by Hayley Long
Taking control because I could see that I blatantly needed to, I grabbed Gareth’s hand and led him to the furthest and most private corner of the cinema. We were right on the very back row. The row which everyone knows is always reserved exclusively for lovers. After a quick check for chewing gum, we settled down into our seats. People were now streaming into the cinema and the lights had already gone down. The shabby orange curtains jerked backwards and an advertisement for a Cardiff carpet cleaning company began to play on the screen. Gareth had his knees wedged up tightly against the seat in front. He was wearing his smartest pair of jeans. I sat up and stared ahead of me and watched the ad. Different people in different front rooms were spilling cups of tea and glasses of wine on to their different carpets. All these spillages were taking place to a pumping backing track of the Britney Spears hit, Oops! . . . I Did It Again. I closed my eyes for a moment and then looked back down at Gareth’s jeans. As much as I tried to stare through them, it was impossible to know which boxer shorts he had on underneath. Taking hold of his hand, I leaned into his shoulder and said quietly, ‘Gareth, there’s something I want to talk to you about before the film starts.’
‘Cool. Fire away, I’m listening,’ said Gareth, pushing a handful of popcorn into his mouth while his eyes remained keenly glued to the ad which was now trying to sell us car tyres.
‘You and me,’ I said in a low voice, ‘we’ve been going out for quite a while now . . .’
Gareth stopped munching popcorn and looked at me horrified. ‘You’re not about to dump me again, are you?’
I frowned. ‘I didn’t dump you before, Gaz,’ I said. ‘How can I be dumping you again if I didn’t dump you before? I don’t know what you’re on about.’
Gareth shrugged. ‘Well, as long as we’re clear that no dumping activity is about to take place.’ He took another handful of popcorn. ‘So what did you want to talk to me about?’
I hesitated, trying to think of how I should put it.
Gareth laughed and kissed my nose and said, ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? Lottie has forgottie what she wants to talk about!’
‘No I haven’t,’ I said and rubbed some popcorn crumbs off his face so that I could kiss him back. After paying attention to his nose, I moved downward and paid attention to his lips. They tasted all sugary and kissing them gave me a big fizzy sugar rush. Energized, I pulled my lips away from his and said in a weirdly husky voice, ‘I think we should do the Grand Slam, Gaz.’
Gareth looked interested. In a voice which was blatantly brimming with excitement, he said, ‘Well, Wales does have a very good record in the Six Nations, Lottie, so there’s every possibility that we can pull off another Grand Slam. Every possibility. I, personally, am very optimistic about our chances.’
I sat back in my chair and frowned. Mostly me and Gareth are on the same wavelength but, admittedly, not always.
I decided to be direct. There was no point messing around any more. ‘No, Gareth,’ I said, my voice now a whisper. ‘I think it’s time that we had sex.’
Gareth coughed and a few pieces of popcorn flew out of his mouth and plastered themselves on to the back of the chair in front. If Gareth wasn’t so gorgeous and I wasn’t feeling so erotically charged, I might have found that fairly disgusting.
When he’d finished coughing, Gareth shook his head as if he had water in his ears and whispered, ‘Am I hearing straight? Did you just say that you wanna . . .’ he paused, embarrassed, and then said, ‘do it?’
I nodded at him in the dark. I had started to giggle. Sometimes, I find it absolutely impossible to have a grown-up conversation about a grown-up subject without giggling. It’s a very annoying problem actually. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it’s some sort of medical syndrome. It’s like that time when I was twelve and my mum barged into my bedroom to do ‘the period conversation’. She was carrying a maxi-pack of jumbo jammy rags and said, ‘I think you and I need to have a little chat because it won’t be very long before you have to use one of these things.’ And I’d taken one look at those great big knicker-surfboards and started to giggle. But instead of doing the most helpful thing and giggling with me, my mum had gone bright red and got a bit cross and said, ‘Maybe I got that wrong. Maybe you’re not growing up as fast as I think you are.’ And then she’d walked out of my room and left me sitting alone on my bed with the jammy rags, still giggling but feeling a bit pathetic at the same time.
