He smiled sideways at me, jogging the expensive pram box under his arm. “That sounds very familiar.”
I shook my head at him in the reflection. If only Bree had a brother like Henry. “Yeah, I think it's a bit different for her,” I said. “I don’t think it’s a you-Alice thing, I think it might be more of a Diane-Sean thing, except Bree is no Diane.”
“Well, if she's got a brother like Sean, I really do pity her,” Henry said with conviction. “She's okay, though?” He looked at me for confirmation, and I shrugged and then nodded. He mirrored my nod and looked forward again. “That's the main thing, isn't it?”
I sighed deeply. I still didn't understand why the hell she didn't want me to know. As we got out of the lift and I was fishing around in the front pocket of my handbag for the keycard, I had to concede I had no idea what was going on with her. “I worry about her, even though she doesn’t want me to. I wish she'd just tell me everything.”
Henry actually found what I'd said quite funny for some reason as he turned his head to look at me. “Coming from you, that's rich,” he told me as I let us into my apartment. “She'll get there. Give her time.”
I watched him for a second, feeling uncomfortable about the way he'd put that.
Once we were inside, Henry went and plugged his phone in. Then, we pushed the coffee table out of the way so we could sit on the living room floor together and try and figure out how to assemble the pram. It was the first time in a couple of weeks that I'd hung around my house without wearing my boy clothes, and it was fucking uncomfortable, especially in stockings. I fidgeted on the carpet while Henry dug around in the box.
He found the instructions inside, and we lay those out on the floor and examined them. They were seriously intense. I hadn't seen anything that complicated since I'd finished Advanced Statistics. All of the numbered, annotated diagrams made it look like we were building some sort of military-grade drone, complete with detachable baby-capsule for the car. The only thing missing was wings. When Henry emptied the box, there were hundreds of parts and most of them were unrecognisable.
“I regret not choosing to study astrophysics right now,” Henry said as he held a mystery screw up to the light, trying to figure out how many rings it had so he knew what it was for. He gave up, looking helplessly at me. “I think this calls for wine.”
I saluted at him and then went to get us some. Once we both had a couple of glasses in us, the process was a lot easier. We somehow navigated the diagrams, and by the time I'd offered Henry his third glass—“I'd better not, I'll have to drop this off to her shortly”—we had what looked like a pretty respectable spaceship for three small children. Who designed these things, anyway?
Henry attached the canopy, and we both stood back to examine the finished product. “How does that look?” he asked, tilting his head at it.
I was on my third glass. “Like she's brand new and ready for warp drive.”
He sighed, looking from me with the glass in my hand to the pram. “It does look new, doesn't it?” he said, and then surveyed my apartment. “Well. Let's find something to mess it up with.” He went to go and poke around in my kitchen, and I went straight for my box of old painting supplies.
They were in my wardrobe and Henry didn’t follow me, which meant that I could rifle through all my clothes without worrying what I was hiding in there. I could hear him opening and closing cupboards in my kitchen. It reminded me of Bree, actually, and even more so when he said, “Min, just a question: do you have any actual food in your kitchen? Any at all?”
I walked in there with my paintbox and looked over his shoulder. “Kids like two minute noodles, right?” I asked. They were the only things in the cupboard, apart from that lonely pickle in a jar up the back.
Henry lifted up the packet and looked critically at it. “I'm not sure what the food content of these noodles is,” he said, using his you-should-really-eat-healthier-Min voice. “But I'm sure it's not very high.”
He crumbled them into the pram anyway, making sure to push them into all the crevices while I asked the most philosophical question of all as I mixed my paints, “What colour do you think baby vomit is?” I held up my palette thoughtfully. “More yellow or more green than this?” I tested out a smear on the canopy-thing, and then stood back to examine it. “More yellow,” I decided, and then went about blending it.
He had been laughing, but he stopped for a moment to look at me.
“Fuck, Min, I love you,” he said with such gravity, and then he leant over and kissed me.
