A Kiss in the Dark

by Cat Clarke

  ‘Um …’ I couldn’t say no to her. The last thing I wanted was to see that smile slip and the light go out of her eyes. Not today.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased!’ The smile was slipping and the light was flickering.

  ‘I am pleased! I was just … I don’t know … is this really the best way?’

  ‘It’s the only way!’ Kate leaned in closer to the phone so her face filled the whole screen. ‘I need to be alone with you. I want to … you know.’ Of course I knew. The subject had been coming up a lot recently. It was unavoidable, but that hadn’t stopped me trying to avoid it, hoping it might magically go away and Kate would forget that the next natural step in our relationship was to get naked together.

  ‘I do too.’ Another lie, not so tiny, not so white. Actually, it wasn’t exactly a lie – not anymore. I wanted to feel her skin on mine and I wanted to touch her and kiss her all over. But it could never happen, not like this.

  She beamed at me. ‘I’ve already told Mum I’m spending the night at Astrid’s – she doesn’t know that they’re away in France and I’ll just have to make sure she doesn’t find out. She’s not exactly Astrid’s biggest fan anyway so Astrid hardly ever comes over these days.’ Mrs McAllister and I agreed on one thing at least.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got it all planned out.’

  ‘I have.’ She looked proud of herself. ‘Um … there is one thing.’ Her gaze shifted so she was no longer looking at me through the screen. ‘I’m not on the pill or anything. I mean, I can go to the doctor’s and get it but probably not until after the holidays and obviously I don’t think you have any STDs or oh gosh this is so embarrassing but I might as well say it now and then we can just pretend this conversation never happened. Could you possibly get some … um … condoms? I mean, you might have some already but–’ I slammed the laptop closed.

  Too late. Jamie’s head was poking round the corner of the door.

  I hadn’t heard the door open. I had no idea how long he’d been there.

  chapter twenty-one

  ‘I brought you a cup of tea.’

  Another little ritual. Jamie insisted that no one in the house could make a cup of tea as well as I could. It had been my job to make tea for him since I was twelve years old. In return he let me read his copies of Empire magazine as soon as they arrived in the post. And I got to keep them once he’d finished with them. To sweeten the deal, Jamie had been kind enough to offer to make tea for me on one day of the year – Christmas Day. And I usually made sure to request at least ten cups, even though I would never want that much tea.

  Jamie was holding out the mug – a special Christmas one he’d bought me last year for this very purpose. I could tell he was trying very hard not to look confused but Jamie’s always been an open book to me – to everyone, really. He’s got nothing to hide.

  I had no idea how to play this. It all depended on what he’d heard. ‘Um … thanks.’ I looked at my watch. ‘This must be some kind of record. Two cups in an hour?’

  Jamie shrugged as he walked over to me. ‘I figured I’d get them in early so you could leave me to digest my food in peace after lunch.’

  My fingers drummed on the laptop casing. ‘And here I was going to go easy on you cos you’ve been ill.’

  Silence as he handed me the mug. I took a sip of tea just for something to do. Jamie was right – I was better at making it. He sat down next to me on the bed. ‘So I’m pretty sure this is my room.’

  ‘Sorry, I was just …’ Nope. I had nothing. Later I would think of all kinds of reasons I might have for being in his room instead of mine.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ He didn’t say this in his Jamie voice. He said in a genuine, caring voice that didn’t sound right on him. This was awkward for both of us.

  I stood up, laptop tucked under one arm, mug of tea in my other hand. ‘Yeah, everything’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?’ That was a mistake, asking that question. Because asking a question requires the other person to come up with an answer. Should have left it at ‘fine’.

  ‘I don’t know … I thought maybe …’ He sighed and shrugged – being sincere was an effort for him. ‘I know we mess around all the time, and I know you’re about a million times cleverer than I am and I’m probably the last person you’d ever want to talk to. But you can, you know. I know some stuff about … stuff.’