And that was just how I felt in the cinema with Gareth. I was giggling about sex and hating myself for giggling about it all at the same time.
Gareth wasn’t giggling. His eyes had gone very big and round and I could see the white bits gleaming at me in the dark. ‘You’re completely serious, aren’t you?’ he whispered.
‘Yep,’ I said and giggled like a silly wet fish.
Gareth whispered, ‘No way! We can’t! Not here. There isn’t enough room. And anyway, there are too many people around. And it smells of pongy old trainers. It doesn’t seem right.’
‘I don’t mean right this second,’ I said. ‘But somewhere else. Soon.’
‘Oh!’ Gareth gave a massive sigh of relief. I felt his whole body relax. ‘You had me a bit worried for a moment. I thought you meant in here. Personally, I prefer a bit of space and privacy when I’m, you know . . . doing it.’
‘Have you done it before?’ I whispered in surprise.
Gareth put a piece of popcorn between his teeth and bit it. ‘Well, no . . . not technically the entire business, but . . .’ He paused and stared straight ahead. On the screen, there was now an advertisement for stairlifts.
‘But what?’ I whispered.
Gareth put his popcorn down into his lap and sighed noisily. ‘But I know that I definitely would like a bit of space and privacy if I was doing it. Now can you just let me watch the stuff on the screen, please?’ And then he pushed another huge handful of popcorn into his mouth and watched the advert for stairlifts very very intently.
Next to him, I sat in my seat and tried to do the same but I couldn’t concentrate. It was impossible. It didn’t matter whether I was watching old ladies go up the stairs in a stairlift or dog owners telling me how much their pets enjoyed Taffy Pets Healthy Food Products, all I could think about was the fact that Gareth Stingecombe’s body was sitting right next to mine and I was deeply desirous of it.
Meanwhile, Gareth sat very quietly and ate his popcorn. When he’d finished it all, he whispered, ‘Are you gonna eat yours or what?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m not that hungry, Gaz. Only for you.’
Gareth frowned a bit in the dark. ‘All right, babe. Be cool.’ And then he said, ‘Can I have your popcorn then?’
I handed my barely touched bucket of popcorn to him. The short film began. It was called Comfort Eating and it was about a man eating a Chinese takeaway inside a phone box. When he had finished eating all the prawn crackers and sweet and sour pork and egg fried rice, he ate all the packaging too. And then he tried to phone God but the phone was broken.
When it finished, the lights came up and Pat Mumble stood at the front of the cinema carrying her white tray filled with choc ices. Gareth stretched and got up from his seat. ‘Do you wanna choc ice, Lottie?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘And we’ve still got those chocolate peanuts, don’t forget.’
‘No we haven’t. I ate them during that last film. Sure you don’t wanna choc ice? I’m having one. I can’t go to the cinema and not have a choc ice. Don’t seem right.’ He stood up and walked down to the front where Pat Mumble was. I watched him while he queued and then I watched him as he walked back to his seat. A great big hunk of chunk carrying a choc ice.
Shark Mutilation 3 is the most unpleasant film I’ve ever seen. I rate it very poorly against any of the Free Willy offerings. I don’t actually know why I even thought I might like to see it. It’s probably because everyone at school has been going on and on about it for weeks. Basically, it’s about a group of American teenagers who are o
n their way to Hawaii to attend a beauty pageant when their plane crashes and falls into the sea. Everyone else on the plane drowns instantly but they are left alive and clinging to the wreckage while a pack of sharks circles them, getting closer and closer. One by one they get chewed up and eaten, and just as each person is on the brink of death, the film goes all fuzzy and we get flashbacks of the most meaningful moments in their lives. I can’t explain what happens in the end though because I never actually got to see it.
