It's Not You, It's Them

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘There,’ she replies. ‘Let’s go.’

  As I head down the stairs after Kerry, I can’t help but feel incredibly short now that I don’t have my heels on. As we reach the bottom of the stairs where everyone is waiting for us, all ready to head out of the door, my drastic change in high circumstances seems even more apparent.

  ‘Are we going somewhere?’ I ask.

  ‘To the pub,’ Valerie tells me. ‘For lunch.’

  ‘We can get out?’ I ask, hopefully. Maybe we’ll be able to head home this evening.

  ‘It’s a short walk to the pub, so I’m sure we’ll all survive,’ she laughs. ‘I don’t think you’ll get further than that, though, Roxie. I know I said you two could wear whatever you liked, but you both look ridiculous.’

  ‘We’re ridiculous? You bought this shirt, auntie,’ Kerry laughs.

  ‘That was actually one of mine,’ Oscar replies. ‘Your auntie made me throw it out.’

  ‘Because it’s ridiculous,’ she snaps.

  I adjust my tracksuit self-consciously as Mark walks over to me. He wraps an arm around me and whispers into my ear.

  ‘Is it weird that seeing you in Leeds gear turns me on?’

  I smile.

  ‘What’s Roxie short for?’ Val asks curiously.

  ‘Because she’s taking those high-heeled boots off,’ Ste jokes.

  Everyone laughs so I join in, not wanting to seem like a bad sport, but I want to rugby tackle him into the snow.

  ‘It’s not short for anything,’ I reply. ‘My name is just Roxie.’

  ‘That’s a strange name to give a child,’ Valerie observes.

  ‘Mum,’ Mark interrupts, sounding surprised. ‘It’s a beautiful name.’

  ‘My parents are both theatre lovers. I’m named after Roxie Hart…’

  ‘From Chicago.’ Oscar finishes my sentence for me. ‘I could imagine you playing her, actually.’

  ‘That’s what my dad always says,’ I smile.

  ‘Although, she does kill her boyfriend in the play,’ he laughs. ‘So let’s hope the similarities start and end with how you look.’

  ‘What vulgar talk,’ Val snaps. ‘Come on everyone – outside.’

  I slip my fur coat on over my tracksuit, but I don’t feel like myself.

  ‘It’s not a long walk,’ Mark assures me as we begin treading through the thick snow that has piled high on the long driveway. Each step is a struggle that I’m not used to. Still, I suppose it will be worth it when we reach the pub. A little alcohol and a lot of coffee is just what I need.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Duck Inn (yes, that really is what it’s called) is exactly what I imagined a country pub to look like. The mismatched cushions on all the furniture, the roaring fire, the exposed stone walls covered in a variety of framed pictures and mounted objects (everything from weapons to medals to ores) – the large, wooden bar. As typical as it all is, it’s beautiful – except for all the ducks. I suppose the name of the place should’ve implied as much, but there is a duck everywhere you look. In fact, there are so many that, as I’ve been eating my lunch, I’ve weirdly enjoyed spotting new ones in places I hadn’t previously noticed them. No, I’m not bored, it’s just like a weird twist on a Where’s Wally puzzle. In fact, I’m the opposite of bored because I’ve been talking to everyone. Until now, I haven’t really spoken at length to anyone apart from Valerie, Bea and Kerry, so it’s interesting hearing from other people.

  We’re all sitting at a long table, so we’re chatting among ourselves at this end. I’m sandwiched between Kerry and Mel, with Mark opposite me, Ste opposite Mel. We’re all talking together, and all getting on pretty well. Mel is kind of quiet, but nothing like her mum, so that’s fine. Ste seems a bit full of himself, but he’s not a bad person. I know that Mark thinks he’s a bit of a dick, but if Mel loves him, then they have my blessing – not that my blessing counts for anything in this family. It’s just nice to have a few people who I get on with. I feel much less alone.

