by Donna Alam
‘Prick, dildo,’ she says, doing a sort of weighing motion with her hands. ‘Not much difference really. One’s the real thing and the other is just a sort of . . . tofu.’
‘Tofu?’ I repeat unnecessarily.
‘Yeah, a meat substitute.’
‘Ah, god,’ Mac complains. ‘Could you no’ wait until I’d left? No man should have to hear his sister talk about—’
‘Dicks?’ Ivy answers. ‘Like I haven’t heard worse from you.’
‘Aye, but you’re supposed to be a delicate maid,’ he protests.
‘And you’re supposed to be in London.’
‘I took a wee detour.’
‘You mean you got lost?’
‘I’m amazed,’ Mac says, though he’s quite obviously not, ‘that your time over the pond did’nae teach you any manners. Yes, ma’am, no, ma’am. Come to think of it, why has Fin’s manners no rubbed off?’
‘Let’s not talk about rubbing off,’ Ivy says, folding her arms across her chest. ‘That’s a Pandora’s masturbation box no one needs to hear.’
‘Now, careful,’ Mac cautions gravely. ‘Remember your promise.’
Ivy crooks a little finger. ‘My teeny-tiny pinkie-promise, you mean?’ Her voice is saccharine sweet, but as Mac narrows his gaze, I decide to step in.
‘Fun times, you guys. I don’t know, you go away for a few years and . . . nope, nothing changes.’
‘Ah, you know we love each other really,’ Mac says, laughing.
‘Yep. True that. I’ll worship the ground that will eventually cover him.’
‘That’s plain mean,’ I chastise.
‘Poison Ivy’s only ever a hard-head where I’m concerned. She’s sweetness and light to everyone else.’
‘ ‘Cos you deserve it,’ she scoffs. ‘And call me poison again, bawbag, and I’ll kick you in yours.’
‘Leave my balls out of it, would you?’ he asks, his hands held up in faux surrender.
Ivy harrumphs. ‘The only one acquainted with your meat is Fin here, tofu todger.’
Mac’s laugh deepens but he’s kind enough to change the subject, even as I begin to splutteringly deny. It’s supposed to be a secret! He pulls us both closer, sliding an arm across each of our shoulders.
‘And how’s your ma?’ Gazing down at me, he gives my shoulder a kind squeeze. My mom and sex. The two words are almost synonymous, not that I take offence. I can’t make apologies where she’d offer none.
‘Married. Like loves young dream,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Maybe add a few years.’ My mom is currently enjoying her husband. Yep, that’s right. Enjoying. Like a daughter needs to hear that. I have two immediate reactions: The first is it makes my stomach turn. And the second makes me wish she had female friends. Stuart—the hubby—is five years her junior and as randy as all hell. According to her, there’s no such thing as TMI. She’s currently living in a small retirement village in the Algarve and these are all valid reasons as to why I’m not staying with her.
Thank God for friends.
‘And what about this husband of yours?’ Mac’s smile lingers. ‘Are you visiting alone, or do I get to meet him this time?’
‘He—’ I take a deep breath, minutely shaking my head. ‘He died.’
I can’t look at him as I know what I’ll see, and there isn’t really anything he can say that I want to hear. Just the inevitably awkward apologies. The oh dears and I’m so sorry’s. The curiosity written on his face.
I’m grateful when Ivy pipes up, filling any void.
‘So, what are you doing up here? Skiving?’
‘I’m gonna be opening a new gym in town.’
It’s obvious from his appearance he must spend a lot of time in one of these. It’s then I recall Ivy saying that Mac owns a chain of gyms; twenty-four hour places.
‘And I’ve been called up to the big house,’ he adds, his pronunciation rendering the word hoose.
‘I heard that it had been bought,’ I add quickly. ‘Isn’t it going to be a hotel?’
I’m not sure why I ask, given that I’ve already applied for a job at the place.
‘Yeah, it’s got the view for it, overlooking the ocean and all. I just got a call about fitting it with gym equip—’ Mac’s sentence trails off as the door to the back of the salon opens, the click of Natasha’s stiletto’s loud against the tiled floor. ‘—ment.’ The end of his word comes out in almost a squeak.
