by Emlyn Rees
Jodie glares at him and he shuts up.
‘I knocked on the door,’ I carryon. ‘It wasn’t her mother or father who answered the door; it was Emily. She looked me up and down and smiled and blushed and asked me how I was. She muttered something about having been quite drunk at the party, and then I blushed as well and asked her if her mother was in and she said no. I was about to go, when she said she’d done Economics A-level and could probably remember some of it, so why didn’t I come in for a drink and we’d see if we could work it out between us.’
Alan’s mother opened the door about five minutes after I’d first rung the bell. She stood there, leaning against the door frame in her dressing gown and slippers, staring at me unsteadily. I could smell the drink on her breath. She said, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ and pulled on her cigarette and told me to come inside. I followed her through to the sitting-room and she sat down on the sofa, and slopped vodka into a couple of tumblers. She patted the sofa next to her and said, ‘Alan’s gone to the football with his dad. They won’t be back till late.’ She offered me a cigarette and I took one and sat down.
‘Come on,’ KC urges. ‘Cut to the chase.’
‘It was great. It was everything you could want. We sat in the kitchen and had a couple of beers and laughed about what we’d got up to at the party. Then she rolled a number and we smoked it. Then . . .’
It was awful. It was the most uncomfortable I’d ever felt. I sat next to Mrs Warberg and smoked her cigarettes and drank her vodka. She talked about her life, slating her husband and complaining about her lack of fun and lack of sex. Then she poured herself another vodka and downed it and then gazed at me for what felt like an age. Then . . .
‘Then Emily asked me if I wanted to go upstairs with her, and I said yes. She took my hand and we went up to her bedroom. I lay on the bed and she put on a record, lit a candle and switched out the light, and came and joined me. We kissed for what felt like hours and then we made love, and if that sounds cheesy to you, KC, it wasn’t. It was perfect. She was the most wonderful person I’d ever met. She was intelligent, gentle, beautiful and kind. It was how I’d always dreamt it would be.’
Mrs Warberg reached over and took my hand and pulled it towards her and slid it beneath her dressing gown and shoved it roughly between her legs. She told me that it felt nice and that I wasn’t to worry about what Alan and her husband would say, because there was no reason for them ever to find out. Then she undid her dressing-gown belt and shrugged it off, knelt down on the ground beside me, naked, and unbuckled my belt. I simply sat there, feeling drunk, feeling sick, unable to look at her. That’s when it happened. That’s when she saw my cock and started to laugh.
‘That sounds really special,’ sighs Jodie.
‘Yeah, lucky you,’ KC admits.
It wasn’t special. It was gutting. I remember how Mrs Warberg flicked my cock with her forefinger. ‘Well, darling,’ she slurred, pulling her dressing gown back on and lighting another cigarette, ‘I don’t know what you expect me to do with that little pinkie.’
‘Fair do’s,’ KC says. ‘That’s pretty cool.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘it was.’
There have been other attempts, drugged-up fumblings in the dark over the years with equally wasted girls. I might even have got it in a few times, but nothing I could face up to in the morning. I shake my head. It never ceases to amaze me how something so small has managed to have so great an impact on my life. It leaves me gutted and alone.
‘Will we be all right for serving lunch at one thirty, KC?’ I ask.
He walks over to the cooker and picks up a piece of paper. ‘American-style crab cakes with creamed spinach for starters. Wild mushroom sauté for the non-carnies. Grilled mustard-butter quail for the main. Veggies get mushroom and spinach lasagne. Then for pudding you said fig, honey and mascarpohe tart.’ He looks up. ‘That right?’
‘Perfect.’
He looks me sceptically up and down. ‘Yeah, well your mates had better be here on time, because I’m not hanging about if they’re not. I promised Freddie I’d be down the museum for two thirty to sort out some kitchen space.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, thinking of Jack’s poor record on punctuality and suddenly feeling none too confident on this score. ‘They’ll be here. And they’re not mates,’ I remind him, ‘they’re fee-paying customers.’
‘Bullshit,’ he snorts, ‘I’ve seen the estimate you’ve done ’em. They’re getting it rock bottom, so they’d better appreciate the trouble I’m going to . . .’
