by Emlyn Rees
‘So?’
‘You know what they say about men with long second toes?’ I laugh.
‘Whatever it is, it’s not true.’ Stringer looks down at his feet. ‘I’ve got my Dad’s feet.’
‘Doesn’t your Dad find that a bit inconvenient?’ I laugh.
‘He doesn’t mind. He’s dead.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, putting my hand over my mouth.
‘Forget it.’
‘What happened?’
As we talk, and Stringer tells me about his Dad, I find myself homing in to him, tuning in to every word, until I’m seeing his life in my head.
Eventually he stops. ‘Am I boring you?’ he asks.
I stretch out my legs. ‘No, no, it’s fascinating,’ I say.
Stringer laughs. ‘I’ve just remembered. He used to do this thing with my feet.’
He reaches down and holds my foot. Immediately I start to giggle.
‘He used to tickle me, like this,’ he says, running his fingernail down the arch of my foot. I squeal with laughter.
‘Get off!’ I shriek, falling on to him, but Stringer is giggling too and he won’t let go. We’re falling all over each other when the door bursts open.
‘Susie, I need . . .’
Stringer springs away from me and I see Amy in the door. She’s looking between me and Stringer and we’re both blushing.
‘Sorry,’ she says abruptly and shuts the door.
I cough. Stringer straightens his trousers.
‘Whoops,’ I say.
‘Well, that’s us rumbled.’
I reach out for the bottle of tequila. Stringer doesn’t say anything and we can hear the girls whispering through the wall.
‘Down the hatch,’ I say, passing it to him.
He runs his hand through his hair before taking it.
‘Dutch courage. We’ll need it now with that lot.’
‘Chill out. Don’t worry about it,’ I laugh, playfully slapping his arm.
He glances at me, looking bashful. ‘I wonder what they’re saying.’
‘Does it really matter? Is it such a sin to be alone with me in here?’
Stringer takes a swig and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘They think we’re having sex, don’t they?’
‘Well, would it be so bad if they did think that?’
And as I watch him wrapped up in his own thoughts, I make up my mind.
‘Do you want to know a secret?’ I whisper.
‘Go on, then.’
I breathe in, looking at his profile and the way his hair is flopping over his forehead and I want him. I want him so much, it hurts.
‘I want to,’ I blurt.
‘Want to what?’ he asks, turning to face me.
‘I want to . . . with you . . . now.’
He shakes his head and looks away. ‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I do mean that, Stringer,’ I whisper, pushing myself closer to him. ‘Don’t you?’
Stringer
Sunday, 00.21
‘We’re smashed,’ I say. Not, I suspect, that this information is going to make any material difference to my predicament. My heart is beating like it’s about to take off. I feel the tequila rising in my throat. Her lips are centimetres away from mine.
‘So?’ she finally asks. ‘Do you like smashed sex?’
‘That’s not the point, Susie,’ I fumble. Only I’m too smashed to think of what the point actually might be. At a loss, I settle for silence instead.
‘I get it,’ she sighs, rolling on to her back and staring at the ceiling. ‘You just don’t want to sleep with me. I might’ve guessed. It’s always the same. You go and get really into someone and they don’t want to know. C’esi la fucking vie.’
‘That isn’t how it is.’
I feel her hand squeeze my arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I’m a tough old boot. I’ll get over it.’
She half-smiles at me and suddenly it’s no longer enough. I want everything to be how it was a few minutes ago. I want that closeness back. I don’t want to let this go. Not this time.
‘Like you said in the woods,’ she continues, her eyes now closed, a world-weary expression on her face, ‘sex between friends messes everything up. Still,’ she concludes, rubbing at her brow, ‘you can’t blame a girl for trying.’
‘No.’ The word comes out of its own accord, from my body, not my mind. ‘It’s not like that,’ I say. ‘It’s nothing to do with not fancying you. I do. I want you . . . I . . . Oh, Christ, I can’t do this . . . I . . . I want to . . .’ I swallow hard, but it isn’t any use. The tears are welling up now. The alcohol is conspiring against me. Or simply what’s always been inside. ‘I want to so much . . .’ I say and my voice is choked and I know that I’ve gone too far now to turn back.
