by Louise Voss
‘Yes – well, he’ll be along later. Stuck in traffic – you know how bad the roadworks get around here at weekends. He went to visit his mother last night, you see.’
Phil looked even more terrified. What a complete pansy!
‘Actually,’ he said, giving the menu in front of him a nanosecond’s scrutiny, ‘You know what, Lynny?’ (Lynny! Puke.) ‘I don’t think I really fancy any of this. In fact, I’ve got a bit of a yen for a Chinese.’
He laughed nervously and said to both of us: ‘Yen! For a Chinese! Get it?’
‘The yen is Japanese currency. In China it’s the Yuan,’ I said, standing over him with my arms folded, and noticing with glee that he had a bit of a bald spot.
‘Oh well. Same continent,’ he said. ‘Ha ha.’
‘Ha ha,’ I replied. Lynn was shooting daggers at me by now. She stood up. ‘Yeah, I fancy Chinese too – let’s walk round the corner to Ho Lin’s. Nice to see you again Siobhan.’
They started to move away between the tables.
‘Did you get my messages, Phil?’ I called after them.
He half turned. ‘No. I didn’t.’ And then they were gone, not even a word of goodbye.
I went and sat down again, with Angelo’s horrible wicker chair scratching the backs of my legs, but I’d lost my appetite. My tomatoes looked half-cooked and soggy, and the feta had left an unappetising white juice all over the plate.
It’s so odd, how you can be completely intimate with a person, and then they treat you like somebody who once ripped them off in a pub. That man has had his tongue in places that I didn’t even know I had, and now he can’t even be bothered to say goodbye, let alone return my calls? It’s really depressing. I know I don’t want to get back together with him or anything, but I can’t help but feel jealous of what he obviously has with Lynn. Why can’t I find a man who loves me like that? Why didn’t Phil love me like that? What’s wrong with me? I miss having a boyfriend.
I abandoned the rest of my salad, left a tenner on the table, and trudged up the hill back to my empty house. I suddenly felt that even finding Alex there would have been better than coming home to this… loneliness.
Loneliness, and a credit card bill for £398.80 – my new tennis shoes, plus the money that Alex stole from me. Which he still hasn’t paid back, the bastard. There’s no way I’m letting him get away with it.
Later
I’ve been working on the new novel, miraculously. It’s the first time in ages I feel that I’m really beginning to get stuck into it. She’s not a bad character, this Stevie woman – I’m actually starting to quite like her, whereas at first I actively disliked her. Fear, probably, if I try and analyse it. Fear that she, i.e. my creation, won’t be good enough to get me another publishing deal.
Although I’m beginning to feel a tiny bit more optimistic about the prospect of future publication: I’ve just had an email from Patricia. She sounded a little sniffy, and said she’d been trying to get hold of me for a few weeks (well, she can’t have been trying very hard. I get relatively few emails, and would definitely have seen one from her had she, as she claims, sent one before. Why hadn’t she phoned?) Anyway, the good news was that TLA has, unbelievably, been selling very well in translation in Holland, and the Dutch publisher’s got in touch with Patricia to ask if I might be interested in coming over for a bit of an event: a reading, and some stock signings. A free trip to Amsterdam might be just what I need to take my mind off all this trauma.
I don’t know, though. If I had a man to take with me, it would be different; I’d be there like a shot. Amsterdam is such a romantic city, with all those kindly windows and canals. I can see myself in a – what is the Dutch equivalent of a gondola? – well, in a boat, trailing my fingers seductively through the sunlit sparkly water as a beautiful man recites paragraphs of TLA to me…yes, I like that. He could be a fan. He’s learnt whole pages of TLA off by heart, and he’s lying there with his head in my lap, reciting them. Mmm, that would be blissful. Then we’d go back to my hotel and –
- I’ve got sex on the brain at the moment. I was writing a sex scene for Stevie earlier, when Rollo follows her home, lets himself into her house, strips off all his clothes and joins her in the shower. I know showers are rather a cliché, but there is something so damn sexy about being shoved up against a slippery tiled wall, him lifting her with his thrusts as they gasp to try and catch their breath, through the streams of hot water blasting off their bodies.
