empty tumblers and flutes on the bar.
It’s your night and 30 years have passed.
You couldn’t really say how you got to this point again. You remember the crowd in your suite slowly trickling out one by one. Ade then Len begging off to bed. Jen on her side of the couch and you on yours. One more toast to retirement and blockbusters and ballerinas.
But now Jen’s standing barefoot in front of you, hands beneath the hem of her frock. The black lace she steps out of almost takes you by surprise.
She doesn’t come any closer, just stands there, hands on her hips.
“I certainly hope you’ve gotten better at this.”
And that all but guarantees that you will be.
“C’mere, Fatty.” A tug at her hand and you’re knee to knee.
Knee to knee and opening-night nervous as your hands brush up her legs, pushing the wrinkled satin up her thighs.
You call her, “Hideous.”
She laughs and you personally take credit for each of the tiny lines that crinkle at the corners of her eyes.
Your fingers wander higher.
“Absolutely sick-making.”
She swats your hands away and settles one knee on the couch between yours. Her fingers start to work on the buttons down your blouse.
“And just how many nuns had to die to make this outfit?”
You wouldn’t have laughed anyways because it really wasn’t that funny, but her tongue dipping into your cleavage, lower and lower with each button, ensures your sudden, silent attention.
She says, “I could write my whole bloody name on them now,” then closes her mouth over you again and sucks until skin meets teeth. There’s a tickle of too-blonde hair as she moves, finds another spot. “My address.” Her fingers have found your nipples through your bra, are squeezing in time with the pull and release of her lips. “My CV—”
By the time she’s settled herself onto your lap properly, pressing her knee forward until it’s exactly where you need it to be, your hand has settled between her thighs.
She’s so warm and wet against your fingers that you can’t help but think it’s the second great compliment you’ve been paid tonight, can’t help but test and tease along her folds until she’s pressing her forehead against yours and griping fistfuls of your shirt.
You ask, “So you do still like me after all?”
Her mouth quirks at the corners and so does yours.
“Yeah.”
She kisses first one corner and then the other before nipping at your bottom lip.
She kisses you and you realize this is the first time she’s kissed you as Jen. No costumes, no white rooms and no character turbans.
Later, she comes, clenched around your fingers and shuddering against your thigh.
You’ve seen her pull every face in the book but this is the one you will remember.
You add this image to the list of reasons why it’s time to dissolve this partnership.
Later you laugh outright when her fingers are faster than your own at finding the zip at the side of your trousers.
You wake up the next morning to the sound of Jen’s snoring. You have a headache and a nagging suspicion that it will only get worse when you have to move from your impromptu pillow. Her foot’s inside your shirt, pressing into your chest, and you’re not sure how you are going to untangle it without waking her up.
But her hip is soft and the fabric of her dress is cool against your cheek.
You start rehearsing your excuses.