‘What is it?’ she asks, reaching out and gently touching my cheek. There’s something in her face. Fear? Fear for me?
I heave in my breath and shake my head. ‘No, it’s . . .’
‘Tell me,’ she urges, clasping the back of my neck with her hand. She looks directly into my eyes. ‘Get it out of your head, Stringer. Whatever it is, just get it out. If you leave it there, it’s only going to grow.’
In spite of myself, in spite of the pent-up shame and desperation, I can’t help smiling.
‘What?’ Confusion spreads across her face.
‘What you said,’ I tell her. ‘Just now.’ This time, I don’t just smile, I giggle, my nerves getting the better of me. ‘Bloody tequila,’ I moan, wiping my nose on the back of my sleeve. But my grin won’t be got rid of so easily. ‘What you said just now,’ I manage. ‘About getting it out. About . . .’ It isn’t any good, though: the grins are here to stay.
She shakes her head, catching my smile, but she remains confused, scanning my face for a solution to this mystery. ‘I don’t understand.’
I take another deep breath and try again. ‘About getting it out,’ I say in one long sigh. ‘That’s just it. I can’t. I never do.’ She opens her mouth to speak, but I plough on with my explanation regardless, unstoppable now. ‘It’s my dick. It’s my fucking dick. Not that it’s doing any fucking,’ I reflect, before adding, ‘Not that it’s ever done any fucking.’
She looks down at my lap and then back at my face. ‘What are you talking about?’
I grind my teeth together in yet another attempt to control the grins, but hysteria has me by the balls, and again, I fail. ‘I’ve never known womankind,’ I say, doing my utmost to keep a straight face. ‘I’m a virgin, Susie. I’m a virgin with a tiny prick’ I shrug. ‘I’m a virgin, because I’ve got a tiny prick’
She backs off suddenly, and leans back on her hands. Her mouth hangs open. All she does for a few seconds is stare at me, reading and rereading my face. Eventually, she exhales heavily. ‘You’re for real, aren’t you?’
As quickly as they came, the grins now vanish. I feel empty, exposed. ‘Completely,’ I mutter.
She frowns. Then her expression relaxes. ‘Go on, then,’ she says.
‘Go on, then, what?’
‘Go on, then, and get it out.’ Her eyes are shining. ‘Let’s see just how tiny this tiny prick of yours really is.’
‘Are you serious?’ I ask.
‘If you are,’ she challenges back.
‘I am.’
‘So do it,’ she says, hurriedly taking her glasses from their case on the bedside table, putting them on and focusing expectantly on my waist.
So I do. I don’t think about it. I simply let my smashed mind rule my smashed body and I get to my feet, and standing centre-stage in the middle of the bed, I unbuckle my belt and drop my trousers to my knees.
Susie
Sunday, 00.30
And there it is.
He does have a point.
And it is a small one.
‘Small and thick, does the trick, long and thin, too far in,’ I joke, without thinking.
Stringer is looking down
at it as if he can’t believe it. Suddenly I regret being glib. I grab his hand and pull him down so that he kneels in front of me. I lift his chin and look him in the eye.
‘You’ve been worrying all this time?’ I say, gently.
He nods and my heart swells.
‘You daft thing. It’s perfectly normal.’
He looks so vulnerable. ‘It’s not,’ he implores.
‘It is,’ I smile. ‘And I should know. I’ve seen enough.’
I put my hand on his cheek.
‘I don’t believe you. You’re just being nice.’
This feels so intimate. So natural. But I wish Stringer could feel it as well.
‘If it makes you feel any better,’ I say, having an idea, ‘I’ve got one nipple bigger than the other. Look.’
I strip off my top, lifting my bra over my head.
‘There,’ I say, exposing myself. ‘You’ve seen one of them. Look, this other one’s much smaller.’
‘It’s not,’ he protests, glancing down at me.
‘Look!’ I lift up one boob. ‘Ta da.’
I can see Stringer growing and we both look down. A second later, he catches my eye and we both giggle.
Slowly I slide my hand towards him and curl my fingers around his erection. We’re still looking into each other’s eyes and smiling.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ I whisper. ‘Because this is part of you.’
