Come Again

by Emlyn Rees

  I continue to watch the water glide by. The elation hasn’t lasted. I always thought that losing my virginity would alter me in some monumental way, affect my whole sense of being and outlook on life, but it hasn’t been like that at all. Like an orgasm, it’s faded away, so that all I have left is the memory of the events that led up to it. I’m the same person I was before. Nothing has changed. The things I craved then are still missing from my life: sensuality, romance and love. Sex doesn’t come with these things attached. I realize that now. All sex does is give you a means of getting close enough to someone to hope for them. Perhaps it’s the same for everyone. All of this might be easier to bear if I had someone to tell, like Richard Lewis back in the old schoolyard. Perhaps he’d tell me that he felt disappointed, as well, and not to let it stress me out. I don’t have anyone to tell, though, and it does stress me out.

  The harsh truth of the matter is that the sex last night was awkward, or at best comical. There’s no hiding from that. I have Susie to thank for at least introducing an element of the latter to cover my bowel-melting embarrassment over the former. It was nothing like the false story I told KC in the kitchen, the way I’d dreamt it would be. There was no soft music playing on the stereo, no candlelight and no passionate kisses. In their place was the muffled sound of Amy and the others drunkenly dancing the night away in the living-room, the bright light of a bare bulb, and Susie’s giggled instructions. We were drunk. It wasn’t romantic and it wasn’t sensual. It was a process, like therapy. She was the psychiatrist and I was the patient. She knew what she was about – had probably been there a thousand times before – and I didn’t have a clue. I was crap, and I knew it, even if she was being too kind to point it out.

  I don’t blame Susie for any of this. It couldn’t have been any other way. I only blame myself. Excluding the obvious reason that I didn’t think I did, why couldn’t I have had the balls like everyone else to get it out of the way when I was a teenager? Courage then, I’m certain, would have saved me the embarrassment I’m suffering now.

  I would be different, I think, if I were in love with Susie. If that were the case, I’d be standing here now, looking forward to calling her and arranging a date. I’m not in love with her, though, and in spite of what I previously assumed, having sex with her hasn’t changed that. We were friends last night and, as we dressed this morning, the only alteration I felt between us was that we’d formed a bond of trust. Emotionally, nothing had changed.

  I look up from the water and stare across the river at Battersea Park. I picture Karen lying naked on the bed at home. This picture is clear, unlike the one I retain of Susie last night. I think about the stink of the cigarette smoke in the flat coupled with the fact Karen doesn’t smoke, and I consider the absence of Chris. Then I start running back towards the flat.

  ‘Hello,’ Karen says. She’s drunk and her voice is slurred. ‘How was the stag?’ Her head is bobbing like she’s at sea. ‘Anything interesting happen?’

  I’m standing in the bathroom doorway, a towel around my waist. The cloud of steam which engulfs me only serves to add another surreal element to an already surreal situation. Karen is sprawled on the sitting-room sofa, wrapped in her tatty, off-white dressing-gown. She’s smoking a cigarette with one hand and clutching a tumbler full of whisky in the other. Her face is a wreck, her eyes bloodshot and her skin puckered and raw.

  ‘It was fine,’ I say. ‘All very predictable.’ Oh, yes, I don’t add, and I lost my virginity to a girl called Susie and now I don’t even know whether this was a good thing or not. ‘The usual male nonsense,’ I quietly add.

  Karen’s head continues to bob. ‘Chris finished with me,’ she says.

  ‘He finished with you?’ I check, because this isn’t what I was expecting at all.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, smoke drifting from her nostrils towards the open window. She notices my eyes following its progress. ‘Sorry about the smoke and the mess,’ she says with a grimace, ‘I’ve been on a bit of a bender since it happened.’

  I stand dripping on the tiles. ‘When was that?’

  ‘Lunch-time. Today. Just before he left.’ She clicks her tongue and looks resigned. ‘That’s the sick bit. He shagged me this morning when I was half-asleep, then got up to make coffee, and then came back and broke the news as he was getting dressed. A farewell fuck. After all that time. I ask you: how crass is that?’

