by Dominic Luke
At the same moment, the doorbell rang.
She slammed the drawer shut, pulled on her jumper, took a deep breath. She was ready.
Richard was on the doorstep, grinning. ‘Am I early?’
‘No. Not at all. You’re exactly on time.’ What was so funny? Why was he smirking like that? ‘Come in, do.’
‘Thanks.’ Richard stepped past her. ‘You might want to do your flies up.’
Lydia ground her teeth, tugged at the zip of her jeans. It always got stuck. She had to yank it inelegantly. Following Richard into the main room, she found him looking round as if he was a builder or decorator who had been called out to a job. He was scruffy enough to be a builder in his saggy combats, filthy trainers and shapeless hooded top. She felt quite smart in comparison, undone flies notwithstanding.
‘Nice place you’ve got here.’
Nice? Her eyes roamed the room, trying to see it from Richard’s perspective. Reasonably tidy. Newly de-cluttered. But she could not stop her gaze straying to the place where Prize’s basket had always been. She felt tears prick once more.
I mustn’t think of Prize. I mustn’t cry. Whatever happens, I mustn’t cry.
‘Oh, Prize …’ she whispered.
He turned round, looked at her quizzically. ‘Did you say something? I didn’t quite catch …’
‘No. Nothing. I didn’t say a word.’ I have to stop talking to myself. It’s becoming a bad habit.
‘Where’s your Christmas tree? Decorations?’
‘I don’t bother with all that. I’m far too busy. But you didn’t come here to make small talk.’
‘Right. Got you. I’m here to pose. So, where do you want me?’
They were getting off on the wrong foot. He was mocking her, taunting her, throwing her off balance. She needed to pull herself together. Was she, or was she not, a teacher, used to dealing with whole classrooms full of obnoxious, refractory teenagers? One Skoda-driving, warehouse-working, drug-dealing disappointment should not present too much of a challenge. Even Nigel, at times, had been known to wither before her wit and wisdom. That had been in the early days, before she knew any better. Nigel had not forgotten. What was it he had called her on the day he dumped her, just before presenting her with Prize? Iconoclastic. That was the word. She had not been sure what he meant by it but had gathered from his denunciation of her that it had something to do with the way she had once poked fun when he was drunk and incapable; the way she had occasionally scoffed at his inability to navigate when driving; the way she had, when he’d been wearing shorts on one of their first holidays together, teased him about his bow legs. Those were just a few items in the catalogue of her sins (he had used that word, too, sins: she had known what that word meant).
She shook her head, trying to clear it of unwelcome memories of Nigel, but the pouting expression and accusing voice lingered like the Cheshire cat’s smile. ‘You are a cold woman, a cruel woman. You have never taken me seriously.’ That had been the worst sin of all, not taking him seriously. He had taken himself very seriously indeed.
She found herself trembling as Nigel’s voice faded away. It irked her. There was no excuse in this antiseptic age for letting wounds fester. Why then could she not be rid of Nigel, be cured of him?
‘Are you OK?’ Richard was staring. ‘You look rather pale.’
‘Of course I am OK.’ She spoke sharply, uncomfortably aware that Richard was a man, the same species as Nigel. ‘Stand over there.’ She pointed to a spot on the far side of the room. ‘Strike a heroic pose.’ She took refuge behind the sofa, picked up her sketch book, licked the end of a pencil.
‘What sort of hero am I?’
Lydia quickly improvized. ‘St George.’
‘As in St George and the dragon?’
‘So you have heard of him.’ She used the tone of voice that she had perfected for putting smart-alec students in their places.
Richard grin widened.
He’s grinning. I must try harder, pull the rug out, let him see who’s boss….
‘Who will be posing as the dragon?’ Richard asked.
‘Who do you suggest?’ Good: a question countered by a question – excellent ploy.
‘How about Lady Darkness? She’s an old dragon.’
Lydia smothered a smile. This was bad. She must stay in control, laugh at Richard, not with him.
‘Stop talking. Take off your hoody.’ She used the Voice of Authority to wrest control of the situation.
