by David Belbin
Maybe he was doing her a favour, I think as I get off the train in West Kirby on Friday afternoon. Maybe getting it over with is what your first week at uni is all about. I should have done that myself rather than waiting until Christmas to seduce my ex-boyfriend. At nineteen, I shouldn’t be able to count the number of times I’ve had sex on the fingers of one hand. I shouldn’t be able to count them, full stop.
Last year, I never went home at weekends during term time, but then I didn’t have a boyfriend in Birkenhead. Or a car to pick up. I passed my test ten days ago and Dad has promised me my own Mini.
I spend an evening with Mum and collect the car in the morning. It’s pillar box red. I’d like to have a target painted on the roof but Dad tells me this would be expensive, and ostentatious.
‘Don’t let one of your mates do it. They’ll wreck the thing. A car like this holds its value if you look after it.’
‘When are we going to meet this boyfriend of yours?’ Ingrid asks.
‘You may have to wait until the wedding,’ I say, which throws her.
I drive over to Birkenhead, where my lover’s mother gives me tea and cake and marvels at the hundred mile journey I am about to make.
‘You’re fearless, Allison,’ she says, implying that my taking on her son is part of that fearlessness. Then she tells me that Aidan won’t be joining us for a while as he hasn’t left his room for two days. I pretend to laugh this off.
‘He’s been sleeping a lot more since Huw died,’ she says.
‘Leave him to me.’
Aidan is fast out in his large, metallic bed. When I open the blinds, he doesn’t stir. I have a shower, then get into bed next to him. The pills that were on the window ledge last time I came are now by the bed. I wonder how many antidepressants he’s on but don’t know which is which. There’s only one pill I know the name of and Aidan doesn’t take it. I, on the other hand, am anxious to justify its daily imposition. But I can’t seduce Aidan unless he opens his eyes.
Oh. I can.
‘That was exciting,’ I tell Aidan afterwards, but he’s gone back to sleep. I’m disappointed. It’s not that I’m looking for someone like Steve, who’s driven by his dick, and gives me lascivious looks all the time (I expect he does the same to Vic and Tessa, too, but I’m home more). It’s just that I worry Aidan doesn’t fancy me as much as I’d like him to. I’m worried that he doesn’t talk to me.
I shouldn’t be so self-obsessed. He’s depressed because his best friend killed himself last month. He’s allowed to fall asleep after sex. Men do that.
I read a couple of the comics on his desk, silly tales about superheroes whose powers alienate them from the people they have vowed to protect. I put on one of Aidan’s Krautrock LPs. That’s right, a vinyl record. He pays a fortune for them on eBay. He says the scratches and static crackle make them sound more authentic.
When it starts to get dark, his mum knocks on the door and invites me to eat with the rest of the family.
‘We do appreciate you trying so hard, Allison,’ step-dad Keith says, over lasagne and Chianti.
Half-sister Anna gives me a suspicious look that tells me she suspects what I’ve been up to with her brother and does not approve. At thirteen, I’d probably feel the same way.
When I accept a second glass of wine, Anna asks me if I’m driving home later. I take a deep gulp before breaking the awkward silence that follows.
‘I told my mum I was staying here tonight. I want to be here when Aidan wakes up even if, you know, it’s four in the morning.’
‘Where will you sleep?’
‘In his bed, of course,’ I say.
Anna gives her mum a shocked look. She’s revived the thirteen year old bitch in me. Keith raises an eyebrow in what would probably become a wink if he didn’t think better of it and start talking about his own university days instead. I nod enthusiastically when he goes on about seeing ‘The Floyd’ though I’m not certain what or who he’s talking about. When dinner’s over, I help Anna clear the table.
‘Can’t you take him to Nottingham?’ Anna hisses as we load the dishwasher. ‘It’s like living in a psychiatric ward, having him here. These are meant to be my years in the granny flat before granny moves in. Not his.’
‘I’m sorry. He’s not my responsibility.’
‘I didn’t say he was. It’s just, you’re strong. I’ll bet you could shake him out of it.’