  I wanted to thank him for not pushing the issue – for not asking why some girl on Skype was asking me to buy condoms. Because by that point in the conversation I was convinced that’s exactly what he’d heard. God knows what he thought I was involved in, but he didn’t seem to want to find out.

  I didn’t thank him. ‘Yeah. Um … I have to …’

  He waved me away, giving me permission to leave. He looked almost as relieved as I felt that we’d somehow managed to escape an awkward heart-to-heart. I was almost out of the door when he said, ‘Happy Christmas, Sis.’

  I turned to look at him, slouched on the bed, so comfortable in his own skin that it would never occur to him that other people might not be. I wanted to cry. ‘Happy Christmas, Bro.’

  *

  I couldn’t risk another video call with Kate. I texted to explain cutting off the call – told her my mum had come in. She wanted to talk more about the New Year’s Eve plan. She wanted to cook me something nice, she wanted it all to be perfect. I told her we’d talk about it tomorrow, that I probably wouldn’t be able to escape the clutches of my family for the rest of the day. I could tell that didn’t go down well. She didn’t reply for a full three minutes and when she did, all she said was ‘OK. Have a good day.’ Ouch.

  I’d have to apologize – explain that our family Christmases really were insane and that full participation was expected at all times. Whether she believed me or not was up to her. I tried my best to forget about Kate for the rest of the day – or at least forget about the prospect of Hogmanay. The day did turn out to be pretty crazy – one of the babies spewed milky vomit down Grandma’s best cardigan, Natalie had an argument with her boring husband in the dining room and then they both came out pretending everything was fine, not realizing that we’d heard every single word. Jamie was drinking red wine like it was Ribena and I wasn’t the only one to notice that he kept looking at me. Uncle Eric, who normally doesn’t pay attention to anything beyond his enormous belly, asked us if everything was OK. I replied with a defensive ‘yes’ but Jamie took a little longer to answer with a slightly less convincing shrug.

  There was no way I could relax and enjoy myself. If I wasn’t worrying about what Jamie may or may not have heard, I was worrying about Kate and how the hell I was going to deal with the whole sex thing. And if I wasn’t worrying about that, I was being all wistful about an alternate universe in which I could be excited about the prospect of sleeping with Kate because she knew I was a girl and she was more than OK with it. That was even more annoying than the worrying because it was completely pointless and made me feel worse about everything.

  Jamie and I usually stayed up late on Christmas Day, slouched next to each other on the sofa, him still wearing the party hat from his cracker. The past couple of years we’d watched Die Hard, because Jamie maintained it was a Christmas film. He could quote every line of dialogue and never get bored of it. I’d noticed that the DVD box was already out, next to the TV. Jamie’s always been one for traditions and rituals. It was the kind of thing that would surprise people if you told them.

  Grandma insisted on watching EastEnders because apparently it wasn’t Christmas unless something terrible was happening to the residents of Albert Square. That was when I first mentioned feeling a bit ill. An hour and a half after that and I got up from the sofa and said I was going to get an early night. Mum thought that was a good idea – she was convinced I was coming down with Jamie’s cold. I said goodnight to everyone and tried not to look in Jamie’s direction. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you with one last cup of tea, Al? I’ll even bring it to your room … how’s that for serv
ice?’ Jamie’s eyes were boring into mine, willing me to say yes.

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll let you off for this year. I’m just gonna go straight to sleep.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Right. Well, if you need anything, just give me a shout.’

  The whole family was listening in to this little exchange; Grandma said that Jamie was ‘such a kind soul’ and would make someone a perfect husband one day. Uncle Eric chipped in with ‘Not until he’s sowed his wild oats’ accompanied by a filthy laugh that turned into a hacking cough. I left the room just in time to avoid hearing Uncle Eric’s reminiscing about his wild-oats sowing days. The thought of Eric’s oats was enough to make me feel properly ill.

  There were three texts from Kate on my phone. She was bored. She’d gone to bed early too – she’d had enough of the board games her mum insisted they play every Christmas. She didn’t seem to be holding a grudge over my abruptness earlier.