  I push my wet hair back out of my eyes. ‘But I thought you were going to break it off with him. I thought that’s what you’d decided . . .’

  ‘I hadn’t decided it,’ she corrects me, ‘I was just thinking about it. I wasn’t certain. I still thought we might be able to make a go of it. Stupid, huh?’

  ‘No,’ I tell her lamely, ‘not really. It was a big decision to make. You had to be certain.’

  ‘Doing it is different,’ she continues. ‘To do something like that you’ve got to divorce yourself from the whole event. You’ve got to be callous and not give a damn.’

  ‘Like Chris,’ I deduce.

  ‘Exactly,’ she agrees, sipping at her whisky and crushing her cigarette out on the saucer on her lap, ‘like Chris.’

  I walk over to the sofa and she pulls up her knees to her chin to make room for me next to her. The saucer slips from her lap to the floor, sprinkling ash and cigarette butts across the grey sofa cushion and the carpet. I spot a can of Pepsi Max at the foot of the sofa, reach down and, dusting the ash from it, crack it open and drink. Sitting down and turning to face Karen, I ask, ‘How did he break it?’

  She laughs wryly. ‘That’s the best bit. Like a businessman. He just gave me the facts, like I’d just lost a contract, or something. He told me that we both knew that things between us hadn’t been good for a while, and he couldn’t see any way we could rectify the impasse. Impasse,’ she scoffs. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean? Who did he think we were, a couple of generals in a stand-off?’

  ‘How did you react?’

  She smiles bitterly. ‘How do you think? I flew off the handle – obviously. And I made a complete spectacle of myself – obviously.’ She looks me straight in the face. ‘I accused him of seeing someone else. I accused him of doing exactly what we all know he’s been doing.’

  ‘And is he?’ I query. ‘I mean, did he admit it?’

  ‘Eventually. After about ten minutes of histrionics on my behalf, yeah, he did. Her name’s Emma.’ She shivers and tugs her dressing-gown tighter across her chest. ‘God, I can hardly bring myself to say her name.’ I get up and walk over to the window and close it. ‘He works with her and – get this – he didn’t mean it to happen, it just did,’ I hear her saying. ‘How can that be, Greg? You’re a bloke. Tell me: how does something like that just happen?’

  ‘I don’t think it does,’ I tell her truthfully, sitting back down before adding, ‘It’s never happened to me.’ I examine her face. Misery and confusion chase one another like clouds across her eyes. She reminds me of Xandra at our father’s funeral. There’s reality and there’s acceptance, and neither of them have yet sunk in.

  ‘Well, with Chris, it just did,’ she continues. ‘He just happened to start hanging out with her. He just happened to start hanging out with Emma a lot, and he just happened to start feeling emotions for her, and he just happened to end up in bed with her.’ She takes the whisky bottle from the table next to her and replenishes her glass. ‘I mean, what an arsehole. It makes me wonder, it really does . . .’

  ‘Wonder what?’

  ‘What I ever saw in him. I don’t mean to begin with. I understand my feelings back then, when we were both students. He was a giggle. We were a giggle. But these last few years . . .’ She sighs and drinks. ‘What a waste of time. I’m spineless, that’s my problem. I shouldn’t have had to wait for him to make the decision . . . I should have had the guts to do it myself along time ago, instead of clinging on. I should have got on with my life.’

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’

  Her cheeks f
lash red. ‘Why not? Look at where I’ve got myself,’ she mumbles, her voice suddenly small. ‘Nowhere. If I’d got this out of the way before, then I wouldn’t be sitting here now, drunk and depressed, worrying about where my life’s heading, wasting my energy hating Chris, heaping this misery on myself.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ I say. I don’t intend to say this, but I do. And there, once it’s said, it’s out.

  She examines my face quizzically. ‘You’re glad that I’ve been dumped?’ she queries.

  ‘No, I’m glad that it’s over between you.’

  She nods her head in understanding. ‘I knew you would be.’

  Caution descends. ‘What do you mean?’ I enquire.

