Tainted Touch

by Lucy V. Morgan

  “No, it’s Rich. And if you tell him he’s emo instead of metrosexual, he’ll get very upset.” And will probably have to clean something. “Speaking of Facebook…uh. Fancy doing me a favour?”

  She sighs. “Oh, I see. Go on then.”

  I flinch. And then I force the words out. “Could you have a look at Dominic’s profile for me? Please?”

  In an instant, her voice sharpens. “Him? Why, Cait?”

  “Because–because he sent me a message. It’s stupid, it’s…he’s all, hi, how are you? And I don’t know what the fuck he’s playing at. You remember how it was–”

  “Yeah, I remember,” she spits.

  “I just want to know if he’s still with that girl. If he is, then I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me. And if he isn’t, I suppose…”

  “He wants to get back together,” she says flatly. “Let me tell you–hell will freeze over before I let you get back with that cretin, Cait. Satan will have to open a freaking Farmfoods.”

  “Thanks for that little image, there.”

  “You’re welcome. Now.” She taps away on a keyboard again. “We will solve the mystery of stupid message, and you’ll get on with your life. And read The Waves before I combust with literary frustration.”

  “Thank you,” I say, all meek and miserable. I want to close my eyes while she finds his page–which she can see because, unlike moi, she and Dominic have mutual friends–but I’m standing in public, and I’ll look weird. Breath keeps catching in my throat. The wind picks up again, the last remnants of autumn leaves crunching across dust paths to get me.

  “Aha. Just lemme scroll down…” Millie makes her goldfish popping sound; she flattens her lips and smacks them together. “Okay. Yeah. No girlfriend, apparently.”

  The hands in my abdomen return, slinking up behind my ribs to brush the tender ventricles of my heart. I shudder. “Right.”

  “But you’re not going to respond to him. Obviously.”

  “Of course I’m not. I just–” I do close my eyes, then. Just for a second. The darkness is glossy; it reminds me, even there, I can see something. “I’m scared,” I whisper.

  “Oh, Cait. Why haven’t you blocked him?”

  “I unfriended him!” I drop my voice. “And all his mates.” But I never blocked him. When it all happened, he just cut me off and I didn’t want to sever that last little tendon of hope. Of possibility. Beneath the fear and the manipulation, I’ve cultivated this morbid curiosity about where he is now, whether he’ll ever come back. Vicky told me once that it’s because he always made me feel that way–he made me grateful for every bit of attention he deemed fit to bestow. And she’s right; it’s like I’m conditioned. Even after eight months of being single.

  “So block him,” Millie counters. “Simples.”

  “You’re right. I’ll do it.”

  “And his phone number,” she says, knowingly. Sympathy softens her words, but her acerbic wit roughens their edges. “And his email.”

  “I–I will.”

  “It’s that or Mom threatens to beat him up again. And God knows, she might actually do it.”

  I suppress a thin smile. “I’d kind of like to see that.”

  “Me too. But I don’t want her to go to prison and become somebody’s bitch, so…”

  “She still canvasing?”

  “Most nights. Pretty sure everyone in the village is sick to death of her bleating on about dolphins with cancer, or whatever it is.”

  I’m tempted, briefly, to tell Millie about Art. She’d bubble over with enthusiasm and insist I Go For It. Trouble is, I’m not convinced there’s actually anything to go for. I was so sure he was flirting–making excuses to mention me naked, the whole touching thing–but my brain is pickled. I don’t know how boys are meant to treat girls, and I’m probably reading far too much into him being nice to his new co-worker.

  “So you’re going to do it?” she prompts.

  “As soon as I get back. Just got to pick up some bin liners, and then I’ll go home and have a huge blockfest.” I know she speaks the truth. I’ll light my candles, pour a big glass of cold Pepsi, and cut Dominic out of my life with an electronic katana. Or rather, I’ll put on an electronic suit of armour. Makes me sound like some sort of robot avenger for betrayed girls.

  “Excellent. Ring me when you’re done, yeah?”

  “Promise.”

  “Good. That bastard gave you enough scars without adding a few more mental ones.”