‘I’m trying, believe me. I do care about him, a lot.’
‘I don’t. And Dad only pretends to.’
Watching TV with them later, the conversation is forced, mundane. Everyone’s life is on hold, waiting for Aidan. I don’t know what I’m doing here.
‘I’m going up to my night vigil,’ I announce when the late film starts.
I find Aidan awake, dressed and at his computer.
‘I thought I’d dreamt you coming,’ he says.
‘You say the most romantic things.’
‘Did we... earlier?’
‘You had a wet dream, yeah.’
He kisses me. His hair is moist from the shower. He shows me a site he likes and we look at it together. We start to play, making up names for each other. Imaginary animals take imaginary drugs that combine sexual ecstasy with profound self-perception. Later, when everyone’s gone to bed, Aidan goes downstairs and eats cereal and toast with huge mugs of builders’ tea.
We watch a science fiction DVD. Aidan devours several joints, with only a little assistance from me. We cuddle, but he shows no desire to go back to bed for an encore. At four in the morning, I fall asleep. When I wake, I’m in bed, in my underwear. Aidan is dead to the world, even harder to rouse than he was yesterday. I shower and go downstairs. The house is empty but for him.
While the family are at church, I write Aidan a note, asking him to visit me. It wouldn’t be difficult. His mum’d drive him to Lime St Station. I’d collect him in Nottingham. In the note, I tell him I’m worried that he never sees daylight, sleeps twelve hours or more a day. I want to finish it ‘I love you’, but we haven’t used these words and they seem to be too much of a hostage to fortune. Only what am I doing here if I don’t love him?
Some people never use the word ‘love’. Love is like religion, rationally impossible but easy to subscribe to if you find yourself blessed with faith. But people’s feelings for each other shouldn’t be a matter of belief. I haven’t believed in God for five years, but I’m not so sure about love. I know what I want love to be, like a rollercoaster, crushing everything in its path, possessing me utterly. But not everyone can feel that. Maybe my emotions are always going to be minor key piano pieces, rather than loud power chords on an electric guitar. What I feel for Aidan is stronger than what I felt for Mark. Or is it just different? If I made an Aidan pie chart it would show forty percent infatuation, fifty percent lust, and ten percent my appetite for taking risks.
I brew some coffee then drive to Nottingham, taking note of the speed cameras my dad warned me about yesterday.
When I get back, the other four are making a roast chicken dinner and invite me to join them. We agreed not to cook together, so I’m happily surprised. I make gravy from a packet. Steve is all smiles. The others tease him about the girl he brought home last night. Vic says she can use some tips on pick-up techniques. Steve offers to set up a threesome, which makes Vic blush. I’ve never seen her blush before. Did she consider his offer, if only for a moment?
‘Visiting your boyfriend?’ Steve asks, as he begins to carve.
‘That’s right,’ I reply. ‘We spent all weekend in bed.’
New Age
When he discovered that both Vic and I had our birthdays just before we moved in, Steve suggested we have a house party. He assumed I was twenty, like Vic, and I didn’t correct him. I never looked like the youngest person in my year, but I always was. Mark used to tease me about my birth sign. Virgo by name, virgo by nature, though he hasn’t done this since he slept with me.
I told Steve I wasn’
t bothered about a party, pretended I’d had one at home during vacation. The other three overruled me. The theme was Finn and Tessa’s idea. They’ve decorated the front room with white sheets and candles, giving it a ghostly air.
‘Is your boyfriend coming?’ Steve asks, as we clear the kitchen, laying out the borrowed glasses and paper plates for the veggie curry Finn concocted earlier.
‘I’m meeting him at the station later.’
I’m not keen on Steve. If we’d had a vote about inviting him to move in, I would have voted against, but I abdicated responsibility to Vic and she still thinks he’s OK. What happened after Paul dropped out was this: Vic put up spare room notices on various boards at uni, but there was hardly anyone around in the summer, so she ended up phoning the landlord, Mr Soar, to see if he had anybody looking for one room. Steve met Vic for a coffee and she thought he was OK, so Finn, Tess and I agreed to him by email, sight unseen.
