Call Me
The In-Crowd
The Windmills of Your Mind
You’re the Devil in Disguise
Where Do I Begin?
This last, sassy number performed by the great, still-living Scots-Caribbean songstress, Brenda Soobie. As the song shimmered and slunk to its climax David happened to glance at the marquee’s entrance, where each newcomer was having their wrist stamped with an ultra violet stamper. And there was Wendy, looking around and smiling hopefully, in a Wombles T shirt.
EIGHTEEN
We went back to a flat in the centre of town, one of the back streets I hadn’t explored, which was dark and cobbled, with warehouse doors locked and bolted down for the night, and fire escapes stretching up to the flats which, I realised, must fill the upper levels of all the buildings here. Colin came with us. It was after four, and we had danced through the whole night, finishing in the shopping centre beneath the marquee, where the music was pumped down onto the galleries, fountains and pools of the mall. We were exhausted and Colin came along with us. None of us thought about it. It wasn’t as if I was going back with David. It hadn’t come to that. We’d had a laugh and he hadn’t made any moves. It seemed that one minute we were dancing to the final few songs and then we were halfway up this perilous fire escape, and Colin was saying, “This is where my mum is making her fortune. Give it a couple of hours, just after dawn, and she’ll be here. Driving a hard bargain.” As David unlocked his door at the top of all the steps, Colin said, “Mum’s making her fortune as if it was a competition. But Dad got his in a fluke. If she succeeds in making it, it will still be his. She doesn’t see that. If it’s a competition, it’s like giving it straight to him.”
Then we were in David’s flat, which he shared with his friend Rab, who lay tripping on the green velvet settee, his daschund stretched out on his chest. He was feeding the dog cold sausages and listening to some kind of hard core dance music, with one of the Beat Poets intoning over the top. Even though it was a warm night Rab wore a colourful tea cosy hat as though he’d just come in and flung himself down. He said he’d been in all night. David turned down the music and made us strong, sugary tea. He flung open the tall windows and explained that they were so high up here that they need never worry about burglars slinking in. He cursed Rab and his habit of pulling all the windows shut.
“It’s the noise from outside I can’t manage,” said Rab, putting his hands over his ears. “It’s too much stimulus. You can have too much stimulus.”
David snorted with laughter at this.
It was then we realised that the Christmas decorations were still up. Ratty tinsel hung from the pictures on the walls, the window frames and the many parched yukka plants.
Colin settled himself down to look through Rab’s records, and started playing a few, picking up the needle and replaying particular tracks. Rab lay back and let him play what he wanted. The daschund raised its head to stare at Colin.
David and I drank our tea in the kitchen alcove. It was better organised than you’d imagine for a kitchen belonging to two careless straight men: they were vegetarians. Plastic tubs were labelled bulgar wheat, green lentils, mung beans. David was telling me how cheaply you can live off pulses and beans and sprouts. He ransacked their homemade spice rack, opening jars and getting me to identify spices by smell, my eyes closed. Paprika, cumin, garam masala. He showed me Rab’s favourite cookery book, one with silly cartoons of a very badly-drawn ‘lady vegan’ as they called her. “You don’t have to worry about eating cheaply, though,” David smirked. “Isn’t your uncle a multi-millionaire?”
“Not quite.” The subject of his money embarrassed me. It was true, I’d become used to eating very well since I’d been in Edinburgh. I wouldn’t touch instant coffee now, or soup out of a tin. How strange the boys’ jars of dried, earthy foodstuffs looked to me. All their food was stockpiled here: just add water and see.
The strip lighting was harsh and made the rag rugs glow with colour. As I stared David caught me up in his arms and started to nuzzle at my neck. This was his move and, after all, I was rather relieved. His stubble had started to grow in: it was almost dawn. Here you could see across the high rooftops of the city to the docks, and the pink dawn smudging into the vague tangerine of the streetlights. I was too sensitive, or my skin was. When he kissed me I felt too raw, like he was peeling me away. He told me I tasted nice and all I could imagine tasting of was lager and cigarettes.
Across the room Rab had fallen into a stupor and Colin seemed to be asleep, curled awkwardly on rucked-up mats.
“We should have gone home earlier,” I said.
“I’ll be buzzing all night,” David said. “I won’t sleep till lunch time.”
“You’ll miss the best part of the day.”
“Yeah?” He kissed me again and then he licked my eyebrows.
“What was that for?”
But he didn’t explain. His frilly blue shirt was sweat-dampened still. When I leaned against the kitchen counter, he came with me, and I could feel the tight, mysterious knot of flesh in the front of his trousers. He asked me if I wanted to come to bed for the few hours until morning.
I let his question hang in the air for a moment.
“Have you ever slept with anyone before?” he asked.
I