‘They will, KC,’ I reassure him. ‘And so do I.’
He grunts at me, unconvinced, and returns to his work.
One o’clock comes and matters are looking up. Through a variety of blackmail, bribery and downright begging, I’ve lined up the missing waiters and waitresses for tonight’s NHM do. The M4 tailback has cleared and Freddie has checked that everything at the fiftieth is to his satisfaction and is now on his way back to London. In a remarkable turnaround, One Man and His Fish have discovered a surplus of lobster, and have sent them over in a fridge van, along with a brace of sea trout by way of an apology. Of all this morning’s woes, only Gerald the Performing Goat remains at large, and good luck to him. After all, a goat’s got to do what a goat’s got to do.
Jack and Amy get here early, at one fifteen. It’s tipping down outside and I show them upstairs to the dining-room I’ve spent the last half-hour setting up with Jodie. We’ve laid on the full monty for them: linen-boxed table; candles; crystal and china. Jodie is on hand to take their coats and offer them a drink. Jack and Amy seem pleased as punch, so I scoot back downstairs and check with KC that everything is running according to schedule.
‘One thirty, you said,’ he reminds me matter-of-factly. ‘So one thirty it’ll be.’ He glances at me suspiciously. ‘All your mates here yet?’
‘Two of them,’ I mumble, before adding, ‘the bride and groom’, hoping it will appease him slightly.
It doesn’t. ‘The crab cakes’ll taste more like crab craps if they don’t have ’em while they’re hot,’ is all he says.
As it transpires, only one crab cake suffers this fate, and so I only have to deal with one sixth of KC’s wrath. The crab cake in question belongs to H, and it suffers this fate because H arrives late. An hour and a half late, to be precise. The others are well in to their pudding by this time, and KC, thankfully, is well on his way to the museum and out of my hair for the rest of the afternoon.
The first word that H says to me when I open the door to her downstairs is ‘Don’t.’
She’s soaked from top to toe, looking for all intents and purposes like she’s stuck her head down a toilet and pulled the flush several times. Black streaks of mascara run from her eyes to her chin and on down her throat, giving her the impression of a badly made-up Pierrette. More worrying, however, is the look on her face. It’s not simply a look that could kill. It’s a look that would take great pleasure in torturing you for several days first.
I feel my heart beat and, after gently clearing my throat, ask, ‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t say one fucking word,’ she snaps, shoving past me and standing shivering in the hall.
Contravening her wishes at this moment would definitely have a detrimental and possibly irreversible effect on my health, so instead I settle for mutely pointing her up the stairs. I follow her and, at the top, watch her stride down the corridor towards the sound of voices. She sticks her head round the dining-room door and, as the voices inside collapse into silence, says in an icily calm voice, ‘Amy. Outside. Now.’
Seconds later, Amy comes out and takes one look at H before leading her by the hand into a side storeroom and closing the door behind them. I tiptoe up the corridor and stand outside, ear pressed to the door, quietly listening.
‘Problem?’ Matt whispers, appearing seconds later.
I grimace. ‘If you’re the driver . . .’
He stares at me blankly and I press my ear to the do
or again.
‘Of the stationary bus she crashed in to on the way here,’ I inform him.
He winces and takes over the eavesdropping duties.
‘The stationary bus she reversed in to on the way here,’ he corrects. ‘The stationary bus she reversed in to on the way here, that she doesn’t want any of us knowing about, because if anyone so much as sniggers, she’s going to cut out their tongue and rip off their head.’
‘Cut out their tongue and rip off their head?’ I check. ‘Isn’t that a tad excessive?’
Matt purses his lips and nods his head.
‘Keep out of her way for the time being, then?’ I suggest.
‘Yeah,’ he agrees, ‘probably best.’
It’s odd, but neither H’s satanic mood nor her late showing for lunch manage to put the complete downer on my day that I might have otherwise expected. It isn’t that the meal has been a success, although it has. (Jack and Amy adored the food.) Nor is it that everyone has been in good spirits, although (with the obvious exception of H) they have. Nor is it because KC, as part of some deranged hippy retribution for getting him to cook for us, has laced our food with some of his more unusual herbs. (He hasn’t.) It’s actually more to do with having had a cracking time chatting to Susie. We clicked the moment she sat down and have hardly paused for breath since the meal began. I haven’t laughed this much for months. It’s like she’s got this limitless energy that you just can’t help getting high on.