  Everybody assumes that Dominic hit me. I was such a state, after him. On the last night, he did raise his fist because I wouldn’t leave. He never landed it on me–maybe because I leapt back, or he lost his nerve–but I don’t correct people. How else would I tell them?

  How do I tell anyone that the biggest problem with Dominic was that he barely touched me at all?

  ***

  “That’s all done for you, ma’am,” says Sanjeet from the Indian call centre. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

  “No, but thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Have a wonderful day, ma’am. And thank you once again for using Vodafone.”

  “Thanks again.” I hang up.

  I have officially blocked Dominic–on my phone, email account, and on Facebook. I stare at the flickering candles across my windowsill, tiny flames against the dirty blue of fading sky. Deep breaths cool my throat. I haven’t lost anything, so why do I feel so…empty? Maybe I expected more of an event, per se; for horns to blare and cherubs to pour in, announcing the beginning of my Uncomplicated New Life.

  I’ve been home over an hour, and I did everything I could think of to avoid the blockfest: laundry, washing up, making a sandwich. I even started my accounting coursework but after ten minutes of battling Excel, sorting out the Dominic shit suddenly seemed more appealing. So here I am, sorted. And my skin crawls.

  I feel weird.

  Must distract self. Must not dwell. Maybe I’ll read The Waves, or make another sandwich. Maybe I’ll hit up the Cupboard of Shame and get good and wasted on…Haribo.

  You know how people who’ve lost limbs say they can kind of still feel the arm or leg, or whatever–that they sometimes get pins and needles in the space where the limb should be? It’s like that. Dominic is itchy air, occupying invisible space.

  I’ll finish the spreadsheet. It’s due tomorrow anyway, and–ugh, God. If I have to type one more string of formulae, I’ll have a stiff-bodied tantrum.

  Sighing, I load up the chat app on my phone and shoot Drew a message.

  Cait: I need a way to relax that isn’t booze

  Five seconds later:

  Drew: wank?

  Cait: v original

  Drew: it works!!!

  Huh.

  For whatever reason, Drew’s solution makes me think of being naked in tomorrow’s accounting seminar. I remember the way Art’s deep voice twisted as he suggested it, how the words grew husky on his tongue. I remember that I was actually watching his tongue. The air around me shifts, sending little shivers up my bare forearms.

  I am going to Google Art. I will balm the pins and needles by stalking him online showing a normal and healthy interest in a nice human being.

  Fortunately for me, there aren’t many people named Art Lyons on the internet…which is why the highest-ranking is result turns out to be the most interesting of all. Four years ago–when Art would have been twenty–a local newspaper did a write-up on him. He was to compete in the Senior Elite Championship, in the heavyweight class. There’s a photo of him standing beside a couple other thick-armed, slender-torsoed boys, his face softer and grin wider; a bald coach stands in the centre, his smile proud. Rising star Arthur Lyons youngest in ABA senior team, reads the tagline. But there was none of it on the personnel file; you’d think he’d mention that kind of achievement. Hell, you’d think Hazel would’ve bragged that we had him as an employee, let alone a client.

  Five minutes later, I discover that he
never competed. In fact there’s nothing else about him–except some social media profiles, all set to private–until I find a massage menu from a remedial therapy clinic in London, advertising him as a therapist. His headshot is recent, the same one used in his file. Those amber eyes stare back at me like milky streaks of flame. The camera’s wider here, the shot lower, and his clean, tanned hands rest lightly on folded arms. Everything about his pose says I know what I’m doing, and easy confidence spews from the tight shape of his jaw. I can’t reconcile the jitters I get when I look at him–one half of me is simultaneously comforted and ravenous, and the other half wants to pack her trunk and say goodbye to the circus.

  I can’t join up the idea of wanting a boy who barely touched me with wanting a boy who touches people for a living. The juxtaposition makes my throat dry.

  Vicky gives my door two knocks and then pokes her head into the room. When she spots me on the bed, surrounded by textbooks and with the laptop on my knees, her nose wrinkles. “You’re looking awfully studious.”

  “I was studious. For, like, ten minutes.”