Steve’s good looking in a square-jawed sort of way, but has a bad haircut, a cheap, shaggy look. He doesn’t smoke or do drugs, but I try not to hold that against him.
Aidan rings up to say he’s missed the train. I tell him there’s another one in an hour. From the way he mumbles I suspect he’s only just got out of bed. At seven in the evening.
I don’t really have a boyfriend. I have this guy I’ve met four times who emails me occasionally and is useless on the phone.
‘We’ve got a fortune teller coming,’ I tell him. ‘You can’t miss that.’
‘OK.’
The fortune teller was another of Finn’s ideas. Turns out Finn knows somebody who does Tarot and takes it all quite seriously. We’re putting him in my room. I think Aidan would make a good fortune teller. He’d look great in a turban, like that famous photo of Rudolph Valentino. And I can’t think of another career he’s suited to, unless he has a hidden talent for acting.
When we’ve finished in the kitchen, Steve helps me sort out my room (Steve’s room is being used for coats, so doesn’t need much attention). I have bought mosquito nets, actually net curtains, from a stall in Victoria Market.
‘I thought your boyfriend would be here by now,’ Steve says. We are attaching the nets to the ceiling so that they float down, creating an intimate space at the side of the room.
‘He’s on his way.’
‘Hold on. Finishing touch.’
Steve replaces my low energy light bulb with a red one, making the room feel like a brothel.
‘If he gets here soon, you could have some fun in here before the fortune teller arrives,’ he says.
‘Or after they’ve gone,’ I say.
‘Why wait?’ He slides his hand around my bottom and, squeezing it, pulls me towards him. Before I pull away, he kisses me.
‘I’m going to pretend that didn’t happen.’
‘I’ll bet you’re good at pretending.’ He clears off before I can hit him.
I have a quick shower, then put on my short black dress. We’ve urged guests to wear white, but white doesn’t suit me.
There’s an Indian rug over Finn and Tess’s bed. A friend of Finn’s has lent them a goldfish tank that lights up and they’ve placed it on the chest of drawers. When they turn off the main light, the tank appears to contain bright blue water and is backlit in such a way that the bubbles floating to the surface reflect a kaleidoscope of light from the exotic tropical fish. In the corner of a tank is a starfish. No, two. They cluster around an orange plant with delicate, coiled leaves. The fish seem oddly static. Ah, I see.
I knock, but Vic won’t let me into her room. She’s taken the TV, DVD player and everyone’s laptops in there. Vic is a Fine Arts student, so I’m expecting some sort of installation. She was carrying round a video camera earlier in the week.
‘Wait there a minute,’ she calls, and I wait until a hand reaches out, holding two doves. ‘For later. One for you, one for Aidan. Or you can have them both if he doesn’t turn up.’
‘You’re a star. Thanks.’
The kitchen is full of party food — pizza, cheese, bread, potato salad — and cheap booze. I have a bottle of vodka stashed out in the open, disguised as white spirit, a trick I learnt from my mum. Last night, when I told the others we were bound to run out of booze by midnight, Finn said, ‘Don’t worry. Most of our friends aren’t big drinkers.’
The party begins. The people who live in the house cluster in Finn and Tessa’s room. A circle forms. New arrivals are introduced, though not by me. I want to feel sociable and toy with taking the e. I step back from the circle. Someone tells a joke. When Finn laughs, his whole body seems to shake, as though his back were made of rubber.
Steve joins me. ‘You’re always on the edge of things, Allison. Why is that?’
I shrug.
‘Taken your birthday present from Vic yet?’
‘How did you know about that?’
‘She offered me one. I don’t need drugs, though I’d have been tempted if I thought she was trying to get into my jeans.’
‘You never know,’ I tell him, wanting to fuck with his head.
‘You might have more luck with her than me.’
‘But she’s...’
‘Nobody’s sexuality’s cut and dry. I’ll bet you’ve done it with a bloke.’
He flushes. ‘What gives you the idea...’
‘You’re easy to tease,’ I tell him. ‘Who did you invite tonight?’