Richard obeyed. Pupils always obeyed the Voice of Authority. He slid his top over his head, let it fall to the floor. He was not wearing anything underneath.
Lydia had not expected this and debated whether to tell him to put it back on again, or if it would unsettle him more to leave it off. Slowly she became aware that her prevarication could possibly be interpreted as staring – ogling, even. This thought had obviously also occurred to Richard. The way he was grinning at her made her uneasy.
She tore her eyes away; made some rapid pencil marks on her sketch pad.
‘I see that you are impressed by my toned and muscular physique.’
‘Silence! I’m working!’
Muscular? Who did he think he was kidding? He was all flesh and bone, had spindly arms, a narrow chest, no hips to speak of. His trousers sagged round his thighs, she could see the waistband of his underwear.
Finding that her eyes had strayed back to the disturbing sight of his naked torso, Lydia forced herself to concentrate on the sketch pad; drew some swift lines and curves, the outline of an emaciated body. How soon could she tell him to leave? He’d only been here five minutes; it would look foolish dismissing him so quickly. Give it a quarter of an hour, then she could pretend that she had got everything she needed, show him the door, inform him his services were no longer required. But she could not let the time pass in silence. Nigel’s silences had always intimidated her. She was determined not to be intimidated by Richard. She needed to think of a way of taking him down a peg or two.
Drawing jutting ribs and a shrunken belly, she seized on the first thought that came into her head. ‘Why did you gatecrash your brother’s party the week before Christmas?’
‘I didn’t gatecrash.’
‘You weren’t invited.’
‘I’m family. I didn’t need to be invited.’
‘You also,’ Lydia continued, drawing a straggly few hairs on a concave chest, ‘stole Dean’s girlfriend.’
‘His what?’ Richard chortled. ‘Dean hasn’t got a girlfriend. I mean, come on, you’ve seen him. He’s a geek. No girl in their right mind would go near him.’
No girl in their right mind…. Lydia’s hand gave an involuntary jerk. The point of her pencil snapped. But Richard was right. She hadn’t been in her right mind that night, meeting Dean on the side of the road. She’d been in shock, grieving. (Don’t think about Prize….)
Reaching for another pencil, she looked down at her sketch pad, and was disconcerted to find that, instead of producing an unflattering caricature of Richard, she’d drawn a passable likeness by mistake – slim rather than skinny, no superfluous fat, a flat stomach, young and athletic, not a wrinkle, not a grey hair, no spots either, and that disquieting sparkle in his eye. Venting her spleen, she defaced her drawing, adding acne, crossed eyes, a squint, obliterating the cheeky-boy grin which she had captured with worrying accuracy.
Keeping the threatening silence at bay, she said, ‘Tell me about the vodka jelly.’ (Why do I keep harping on about that party? I am not interested, it means nothing to me.)
‘The vodka jelly was a bit of fun, to liven things up.’
‘You think it’s clever, I suppose, to gatecrash other people’s parties, to make vodka jellies, to dance on tables and perform a striptease?’ Oops, why mention the dancing and stripping? It’s a detail, unimportant: I don’t know why I even remember it. I wish he’d put his top back on.
‘You know about that, do you? Wow. That’s top-level snooping. You’ll be out-Stasi-ing the
Stasi next.’
‘You think it’s funny, do you?’ Exasperating students – invariably male – usually quailed when this question was flung at them, but Richard seemed immune. His grin got wider.
‘Yeah, I do think it’s funny. My dancing usually is.’ (Impudent.)
‘I can well believe it.’ (Crushing.)
‘Would you like to see?’ (Audacious.)
This is getting out of hand. ‘There’s no table in here for you to dance on.’ Lydia hedged.
‘True.’ Richard gave ground.
Encouraged by this retreat, Lydia gambled with, ‘But I’ve got music. I dare you.’
She caught her breath. The femme fatale was speaking, surely? Where had she suddenly sprung from? Anything might happen now. She must tread carefully.
‘I only dance when I’m pissed.’ Richard backtracked still further.
Sensing victory, Lydia advanced from behind the sofa – only to be met by a late and unexpected counter-attack.
‘I’ll take my kecks off, though, if you want. Seeing as you’re so interested in seeing me strip.’