  The final text from Kate told me that she was lying in bed, thinking about me ‘doing things’ to her. She didn’t elaborate on what that those ‘things’ might be, but I could guess easily enough. Reading that, I felt an immediate rush of heat before reality came crashing in yet again.

  I texted back to say I was in bed, thinking about her. That was the truth at least. She didn’t need to know exactly what I was thinking about her. That I was racking my brains about Hogmanay. Wondering if I could in fact ‘do stuff’ to her without her finding out my secret. Maybe I could come up with some reason why I couldn’t get naked with her. Some horrible surgical scars or some childhood trauma that left me with a pathological fear of taking my clothes off. More lies, basically. I was layering lie upon lie upon lie, getting myself in deeper and deeper, further away from who I was. Who I am.

  chapter twenty-two

  I woke up on Boxing Day feeling a whole lot better about things. Sometime during the night I’d decided on a course of action. I’d go along with Kate’s plan – up to a point. I’d reassure her that I was fine with going to Astrid’s and that I was looking forward to spending some time alone with her. I’d tell her that she didn’t have to cook for me, but if she absolutely insisted that would be very nice. And if she pushed the issue I’d even tell her that I’d bought some condoms for the occasion. We would have a lovely evening pretending that the rest of the world didn’t exist and I would try to forget that we were in Astrid’s house and that I was the most despicable human being on the planet. I would do my best to treat Kate the way she deserved to be treated, for a few hours at least.

  We would have a perfect evening and if (when) Kate started getting frisky I would tell her the truth. Well, not the truth. I would tell her that I wasn’t ready to take things further. I would tell her that I didn’t need to have sex with her to be able to feel close to her. And if that didn’t work I would tell her that I wanted us to wait until her sixteenth birthday – which would buy me another few weeks at least. I was under no illusions – I knew Kate wasn’t going to be happy about it. She was the sort of person who wouldn’t give up once they’d set their mind on something. But surely she would wait – for me. Surely some part of her brain would think I was being gentlemanly and old-fashioned and respectful. And surely that would make her a little bit happy.

  The role reversal would have been pretty funny if it wasn’t threatening to ruin things for me. Boys do not turn down sex when it’s offered to them on a plate. They just don’t. I tried to imagine Jonni or Fitz telling their girlfriends they wanted to wait before having sex. The idea was laughable. Then again, the idea of them having girlfriends was ridiculous enough in itself.

  I spent most of the day in bed, still going with the excuse that I was ill. I made it to the dinner table for Mum’s special Boxing Day dinner though – basically a re-run of Christmas dinner but with cold turkey and a whole bunch of microwaved leftovers that somehow ended up tasting better than the meal the day before, much to Dad’s annoyance.

  Kate and I texted back and forth the whole day. I told her I wasn’t feeling well. Yet another layer of lies. There was a lot of mushy stuff in those texts; I think we both needed reassurance that things were OK. I never thought I would be the kind of person who would tell someone that they meant the world to me. Or that I couldn’t imagine my life without them in it. I guess I never really thought that I was the kind of person who would fall in love. It always seemed like that was something for other people to do, while I stood on the sidelines watching them – not entirely sure whether to be jealous or not.

  I think being in love with Kate made me a better person. No one would ever know that having Kate in my life was making me nicer. I was more patient with Mum and Dad, for one thing. Sometimes I’d even talk about stuff I was doing at school at the dinner table instead of saying ‘fine’ when they asked how my day had been. I even made dinner a couple of times (shocker) and it was (even bigger shocker) kind of tasty. I’d never made more than pasta with a jar of sauce before but I thought that maybe it was about time I learned how to fend for myself. And yes, I had idly wondered about maybe cooking for Kate one day far, far in the future.

  My family couldn’t fail to notice the changes in me, but no one said anything. I think they were just glad I was slightly more pleasant to be around. I’m not saying I was helping old ladies across the street or volunteering at the local homeless shelter or anything, but I did notice that I was more considerate about other people’s feelings in general. It was all down to Kate – it all came from her. I wondered if that would be her legacy when this was all over – an imprint of kindness on my brain. It was a nice thought, but I couldn’t allow myself to be that hopeful.