This is pretty sick, though – and God knows what Dennis Tennis would have to say about it – but when I was writing the scene, I accidentally typed Alex’s name, when I meant Rollo. Twice! I suppose it was because I was still subconsciously thinking about Alex outside the bathroom door like that, with me naked inside. But if Alex had been a lover, it could have been extremely erotic.
So anyway, I haven’t decided about Amsterdam. I feel so lethargic at the moment that frankly, I’m not sure that I can be bothered. I mean, a couple of signings and a reading to one bored punter whilst – in all probability – tumbleweeds blow through the empty bookshop? It’s hardly going to make a difference, is it? Especially as it’s the UK where I want to get another deal. I’ll think about it for a while. I’ve emailed Patricia back to say that I’m not sure how my work commitments are going to pan out over the next few months, and provided there’s no urgent rush on a decision, I’ll let her know in a week or so.
Later still.
Feeling down again. Have just been to Sainsbury’s, and everywhere I looked there were couples cooing over the angel-hair pasta, or planning their next dinner party, or buying nappies. I haven’t even got a boyfriend, let alone a husband or baby. And there’s been all this stuff in the press lately about how, if you’re not married by the time you’re 35, then you only have a 13% chance of ever getting married. And worse, if you haven’t had your first baby by the age of 38, you only have a 3% chance of conceiving! That’s terrifying. I want a baby. Even though I hate other people’s babies…
I want to be loved. I don’t want to be alone.
There must be something awful the matter with me. Am I the sort of person who gets less appealing the more you get to know her? I mean, for heaven’s sake, two weeks ago I had a man who was utterly obsessed by me. How ironic is that – even my stalker has lost interest!
Although that’s probably because he’s having trouble getting the money together to pay me.
No, I am so not going to feel sorry for him. I’m having trouble getting the money together to pay my bloody credit card bill! Time is running out for Alex Parkinson, and I’m not going to let this drop. He owes me that money, and I want it back.
Chapter 18
Alex
Thursday (the morning after!)
Emily and I had arranged to meet at Moulin Rouge, a wine bar not far from here. I have no idea why I agreed to go to a wine bar. I spent the whole of yesterday morning trying to work out what to wear, then trying to work out how to iron a crease into a pair of trousers, and finally trying to figure out how to get rid of said crease. After that, I counted my money.
£3.76. It wasn’t going to buy the best bottle in the joint.
However, after turning the sofa upside down and sticking my arm inside, I no longer only had £3.76. I had £3.86. And a dead spider. And the oversized ten pence piece I’d found wasn’t even legal tender any more. What was Emily going to think? Maybe I shouldn’t even bother turning up: it was pretty obvious that when she saw how poverty-stricken and sartorially-challenged I was, she would make an excuse and climb out the window in the Ladies.
Thinking about money reminded me of Siobhan’s letter. I imagined myself going round to Siobhan’s and handing her the cash. She would invite me in and tell me she’d had a change of heart. She didn’t care about the money. In fact, she was wearing the lingerie I had bought her and she wondered if I might like to see it on her; take it off her.
I feel so ashamed. I was thinking about Siobhan while I was on my way to see
Emily. And I’m starting to wonder now if I should be writing this stuff. What if Emily sees it? Luckily I have this file password protected. I was worried before that maybe Si or Nat would come in and try to read my words. But I need this outlet for my feelings.
So, anyway: yesterday.
I got to the wine bar about ten minutes early. Emily wasn’t there, but I didn’t want to go in and buy a drink because then I’d have no money by the time she arrived. I hung around outside, smoking a cigarette and drawing snooty looks from the staff inside. I was really hungry. I’d felt so sick with nerves that I hadn’t eaten anything all afternoon. And breakfast had consisted of two pieces of toast and marge. I really wasn’t in the right state to be going on a date.