‘What the hell’s all that about?’ Jack demands, as Matt and I walk back into the dining-room.
‘She’s trashed her car,’ I announce.
‘How?’
Before I can speak, Matt interjects: ‘Don’t know. We didn’t hear the details.’ He looks to me for confirmation. ‘Did we, mate?’
‘No,’ I agree. He’s right. It’s probably best not to stir matters up. If H wants what happened kept secret, then that’s fine by me.
Susie looks shocked. ‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘nothing to worry about.’
‘Probably best not to mention it when she comes back in,’ Matt adds, walking round the table. ‘She’s got a bad case of tantrum maximum.’
I sit back down next to Susie and there’s silence for a few minutes as the muffled, raised voices continue from next door, and we all stare at our shoes, embarrassed. It’s a shame really, because the rest of the meal has gone so well. Everyone’s had a giggle and, equally as important for me, it’s been a professional success, with the food and wine getting the thumbs up all round. It means a lot. Especially Jack and Matt’s reaction. I don’t think I can remember them ever looking at me with admiration before. Certainly not in a work scenario. It’s almost like a coming of age. I feel Susie gently nudging me in the ribs and look up.
‘What’s the cheesy stuff?’ she asks, nodding at her plate.
‘Mascarpone,’ I inform her.
‘Mascar-bloody-gorgeous, more like,’ she says, taking another spoonful. She turns to face the table at large. ‘Come on, then, boys,’ she says, her blue eyes wandering over myself, Matt and finally Jack. ‘Fill us in on the smutty venue you’ve got booked for your stag weekend.’
Jack shrugs and nods at Matt. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he says. ‘Matt’s keeping us in the dark.’
‘Well, Matt?’ Susie enquires.
He grins at her. ‘You know the rules. The hens aren’t allowed to know.’
‘Ah, go on now,’ she says dismissively. ‘Don’t be so retro. I won’t tell.’
‘That’s not the point. Besides,’ Matt continues, ‘not even the stags know. Not even Jack. Only me. And it’s staying that way till we get there.’ He leans forward conspiratorially. ‘What I will say, though, is that it’s got the Matt Davies Official Seal of Approval on it and is consequently going to be the best weekend of our lives. Guaranteed.’
Susie nods her head in approval. ‘Sordid weekend, more like,’ she says.
‘What about you lot?’ I ask her. ‘Have you got anywhere booked yet?’
‘H has got it all sorted . . .’
‘Where?’ Matt pounces.
Susie pulls an imaginary zip across her lips. ‘Sorry, Matt. Top secret. Same as you. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.’
‘How about a clue, then?’ he asks.
‘Like what?’
‘Like which city?’ He winks at Jack, then turns back to Susie. ‘Just so we know which one to avoid . . .’
‘Easy,’ she says with a smile, then, ‘It might not be a city.’
‘What,’ Jack scoffs, ‘you mean you’re off to the countryside? No clubs? No bars? No guys? You’ll go nuts.’
‘For your information, Jack Rossiter,’ she says, smiling, stabbing a finger at him, ‘there’s more to life than that.’
‘Like what?’ he challenges.
‘Like fresh country air, and beautiful scenery, and stacks of Me Time.’
Jack looks horrified. I’m not surprised. His idea of the Great Outdoors is sitting in Hyde Park with a crate of Stella Artois and a chicken drumstick.
‘What time?’ he asks.
‘Me Time,’ Susie explains. ‘Time for a bit of self-contemplation. Time to relax without worrying about the future – or anything else for that matter . . .’
Jack rolls his eyes and pats his mouth with his hand in a yawning gesture. ‘Bot-ring,’ he tolls. ‘You won’t last five minutes.’
‘Come on,’ I intervene, feeling that it’s about time someone took Susie’s side, ‘it won’t be that bad.’
She puts her arm round me and gives me a squeeze. ‘See,’ she says. ‘A real man. Not like you pretty-boy, city-boy wimps.’