‘Nobody special. You think I’m a tart, don’t you?’
‘That’s one word for it.’
‘I’m making up for lost time,’ Steve tells me. ‘I used to be shy. Put women on a pedestal. Then I got here and found there were lots of girls who liked to get drunk and fuck. And I found I was very good at the fuck bit.’
‘Modest too.’
‘Take an e. You’ll like yourself more on it.’
‘That’s a very cold thing to say. That I don’t like myself.’
‘No it’s not. I can’t stand people who think they’re great. It’s OK if other people think you’re great. I think you’re great, Allison.’
‘I think you’re drunk, Steve.’
‘Only a little.’
The doorbell rings and I go to answer it. Aidan is not going to show up, so I neck the dove on my way, then open the door to find Mark and Helen. I had to invite them to the party but hoped they wouldn’t come. Two worlds collide on my doorstep.
Helen is wearing white, as requested, and makes a bitchy comment about my black dress. She has lost weight since September and her hair is spikier. She looks less wholesome, but no less impressive. Mark kisses me on the cheek. He thinks Helen is going to dump him, he told me when we met for coffee. Things were fine when they were in West Kirby but here, they struggle to connect. They’ve been going out for fifteen months now. I told him he was being paranoid.
‘Here. Late birthday present.’
I unwrap the oblong package he gives me. It’s a jigsaw, a map of the world. Only Mark knows how much I like jigsaws.
‘That’s wonderful.’ I give him a small hug. ‘I’m going to put this safely away in my room. Booze is through there.’
‘Is Aidan here?’ Helen asks.
‘No. I don’t know if he’s coming.’
‘Right. Only I thought...’
I don’t want to hear what she thinks of my seeing a mad murderer, so give her a chilled smile and shoot up to my room.
After them, the deluge. People pour in. I hear the new arrivals as I’m coming up on the e. My head throbs in a nice way. I stop caring about Aidan’s absence. I don’t need a boyfriend. I’m sufficient unto myself. We all are.
I’ve taken e twice before, but before tonight, only a half. I was cautious. I still am. I convinced myself that I had a good time but, looking back, it could easily have been auto-suggestion. I felt like I thought I was going to feel. I’m not like Steve, anti-drugs, but I don’t like being out of control. Speed doesn’t seem to agree with me. Skunk is as far as I want to go. Ecstasy might be class A, but peo
ple treat it more like spliff. Only this feels a lot stronger than any spliff I’ve ever smoked. And I’m still coming up.
I put the jigsaw by the side of my bed then lie down beneath the mosquito net, waiting for my head to straighten itself out. Somebody comes in with Finn. He has a rich, plummy voice, like that guy from the “Carry On” films whose name I would normally remember.
‘Let’s put the books here,’ the voice says.
‘I’ll take names,’ Finn tells him. ‘When do you want to start?’
‘Give me fifteen minutes or so, dear.’
I hear some shuffling, then the voice addresses me. ‘Oh, there’s somebody in there.’
The nets part a little.
‘Hi,’ I say, ‘I’m Allison. This is my room.’
‘Stuart. Do you mind me arranging my things?’
‘Go ahead,’ I tell Stuart, who has a fat neck, partially concealed by a silk scarf, and a large, shaved (at least I presume it’s shaved) head. ‘I’ll get out of your way before you’re ready to begin.’
‘Thanks.’
He doesn’t close the curtain properly, so I watch as he switches on my desk lamp, then points it at the floor. A pile of books he’s brought with him are arranged under the lamp’s beam. The I Ching, The Golden Bough, The Doors of Perception. I hope nobody thinks that crap belongs to me.
‘Something for people to read while they wait for their consultation,’ Stuart tells me. ‘I’m going to put some music on. Is that OK? The idea is that nobody overhears.’
‘OK,’ I say, feeling like a patient talking to a doctor who is about to perform a minor operation. Stuart presses ‘play’.
Birdsong. Ambient drones. Waves. A distant church organ. It’s oddly peaceful. I hear Stuart returning downstairs.