Gareth clearly hadn’t been enjoying the film either. He’d eaten his choc ice without a word to me and had flinched whenever anybody’s limb got ripped away from their body. I felt responsible. After all, it was my fault that we were here. In an effort to put things right, I decided to try to take his mind away from the horror on the screen. In the darkest and most private corner of the cinema, I put my hand on Gareth Stingecombe’s leg. Gareth placed his big hand on top of mine and stroked it. We sat like that for a while trying not to watch as one of the unlucky beautiful teenagers slipped off the plane wreckage and got eaten. After a few minutes, I wriggled my hand out from underneath Gareth’s and slowly slid it higher up his leg. I felt his body stiffen. All around us were the sounds of shrieks and screams and crashing waves but I barely noticed them. Holding my breath, I let my hand travel a little further until it stopped on top of Gareth’s personal regions. Gareth didn’t move a muscle. I could hear him breathing in and out quite deeply though and his head had flopped forward. Without daring to turn my head a single millimetre, I used my fingertips to feel for Gareth’s zip and slowly undid his fly. Gareth leaned forward a little in his seat and put one hand up to his mouth. I guessed that it was to try to stem the tide of passion which was making him want to shout out loud and declare his desire for me to everyone in the cinema.22 Still, holding the rest of my body perfectly still, I slipped my fingers inside his jeans.
At exactly the same moment, the famous head-popping scene popped messily all over the screen. The audience all went,
‘ARGGGGGG–
HHHHHHHH!’
Gareth went,
‘URRGGGGGGGG–
HHHHHHHHHH!’
And then he clapped his hand over his mouth, shot to his feet and rushed out through the emergency exit.
For ten minutes, I sat by myself, unsure of what to do. Finally, the light of a torch made its way towards me through the darkness and a voice whispered, ‘Mumble mumble mumble Lottie?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
Pat Mumble Said, ‘Mumble mumble mumble Gareth mumble mumble mumble outside.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
I picked up my bag and followed Pat Mumble out of the cinema. When we reached the foyer, she pointed to the main entrance doors, rolled her eyes up to the ceiling and said, ‘Mumble mumble mumble kids,’ and then shuffled off back to the dark and screaming world of mutilation by sharks.
Outside, Gareth was squatting against the wall with his head in his hands. It was clear for anyone to see that he had been very badly sick all over the pavement. He looked up at me and said, ‘Sorry.’ Then he looked down at the ground again.
‘It’s OK,’ I said and touched his shoulder. ‘What’s up?’
Gareth clutched his stomach miserably. ‘I dunno, Lottie. I’m wondering if I ate too much. While that film was on, my belly started to feel a bit funny. And then there was all that gore and blood on the screen . . . and then you started prodding my nudger . . .’ He rubbed his face against the sleeve of his rugby shirt. ‘It just made me feel too weird. I needed to hurl.’ He looked at me apologetically. ‘Sorry.’
I bit my thumbnail and looked at him. I’ll be honest, it doesn’t make you feel fantastic when the person you really fancy tells you that they’ve just chucked up because you touched their personal regions. I pulled my bobble hat down tighter on to my head in the way that I’ve seen celebrities do in those celebrity stalker magazines. It made me feel slightly better. I could almost feel myself disappearing. Finally, I said, ‘Gaz, can we not tell anybody about this?’
Gareth looked relieved. ‘Yeah, definitely. I won’t say anything.’ He gave a big sigh. ‘It won’t do my reputation with the rugby boys any good if they hear about this.’
‘Let’s pretend tonight didn’t happen,’ I said.
Gareth stood up and gave me a small smile. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home.’
sometimes I’m a Bit Naive
Me and Ruthie have never been especially close. I think it’s because she’s five years older than me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that she’s loads more mature than I am because she blatantly isn’t. She likes to call me things like Fart Face and Blow-off Breath and she paints her Doc Martens in childish colours and wears T-shirts with pictures of Cookie Monster printed on the front. There’s no way you could ever know, just by looking at her, that my sister Ruthie is actually intelligent. But she is. She got three grade As in her A levels and now she’s studying at university so that one day she can be called Dr Ruth Biggs and be widely respected as an expert adviser on archaeological field digs at sites of significant historical interest all over the world.
I don’t even know what this means.
Because she’s five years older than me, every time I started a new school, Ruthie was just about getting ready to leave it. And then when I got to Year 9, Ruthie cleared off to Aberystwyth and then we weren’t even living in the same town any more.