  She looks at me over the rim of her glass. ‘Well, you’ve never exactly been his biggest fan, have you? You told me you thought I could do better. And you were right. And you were right about something else, too’ – a trace of a smile appears on her mouth – ‘he does have a bad case of halitosis . . .’

  I bite my cheek, recollecting our conversation of a few months ago. ‘You remember me saying that?’

  ‘I wasn’t that drunk.’ She raises her glass and briefly, examines it. ‘Certainly not as drunk as I am now.’ She rubs at her brow. ‘I remember that and a whole lot more . . .’ She looks up and waits for me to react.

  ‘I thought he was a waste of space,’ I admit, because there doesn’t seem to be much point in holding back my opinion any longer.

  ‘He couldn’t stand you either, for what it’s worth . . .’

  ‘Why?’ I ask, surprised. ‘What did I ever do to him?’

  ‘It wasn’t anything you ever did to him,’ she explains with a shrug, ‘it’s what he thought you might be doing to me.’

  My heart begins to race. ‘But that’s ridiculous . . .’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says, cocking her head to one side and looking me up and down. ‘You’re a good-looking guy. And you’re single. And we’re friends and we live together. It wouldn’t take a great leap of imagination to wonder if anything was going on between us.’

  If my heart was racing before, it’s now heading supersonic. ‘He didn’t ever accuse you of anything, did he? Anything concrete?’

  ‘Not in so many words, no,’ she confesses. ‘But then, he was hardly speaking from a position of strength, was he?’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘I don’t suppose he was.’

  ‘I used to watch him watching you when he was down to stay. He used to look between the two of us and try to spot a connection.’

  ‘But there wasn’t one,’ I point out.

  ‘What?’ she asks, leering at me now. ‘Not ever? Not even when I first started living here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I stumble.

  She smiles sadly. ‘I didn’t know for certain, either,’ she says. ‘I just thought . . . at the beginning . . . I used to catch you looking at me sometimes . . .’

  ‘I was curious,’ I say.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About you . . . about what kind of person you, were . . .’

  She leans forward and hooks my eyes with her own. ‘So you never fancied me? Not even a little?’

  My mouth opens. I don’t know what I’m going to say. I’m feeling torn. I want to speak my mind, but after all this time, I feel paralysed by the reality of it all. I’m scared. She’s drunk and this might not mean anything. It might just be words, nothing more. She might simply want an ego massage from a friend she considers safe. Before I have a chance to reply, however, she wipes any doubts I might have away.

  ‘I’m only asking,’ she continues, ‘because I fancied you. Because I still fancy you,’ she qualifies. She rolls her eyes and sits back. ‘There,’ she says, ‘it’s out.’ She knocks back the remains of her whisky, and gasps at the recoil.

  I don’t move. I feel like I’ve just suffered an electric shock.

  ‘I’m having a bit of a day of it today, aren’t I?’ she reflects. ‘Getting all my emotions out in the open . . . how very nineties of me . . .’ She scrunches up her face and focuses on mine. Then she stabs her finger at me in an exaggerated, drunken gesture. ‘You can say something, you know. And don’t worry if you don’t feel the same. I’m up to my neck in rejection at the moment. I doubt another dose is going to kill me.’

  Slowly, I reach out and take her hand. I hold it tight, staring down at it, feeling her respond to the pressure I’m applying, wringing my own hand in return. ‘That isn’t how it is,’ I say, my voice almost a whisper.

  Her grips tightens and she cups my chin in her hand. I feel her finger stroking my cheek. ‘Say it,’ she says.

  ‘That I fancy you?’

  She nods.

  ‘I do,’ I say.

  I feel her breath against my face and then it happens: our mouths touch.

  ‘You came in to my bedroom earlier, didn’t you?’ I hear her whisper, her lips brushing against mine as she speaks. ‘You saw me lying there.’

  I close my eyes. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wasn’t asleep. I knew you were there.’