I can feel his hand tentatively moving over my breast and I can’t help shuddering.
He leans forward and I close my eyes as his lips meet mine. I feel him stiffen in my hand.
‘I’m sorry . . . I can’t . . . I don’t know . . .’ he whispers, pulling back.
‘Shhh. Don’t be scared. I’ll show you.’
And I will. Because nothing would make me happier. And after all, I may be trying to change my life and all that, but this is my area of expertise.
Part III
Stringer
Sunday, 16.15
I park the minibus outside my flat and turn off the engine and glance down at the – now irreparably trashed – sound system. There’s a yellow-handled screwdriver sticking out of it, wedged in at an angle of forty-five degrees, from when Ug finally cracked half-way up the M4 and brought the demonic reign of the panpipes to an end. (Such was the violence and single-mindedness of his attack that no one had the guts to ask him why precisely he happened to have a screwdriver about his person.) No doubt I’ll be held responsible for the damage by Easy Riders Van Hire when I drop the minibus off for Matt tomorrow morning, but looking across at him slumped in the passenger seat, I don’t have the heart to make an issue of this right now.
Matt is not a pretty sight. His black hair is greasy and unkempt, reminding me of the feathers on one of those beached seabirds you see on the television after there’s been an oil spill. His face doesn’t look much better. Were I to attempt to pin an age on him without knowing him, I’d place him nearer sixty than twenty-eight. The corners of his mouth seem intent on falling below the limits imposed by his chin and the droop of his eyes would put Deputy Dawg to shame.
Mentally, I can only guess at what he’s going through. Matt himself has hardly spoken on the journey back to London, apart from to grunt goodbyes at the other members of the stag party, all of whom I’ve now dropped off. If back-of-the-bus rumours are to be believed, however, his liver is currently in the throes of processing the best part of a bottle of vodka, several shots of whisky, a Phantom Menace mug-full of Bailey’s Irish Cream, and an unspecified quantity of beers. In other words, or in the words of Ug, to be exact, ‘A legend has been born.’ Or it’s attempted suicide, depending on your point of view.
Matt turns and looks out of the window, noticing, I think for the first time, that the bus is stationary.
‘Are you sure you want to walk home?’ I ask him.
‘It’ll do me good,’ he mutters, unbuckling his seatbelt and retrieving his bag from behind the seat. ‘Maybe clear my head.’ He looks at me sheepishly. ‘How about you? You gonna be OK about dropping off the minibus for me tomorrow?’
‘It’s no problem,’ I reassure him, noticing a bead of sweat trickling down his cheek. ‘Early night for you, mate . . .’ I suggest.
‘Yeah,’ he sighs, shaking my hand, ‘like that’ll solve everything.’ He manages a weak smile, adding, ‘I’ll see you at the wedding,’ climbing out of the minibus and walking slowly down the street.
I get my own bag and lock up the minibus, before walking down the stairs to my front door. I can sympathize with the way Matt must be feeling. I’d almost forgotten quite how bad a big night on the booze could make you feel. My day has been experienced in slow motion. Even now, my reactions and movements are sluggish, and a tide of bile keeps threatening to burst from my throat. I feel like I’ve got a dose of the flu. Then there’s the guilt, the familiar guilt from days gone by, of willingly poisoning my system. All right, so it’s probably not as bad as it seems. I got smashed out of my mind. It’s not as if it’s the end of the world. I do feel compromised, however, as if I’ve backed down on one principle and it’s only a matter of time before I back down on something worse. That’s how boundaries work, isn’t it? Once you’ve crossed one and survived, you’re tempted to go back for more.
The smell of stale cigarette smoke engulfs me the moment I get inside, and worsens as I walk through to the sitting-room. I don’t know which hits me harder, the fact that something is wrong, or the realization that, with everything else that has happened over the weekend, I’ve hardly given Karen a second thought. My mind travels back to the conversation I had with her about Chris before I left, and starts to work over the possibility that she might indeed have broken up with him during my absence.