But in spite of all that, there’s still some sort of special connection between us. She’s the only sister I’ve got and for one reason or another, we’ve been through quite a lot together. Goose once told me that she’d love to have a sister like Ruthie and would happily swap both her twin brothers in exchange. And I can sort of see why. Sometimes, Ruthie can be quite generous and gives me her old CDs or something to add to my collection of orang-utan memorabilia. Andjust this summer, when I went a bit nuts, Ruthie was incredibly nice and understanding and didn’t make me feel like I’d let everyone down. In fact, this summer made me appreciate her more than ever and I probably realized for the first time in my life how lucky I am to have an older sister I can talk to. Even if it is usually on the phone.
Which is perhaps why I am still slightly miffed about the fact that she doesn’t feel she can open up and talk to me. If she did, she would have told me about Michel. And she would have told me about the things I found in her make-up bag when I got back from the cinema.
I wasn’t snooping through her stuff. I was simply looking for some eye make-up remover. And I found some. But I also found these:
And there were loads of them.
I froze. And then I picked some of them up and looked at them. And then I froze again. And then I put them back in her make-up bag exactly where I’d found them.
For a couple more minutes, I stood in the bathroom unsure of what to do. Any thoughts of wiping mascara off my eyelashes had completely vanished. Even the shame of my disastrous nudger-prodding date with Gareth was temporarily banished to the back of my mind. The house suddenly seemed so still and so silent that the only thing I could hear was the sound of my own blood as it pumped its way through my head. I put my hands on either side of the sink and leaned against it, breathing deeply inward and outward until the pumping noises in my ears stopped.
Then I left the bathroom and went downstairs.
In the living room, Ruthie, my mum and Michel were drinking wine and talking about France. Michel was saying, ‘Actually, in France, we have plenty plenty castles also as you do in this country Wales which is not England. In Bordeaux, where I am coming from, in fact, we have already nine thousand different types of castle. And we also have plenty plenty cheeses and plenty plenty wines. And in Bordeaux, we are speaking a very beautiful dialect of French language which is special of the region. But, in fact, all French languages is beautiful, no? But, of course, French was the official language too of England and Wales for over three hundred years in the Middle Ages, yes? But, in fact, now the official language of
England is English but nobody much speaks Welsh in Wales any more, no?’
Ruthie was staring at Michel, utterly transfixed. Fascination and admiration seemed to be leaking out of her eyes like gunge does from a dodgy old battery. In contrast, my mum looked bored to tears and I could tell that she was really regretting the loss of her Mamma Mia! party. When she saw me hanging around in the doorway, she perked right up and said, ‘Lottie! How was the film?’ Then she patted the empty space next to her on the sofa and said, ‘Come and tell us all about it. Was it good?’
‘Nah,’ I said. Then, looking straight at Ruthie, I said, ‘Can I borrow you upstairs for a second?’
Ruthie frowned. ‘I’m talking with mum and Michel.’
‘I need some help with my computer,’ I said.
Ruthie frowned again. ‘Now? At this very second?’
My mum said, ‘Lottie, you’re spending far too much time on that computer.’ Then to Ruthie she said, ‘It won’t kill you to help her. You’re not home very often.’
Ruthie looked at Michel and rolled her eyes and then she stood up and said, ‘Oh come on then, Fart Face.’
At the top of the stairs, I headed for the bathroom, instead of my bedroom. Ruthie said, ‘Where are you going? I thought you wanted me to look at your computer.’
I didn’t answer. I walked into the bathroom. Ruthie stood outside and looked confused.
‘Please can you come in here a minute?’ I said. I was nearly crying.
Ruthie looked alarmed. She followed me into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Sitting on the edge of the bath, she took hold of both my hands and whispered, ‘Lottie, what on earth’s the matter?’
And then I started crying. I couldn’t help it. I was so freaked out and nervous, I hardly knew what to do with myself. Ruthie said, ‘Hey now, it’s OK.’ And she rubbed my shoulder and smiled reassuringly but all the time I could see that she was really worried.