  “Story of my life. Ca ne fait rien.” Vicky likes to indulge in Crap French for shits and giggles. She also has a knack for putting clothes together that would look utterly rubbish on me, and yet somehow look natural and cute on her. Today, it’s a turquoise skater dress with black opaque tights and pink Converse. “Whatcha up to?”

  “Nothing much. I like the dress.”

  “Merci beaucoup.” She shoves aside an accounting textbook and perches beside me. “Ready for Hans later?”

  “After today? God, yes.”

  “You know my feelings here. It’s your own fault for choosing a degree with maths in it.” She gives a mock shudder.

  “I wish it was the maths.” I grit my teeth. “I…Dominic sent me a message.”

  “Oh fuck. Was it mean?”

  “No. It was…normal. He just asked how I was.” I shrug helplessly. “Somehow, that was actually worse than if he was horrible. I got Mills to check online and he’s single again. Which means–”

  She snorts. “He’s trying his luck, huh? Deluded scrotclown. What planet is he on?”

  “Planet Deluded Scrotclown. Apparently.”

  Vicky gives me a pointed look. “I will never apologise for smithing hard.”

  “I’d never ask you to.” I lean sideways to nudge her shoulder with mine, which is my repressed and screwed up version of a best-friend-hug. “I like it when you smith.”

  “So what did you do? Please don’t tell me you replied.”

  “Actually…I blocked him. Like, on everything.” I should feel proud when I say that, but I don’t. The pin-prick ghosts graze their teeth against my skin. “So whatever he wants, it’ll all just bounce back to him.”

  “I am loving your work. Ooh.” She returns my shoulder nudge, nodding towards the screen of my laptop. “Who’s that?”

  I glance between Art’s warm eyes and Vicky’s expectant smirk. “Uh. I work with him.”

  “Since when?” she shrieks.

  “Since last week.”

  “And you’re just reading up on him because…?” She shoves me aside to read more closely. “London…blah blah…massage therapist? Seriously? Oh my God, Cait.”

  “Sports massage,” I say weakly, like it changes anything. Like it makes the idea seem any less erotic.

  “Those are some healing hands, all right.” She pretends to fan herself. “You can actually pay this fine specimen to oil you up, and you have yet to inform me? What kind of friend are you?”

  “One who hasn’t noticed your soft tissue injury.”

  Her big green eyes widen. “Soft tissue. My, my. You’ve been talking to him and everything.”

  “I think he might actually have flirted with me,” I say, not quite believing it.

  “You sure he wasn’t trying to get you on to his table? In a manner of speaking.”

  “Pretty sure.” I think. “Although he doesn’t know anyone else there yet, so maybe he just wants someone to talk to, or something.” I give it a week before the painted blond spa girls get their gel-manicured claws into him.

  “You do have a rather fine pair, Cait,” she says matter-of-factly, tossing a sweeping gesture towards my boobs. “All those Hans classes have made you hot, in case you haven’t noticed. Not like you weren’t hot before–you know what I mean.”

  “Uh…thanks?”

  “I’ll tell you how you can thank me. Remember how I would’ve totally told you about Rich’s cock?”

  I cough. “Unfortunately.”

  “I’m giving you two weeks and then I want to hear all about Art Lyons’ penis.” Vicky falls back to rest on her hands. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

  “I…I’m getting there,” I manage.

  “Hell yes, you are. Now. In other news, I have a completely awesome hair masque for us to try after swimming. So don’t bother packing conditioner, ‘kay?”

  *

  Hours later, we both stagger out of Hans’ studio to find the vending machine. I did thirty jump lunges during the final track and I’m not sure my legs will carry me much further than the pool; they feel like bad cake mix, stiff and lumpy. As we walk, I lift the straps of my black vest top, shaking cold air around beneath the sweaty fabric.

  “I can’t even eat cheese tonight,” Vicky says despairingly. She steps sideways to dodge a woman who’s holding her yoga mat like a battering ram. “Seriously. If I break this diet again, I’ll be so fricking angry with myself in the morning and–”

  “Hush. I’ll make skinny cupcakes tomorrow, ‘kay?”