  ‘I’m not into football either,’ Ste tells me, while it’s just the two of us talking. Mark is chatting with his sister and Kerry has gone to get yet another round of drinks. You can tell she grew up here, and that she used to work here, by the easy way she just falls back into being here. She’s happily playing barmaid/waitress, grabbing drinks for the table whenever we need them so that her mum and dad can join in the party, too. They’re right down at the other end of the table and, even though they’re being polite with one another, you can tell there’s an atmosphere between them. I asked Kerry about it while we were eating, expecting a story of scandal or some big drama that drove a wedge between them, but it’s nothing like that. People around here want you to grow up into a person who is ‘from around here’, so if you grow up in a way that doesn’t fit the mould, you’re as bad as an outsider. Kerry has not only moved from this idyllic little village to a big city, but, even worse, she’s moved to Lancashire – something impossible for any Yorkshire father to understand. One thing that does confuse me, though, is why Mark isn’t in trouble for moving away – surely moving down south is even worse than crossing the border to Lancashire, in Yorkshire folks’ eyes? Perhaps it’s because he moved for his dream job, whereas Kerry just moved for a bit of much-needed nightlife. I don’t blame her, to be honest. I’d go crazy living in a place like this where there’s nothing to do. Sure, there’s this pub, but they’re severely lacking a cocktail list of some description and it doubly sucks for Kerry, because this is her parents’ place. Even with my parents being the super-cool liberals they are, I wouldn’t want them around on my nights out.

  ‘I think I actually hate football,’ I tell Ste, honestly. ‘I was indifferent about it – like I’m indifferent about Dungeons and Dragons and rock climbing – but football is such a big part of my life now, and because I don’t enjoy it, I’ve actually started to hate it.’

  Ste laughs.

  ‘I know what you mean – but it’s worse for me.’

  ‘How so?’ I ask curiously.

  ‘Because I’m a man. Men are supposed to like football and women are supposed to complain about it, and yet with me and Mel, it’s the opposite.’

  I pull a face.

  ‘That’s an argument born of sexism,’ I remind him.

  ‘It’s emasculating either way,’ he replies, and I suppose he’s right. ‘At least we’ll have each other, though. At all the family events when the football inevitably gets switched on and they’re all dressed like ‘full kit wankers’, screaming at the TV like every word the ref says is a matter of life or death…’

  ‘Oh God, that sounds awful,’ I admit. ‘We should definitely stick together.’

  I give Ste a smile. He seems like a nice guy.

  I glance down the table, watching Kerry as she hands out the drinks to the ‘adults’ – and, yes, I’m grouping Bea in with the adults because she is sitting with Valerie and, as always, they’re big buddies. They all seem like they’re having a blast. I can’t help but notice that they’re getting louder and louder as the minutes are ticking by.

  Oscar and his brother, Malcolm, are in a debate about football strategy, and it seems like a heated one at that. I love that about football fans, how they all think they could do better managing the team, like you could count on a footballer to follow any instructions other than ‘disgrace yourself in a hotel room’.

  ‘He’s too slow,’ Malcolm insists. ‘I’ve seen milk turn quicker.

  ‘Do you dislike him because he’s gay?’ Oscar replies.

  ‘What? What are you talking about? Nowhere on the internet does it say he’s gay.’

  ‘Oh, so gay footballers don’t exist then, obviously,’ Oscar replies sarcastically. ‘Trust me, he’s gay. And he’s an asset.’

  Val, Auntie Gail and Bea are either laughing loudly together, or chatting in hushed tones, all occasionally glancing down this end of the table. Every now and then I think they’re staring at me, but I’m probably just paranoid.
<
br />   Kerry plonks herself back down next to me, placing a drink in front of me.

  ‘A glass of white for the lady,’ she says in what I imagine is supposed to be my accent. ‘And a pint for me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I laugh, sipping my drink. Reluctant to get even a little tipsy in front of people, this is my first alcoholic drink of the day. And probably my last, to be honest, because these people do not need to meet Drunk Roxie. Drunk Roxie doesn’t put in as many appearances as she used to, now that I’ve grown up a lot and settled down. If these people don’t like sober me, they’ll hate the easy confidence and questionable sense of humour of drunk me.

  As Kerry tells me a tale about when she used to steal booze from behind the bar as a teenager, my attention is jolted from her by the feeling of a foot, seductively stroking my leg under the table. I look across at Mark, who is still chatting to Mel about college stuff. His poker face is perfection, even as his foot makes his way to my inner thigh.

