Tainted Touch

by Lucy V. Morgan

  “Hmm.” That glorious little sound. His voice grows thick. “Am I that obvious?”

  “I think you forget how drunk you were on Saturday.”

  “Ha. Well. No chance of that tonight–I’ve got to get us back in the morning, so I’m on my best behaviour. Kindly stop trying to corrupt me, minx.”

  Best behaviour. And I’m already a withering, wet mess, just sitting next to him. Tonight is going to be…interesting.

  When the road pours us out on to the motorway, Art flicks about on his phone and the dial tone rings out loudly on speakerphone.

  “Arthur,” says a tired female voice with a strong BBC accent. “Do you want Bea?”

  “Hey Mom.” He rolls his eyes, ever so slightly. “Please.”

  “One moment.”

  What a very affectionate greeting. Not.

  A scuff of static rolls through the speaker, followed by distant voices with the same sharp accent. Footsteps. The electro-pop background noise of children’s TV.

  “Art!” Bea squeaks down the phone.

  A grin sweeps across Art’s face. “Busy Bea. How you keeping? Good day at school?”

  “Where are you going?” she asks, completely ignoring his questions.

  “I’m on a road trip, remember? Going to London, just like you do with Dad. Hey–did Mom give you my cap?”

  “Yeah. It fits me, you know. Can I have it when you die?”

  I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a dry laugh.

  “Busy–you can’t say stuff like that,” he says through gritted teeth, though he can’t hide his own amusement.

  “You laugh when I say it,” she says flatly. Her disapproval is comical. “And one day, you’ll die and then I can have your hat, okay?”

  “Okay, you win. Keep the hat.” He gives my knee another pat. “Want to say hi to my friend?”

  “Is she nice?” Bea asks, suddenly cautious.

  When he glances at me, something playful alights in his amber eyes. “I hope so. Otherwise, I’m having a rubbish weekend.”

  Ripples of young, musical laughter spill from Bea. “Yeah. That would suck.”

  “Now Busy. I’d like to introduce you to Cait, so say hi.”

  “Hi, Cait,” Bea sings.

  “Hi…Bea,” I say back, unsure whether I should be using her nickname. Feels like it’s a personal thing. “It’s nice to talk to you.”

  “Art, Art! Are you going to marry her?”

  The cringe hits my face so hard, it laces down to grip my belly. “We’re just friends,” I say, probably way too fast.

  Art, on the other hand, has a completely straight face. “I need to see if she’s nice first.”

  “Oh,” says Bea, dejected.

  “And when you get older and you meet a boy, you’ll have to decide whether he’s rubbish or not before you marry him,” he chides. “If he is rubbish, I’ll sort him out. And if he isn’t, I’ll sort him out anyway, just to be on the safe side.”

  Bea has to think about this. She hums. “When you get back, will you bring me an ice cream?”

  “It might melt in the car. How about we go and get some ice cream next week, yeah?”

  “But that’s so faaaaar awaaaaay,” she whines.

  “Fine, fine.” He feigns misery. “Guilt-trip me into bringing you a saggy box of melted ice cream. It’ll be warm and nasty, and you’ll have to suck it up through a straw, but hey…”

  “Okay. We’ll go next week.”

  “Good. I’ve gotta go now, Busy. See you on Sunday. Be good for Mom, all right?”

  “Love you!” she shrieks. “And I’m hanging up first!”

  “Love you t–”

  Dial tone.

  “Little madam,” he mutters, though there’s not a hint of malice in it.

  “She’s got a sense of humour on her.” I’m still half-gripped by my cringe. He talked about the marriage thing like it was completely normal, and I don’t know whether he has to fend off those kinds of questions a lot–ergo there are lots of girls–or he’s just used to Bea.

  Art rolls his shoulders, all nonchalant and smug. “Where do you think she gets it from?”

  Not his mother, evidently.

  I flex clammy fingers in my lap; fist to flare, fist to flare. “So when do you decide if I’m rubbish or not?”

  “Oh, I did that a while ago.” He keeps his hand on the wheel, the other resting on top of the gear stick, and stares straight ahead. “But it’s no fun just telling, is it?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Almost an hour later, we melt into the familiar highstreet of my childhood. The bloated concrete youth centre looms ahead, clustered by silver birches newly-budded and raw; charity shops and takeaways sit folded into the once-bustling street, symptomatic of the commuters who live here now. No wonder I was so desperate to escape to archaic, atmospheric Foxfield.

  “When I was growing up,” I say to Art, “we had one pizza place and one chip shop. They were the holy grails of the weekend. I swear there are like, two new Chinese places, just since I moved.”

  “See, Mom never did takeaway unless it was sushi from Marks and Spencer.” He wrinkles his nose. “We must have the only six-year-old who’d prefer a California roll to a McDonalds.”

  “Christ. I hope you weren’t cursed to such a fate.”