‘It’s your dancing we are talking about.’
‘But you are more interested in the stripping, I can tell.’
Not me, it’s the femme fatale. She’s shameless….
Lydia clutched her sketch book to her chest, watching Richard warily. The femme fatale had led her to this point and now left her high and dry. But there was no need to be alarmed. Richard wouldn’t go through with it. Of course he wouldn’t. He didn’t have the nerve.
Richard slowly squatted, undid his laces, looking up at her all the while in a way that made her shiver, afraid: the polar opposite of how the femme fatale would have felt. He straightened up, kicked off his trainers and unfastened his combats, which needed no further help in cascading down his legs. He stepped out of them to stand there in stripy boxer shorts and white trainer socks.
Lydia felt dangerously exposed, as if she was the one standing in her underwear rather than Richard.
She held up her sketch pad as if to examine what she’d drawn, shielding herself. There was nowhere to run. She was trapped. If Prize had still been around, this wouldn’t have been happening. Her life had been safe, sensible, with Prize at its centre. Now everything was sliding out of control and she was terrified.
‘Who is that meant to be?’
The voice in her ear made her jump. Richard had crossed the room without her noticing. He was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder at the sketch pad. He sounded miffed – and no wonder, given the acne and crossed eyes. She quailed, knowing what Nigel’s reaction would have been in these circumstances, knowing what he would have said, what he would have done.
‘I don’t really look like that, do I?’
‘Artistic licence.’ Help! Emergency! Do something! ‘W-what are you doing?’ She shied away as he leaned against her. ‘No. Don’t.’
‘Come off it.’ He talked softly, lips against her ear. ‘We both know what’s going on here.’
This was not what she wanted. It was not what she wanted at all. It was far, far too dangerous.
‘That blouse you were wearing in the pub yesterday….’ His breath tickled her ear. ‘It was driving me crazy. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You must have noticed.’
She let go of her sketch pad, raised her arms to push him away – but found instead that she was pulling him closer, wrapping her arms around him.
She closed her eyes, surrendering. His lips melded with hers.
She could feel him fumbling with her jeans, trying to undo the zip. Opening her eyes, she slapped his hand away, felt a surge of relief: this was it, the moment when she would give him his marching orders. She opened her mouth to speak – but the words that came out were, ‘The zip sticks. Let me.’
No, no, no! This was all wrong! She shouldn’t be helping him to seduce her. She should be—
Her eyes widened. Was he actually nibbling her ear? What on earth would her mother say? And yet, contrary to expectations, it felt almost … almost … hmmm … ahhh….
He had one sinewy arm round her shoulders, was stroking her hair; with his other hand he tugged down her jeans, slid his fingers inside her knickers. Her head swam as she tried to keep abreast of the situation. It was all so unexpected, so spontaneous. She was getting carried away.
It had never been like this with Nigel.
Thoughts of Nigel spurred her to one last effort. ‘We shouldn’t….’ (Oh yes we should!) ‘This is ridiculous….’
‘That’s what makes it so much fun.’ He kissed her again, putting a stop to further conversation.
She ran her hands up and down his back (his skin … so smooth … so warm … so exciting …), paid no attention to the sketch pad trampled underfoot, raised her arms obediently as he pulled her jumper over her head. He was caressing the back of her neck, kissing her lips, her throat, her breasts, her stomach….
‘Oh goodness! Oh my!’ Where had he learned to do that! Nigel would never have dared, he would never have lowered himself: he’d have thought it unhygienic.
Unforeseen laughter bubbled up, exploded out of her. It had been so long … so long…. With a shiver of anticipation, she realized that she had quite forgotten how much fun it was possible to have without recourse to gin.
NINE
‘HEY, MORLEY! Do you realize what an absolute fanny you look in that get-up?’
Dean, shivering with cold but resplendent in his Morris kit, was dismayed to see Charley and Ashraf thrusting their way to the front of the crowd. Charley and Ashraf were the biggest piss-takers on earth. It was just Dean’s luck that they should attend the same college as him.
‘What are you two doing here?’ he muttered. As if having his mother gawping at him wasn’t embarrassing enough.