I didn't stop him, of course, but I suddenly felt so uncomfortable. I had been enjoying myself and I hadn't really thought about what we were doing, but now that I was, I felt very self-conscious. As boyfriend and girlfriend, we were drinking, joking and assembling a pram. It was so domestic. Somewhere, Mum was probably popping champagne and drinking to her future grandchildren.
Henry didn't say anything for a second after he pulled back, just hovering close to me and smiling. “I have to go drop this at Alice's, but I'll be back in about half an hour, okay?”
Judging by that kiss, I knew what was on the cards when he got back. I drank the rest of my glass of wine in a couple of mouthfuls.
It took us a minute or two to figure out how to fold it up, but after we had, Henry grabbed his phone and his keys and then carried the pram towards the door.
“Are you sure you're right to drive?” I asked him, because I certainly wouldn't have been at that point.
“Two glasses over a couple of hours? Sure,” he said, and then smiled at me as he left. “See you soon.”
I raised a hand to say goodbye and then dropped it once the door was closed, exhaling. Well, it had been a few weeks, it was probably about time we had sex again. I sighed. There was at least another glass left in that bottle, so I poured it for myself and sat down at the table with my phone.
Now that I had a second, I texted Bree to make sure she was okay. When I unlocked my phone, I discovered I already had a text message and I thought it might actually be Bree beating me to it, but it ended up being from Sarah. “Hey,” it began, “look, I read over that message I sent you last night and it was kind of harsh. I'm sorry if I came across as a bitch.”
I made a face. She had, a little. I understood why. “Henry is perfect, Sarah. I'm lucky to have him, and I want to make it work.”
“How do you make it work with a guy if you're into the ladies? That's a serious question, I'm not being snarky. Do you close your eyes and think of boobs?”
I wasn't touching that one with a ten foot pole. “Just tell Gemma not to expect anything if you really did give her my number.”
While I was waiting for her to reply again, I finished off my fourth glass. “She doesn't. I'm pretty sure she just wants to apologise. Is that cool?”
I thought for a second. There didn't seem to be any harm in that; she had been quite angry at herself on Friday night after I'd taken off. She'd probably feel a lot better if she could say sorry. Those freckles, though... “I guess?”
“'Kay, see you tomorrow. Sorry, again. It’s your choice who you date and why...”
I read that a couple of times, sighed, and I figured I had absolutely nothing to lose by opening another bottle. I did that and went for glass number five, finally texting Bree.
“Hey there,” I typed. “Just wanted to let you know that I'm thinking of you and I hope you're okay.”
When my phone buzzed, I opened it up, again expecting it to be Bree. I was a bit confused by the punctuation and use of capital letters until I looked up the top and saw that instead of saying 'Bree' it was from a number that I didn't recognise.
“Hi, Min, it's Gemma,” it said, and my heart stopped for a second. I had to put my glass down to read it. “Sarah said it would be okay for me to text you, so hopefully it is! I wanted to let you know I was having great time on Friday and I'm really sorry I ruined it for everyone. I was kicking myself all day yesterday over it. I hope you don't think I'm some sel
fish home-wrecker, because I’m not and I don’t want to do that to you xxoo”
I read the message, and it made me smile. So did those Xs and Os. “It's fine,” I typed back. “And I actually mean that this time. I was having a great time, too, and I don't think you're a home-wrecker. Just please don't tell anyone anything about what happened. Like, anyone at all.”
She didn't reply and I didn't know if she was going to, so I just sat there with a smile on my face.
I could actually barely remember what she looked like—probably because of the combination of alcohol and bad lighting—but I just had this vague sense that she was beautiful. I'd have to be content with that, I decided, wishing I'd somehow taken a photo of her. Part of me wanted to try and look for a photo of her online, but I didn’t have Sarah’s powerful Facebook analytics tools and I couldn’t search for Gemma without a surname. And if I asked Sarah for her surname, it would be so obvious what it was for, and Sarah would have a total field day over me wanting one of her friends.