I have a snapshot of Susie exactly as she was when I met her at the front door earlier: curly blonde hair poking out from beneath her mad velvet hat; five foot six and curvy; a great big grin. Then there’s her accent: to die for, like that Cerys woman, the lead singer of Catatonia. In the few instances we haven’t been speaking directly to one another, I’ve found myself monitoring her out of the comer of my eye, aware that she’s doing the same. It’s put butterflies in my stomach.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ H says, interrupting my train of thought. She’s standing in the doorway next to Amy. Her face is set like a death mask.
‘No problem,’ I tell her. ‘Grab a seat. The food’s cold, though, I’m afraid. The chef’s had to go somewhere else.’ I force a smile, hoping that her strop is now officially over.
It’s not. She nods as if she expected nothing less and slumps into her chair and reaches for the water bottle. She fills a glass and drains it. Then there’s silence. I notice Matt staring at me, attempting, I think, to prompt me into doing the host bit by breaking the silence. My mind goes blank, however, and I look away and wait for someone to suggest that the meal is over, as it obviously now is.
Half an hour later and we’re all standing downstairs, looking out into the raïn.
‘Thanks for making it,’ I tell H. ‘As I say: sorry you missed the food.’
‘Forget it,’ she mumbles, giving me a perfunctory peck on the cheek, before stomping out into the rain.
Matt watches her for a few seconds, before whispering into my ear, ‘Magnificent, isn’t she?’ Then, out loud to the others: ‘I’d better get going, as well.’ He kisses Amy and Susie goodbye and shakes hands with Jack and me. ‘I’ll give you two a call next Monday to let you know where and when we’re going to hook up for the stag weekend.’
He catches up with H at the edge of the car park and they stand there talking in the rain.
‘Aye, aye,’ Jack comments, his voice laced with insinuation, watching the two of them.
‘How about you, Sooze?’ Amy asks, ignoring him. ‘Do you need a lift anywhere?’
‘Ah, that’d be fantastic, love. Left the Metro back home, so down the station would be brilliant. You sure it’s no problem?’
‘Of course not. We don’t want you drowning, do we?’
‘Thanks,’ Susie says
, then groans, patting the top of her head. ‘Oh, bugger. I’ve left my hat inside.’ She shoves her bag into my hand and hurries off. ‘I won’t be two ticks. I’m pretty sure it’s upstairs.’
‘Hang on,’ Amy calls after her. ‘I’ll come with you.’
The moment they’ve both disappeared up the stairs, Jack nudges me in the ribs. ‘Looks like you’re well in there, Horse.’
The leather handle of Susie’s bag is warm from when she was holding it. I feel my own hand squeeze instinctively round it. ‘All right, Jack,’ I confess. ‘I admit it. For once in your life, you might have a point.’
He stares at me blankly and grunts, ‘Huh?’
‘About Susie,’ I remind him. ‘It was nice meeting her . . .’
‘Yeah,’ he enthuses, ‘and just like you, a total scrubber. It’s a match made in heaven.’
Jack’s attitude never ceases to amaze me. ‘Total scrubber,’ I mimic. ‘Don’t you think that what she gets up to in private is her business?’
‘Not when she gets up to it with everyone, no,’ he says without pause for thought. ‘I reckon that makes it public property.’
I roll my eyes at him. ‘Yes, well, we’ll have to agree to disagree on that one.’
Amy and Susie reappear before Jack can reply. Susie waggles her hat at me. ‘Left it in the toilet,’ she informs me, pulling it down on her head, and taking back her bag.
‘It looks great,’ I tell her, but there’s a flatness in my voice which takes me by surprise. I think it might have something to do with what Jack said about her. It’s not the part about her sex-life. I meant what I told him about that: it’s her business. I think it’s because of what he said about me being in there. It hadn’t really occurred to me, not bluntly like that, at least. Now that Jack’s put it into my head, however, I do accept it as a possibility, and because of that, what he said about her being so experienced leaves me depressed. But what did I expect? That she was a virgin? That we could go to bed and have a great time because she wouldn’t know any better? I take a deep breath and smile at her. At the end of the day, however, I don’t suppose it matters. I like her and that’s enough. We’ll be friends, exactly the same as it is with Karen. ‘Where did you get it?’ I ask her, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice and feeling better the moment I succeed.