  “It was a struggle, but I fought long into the good night. And the curry houses.” He gives me a little salute. “This the right road?”

  “Yep.” We turn into Icklebury Close, a long, curving road that slopes up a narrow hill. Ex-council houses line either side in conflicting states of care and neglect; it looks like someone mashed them together at the seams. “Number forty one, on the right.”

  It’s plain how Art’s upbringing must’ve been different to mine. He sure as hell didn’t grow up in a pokey two-bed terrace with a bolshy hippy for a mother, but until he pulled up outside my house, I hadn’t really considered our differences on that level. There have been far more important things to contemplate–like whether my jumpsuit looks slutty, or whether Mills and Art will get on.

  Or whether there’s a tiny chance Dominic will be around. He lives about fifteen minutes from here, so it’s unlikely…but then I thought it strange he’d driven all the way to my flat to deliver that photo. Creeping fingers of wariness scuttle across my skin at the thought.

  “This is me,” I tell him, gathering my handbag. “I’ll go fetch Mills.”

  “You want to put her in the front? Might save her feeling…” He gestures between us. “Left out.”

  “Ooh. Good call.” After twenty minutes of semi-flirting and almost forty of yes-he’s-definitely-flirting, the atmosphere in the car is like sandpaper; we scrape down sensitive spots and wait for the shiver. It wouldn’t be kind to put Mills in the back like the proverbial third wheel. “Back in five.”

  “I’m definitely not going to put Radio Five on,” he says, one eyebrow cocked in mock dubiousness.

  “You enjoy your crappy sports commentators.”

  Mom isn’t one for gardening, as evidenced by the overgrown lawn of our front garden, faintly smattered with the first buds of spring daisies. A quince bush hangs in lumps around the side of the porch, its last fruit still gently rotting beneath bare branches. I step over them as I fumble through my bag for keys.

  Mills, waiting by the door, opens it before I can.

  “Caitlyn.” She gives me her usual flat, unimpressed smile–a complete piss-take of Mom’s–and shrugs her rucksack up on to her shoulder. “I’ve been waiting for ages.”

  “We’re on time,” I say.

  “You know what I mean. I’ve been staring out of the window for about half an hour, wondering if Mom’ll beat you to it.”

  Two years stand between me and Mills, and it’s never been more apparent. Normally, she rocks more eyeliner than her friend Loki, along with some serious cleavage. Not today. Her dark curls are yanked back in her ponytail, her face is bare, and she wears jeans and a t-shirt in place of her usual vel
vet-and-a-mini-skirt combo. For a second, I’m ashamed of my own arrogance in expecting her to make an effort–until I realise it’s not arrogance at all. This isn’t like her, and I’m worried.

  “What?” She squints at my scrutiny. “I’ll get changed when we get there.”

  “Just surprised to see your boobs covered,” I joke, badly.

  “Hardy ha ha, Cait. Come on. Introduce me to…well.” With wide eyes, she nods behind me to where Art now leans against the passenger door. “Your boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend!” I hiss. The dichotomy of this whole thing stifles me, though; the house Old Cait grew up in, and solid, warm Art standing outside with his thick arms folded, face shadowed with the first tendrils of a watery sunset. He looks like he stepped out of my teenaged dreams. “He’s…well, not yet, anyway.” Hope taints my words, dries them in my mouth.

  “It’s like that, huh?” She presses her lips together. “He must like you, taking you out like this. Taking us.”

  I grab her bag strap, tugging her out. “Come on then. Before Mom gets back.”

  “What’s his name again?”

  “Art.” Christ–I gave her his brief life history in a text last night, and Mills of the Dictionary Brain can’t even remember this?

  She follows me out to the car.

  Art steps aside and holds a hand out to greet her. “Hey–”

  She cuts him off, yanking his hand in an over-exaggerated shake. “Nice to meet you, Art. I’m Mills. Avenged Sevenfold, Chuck Palahniuk. Ketchup is a vegetable.”

  “This is Millie,” I add, somewhat dryly.

  Art does his best to look non-plussed, but he wears the crazy-eyed slant that he normally saves for Hazel. “A pleasure. Maybe I’ll start introducing myself to clients in the same way, mmm?” He reaches for her rucksack, tugging it away from her with easy grace, then walks down to put it in the boot. “I’ll be like, I’m Art. Bill Bryson. Bastille are shit. Hell yeah, fajitas.”

  “Definitely adds to the professional feel,” I say.

  “I like it.” Mills gives him a nervous smile. “Especially the Bastille bit.”

  “I aim to please.” He strides back round to the passenger’s seat. “Time we got back on the road, I think.”

