What Time is Love? by Holly Williams

What Time is Love? by Holly Williams

Author:Holly Williams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orion


Chapter 7

September 1971

Al watched the naked bodies writhing on the mattresses beneath him. It was as if he was in a strange wildlife documentary, looking down onto a forest floor, limbs like centipedes flowing over one another.

Actually, they weren’t flowing. Flowing was what you wanted; flowing was what you had been told to expect of an orgy. Instead it was all elbows and shuffling. Visible tan lines and flabby pale bottoms. ‘Are you …?’ ‘Can I just …?’ Shuffle-shuffle. Admittedly, the low blue light, a sheet of cellophane taped around the main bulb, helped the vibe. But they were all just bodies. It was about as erotic as visiting a greengrocer.

Al squeezed himself back out of the door, just as a man grunted into a loud, abandoned orgasm, and he tried not to think about Violet. He also tried not to think about how on earth he was going to write an insightful piece for RiZe, his first as deputy editor, on the sexual politics of free love, orgies, and long-distance relationships when really all he wanted was to be on the other side of the world with just one woman.

Al was still loving working for RiZe, and his recent promotion felt like a significant recognition. He had finally found his groove and, thanks to his deepening friendship with Micky, he’d been introduced to all the most interesting people in San Fran. Weekends were spent travelling breathlessly beautiful stretches of coast to Big Sur and Carmel, or going to parties at the cottages of rock stars in Laurel Canyon. But it all came at a cost. He missed Violet painfully, a physical ache for her, right inside his bone marrow.

And as the months had gone, long-distance had proved difficult. Their nightly calls, rigidly scheduled because of the time difference (a luxury only afforded to them by Amelia becoming sentimental after too many glasses of wine and agreeing to pay all of Al’s eye-watering phone bills), had lost the lustre of the first few weeks, full of yearning and eager updates. The distance stretched between them and neither really had enough to say, night after night. The sense of obligation grew dull and heavy, and they ended up bickering – or worse, allowing gaps and silences to expand down the line.

So, one night in April, tired after a long day and horny without Violet, he said it.

‘How would you feel about trying an open relationship?’

Later, he wondered if he’d asked the question merely to provoke a response, fed up of the strained, empty conversation that seemed to be all they had in them.

Or maybe he said it because of Cassandra. The tall, deeply earnest illustrator had been visiting RiZe almost weekly lately, and always came over and perched on Al’s desk. She gave off a faint body heat and with it a gentle whiff of some kind of warm, spicy wood. Her very long legs were shapely but strong, and her syrupy brown eyes held his gaze without embarrassment as she told him how much she loved his accent.



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