‘Equipment?’ Nat’s voice is a strange mixture of sultry and breathlessness as she pauses beside us in her tiny outfit and high, high heels. And a bucket? It’s a strange fashion accessory, for sure.
As she bends from the waist to put the bucket on the floor, her eyes do a sweep of Mac from his head down and back again. Only on her second sweep, her gaze doesn’t quite meet his toes as she pauses half way down.
‘I love a good bit of equipment.’
And, yes, she addresses this to his crotch. For good measure, as she straightens, she pushes her barely covered chest out a little further. Nat obviously doesn’t believe in subtlety.
Mac seems mesmerised, almost like he doesn’t know where to look first. To be fair, there’s a lot of tit, ass and leg to take in, because Natasha’s all that and soft curves, too. She’s like Jessica Rabbit of the north. And as it turns out, her arrival is a good reminder of why Mac and I would never have worked. Even back then I realised I wasn’t big enough in the boob department for his tastes. And for two, he’s a complete dog.
‘Woof.’
Mac’s gaze darts to Ivy’s. ‘What was that?’
‘You heard,’ she replies. ‘What are you up to?’ she asks, directing her question to Nat, her eyes slipping bemusedly to the bucket, then back again.
‘I’m away to wash the front windows.’ It’s a talent that she even makes that sound sort of dirty. Grasping the handle of her bucket, she turns and saunters off in her sparkly heels, water from the bucket sloshing onto the floor.
‘That’s a health hazard.’ Mac’s voice is suddenly a little hoarse.
Does he mean her, or the trail of water on the floor? Like an accident that’s about to happen, we all turn to the wall of glass, sort of mesmerised by the view.
‘It’s baltic outside. How come the lassie isn’t wearing a coat?’
‘How come she’s washing the windows, more to the point,’ replies Ivy. ‘I pay a man to do that.’
‘Did she just slut drop that bucket?’ I ask, sort of horrified.
She dips the sponge into the water, wringing it out like it’s manna from jizz heaven. I half expect her to start rubbing it against her chest.
‘Can you send her ‘round to do mine next?’
At least Mac sounds only half serious.
Chapter Eighteen
Fin
‘I’ve got a job!’
Both Ivy and Natasha’s heads snap up from the page of a beauty trade magazine they’re examining.
‘What? When?’
‘Just now. I had a phone interview!’ I’d applied for the job in the local paper, and to my utter surprise, I’d been offered the job by the end of the call. ‘It’s only a temporary thing—sounds like I’ll mostly be hanging out, waiting for builders and such to call. It’ll probably only last a couple months.’
‘I thought Raya had something in line?’ Ivy’s tone is a sheepish admission that she and Raya are in contact still.
‘I called them, too. Seems they’re undergoing some kind of restructure this month, so they’re going to get back to me, but if an interview comes up in the meantime, of course I’m going to go.’ What I don’t say is I’m pleased this current job is one I’ve gotten on my own. I’m proud of that, though I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. It’s almost pathetic that I haven’t gotten a job since college by myself. ‘At least now I’ll have a bit of cash flow.’
‘So where is it?’ asks Nat.
‘Over at the big house. Seems it’s being turned into a hotel and there’s been some legal trouble over contracts. Th
ey’ve gotten rid of their current building firm, I think, and I’ll be there mainly to sort of facilitate a handover of sorts.’
‘Sounds . . . odd.’
‘It does, doesn’t it? But I’ve checked out the company and it’s totally legitimate. They’ve got other hotels all over the country.’
‘Well, I think this calls for a celebratory night out,’ says Natasha.
‘On a school night?’ Ivy’s brow creases as she pushes away the magazine.
‘Don’t tell me you were the stay in and study type? Surely we can go out for pizza on a weeknight? Maybe a few cocktails?’
Though I’m, again, surprised by the quality of the pizza joint; think minimalist decor and sympathetically lit rather than darkened booths and plastic table cloths. Oh, and the best prosecco I’ve tasted since . . . the last time I tasted prosecco.
We’re on dessert—espresso gelato all-round—when Natasha becomes super focused on her phone.
‘What you looking at?’ I ask.
‘A photo of my last boyfriend,’ she says with a wistful sigh. ‘In fact, the only photo I have of him.