Wait a second. I sat up. ‘Her friends’? Sarah had said the girls used Facebook to invite each other out, hadn’t she? That meant Gemma probably had a Facebook and that she was probably friends with Sarah on it… which meant I could click through to Gemma’s profile from Sarah’s.
Feeling like a Bree-grade stalker, I opened the Facebook app and scrolled through Sarah's friends list. I found her quickly, and tapped through to her albums.
The last Facebook album I'd looked through had been Bree's, and Gemma's was very different. She didn't have any of Bree's sexuality or naughtiness in the photos, and there were hardly any selfies, either. Instead, they were mostly snaps of Sarah, Liz and Gemma and various other people, some were of Gemma and her family, and some were of Gemma and her cat. In all of them, Gemma had this beautiful shy smile and lovely wavy auburn hair. Her nose and cheeks also had those freckles I remembered, too. She might not have had Bree’s ‘great rack’, as Sarah put it, and she didn’t share half her body with the camera, but she was sexy. Maybe because of that she was sexy. It was fun looking at her in a slouchy jumper and just imagining what was underneath, more fun than seeing it. Too much fun, actually.
I couldn't believe Henry had given me the green light to imagine whoever I wanted, because god it felt good. I felt like I shouldn’t be allowed to, as well, and that made it even hotter.
I didn't get to think much more than that, though, because I could hear Henry letting himself in the front door. Here goes nothing, I thought, still glowing a little from what I’d been imagining. I suppose now was my opportunity to find out if I could salvage any sort of attraction I had to Henry by using the powers of red wine. I stood up and leant on the kitchen bench.
When Henry got into my place, he actually had his arms full. Not with the pram, this time, but with some sort of fresh-looking takeaway and a big bunch of pink roses. When he saw me looking at them, he nodded his head towards the skeletal flowers that were still in a vase on the counter. “I figured it was time to put them out of their misery,” he said, dumping the food on the table in front of me. He reconsidered what he'd said when he got a closer look at the vase, however. “Actually, their misery probably ended a long time ago. A very long time ago.”
He laid the roses down on the table for a moment, intending to give me a quick kiss before he put them in water. Just before he did that, though, I said to him, “Shame. I've been enjoying the Silent Hill ambience they bring to my apartment,” and he changed his mind.
He laughed openly, cupping my cheek for a moment. The way he was looking at me, it was almost a relief when he kissed me and I couldn't see it any more. He did lean back for a moment after he'd started, though, licking his lips experimentally. “More wine?” he said, and then glanced at the table and back at me. “Is that bottle number two? Because there's not much left of it.”
“Mmm hmm,” I said, and then, because I didn't want him to start a lecture on taking care of myself, I pushed him back against the counter and kissed him very solidly.
He didn't stop me, but when we broke he gave me an entirely different look. “Not that I'm complaining,” he said, breathing heavily, “but who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend?”
“That is a very good question,” I say thoughtfully, and then decided to kiss him again.
I can't say I was very surprised, but no matter what I did I got nothing out of that kiss. Nothing like I had with Gemma when she'd actually kissed me, and nothing like I had even just by thinking about her a few minutes before. I may actually have tried to imagine I was with her instead, but Henry was taller and bigger than she was. She was small and soft and reaching down to her and feeling a slight body in my arms had been a total turn on. I really liked how it had made me feel in comparison. I didn't have any of that to appreciate about Henry.
All I had with him was this big, hard body... and something big and very hard against my hip. I didn't want to feel it against me, so I leant a bit away from him. It was only supposed to be a bit away, but I stumbled backwards.
He caught me, and spent a couple of seconds watching me with concern. “How drunk are you?” he asked me carefully. “Should we even be doing this?”
I scoffed. “You're my boyfriend and you're worried about taking advantage of me?”
He looked completely serious. “Actually, yes.”