  She kisses me again and, this time, our lips part. Her hand moves across my thigh. I know where this is going and I want it. I want it desperately. As we continue to kiss, however, I remember Susie, and how it felt to be kissing her last night, and I find myself locked in confusion. It was nothing like this. There was none of this intensity, none of this heady mixture of sheer terror and delight, but still, it was something, and something it would be wrong to ignore. I don’t even know where Susie and I stand. We’re seeing one another on Tuesday, but does that mean we’re going out? Does that mean that at this very instant I’m being unfaithful to her, and that I’m no better than Chris? I don’t know. I’ve got no frame of reference for this, no pages of history to flick back over to see what I should do next. All I have is my conscience, and it’s that which makes me stop.

  ‘What is it?’ Karen asks as I pull away.

  ‘I can’t do this.’

  She grimaces, confused. ‘Why not?’

  I take a deep breath, then speak. ‘I met someone this weekend,’ I say slowly, avoiding looking directly at her. ‘Susie. On the stag weekend. She’s not impor—’ I begin, before stopping myself. ‘No,’ I say, ‘that’s not true. She is important. She’s a friend.’

  Karen is moving back away from me. ‘It’s OK,’ she says, her voice flat. ‘You don’t need to tell me any more. If you’re involved with someone . . .’ She shudders. ‘I’m drunk . . .’ She shakes her head and closes her eyes. ‘It was stupid of me to lay this on you.’

  Quickly, I take her hand. ‘No,’ I say firmly, ‘it’s not like that. It’s you I want to be with, Karen. Believe me on that, because it’s true.’

  Karen hears the words, but not their meaning. ‘What about her?’ She chews her lip. ‘Susie. What about her?’

  ‘We had sex,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure where we stand now. I can’t do this – with you – not until I’ve cleared things up with her. I’m meant to be seeing her on Tuesday. I’ll—’

  Whatever I’ve said, it hasn’t come out right. I haven’t made myself clear. This much is apparent when Karen lurches to her feet and stands there swaying, looking down at me. Her expression is devoid of emotion. I can’t read it. ‘I’m going away tomorrow,’ she says. ‘To my parents. It’s already arranged. For a week. I’m going away for a week.’

  ‘Please, Karen,’ I implore, trying to take her hand again, ‘stay and listen.’

  She puts her hands demonstratively behind her back and slowly shakes her head, looking down at her bare feet. ‘Not now,’ she mutters. ‘This is too much. Too much has already happened today. I should go now. To bed.’ She stumbles past me to the end of the sofa. ‘I’m sorry’ she tells me. ‘I should have kept my mouth shut.’

  Then, with my reply still lodged in my throat, she walks away. I hear her bedroom door shut and I find myself completely alone.

  Susie

  Monday, 20.00

  I can tell I’ve gone to
o far: my kidneys feel like Jackie Chan’s punch bag.

  Where has my stamina gone, that’s what I want to know? I’m usually the up and at ’em party girl, burning the candle at both ends and in the middle – with a flipping blowtorch. But just look at me. One bender of a weekend and I’m wiped out. Maybe I can’t stand the pace any more. Maybe I’m ‘on the turn’ as they say back at home. That’s it then, is it? Spiky facial hair and tubigrip stockings for me.

  I dump my carrier bags on to the kitchen chair and ease up, putting my hands to my back like a heavily pregnant woman.

  Today has been terrible. I had terrifying dreams all last night: textbook money worries, if you ask me. I was too spooked to go back to sleep, so I ran a hot bath with the last of my Matey. But my subconscious must have been working overtime, because just as I was about to step in to the bubbles, I suddenly remembered my old post office savings account. I’m pretty sure Gran opened it for me when she had a surprise win on the premium bonds years ago. I was so excited about the prospect of my forgotten stash, not to mention twenty odd years of untouched interest, that I pulled the plug immediately, threw on some clothes and drove to the post office. I suppose it was wishful thinking that they’d hand over the booty with no post office book and only my Blockbuster video card as personal ID, but after an hour of queuing and several minutes of pleading, the man behind the counter told me I was bonkers and I left empty-handed.

  Of course, when I got back to the car, the meter had run out and a traffic warden was already filling out a ticket.

  ‘Don’t do this to me,’ I pleaded. ‘You don’t understand, I’m really poor.’