  *

  The days between Christmas and New Year are always a bit strange, like everyone’s still desperate to hang on to the festive season despite the fact that they’re sick of eating and drinking and being nice to each other. I used to spend a lot of that time sitting cross-legged in front of the present pile I always stacked neatly in front of my wardrobe, gleeful because I had new things, and new things were better than old things even though the novelty would wear off and the new things would feel like old things within a matter of weeks.

  This year I spent the days moping around the house, unable to concentrate on anything. Kate was in Glasgow with her mum, staying with Mrs McAllister’s best friend from school. Mags was the closest thing Kate’s mum had to a sister.

  I was torn about Kate being away. It was good to have a little breathing space, time to get my head together, work out how I was going to handle things at Astrid’s house. But Kate had also mentioned that Mags had an eighteen-year-old son. A very good-looking eighteen-year-old son who was always joking about getting together with Kate one day. His name was Edward. Bastard. Kate had shown me a picture of him and he even looked like a bastard. There was a greasy quality about him that oozed out from the photo. Plus he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that showed his bulging biceps, as if that was something people were supposed to be impressed by.

  I told Kate I thought Edward looked like an untrustworthy sort of person. She laughed at me. She laughed and laughed until she was almost crying. Then she pinched my cheek and ruffled my hair. ‘Awwww, is someone jealous?’

  Yes. I was jealous. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Kate. It wasn’t that I thought there was any chance something would happen between them. I had absolute trust in Kate’s feelings for me. She would never do anything to hurt me. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t jealous of Edward. He was a boy. There was no doubt about that – the muscles, the trace of shadowy stubble on his face. If he did try it on with Kate and if by some miracle she reciprocated, then he’d be able to take off his shirt, unbutton his jeans, and Kate wouldn’t be disgusted. He was a real boy; I was Pinocchio. And I hated him for that – almost as much as I hated myself.

  I kept in constant touch with Kate – little reminders that I was thinking about her. The only time she mentioned Edward was to say that he’d got a new girlfriend and he wouldn’t shut up about it
. She was only telling me that to reassure me that I had nothing to worry about. I appreciated the gesture but it did precisely nothing to reassure me. Since when has having a girlfriend ever stopped a boy from lusting after someone else? I had this crazy picture in my head of him sneaking into Kate’s room after everyone had gone to bed. For some reason I kept picturing him in his underwear – tight black Calvin Kleins or something – six pack and pecs like an Abercrombie model. He would slip into the bed next to Kate, saying he wanted to talk or some such bullshit and then he would put his arms around her and hold her and she would lay her head against that broad, manly chest and then they’d have a lot of sweaty sex.

  I knew it would never happen. I knew the scenario was ridiculous, but that didn’t stop it running through my head, playing out in various different ways. I was torturing myself and I knew I should stop, but I didn’t – not until Kate informed me she was in the car on the way back to Edinburgh on the 29th. Just like that, smarmy Edward disappeared from my brain and was replaced by worry about New Year’s Eve.

  Forty-eight hours to go.

  chapter twenty-three

  On the morning of the 30th, Jamie informed us that he’d decided not to go back to Aberdeen until tomorrow. He said he wanted to spend at least some quality time with his little sister during the holidays. I didn’t like the sound of that. But then he came up with this idea that we should take part in the torchlight procession as a family. The torchlight procession is exactly what it sounds like – a whole load of people, meandering through the streets with a whole load of torches – real ones with flames rather than the kind with batteries. It’s part of Edinburgh pretending it’s the best place in the world to spend Hogmanay when most people would actually rather be somewhere with temperatures above freezing. We used to take part in the procession every year, until one year Mum and Dad went to a drinks party instead. I guess that’s how family traditions die a death. It looked like Jamie was intent on resurrecting this one with the sole intention of stressing me the hell out.