‘I didn’t know you were recently in a relationship. How long were you together?’
‘Two weeks.’ She shrugs, her gaze falling to her phone again. ‘It’s not the length of a relationship that counts, though is it?’
‘Aw, honey. You miss him.’ I lean my slightly bubbles-buzzed body into hers, threading my arm around her shoulder and pulling her into a hug. I also get an inadvertent look at her phone. ‘Why are you looking at a photo of a dick?’
‘They’re all dicks,’ chimes in Ivy. ‘Oh. What, you mean she’s looking at a dick pic? Natasha, that’s disgusting!’
‘What? I said I only had one photo of him—this is it,’ Natasha answers defensively.
‘You kept dick pics of your ex? An ex you went out with for only two weeks?’
‘And?’ she answers, like we’re the weird ones. ‘Like I said, it’s not the length of the relationship that counts. It’s the length in the relationship.’ She looks down again at the phone. ‘And you can’t argue that that isn’t some length.’
‘You’re such a weirdo,’ I say, but I think I must be, too, because my gaze falls to her phone again. Like a car crash. And regarding length, she’s not wrong.
‘I’m no’ unhappy with that description and I’m no’ unhappy with this shot.’ She holds the phone out, touching the screen so the image lights up again. And yep, I’m on my third look. ‘I think this caught his best side.
I can’t help but snigger as Nat begins humming a song I recognise as one of my mom’s favourites. If you leave me now, by Chicago. Moments later, Nat bursts into an adlibbing song,
‘If you leave me now . . . you’ll take away your biggest part from me . . .’
And, like the good wing-women we are, we join in at the chorus.
The cheque arrives shortly after. A coincidence? I think not.
‘I’m desperate for a pee. I’ll need to stop off at home. I won’t make it back to the flat.’
Ivy has always possessed the bladder control of a pregnant woman at almost full gestation. But even through my wine numbing, I feel a pang, because the home she’s referring to is the one she grew up in. The fact that she still calls it home and the place she actually lives the flat tells a story, I suppose. How I wished I still had a place to call home even if, like her parents’ place, it was rented out. They’re currently off doing the grey nomad thing.
‘Did you say they were in Australia?’
‘Yeah, they’ve been there about three months now. I can’t say I’d enjoy living in a caravan for months on end. I told them, you’re supposed to go travelling when you’re in your twenties, not when you’re sixty-bloody-three.’
‘Hey, won’t the tenants be a bit pissed off when you pop in to use the facilities?’ asks Nat. ‘I would be.’
‘It’s not tenanted at the minute. It’s not really holiday season, is it? Anyway, Mac’s staying there for a couple weeks and it’s my home as much as it is his, so he can get stuffed.’
Ivy slips a bundle of keys from her purse as she darts up the garden path. ‘Why is it the nearer you get to a toilet, the more desperate you become?’ She shoves the gold-coloured key into the lock.
‘Ah, the age old mystery,’ says Nat. ‘You could cop a squat in the bushes if you’re that desperate.’
‘Some of us prefer not to flash our vaginas to the unsuspecting public.’ The door bangs against an internal wall in her haste and she turns, shoving the box containing the remains of our pizza into my hands. ‘Go on. You know where the front room is.’ Then she dashes upstairs to the bathroom, taking the steps two at a time.
I do know where the front room is, having spent years making myself at home in this house. Pushing open the door, I think I still expect to be greeted by the overstuffed chairs and chintz curtains of my youth, so am a little perturbed to find a room of nautical near whites and pale blues. From the threshold, I take in the changes. How the furniture is so very different, of how a large-screen TV now hangs above the fireplace, replacing a dark framed mirror that once hung there. And of how this TV is currently playing silent porn, of how the sofa’s high back now faces the door—hang on, porn?
Natasha’s fingers tighten on my arm. ‘The dirty bird!’ she whispers. ‘Is that her brother rubbing one out? Wanking, I mean?’
‘Thanks for the clarification,’ I whisper back. ‘And I don’t know!’ The question belongs in an alternative reality; a place maybe parallel to what’s playing on the TV. It’s also a question I don’t want to know the answer to.
Is there someone watching porn from the sofa? Yes.
Is that person masturbating? Probably.
Is it Ivy’s brother? I don’t know, you go look!