I silenced him by dragging him into the bedroom with me. I may not have been attracted to him, but fuck was everything a whole lot easier when I was drunk. Before I really knew what I was doing, I was on my back on the bed and Henry had my skirt around my hips and was pulling off my stockings. Because of that, I thought it might all be over quite soon, but I'd forgotten it was Henry I was dealing with. Of course it wasn't.
Instead of just sticking it in like any other average guy might have done in the circumstance, he settled down between my legs, hooking an elbow under my knees. Then, he went down on me.
It wasn't like I usually hated it or anything, but I don't really think I'd ever been particularly into it, either. He knew what he was doing, I guess, but really I just let him do it because it made him feel like he was being a good boyfriend.
This time, though? I figured I owed it to him to make a serious attempt to enjoy it. I tried to think a bit about Gemma, and then that didn’t work, I tried to just focus on how it actually felt and not who was down there and what they had their mouth on.
The problem was that when I opened my eyes, I saw a half-open dress, my breasts, and a man between my legs and there wasn't anything that wasn't very wrong with that picture. I hurriedly closed my eyes again and tried to get back to what I'd been imagining. This time, though, I avoided focusing on myself. I imagined pushing Gemma's dress all the way up those bare thighs of hers just like mine was now.
I must have made some sort of noise, because Henry stopped, looking alarmed. “Are you okay?” he asked me. “Do you want me to stop?”
I groaned, a bit frustrated at him for ruining my fantasy. “I'm fine,” I said, and then caught myself thinking, 'I'm just actually a bit turned on for once, that's all'. I didn't say it though—fuck, I could never say something that mean to him. So I bit my tongue and just mumbled, “Keep going.”
He looked uncertain, but followed my instructions.
This time, though, all I could think about was how weird this all was. It was distracting. I stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what to do.
I didn't even need to tell him to stop, though, because he'd already been watching me. “Okay,” he said when he saw my expression. “Not tonight, then.” He then went to climb over me to get off the bed, but I stopped him. I didn't know what to say, though. I didn't know how to explain it. Nothing looked right or felt right or was right, and my face was numb and my head was spinning from all the wine.
He gently prompted me. “Well, you can always tell me what you want.”
I want to get it over with for the next few weeks, I thought. I just need to work out how to get through
it. Sarah's text message rang in my ears for a bit, 'do you just close your eyes and think of boobs?' And, with the word 'boobs', the first image that came to mind was Bree. Bree?
“Would you like to have a bath together or something instead?” he asked. “Or maybe we could give each other a massage to relax first?”
When I looked over at him and his bare, flat chest and full boxers, I tried to think of anything I’d be happy to do, but all of them ended up in the same place. And the problem was, I didn’t want him inside me. I didn’t want anything inside me. I had a sudden strong conviction that things just didn’t belong inside me, and, actually, I didn’t want anything to do with anything beneath my bellybutton right now. Or beneath his.
He saw my expression. “Okay, let’s just give it a miss tonight,” he said, putting a leg over me and getting off the bed. “You've been looking really unhappy since the start and regardless of the fact you keep telling me to go on, I can't go through with it.” He sat on the edge of the mattress. “I'm sorry, Min.”
As he said that, I groaned and put my head in my hands. Fuck. “No, I'm sorry,” I told him, too wasted to try and pretend anything. “I'm sorry, I wanted to...” ...see if being drunk made it easier to deal with sleeping with you, I thought. And it doesn't, and I can't, and this is bad. I closed my eyes and drew a long, slow breath. I just can't, and it’s worse now, for some reason.
After he'd taken a few deep breaths of his own, he gave me a big, warm hug. I leant against him as he stroked my back, my head spinning. We stayed like that for a minute or two before he got up, giving me a bit of a pained expression. I looked down; he was really hard.
He saw where I was looking and smiled wryly. “I'm going to go have a quick shower,” he said without needing to explain himself.
“I'm a bad girlfriend,” I said, and sighed, thinking I should have at least offered to give him a hand job, but I couldn’t do it.
Under My Skin Page 33
