Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 28

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Is it illegal to have sex at work or simply frowned upon?

On my lunch break, I rush to meet Loretta at the Holburne Museum. I suggested we meet for a coffee or a drink, but she proposed art instead. “Much more restorative.” She doesn’t have a mobile phone, so I can’t text her to say I’m running late. As I rush down Great Pulteney Street, I reply to some work e-mails, like a few reels I’ve been sent on Instagram, and repost the latest Bath Living stories.

“Darling, I’m ecstatic that you called,” Loretta says as she sees me hurrying through the main entrance. She is dressed in a bright yellow silk dress, neon orange tights, and a headscarf to match. It’s a bold look, but Loretta pulls it off.

“Me too, I’m so sorry I’m late,” I say.

“Not another word about it,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Look at you, you’re positively glowing. Now, what are you in the mood for? You don’t have long. Paintings? Porcelain? Antique spoons? We can’t do it all. Art is like Marmite, a little goes a long way.”

“How about the forgeries?” I suggest.

“Excellent idea.” Loretta is a patron of the museum, so signs me in as her guest, and we start to climb the grand staircase. William Holburne was a wealthy collector in the 1800s who traveled Europe collecting art, treasure, and curiosities. Some of the pieces he bought turned out to be fakes or replicas, but the museum has kept some on display beside the genuine artifacts.

“I do like being around art, don’t you?” Loretta says as we reach the second floor. “People harp on about the benefits of standing near trees, soaking up their oxygen, but honestly, I find standing next to a Gainsborough far more revitalizing.” She pauses, taking a moment to examine my face. “I must say, you are looking most invigorated since I last saw you. Who’s responsible? That Regency fellow?”

“No, not him,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn. “But I think I might have just started my rock era, Loretta.”

“Oh, wonderful.” She claps her hands. “Tell me everything.”

“I don’t know…” I smile and shake my head, embarrassed to even think about it. I didn’t plan on telling Loretta anything about Will, but I feel so at ease in her company, and I am on such a high from our illicit tryst in the archive, I find myself unable to keep it in.

“I’ve started something casual with someone I never would have imagined. But I’ve been out of the game for so long, I can’t tell if it’s something or if it’s not.”

“You don’t always want something . My last marriage was too much of something .” She grins. We reach the second floor, the gallery of treasures. Loretta leads me to a cabinet of miniature curiosities, tiny cameos the size of thumbprints, portraits carved out of gems and stone. The detail is incredible. Next to it is a display of precious antiques, spoons carved from bone, ornate gilded butter knives. Some are genuine collector’s items, others forgeries or replicas. Wooden panels slide to reveal the fakes.

“How do you know if something is real?” I ask Loretta.

“Does it feel real?” she asks, and I nod. “Is it putting a smile on your face?” I grin. “There you are then.”

“Which of these do you think is real?” I ask her, pointing to two spoons in the cabinet in front of us.

“That one,” she says, nodding toward the higher spoon. We check the answer behind a sliding panel. It’s the lower spoon that’s real. Loretta shrugs.

“There are forgeries on people’s walls all over the world. If they like the art, it hurts no one. If they bought it for the value it holds to others, then maybe they’re valuing the wrong things.”

As we walk around the exhibition, using magnifying glasses to inspect the smallest cameos, Loretta tells me about her passion for fashion and chemistry. She asks me questions I struggle to answer, like what my most treasured possession is, what I covet most, what I would take from the exhibition if I were allowed to keep one thing. She is a whirlwind of opinions and questions. I struggle to keep up, but I am utterly enthralled.

Back on the stairs we watch a couple standing side by side in front of an oil painting, a portrait of a girl. They are both looking at their phones as they walk down the stairs. “Our greatest invention, a gadget that spawns uninventiveness,” Loretta says, giving me a wry smile.

“You really don’t have a phone, Loretta?” I ask her.

“Goodness no. If people need me, here I am.” She pauses. “You should come to one of my Luddite Lunches, darling. Technology-free, not gluten-free, ha.”

“What’s a Luddite Lunch?” I ask, intrigued.

“Bring your appetite, not your phone. You’ll fit right in.”

“I would love to come, thank you. Now, I must run,” I say, checking the time. “Thank you for this, it’s been wonderful.”

“Enjoy your merry nothing,” she says with a wink.

“My merry nothing?”

“Your something casual that you’re not sure about. I think you’re looking for permission to enjoy yourself.”

“Are you giving me permission, Loretta?” I tease her.

“No, I am not,” she says, giving me a stern look. “You need to give yourself that.”

For the walk back to the office, I leave my phone in my bag. Looking up, rather than down, I notice how perfect the clouds are, like white cotton candy strewn across the blue canvas of sky. Taking a deep breath, I put a hand over my heart and feel it beating in rhythm to my steps on the pavement.

—

For the rest of the week, I take Loretta’s advice. I give myself permission to enjoy myself. I am also taking Lottie’s advice to think with something other than my brain. My trips to the archive have become a daily occurrence. I don’t want to claim to be having a sexual awakening because it sounds pretentious, but that is what I’m having. Maybe the fact it’s illicit, that we go back to work and act like nothing happened, is what makes it so intoxicating. Every day we play this game, who will break, who will be the one to e-mail first, just a single word: “Archive?”

We don’t flirt over e-mail. We don’t text outside of work. We don’t mention it when we’re e-mailing about the column. It’s as though we’ve put an unwritten rule in place that this can only happen if it’s entirely separate, cordoned off from our budding friendship. There is none of the lingering, soulful eye contact we had in the woods, no conversation, no playful teasing. In the dark of the archive, we hardly speak, except to whisper what we want.

I haven’t told anyone that I’m sleeping with Will, not even Lottie. I was going to tell her about the weekend in the woods, but when I had the chance, I didn’t. I found I liked having something that was just mine, that was nothing to do with my family.

If Will asked to meet up outside of work, I would, in a heartbeat, but I don’t want to be the one to propose it. I don’t want him to think I’m getting attached, that I need this to be more than it is. I don’t. He’s like a drug I am getting high on, and as long as I don’t get addicted, as long as I keep it recreational, then I will be fine.

—

On Wednesday I’m talking to Malik in accounts. My paycheck hasn’t cleared yet this month and I need him to check there’s not a problem.

“Let me just log in to the online banking system,” Malik says. Standing behind him as he taps away, I notice Will is back at his desk after a meeting. My eyes dart across to my computer. From here, I can see my screen—I have a new e-mail. It could be from anyone. It might not even be from him. It’s probably just a mailing list I subscribed to. It could be 10 percent off at Boden. It’s always 10 percent off at Boden. My fingers dance with the urge to go back and check. My computer screen blinks onto the screensaver, so I can’t see the e-mail page anymore.

“Here it is,” says Malik. “Right, let me see—”

“Sorry, we’ll have to do this later,” I say, already striding away. “Something urgent just came up.”