  She swings around from the vending machine, her eyes widening in hope. “They actually exist?”

  I pat my towel over my forehead. “A hundred and seventy calories, icing included.”

  “You lie.”

  “And they don’t even taste like diet food,” I add, noticing the door of the boxing gym propped open again. Well isn’t that…interesting? “Don’t worry–I’ll leave you one and hide the rest, so you can’t eat a whole normal cupcake’s worth of calories when I’m not looking.”

  Vicky pretends to wince. “You know me too well.”

  Vague, hollow punching sounds drift out of the boxing gym. In the ring this time are two girls, one wearing pigtails and the other with short, afro hair. I watch them for a second before allowing my eyes to drift left, to the corner.

  The corner where Art is.

  My hot skin cools to see him, and my heartbeat, still thumping, becomes a dull thrust of blood that serves to tease. He doesn’t look like himself when he wears the bandages across his fists, when he punishes the bag with such robotic aggression. He seems altered. He seems changed and charged, like if I could only get closer, I’d see sparks flying from each punch, the impact creating soft blue clouds of electricity and dust.

  I’ve been staring but a minute when he turns. He reaches for a towel with one hand, brings a water bottle to his mouth with the other. Then his eyes catch mine, sparks and charge and all; his gaze draws up along my body, meandering around my hips and waist, and comes to rest on my open mouth. Slowly, he raises a hand to wave, his own mouth curving into a smile of acknowledgement. I don’t remember deciding to return the wave but I do it anyway–my fingers feel unusually light. I am a paper doll, and he is a match for the scraping. One swift sweep will send the pair of us up in flames. I can almost smell the smoke.

  Art turns back to the punch bag, and times speeds up again.

  Vicky appears beside me, sucking thick mouthfuls of Pepsi from a plastic bottle. “Oh, oh. That’s him, isn’t it?”

  “That’s him,” I say vacantly. My Fist Candy.

  We’re both staring at his back like a pair of drugged-up losers. It’d be embarrassing if it didn’t feel so damn good.

  She inhales in soft reverence. “He’s touched you, and everything?”

  “He helped me do sit-ups.”

  “You don’t know how…?”

&nbs
p; I shrug, still not looking at her. “Apparently not.”

  “Ooh.” She holds the Pepsi bottle to her forehead and sighs at the cool sensation. “Maybe I don’t, either.”

  “Hands off,” I mutter.

  Vicky pokes me with her elbow. Then she bursts into a huge grin. “He is the best anti-Dominic ever.”

  “That’s not what it’s about–”

  She puts a hand up. “You know what I mean. You deserved so much better than that arsehole, Cait.” She nods towards the pounding silhouette of Art. “You deserve that. Hell, you’ve earned him.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek, suddenly uncomfortable. I know a Drama Student Monologue coming on when I hear one. “I don’t even think it works that way.”

  “The universe may be fucked, Cait, but sometimes it gives you lemons. And sometimes it just gives you a beautiful boy with a beautiful cock, in which case, you make good use of him so you can tell your poor deprived best friend aaaaaall about it.”

  “What if it only gives me lemons?”

  “You bake something with them,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “And you use it to snare the beautiful boy.”

  I roll my eyes. “Right after I grill him a steak and do all his ironing, huh?”

  “Look at him, ma petit. I would iron everything he owns. Even a cat. He looks like he might have a cat.”

  “You would iron his cat. Right.”

  “And then he can cry on your shoulder. While he’s naked and all, oh God, Cait, why did God take my cat? My cat was all I had!” She beams at me again, triumphant. “Yeah, you can thank me later for that one.”

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday mornings are Crap Breakfast mornings. I go back to my old halls, where Rich and Drew still live, and we eat in the cafeteria before our digital marketing seminar. The block itself–a convenient five minutes from Hogwarts–is a concrete seventies monstrosity, but the old-style plumbing means it’s way warmer in the winter than the newer halls, which have one measly little radiator per room (New Hall is dubbed The Refrigerator by friends who live there). Each floor has seventeen bedrooms and one massive communal kitchen: great for socialising, but not so great for cooking. So most people go catered.