  Growing increasingly turned on, and still a little frustrated after yesterday’s sexual shenanigans not exactly going to plan, I wiggle my right foot free from my boot and go straight for between his legs, massaging him with the ball of my foot while still leaving him room to keep doing what he’s doing inside my left leg. I watch Mark’s reaction change suddenly, his eyes darting in my direction. I wiggle my eyebrows at him as I pick up the pace a little, but as he gives me a look as though to ask ‘what are you thinking, woman?’, I stop suddenly. Did it occur to me to try and get him off with my feet under the table until he did it first? Of course it didn’t; I was only reciprocating.

  I retreat, slowing sliding my foot down between his legs until it’s resting firmly between his feet, giving him ample opportunity to change his mind, but he doesn’t.

  At the other side of the table, Oscar and Malcolm’s argument grows increasingly more heated until Malcolm gets up and storms off.

  Kerry breaks off from her story, chuckling to herself.

  ‘Oops. Guess what?’ she asks me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been spiking their drinks,’ she laughs.

  ‘What?’ I repeat, shocked. I glance down at my own glass of wine.

  ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t done anything to this end of the table – or the kids. I just thought the parents and Be-atch would be more tolerable and much nicer if they were pissed. I just wanted them to get a buzz on but I guess a double here, a triple there – they’ve gotten drunker than I expected.’

  I can’t believe what she’s done! And I can’t believe that Mark is still toying with my leg after giving me such a discouraging glance. Wait a minute, though; if my foot is between both of Mark’s feet, how is he still teasing my thigh with his toes? That’s when I glance up at Ste and, as he gives me a cheeky wink, I realise that it’s him who is stroking my leg.

  I jump up, immediately, accidentally pulling on the tablecloth a little, causing a few glasses to topple over as I do.

  ‘Shit,’ I blurt, forgetting my manners.

  ‘Oh, there we go,’ Valerie slurs. ‘Look at her, making a scene. You’re not in London now,’ she reminds me.

  ‘Mum, are you OK?’ Mark asks her, noticing how out of character she’s acting.

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ she babbles. ‘Are you OK, though, Marcus? Marrying this girl? Are you sure she’s right for you?’

  ‘You tell him, Valerie,’ Bea chimes in. Her eyes are closed but she’s waving her fist in the air in solidarity. Auntie Gail is fast asleep with her head on the table.

  ‘Mum, what is the matter with you?’ Mark asks her, before asking Millie in a hushed tone: ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘Of course I’m OK,’ she snaps. ‘You’re the one that needs your head checking. Marrying her.’

  As Valerie jumps from her seat to point at me, she stumbles, landing on the table, but not without smacking Bea in the face with her forearm on her way down.

  As Bea bursts into tears and Val struggles to get back on her feet, Mark rushes over to help as the rest of us look on in shock. He helps his mum back into her chair before leaning in to Bea to see if her eye is OK. As both women cry like toddlers having a tantrum, Mark sniffs the air between them.

  ‘They’re wasted,’ he announces, shocked. Then he looks over at his snoozing auntie, and his dad and uncle who are giving each other evils across the room. ‘Everyone is wasted!’

  Kerry sniggers under her breath, hiding her amused face in her pint glass. She leans closer to me and says softly.

  ‘Family gatherings are they best, aren’t they?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bea flinches as I hold a bag of frozen peas on her eye.

  ‘Ouch, you’re not doing it right,’ she snaps.

  ‘Just hold still, please,’ I insist.

  God, I hate dealing with drunk people – especially when I’m sober. I just have no patience with them.

  Getting Oscar, Val and Bea home in their drunken state, up the steep hill, in the thick snow, was no easy task. Now that we’re finally back, it’s fallen upon me to help Bea into bed. Alex and Millie have taken the twins up to bed and, similarly, Mark and Mel are helping their parents to bed. So here I am, icing Bea’s black eye (incorrectly, apparently) as I help her into Mark’s bed. Still quite drunk, she’s flitting back and forth between ‘lads on tour’ behaviour and the temperament of a toddler who hasn’t had her nap. Ste did offer to help me, but naturally I refused that as fast as my vocal cords would let me.

  ‘Why are you taking my clothes off me?’ Bea shrieks.

  I stop attempting to remove her walking boots for a moment and massage my temples.

  ‘I’m not taking your clothes off you, I’m taking your boots off you. They’re covered in snow and you need to get in bed.’