If it’s not him then this is somehow both better and worse. Better, because, you know, less mortifying. Worse because, hello, there’s a random man whacking off on Ivy’s mom’s couch.
As the person in question suddenly straightens, I’m ninety-nine percent sure that it’s Mac.
My eyes flick automatically from the top of his dark head to the busty blonde on the screen, currently riding the pool boy and his massive . . . erm . . . hose. Silently. On second inspection—yes, I looked—it’s not a silent orgasm, but rather the result of Mac wearing a set of headphones.
Not that there aren’t other sounds.
‘That’s right,’ Mac grunts. ‘Hmm . . . hngg.’ His heavy masculine breaths fill the room. ‘Oh, oh, fuckkkk yeahhh.’
Mac’s enjoyment, coupled with Natasha’s heavy breaths, is an assault to the senses. Her chest begins to heave in the periphery of my vision and I’m suddenly worried which of them will reach climax first.
‘Where are you going?’ My fingers tightly grip Nat’s as she makes to step further into the room.
‘I want to see,’ she says a little breathlessly, trying to tug her hand from mine. ‘Why are you whispering? It’s not like he can hear.’ Her smile becomes wicked as she adds with a lewd wink, ‘But we can hear him.’ Wet, furious sounds—intimate sounds—continue to fill the air. ‘I’ll put money on that being lotion, not lube, and I wanna be sure.’
‘I don’t give a flying fuck what it is!’ I sort of whisper-yell. ‘You can’t go in there. God, this is—’
‘Come on, what are you doing standing there? In you get.’
Engrossed—though also maybe just plain grossed out in my case—neither of us realise that Ivy, post pee, has reached the bottom of the stairs. Which is also why I’m surprised to find myself ushered, or more accurately, pushed into the room.
‘No, Ivy, you don’t understand—’ I say, turning back and waving my arms.
I don’t know why the hell I decide jazz-hand semaphore as a suitable diversion. Bad enough that I’ve seen more than I’d care to, but she’s his sister. She deserves not to see! But as the expression slides from Ivy’s face, it’s replaced by a look that remarkably resembles a whale s
hark. You know, the huge, open-mouthed one. A bit like a vacuum cleaner. The look lasts for precisely two seconds before morphing into something way more vicious—maybe tiger shark?—as her expression swings from the TV screen to Nat.
‘Tell me that’s not you,’ she says, sounding absolutely serious and perfectly scandalised.
‘I wish!’ scoffs Nat. ‘Other than the fact her tits are no’ real.’ Her gaze slides to the TV as she begins her critique. ‘She’s the look of me, sure. And I wouldn’t mind a go of him.’
Which him though, is anyone’s guess. Though maybe not as Ivy doesn’t appear to have noticed the masturbating elephant in the room.
‘Why would you put porn on?’ Her voice is so high I think I can hear dogs in nearby gardens beginning to squeal from the pitch.
‘It wasn’t me!’
‘Go on—go on! Yes, ah, fuck, would ya look at that!’
Natasha doesn’t need to stand on her tiptoes to see Mac squeezing the results of his happy rub onto his stomach. But she does anyway. It’s around the same time that Ivy’s confusion dissipates, her body beginning to shiver subtly from rage.
‘Knock that off,’ she grates out, pulling on Natasha’s arm. ‘Have you no respect?’
‘Sorry,’ Nat adds sheepishly. ‘I forgot for a minute he was your brother.’
‘I not bothered about that lump—have a bit of respect for yourself, woman!’
Either Mac’s interest in his viewing choice has waned, or maybe Ivy’s not so dulcet tones weave their way under the ear-piece of his headphones. Or maybe—and my money’s on this—it’s some kind of inbuilt early warning system, honed over years of sibling warfare, that causes him to turn . . . at the precise same moment Ivy’s hand lands on his head.
‘Cormac!’ she yells as her hand connects.
‘What da’ fuck!’ he shouts, both hands coming up to hold the crown of his head. ‘What was that for?’ He slides the headphones to his neck.
‘What was it for?’ Ivy repeats, fists now clenched by her sides. ‘What was it for?’ Her volume increases with the second repetition. ‘Because. You. Are. A Filthy. B—brute!’
