Auditions for Love.Com. Oliver Cross

such things as,” I don’t drink alcohol, I prefer to remember everything”. Without specifically implying, so many of her sentences carried sexual innuendo, although she never led on that this was her intention. Her timing and delivery of the right line made me feel as though I were in a Bond film, meeting a stranger and behaving cavalier. Clara came from the upper class in Lyon, however, it was as though she fought her entitlement, rather preferring to independently make her mark in London, like the rest of us. In no time at all, and what came as a complete shock to me, Clara leaned forward and whispered, “I want you to spend the night with me”.

      She dictated the whole evening, and I let her. It was never an option, her confidence and ability to make familiarity of the situation had me hooked. We engaged one another like old friends, instantly comfortable in each other’s company. We casually strolled to the bus stop, riding from Paddington to her apartment in the exclusive suburb of Notting Hill calm and coy about our interest in one another. Deep down though I was going insane, the excitement, the apprehension, the pure fantasy and anticipation was overwhelming.

      In a foreign land, with a foreign girl, this is what being in your twenties is all about! At that moment, she received a call to her mobile. She looked at me and said, “Okay, you have to be quiet while I speak to my husband, he is in France for the week”. I was in shock, I didn’t know what to say or feel. Should I be angry, should I be critical? When she spoke to him for those five or so minutes, her voice was as cool as ice, loving and compassionate as you would expect from your partner. Never in your life would you suspect she was on her way home for a sleepless night with a stranger. This fascinated me somewhat, as I didn’t have the capacity to do this. I would feel judged by the other. I would feel as though my behaviour would disgust the other. I just had not been raised to think like that. Surprisingly, this was not a moral dilemma for me, I found myself incredibly turned on by the idea, the fantasy and the taboo of it.

      By no means was Clara a bad girl, a rebel or a bit crazy, she was none of these things. She held a sensible job, wore conservative clothing and was rather socially shy. Call it French, but Clara was sexually liberated and privately had an insatiable appetite for polygamous sex, yet happily maintained the façade of a socially acceptable monogamous woman. Sex for Clara, as it is for the majority of men, was mostly physical. Emotionally, she was able to detach herself and justify the act because it held no true value but to satisfy a human impulse, an instinctual need, such as eating or breathing. No doubt this concept is difficult to digest for the majority, with a more defined moral compass. For many, this idea, this behaviour and this philosophy will be nothing more than an attempt to justify infidelity. Whilst I prize trust as the core characteristic in a relationship, I understand and accept there are others who do not feel constrained by social norms. Every person’s moral code is different and what they believe privately may not be what they display publically.

      Her cosy Notting Hill studio offered me a night of pure indulgent passion. It was one of those nights where you smile for the entire following day for no known reason. As I clumsily Searched Clara’s room for my clothes the following morning, I asked what she had planned for the day. She laughed that she had to wash the sheets as her husband would be returning that afternoon. I asked why she did this, and I have since heard the same response from many a person,

      “He is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with”. “He is funny, caring, average looking and monogamous”. “He can offer me a life plan, stability, family and ultimately a comfortable and happy life”. “The sex though is not exciting, it’s not dirty, it’s not, on occasions, disrespectful and rough, and it does not fulfill and urge I get once or twice a year”. “Do I love him”? “Absolutely, yes I do”. “Will I spend the rest of my life with him”? “I intend to”. “I do this when he is back in France for a week, where he does not know and does not suspect”. I had arrived at Clara’s flat after 7pm, and left before 6am without an ounce of sleep. I walked the streets home to Pippa’s apartment in a daze.

      My first job in London paid eight pound an hour. I harassed my recruitment agent twice daily for job updates. My goal was to pester him so much that he found me a job to get rid of me. After two weeks, he found me work as a facilities manager in a group of buildings on Oxford Street which were all owned by the one family. They were commercial offices with various industries operating within the tenancies. The nature of the job was appallingly boring and somewhat demeaning, but at the time I was just happy to have an income and no doubt the recruiter was pleased to get rid of me. My new role had me fixing things, if lights had blown I would change them, if doors needed to be re-hung I would re-hang them and if toilets were blocked, which was a few times daily, I was your man. The job entailed no brain function whatsoever, which was lucky because at twenty three, my mind was occupied with distracting thoughts of sex at similar intervals to which I breathed.

      Clara would only let me contact her via email. I would write to her some nights telling her how boring my job was, and how I was often thinking of her throughout the day. She said she had a surprise for me but that I had to wait. The job really was a poor match for my skillset. I’m not very handy when it comes to fixing things. A door for one of the tenancies was not closing properly so I was called to take a look. No doubt it probably just needed a hinge to be tightened but I made up some story that the door had swelled and needed to be sanded back and re-hung. The office space was occupied at the time by a fashion house, but none of the staff were very friendly, so I mostly stuck to myself. I removed the door and took it to my work station which was a few floors underground in a little dungeon. I had never electric sanded anything outside of year nine woodwork class so this was going to be interesting. By the time I had finished, I had coated my entire dungeon and the surrounding hallways in saw dust, it was thick and absolutely everywhere. Worst of all, when I went to re-hang the door I had actually sanded about two inches too much in all the excitement of handling a power tool. Needless to say the fashionistas didn’t see the funny side of it. I told them doors like this were becoming trendy in the building industry, which fell on bemused ears.

      That afternoon, while trying to now widen the same door, I received a call from Clara. She was outside near the service delivery area and requested I smuggle her into the building. As I ushered her into the service elevator, she opened her winter jacket to reveal her smooth naked body. Once more this girl had my heart racing with pure adrenalin. Having access to the entire building I knew a few spots which were private. One was in a small court yard on top of one of the Oxford Street buildings which looked down the entire heaving street. The thrill of her spontaneity as well as having her on top of the building in the open air was quite an experience. She had a way of capturing your imagination, pushing your boundaries of fantasy, but within an element of comfort. As I walked Clara out of the building we passed many of the tenants who suspected nothing untoward. As she left I watched her confidently walking through the crowd in nothing but her jacket. After about fifty meters she turned and gave me a cheeky wink which made me burst into laughter. I returned to my task in the dungeon on the dreaded door and continued to improvise with not a care in the world. There is no doubt that working in that role was the most painful mind numbing experience I’ve had to endure, but it sure had some interesting moments.