  ‘Ergh, fine,’ she snaps, playing dead while I take off her boots and lift her legs into bed along with the rest of her body.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I say sarcastically.

  ‘Mark can do so much better than you,’ she informs me in a whiney voice.

  ‘What, like you?’ I laugh, heading for the door and flicking off the light. I have no intention of rising to the bait, especially when she’s pissed.

  ‘That’s why we’re going to steal him back,’ she sighs sleepily, stopping me dead in my tracks.

  ‘What?’ I quickly turn to face her.

  ‘We’re going to take him back from you,’ she giggles dopily before her smile drops. ‘You weren’t supposed to be here.’

  I dash to her side.

  ‘What are you talking about? Who is “we”?’ I ask, but it’s too late.

  Bea’s head rolls back, her jaw drops open a little and she lets out an almighty snore.

  ‘Oi, wake up,’ I insist, giving her a shake. It’s no use, though: Bea is fast asleep.

  I head back down to the study, swapping my tracksuit for my T-shirt before climbing into bed. It isn’t long before Mark joins me.

  ‘Well, that was interesting,’ he says, whipping his clothes off before climbing into bed. ‘Never thought I’d have to put my sixty-something hammered parents to bed.’

  ‘I never thought I’d have to put your ex-girlfriend to bed, but here we are,’ I reply.

  ‘Thank you so much for that,’ he tells me, squeezing me tightly.

  ‘She said something odd,’ I start, unsure if I should tell him or not.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he laughs. ‘My dad told me that my T-shirt was disgusting.’

  I half smile. His dad does come out with some weird things, even when he’s sober.

  ‘OK, what did she say?’ he asks seriously.

  ‘She said that I wasn’t supposed to be here, and that “we” were going to take you away from me.’

  Mark laughs, shaking his head.

  ‘I think she’s trying to steal you back,’ I tell him, but this just makes him laugh harder.

  ‘Roxie, she is so wasted, she has no idea what she’s talking about.’

  ‘OK,’ I reply
, but I’m not convinced. ‘Maybe it’s just my lack of filter, causing me to blurt out the first thing that pops into my head.’

  ‘Did that upset you?’ he asks with a nervous laugh. ‘Have you been stewing over this for twenty-four hours? It was just a stupid game.’

  ‘I just didn’t expect you to give such a fast and thorough answer,’ I reply.

  ‘I was just giving an answer – you know I love that you say what you think.’

  ‘OK,’ I reply.

  ‘Hey, come on, you know that. You’re the funniest person I know. You keep me in stitches. I was just trying to play the game. Are you telling me that nothing annoys you about me?’

  ‘I mean, I’m pretty annoyed with you right now… but not really,’ I tell him.

  I roll over onto my side, facing away from Mark. This bed wasn’t especially comfortable to begin with, but now that it’s on the floor, broken, it’s even less comfortable.

  ‘Don’t think I’m asking this because it annoyed me, but what was all that about earlier?’ he asks as he spoons me, his arm creeping around my waist.

  ‘What was what?’ I ask.

  ‘You, trying to give me a footjob in the pub,’ he laughs. ‘That was interesting.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sorry,’ I reply. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  Probably best I don’t tell him about Ste trying to touch me up under the table. We’ve got enough problems right now, and after the way I reacted, I’m sure he won’t try anything with me again.

  ‘We’re alone now, though,’ I tell him, wiggling my butt in his direction. Mark barely has time to grab me by the hips and nibble on my ear before we hear a loud bang coming from upstairs.

  ‘Shit,’ he blurts, jumping up. ‘I’d better go and check on them.’

  ‘No worries,’ I reply. ‘It’s only been seventy-two hours since either of us had an orgasm, but whatever.’

  I sigh theatrically.

  ‘Not that you’re counting,’ he laughs as he dashes from the room.

  I sigh again, this time for real. This is probably the longest we’ve been around each other without having sex and it’s strange. It has reinforced what an awesome sex life we have, though, so that’s good news, I guess. I just can’t stop thinking about what Bea said. She’s a grown woman; she’s not seriously going to try and steal Mark back, is she? You know what? Let her try, because I love Mark, and he loves me, and we trust each other and no one can get in the way of that. Not even Queen Bea.