I looked at my watch. Emily was five minutes late. Maybe I should go home. I looked up and down the road, suddenly aware of how badly I wanted her to turn up. I didn’t want to go home alone. Not again. Perhaps if Emily stood me up I could go round to Siobhan’s so she could tell me I was a stalker and get the police to arrest me, throw me in a cell where I wouldn’t be made to suffer by women any more. Maybe in prison I would discover the joys of…
‘Hi! Am I late?’
‘No. Well, not really.’
She had arrived in a cloud of Issey Miyake. The first thing I thought was, That’s the same perfume Siobhan wears. I had seen the bottle in her bedroom, and the smell had stayed with me. Then I looked at Emily’s smile and thoughts of Siobhan disappeared in a puff of Issey Miyake-scented smoke.
‘What will you have?’ Emily said, once we had gone inside. ‘Shall we get a bottle?’
I hoped she couldn’t see the panic in my eyes.
‘What do you prefer?’ she said. ‘Red or white?’
‘White.’
‘Oh. That’s a pity, I fancied red.’
Phew. ‘Well, let’s just get a glass. I’ll have the house white.’ I had already checked out the price list, and a small glass of house white was only £3.50. I was paying my way.
We sat down and Emily removed her coat. She wore a red sweater that stretched tightly over her breasts. Her large breasts. Actually, I had already noticed that most of Emily was quite large. She was the kind of woman that people describe as voluptuous; kind of like Kate Winslet when she isn’t starving herself. I liked it. She looked soft. The only thing I didn’t like about her appearance was that she was wearing quite a lot of make-up. I could see flakes of foundation on her cheeks, little blobs of mascara on her eyelashes. But she still looked good. Realising how good she looked made me feel more anxious.
‘Are you okay?’ she said.
‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit nervous, I guess.’
She smiled again. ‘Me too.’
We both examined the tabletop, embarrassed, but when I looked up she was still smiling. We lifted our glasses and took a sip.
‘So how’s Natalie? Is she okay?’ She looked at me over the top of her glass.
‘She’s alright, yeah…I think. She and Simon have gone away for the week. He’s taken her to Greece.’
‘Oh. That’s a good idea. It must have been…’ She trailed off, shaking her head. Her hair fell over her eyes and she brushed it away. She smiled, as if to say, let’s change the subject, and I strained to think of something to say.
‘What do you do?’ Emily asked before a fascinating subject had sprung to mind. ‘I mean, for a job?’
I wondered what Natalie had told her. ‘Hasn’t Natalie already filled you in about me?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really. She told me you used to work for an internet company.’
‘That’s right. But I…quit. To concentrate on my writing.’
‘You’re a writer?’
‘Well. An aspiring one.’
And a skint one. Who got chucked out of the local creative writing class. I could feel my cheeks burning.
‘That’s a coincidence.’
‘You’re a writer too?’ I couldn’t believe it. I’d just had my heart broken by one writer and now…
‘No, no. God – I’m not that creative. No, I work for a publisher. I’m an editorial assistant.’
‘Sounds cool.’
She smiled and I noticed little dimples on her cheeks. ‘Yes. It’s a nice job, most of the time. It can be a bit…’ She screwed up her face. ‘I don’t know. It’s very competitive and there’s a lot of bitchiness and backstabbing. I’d rather work somewhere where everyone got on. Where people were nice to each other, y’know?’
I nodded, thinking about my old office. Those bastards. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ I said.
We drank our wine and made small talk: I can’t remember exactly what we talked about. But after a little while, Emily said, ‘Oh, I feel a bit tipsy already.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m such a lightweight. It only takes one glass.’
‘What would happen if you drank another?’ I asked, temporarily forgetting that I only had 26 pence (and an out-of-date coin; I left the dead spider at home) in my pocket.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not sure.’
I immediately felt myself stiffen. I couldn’t remember the last time a woman had flirted with me, and the way Emily was looking at me was actually making me feel nervous – but also very excited. I heard Simon’s voice in my head: She likes you. It was such a powerful feeling – or, rather, an empowering feeling. To have somebody want you. I was sure I was reading the signals correctly this time.