This possibility is increased by the state of the sitting-room. It’s a disgrace. Sunday newspapers are strewn across the carpet. The small wicker bin by the television is stacked with empty Stella cans and Chinese take-away tins, one of which has been employed as a makeshift ashtray. On the television screen, a neglected Lara Croft is impatiently waiting for her next instruction. I pull back the curtains and open the window. Cool air floods in and I stand here and simply breathe a while. On further investigation, I discover that the kitchen is in a similar state of disarray. On the table is a dried Pot Noodle with an encrusted spoon sticking out of it, and at the foot of the cooker is a half-eaten piece of charred toast.
I knock gently on the door to Karen’s bedroom, but there’s no reply. I push the door ajar and peer inside. The curtains are drawn and the lights are out. Karen, however, is very much in. I stand here in silence for a second or two, simply staring. She’s naked, lying flat on her stomach. The thin rectangle of light cast by the open door illuminates her skin from her ankle to her neck, casting her in a golden glow. She stirs slightly in her sleep and I turn my back and quietly close the door.
Light rain starts to fall as I cover the last hundred metres before Battersea Bridge. I’m beginning to feel better about myself. It’s as if every footfall I make is driving more poison from my system. I run on, raising my arm and checking my watch. I’m nearly five minutes behind my normal timing for this part of my circuit, which doesn’t surprise me in the least. My lungs feel like they’re nursing a puncture and the stitch in my side is threatening to split my torso in two. Half-way across the bridge, I stop to rest. Wiping the sweat out of my eyes with the back of my hand, I stare down at the murky waters of the Thames. They aren’t half as murky as my mind.
For most of today, I’ve successfully managed to avoid thinking about what happened with Susie last night. I say most, because when I woke up this morning and felt the warmth of her body next to mine, she was fairly hard to avoid. I lay there for a few moments, motionless, uncertain what to do: Jump up and down in unbridled celebration? Or lie there and try and act as cool as possible? I ended up doing neither. I simply concentrated on the regular stroke of her breath on my chest and bathed myself in the sense of deep relaxation it transferred to me. T
his wasn’t a time for thinking. It was a time for being.
Some time later, perhaps sensing that I was awake, she stirred.
‘Stringer?’ she queried, her voice hoarse, a look of confusion on her face.
I squeaked and then, clearing my voice, tried again. ‘Yes?’
‘Did we . . . ?’ she began, before pausing and lifting up the duvet and peering beneath. The urge was there to twist over and hide myself, but I knew there wasn’t any point. What little there was to see, Susie had already seen the night before. I felt my buttocks clench in apprehension all the same as I waited for her sober verdict. When her face reappeared, she winked at me. ‘Apparently so . . .’ – she fired off a teasing wink – ‘big boy . . .’
I narrowed my eyes, but failed to hide my smirk. ‘You promised—’ I started to remind her.
‘I know,’ she said through a yawn, ‘but now that we’ve established that your bits are fully functional, I think maybe you should start working on burying your complex. Which should start with developing a sense of humour about it.’ Her hand reached down and gave me a gentle tug. ‘Which should start now.’
‘All right,’ I said, pulling her on top of me. ‘And what next?’
She dipped her neck down and sniffed her armpit. ‘Probably best we should get showered.’ She looked up grinning. ‘I could certainly do with a wash.’
‘And after that?’
‘Get back to our respective parties, to stop them gossiping about us, if nothing else.’
‘You’re probably right,’ I said, although we both knew that wasn’t what I’d been asking about.
She stared at me, serious for a moment. ‘After that, though . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it would be nice to see you before the wedding . . . if you want . . .’
‘I do.’
‘How about Tuesday night?’ she suggested. ‘We might have recovered by then.’
‘Good. Tuesday it is.’
I did mean it when I said I wanted to see her. Then, looking into her eyes, I meant it completely. I remembered how I’d felt in the minutes after she’d fallen asleep the night before, lying there with her in my arms, unable to close my eyes, afraid that if I slept I’d wake to find that none of this had been real. I hadn’t wanted to lose the sense of elation that was coursing through me. I’d wanted to hold it close, just like I was holding her. It had been my moment, my coming of age, the integration of the part of me that up until then had always been missing.