‘That’s a nice way to greet us,’ said Charley. ‘I’m wounded, Morley. Wounded.’ (Charley was too thick-skinned to be wounded by anything.)
‘We’ve come to see you, innit.’ Ash grinned, looking Dean up and down. ‘Man, I wish I had a camera. No one will believe this.’
‘You have got a camera, dumb-ass,’ said Charley. ‘There’s one on your phone.’
‘You’re right, Charley, man!’
Ash fished out his phone from his pocket, lined up his first shot. ‘So what’s with the fancy dress and stuff, Morley?’
Dean was full of anguish. There was absolutely nowhere to hide. He was standing in the middle of the pub car park with half the village staring at him. He might have wished for the ground to swallow him up, except that he knew very well that the ground never did things like that. It went against the laws of physics. Only brainless fools who had no understanding of science would hope for something like that. He could make a break for it, of course, but the squire would collar him before he’d even made it off the car park, and that would be even more humiliating. There was nothing for it but to grit his teeth and get on with it. It was not as if there was anyone else he could blame for this. He was the one who’d chosen to do Morris dancing. Although, on second thoughts, didn’t this situation show up one of the glaring faults of society? Why, when you decided to do something a bit different, did people jeer and make fun of you, instead of respecting you for being an individual? People like Charley and Ash, for instance.
‘Come on, Morley. What’s it all for?’ Ash was busy taking Dean from yet another angle.
Dean kept quiet. He knew from bitter experience that anything he said would be taken down and used against him. That was the sort of piss-taking bastards they were, Charley and Ash.
Charley said, ‘It’s traditional British culture. Isn’t that right, Morley?’
‘It’s English.’ Dean spoke through his gritted teeth, unable to stop himself. ‘The Morris is English.’
‘English, British.’ Charley shrugged. ‘It’s all the same thing.’
‘No it isn’t. You cannot use “England” and “Britain” interchangeably.’ How many more times did he have to tel
l them? But he felt a little better for it. Charley and Ash might be the champion piss-takers of the universe, but they were also imbeciles. Why should he – or anyone else – take any notice of people who didn’t even know the name of their own country?
‘You’re such a geek, Morley, innit.’ Ash, trigger-happy, spoke from behind his camera phone. Dean could just imagine where the photos would end up. Everyone in college would have them by the end of next week. ‘So what’s with the freak over there?’ Ash pointed. ‘Is he on day release from the nut-house, or what?’
‘That’s George,’ said Dean. ‘He’s the fool.’
Ash hooted. ‘Man, you is all fools, innit!’
Charley changed the subject. ‘So where’s your brother, Morley? Has he made any more vodka jellies lately?’
‘Richard is not my brother.’
‘Yeah, yeah. So you keep saying. He’s a top bloke. Made your party go with a right bang. Is he knobbing Sandra Hays now, the lucky bastard?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t care. It’ll serve her right if he is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s got diseases. Herpes. Crabs. Gonorrhoea.’ Dean heaped it on, finding vindictive satisfaction in being economical with the truth – although Richard probably had caught something, the way he carried on. What was the point of having the most sophisticated brain in the animal kingdom if you just let your base instincts take over?
The names of a wide selection of venereal diseases tripped off Dean’s tongue but made him feel uneasy, reminding him of the panther. Up to now, he’d noticed no ominous symptoms in himself despite careful monitoring, but even if he was lucky enough not to have caught anything, it would be no thanks to her.
Just then the music began. The squire was calling them to order. Dean was glad to get moving, and not just because it gave him an excuse to get away from Charley and Ash. Standing round like a spare part, he’d begun to freeze to death. People laughed when you said it – I’m freezing to death – but it was no joke. He could actually feel the circulation slowing in his extremities and he could have sworn that his skin looked whiter than usual. Also, his hands were burning. That was a dangerous sign. Before long, they’d turn red, swell up, and there’d be permanent nerve damage due to oxygen deprivation. These things happened; he hadn’t made it up, it was scientifically proven. And it would be just his luck to get hypothermia on a bank holiday when it wasn’t even midday and he should still have been in bed.