‘Look, Emily,’ I said, suddenly feeling the urge to be honest. ‘I’ve got a confession.’
She looked worried. Some of the colour faded from her cheeks; her eyes lost a little of their sparkle.
‘I’m skint,’ I said. ‘I came out tonight with less than four quid. I’m really sorry.’
And although I was expecting her to be appalled, she grinned. ‘God, Alex, I thought you were going to say you had a girlfriend. Or that you were gay.’
‘Well…’
‘Of course you’re skint. All writers are skint. Don’t worry about it – I got paid today. Come on, let’s have another.’
So Emily and I sat there and had another glass of wine, and we talked about… well, all sorts of stuff. Films. Music. Books. Normal stuff. This, I kept thinking, is exactly what Siobhan was talking about when she gave me that lecture about how relationships are meant to proceed. That night she stuck a serrated knife in my heart and went riiiip. I looked at Emily’s soft, friendly face over the table and realised that this woman would never knife me in the heart. She would never use such cruel words. She didn’t think I was a freak or a weirdo or a creep. She liked me.
She really liked me!
And after we’d been talking for a while, she leaned across the table and said, ‘So… Natalie and Simon are away?’ And the next thing I knew, we were walking back to my place.
We didn’t hold hands, but as we talked she kept bumping into me, leaning against me and touching my arm. I felt as if my blood temperature had just shot up ten degrees; I felt vertiginous, heady. Everything seemed bright and sharp, as if all my natural senses were heightened: the streetlights dazzled me; I saw a fox dart from an alley into a garden, fur shining, eyes glinting.
When we stepped into my flat it seemed impossibly quiet. We stood in the hallway, breathing loudly.
‘Do you want a coffee? Or tea? Or… water?’
‘No wine?’
‘Not unless you can perform miracles.’
She laughed and said, ‘Water would be fine.’
She followed me into the kitchen and stood behind me while I rinsed and filled a glass with water. When I turned around she was standing really close. She moved forward, her face tilted upwards. I kissed her, and spilled water down her as my arms went around her.
‘Oh, shit, I’m really sorry.’
She shook her head, frowning. ‘Look what you’ve done!’
‘I’m so sorry…
She smiled, letting me know that her frown was a trick. ‘I guess I’m going to have to take
this off now.’
I could feel my heart banging against my rib cage.
‘Alex,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t look so scared. You must do this sort of thing all the time.’
‘I…’
‘Come on.’
She took my hand and let me lead her towards my bedroom. I still couldn’t believe this was happening. This was going against the stuff Siobhan had talked about. This was still the first date, and here we were, heading towards the bedroom. Maybe, I thought, Siobhan is out of touch. She is a bit older than Emily and me, after all.
In my bedroom, I turned the bedside lamp on and sat on the bed. Emily shimmied out of her skirt, sat down and leaned towards me. We kissed. Her mouth tasted sweet and earthy.
‘Let me put some music on,’ I said, when we came up for air.
‘Good idea. Have you got any Adele?’
‘Um… No.’ Shit, I knew I should have followed the crowd and bought that album. ‘I’ve got Rumer’s album though.’
Emily had clearly never heard of her, but she nodded. I found it on iTunes, clicked Play, then headed back towards the bed. Emily lay back on the sheets. ‘I want you,’ she said, and I gulped.
Emily watched as I unbuttoned my shirt, sucking in my stomach as I reached the lower buttons. At the same time, Emily hoisted her jumper over her head. Her navel was pierced, a pale blue stone winking at me. She was wearing a white bra, her nipples visible through the fabric. The bra seemed too small for her breasts: the flesh appeared to be straining to be set free, and a moment later Emily obliged, reaching behind her to unfasten the garment.
Wearing just my boxer shorts I knelt on the bed and kissed her, moving my mouth from her lips to her neck, then taking a nipple in my mouth. She grabbed the hairs at the nape of my neck. We kissed again, our mouths wet, Emily reaching down to stroke my penis through the fabric of my shorts.
‘Help me,’ she said, looking down at her knickers.
