check for privacy, I wrap my coat around him. His lips mesh into mine and we’re kissing so hard I can’t tell them apart. He scrabbles with his flies and then sinks into me. I stare into his eyes and he stares back, never losing me. Not for a second. It feels amazing. It feels important. It feels right.
He’s climbing, he’s filling, he’s plugging. He completes me.
It’s over in minutes.
I’m already scared that this will never be over.
12
Someone is holding his or her finger on my door buzzer. One of the inconveniences of my loft apartment is that it has nothing as old-fashioned as a spyhole. It is impossible to know who is at the door without talking to them, by which time it is impossible to pretend not to be in, if that is the desired course of action.
I long for the visitor to be Issie. Possibly Josh, but ideally Issie. And yet I am terrified it is. What will I tell her? What can I say? How can I possibly begin to explain my behaviour over the past two weeks?
Buuuuzzzzzzzz.
This persistence demands my attention. If I ignore whoever, I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon wondering who it was. I drag myself towards the intercom praying it’s not Bale or Fi.
‘It’s me,’ says Issie. ‘Where the hell have you been? Open up instantly.’
I’m relieved and press the release button. Within moments she is pushing open my door. She’s really pissed off with me, so much so that she doesn’t bother to kiss me. I’m aware that offence is the best form of defence so I demand, ‘Why didn’t you use your key?’
‘Lost it,’ she shrugs, immediately apologetic. I tut and start making noises about the security risk and the inconvenience of getting a replacement cut. Once she’s appropriately subdued I ask, ‘Have you looked in your dressing-table drawer?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I think it’s in there. With the socks.’
‘Why would I keep keys with my socks?’
‘Beats me, Issie, but you do.’
This exchange takes place whilst we move towards the kitchen. It’s four thirty on a Sunday afternoon. Which seems the perfect time to pour not just healthy but bionic G&Ts. I certainly need mine. My interlude with the key doesn’t throw Issie completely.
‘What’s been going on, Cas? It’s not so surprising that you disappear but normally it’s work-related. I called the studio and they said you had laryngitis. I called here but there was no reply. You weren’t hospitalized, were you?’
I take a proper look at Issie for the first time since she arrived, and I feel pretty dreadful. She is extremely drawn and nervous-looking. I realize I’m a worry to her. Then again so are lost puppies, the axeing of trees, and the absence of clean, running water in India. Considering the issues Issie involves herself with on an on-going basis, my going AWOL for over a week is small fry. We look at one another and she pauses, immediately suspicious.
‘You don’t look ill. You look really well.’
It’s true, to be direct – I’m a goddess. My hair, black and shiny as a matter of course, is positively glistening. My smile, previously used only for effect, is now a permanent fixture. My skin has always had a pale and interesting hue, but now I’m sporting rose-red cheeks.
‘Why didn’t you call me, or Josh, or your mum? We were demented. What the hell is going on?’
She’s going on and on and on. Question after question after question. Few of which I’m inclined to answer and those I am more willing to respond to are far too complicated. I’m relieved when she abruptly stops mid- conversation flow, but only momentarily, as I soon realize she is staring at the dirty crockery left over from this morning’s breakfast. Normally anally tidy, I have not cleared up. This and the fact that the assorted debris discloses that the breakfast was saturated fat endorsed (as opposed to freshly squeezed orange juice and an ounce of Bran Flakes – my usual) astounds Issie.
‘It’s not just the eggshells that have been broken, is it?’ Her tone is both suspicious and delighted. I shake my head and look at the slate tiles. I wonder if I can distract her by pointing to the grime under the fridge. I doubt it. ‘You’ve broken precedent, too, haven’t you? You
‘Darren.’ Simply. Unusually I haven’t the energy or inclination to fudge. In fact, I want to talk about him.
‘Darren?!’ Uncomprehending. ‘The last time I spoke to you, you’d had a huge row. He was about to take you to the station. You were coming back to London
I thought I’d explained: Darren happened.
I tell Issie about the train ride to Darlington, the swimming baths, and the walks on the beach and in the graveyard. I know I’m giggling, blushing and gushing (even in this state of near-hysteria I’m gratified to note she also thinks a walk through gravestones is odd). I tell her about the pub, the restaurant and finally the hissing cappuccino machine. I tell her that suddenly (whilst sitting over an itchy, orange Formica table) it occurred to me. Suddenly I knew, more clearly than I’ve ever known anything in my life, that I wanted him. I wanted him beyond reason or rationale.
‘Whoa there.’ Issie holds her skinny hands in front of her, trying to block the overload of incomprehensible information. She used to do this when we studied Russian language at night classes. Although I am trying to be clear, it’s understandable that Issie feels she’s neck high in the sludgy waters of an unknown territory. She naturally assumes that when I say I wanted him, I mean sexually. Exclusively sexually. A fair assumption in light of my history.
Inaccurate.
She lights one of my cigarettes, without asking.
‘I thanked him for the coffee and
‘But?’
‘He put his hand on mine and said, “You’re welcome. The pleasure really was mine, Cas.” ‘I repeat this conversation in a stupid drawling voice, which is actually nothing like Darren’s voice. It’s just that I am aware that what I’m saying is serious stuff. I hope the ridiculous voice will serve to make the story funnier, less intense.
‘Noooo.’ Issie latches on to the idiotic voice, hoping it’s a lifeboat. She assumes I’d find this action inane. Any man, trying to get inside my knickers, should know never, ever to appear sentimental once, never mind twice. I can’t stand it.
Usually.
‘And did he say your name like, Kez.’ She says my name as though she is a drunk David Niven impersonating Jimmy Tarbuck. Unaccountably, her mocking makes me ashamed. It’s always felt fine to be harsh and heinous; now it seems puerile. Darren deserves better.
‘Er, to be frank, no.’
‘But his hand was clammy.’ Issie, understandably disconcerted, is still holding out for the reassurance of one of my ‘scathing dismissal’ stories, as supplied on countless occasions. Scathing dismissal stories make Issie feel better about the fact that she is horribly needy and couldn’t be stinging to save her life. My cruelty to the opposite sex evens things up for her. It’s no use. I’d like to help but I can’t lie.
‘Actually, it was cool and smooth.’
Issie nearly spills her G&T on the floor as the shock makes her overestimate the size of my coffee table.
‘Careful,’ I grumble, thinking about the Purves and Purves carpet.
‘When you say you wanted him…?’
I take a deep breath. I force forward. ‘I just couldn’t leave him.’
As best as I can, I explain it to Issie. I tell her that the pots are still dirty because I can’t bear to wash him away. I even tell her that the sheets are rank for the same reason.
‘Sheets? When did we get to sheets?’ she squeals.
I could tell her about the first time. No sheets, just a filthy brick wall. Hurried and frenzied. My coat left damp and grubby, in need of a clean. My scarf sticky with dried love, because I used it to wipe his dick.
And I know that if I tell Issie this she’d think this is in character, it’s what she expects of me. It’s what I