  Once we’re back on the motorway, Mills passes around a tube of Pringles and Art outlines our plans for the evening: when we arrive, Aidan will already be at the theatre in Covent Garden, so we’ll park up, get ready and take the tube. Our seats, apparently, are five rows back from the stage and thus excellent. After the show, we’ll head back to the flat, where Art will cook dinner and Aidan will make cocktails. It all sounds very civilised and grown-up; I’m tempted to say as much, but don’t want to sound immature. I forget, but Art’s twenty-four–so older than me–and his brother is twenty-six. Older men always seemed to be something Other People had…and now here I am.

  I haven’t been to London in at least a year. Vicky used to drag me to shows when she had time, and her dad has financed many trips to The Globe, but uni work gets in the way these days. As we drive, trees shrink to bushes and shops become boutiques; semi-detached commuter belt houses become high-rises and tall, sandy blocks of new-build flats. In contrast, as the buildings grow smarter, the roads themselves are rougher, the streetlamp poles dented with scrubby weeds sprouting from their roots. London is a buzzing mess of contradictions, and the further we press into its smoky centre, the lower the sun sinks until it hangs in a massacre of blood orange clouds.

  I’d been in the backseat for twenty minutes when I realised Art was looking at me in the mirror. Before I knew it, I’d caught his eye, and we began to exchange secret glances that awoke the memory of his touch deep in my flesh–a brief bite of the bottom lip, or a soft twitch of a grin. Hormones become liquid fists, seizing at pulse points to clutch and squeeze; the nerves in my scalp prickle pleasingly. All the while, Mills babbles on about her mock exams with a faint wibble of panic, her hands clasped in her lap. Seriously wish I’d brought her some cake.

  “Yeah–why didn’t you bring cake?” she asks, pointedly.

  “There’s cake?” Art pipes up. “Where?”

  I give a helpless shrug. “Do I look like a bakery?”

  “Never fear,” says Art. “Aidan always has a junk food stash. I’ll dig it out as soon as we get in.”

  “He’s got a Cupboard of Shame?” I ask.

  “Erm. You could say that, yeah.”

  I haven’t actually told him about the Cupboard. In the words of Alice: curiouser and curiouser.

  The flat is situated over a furniture boutique in a cheerful corner of Kings Cross. We park behind, near an alleyway, and stomp up creaky metal stairs to the front door where Art swears under his breath as the burglar alarm goes off, stabbing random buttons until the siren fades. Inside, the place is teeny but well-kept–Rich would love it. A small kitchen diner, white except for a massive cactus on the windowsill, opens out on to a compact living area where a huge flat screen TV dominates the space. There, black leather sofas with square backs line the walls, and a couple of glossy books splay across a glass coffee table. A proper old-fashioned jukebox sits beside a door in a bright flash of colour. Black and white photos are blown-up in white frames; lithe naked models wrap themselves in each other, their partners’ hands obscuring their faces. Beautiful, erotic statues, unnerving me from their frozen canvas.

  Mills stops in front of one photo and drops her bag on the sofa. Her blue eyes stretch to drink in the model: he is topless, square-jawed, muscles cut by shades of grey. Curly hair, long enough to brush his ears, springs either side of a masquerade mask, where feathers and sequins suck against his profile. His glass features twist in a slightly scary “I’mma fuck you up, but you’ll enjoy it,” stare.

  “Your brother has some nice taste in art,” Mills manages, still gaping at the photo.

  Art looks away sheepishly. “Actually…that is my brother.”

  “Seriously?” She twists about, gesturing to other pictures where the model gropes both men and women. “So he’s…?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t discriminate.” Art pulls the fridge open and extracts a box of expensive-looking chocolates, which he deposits on the coffee table. “He says he’s equal opportunities in that regard.”

  I am beginning to see why the ‘honourable’ Mr Sebastian Lyons objects to Art hanging out with his brother. Still, I seem to remember Vicky bleating on about West End wages being terrible for London, yet Aidan has a smart set-up in an expensive area. He must be doing well for himself.

  “Bedroom’s through there.” Art points to the door beside the jukebox. “You two’ll sleep in there tonight, and me and Aid will have the sofas. We need to leave in about half an hour, if that’s okay–I’m going to grab a quick shower and then the bathroom’s all yours.” He gestures back to the kitchen. “Drinks are in the fridge, so help yourselves. Same goes for the chocolates–he’s got boxes and boxes of them. See you in a mo.”

  Behind me, the door clicks–Mills is already exploring the bedroom. Art beckons me over with a finger, and I blush as I obey.

  “Everything alright?” This close to him–and this alone–my skin feels like a hologram, faint and flickering and not quite holding me together.

  “Yeah. Of course.” He reaches out to brush his palm to my hip, the same way he did last Saturday when I’d thought he was going to kiss me. Only he doesn’t pull me into his arms this time–he’s content to just pat me softly, like he’s checking I’m still here. “Just…do me a favour, and don’t go through any of Aidan’s drawers or anything, okay?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. But there’ll be booze later–” He winces, “–and things have a way of occurring. If you sister gets curious, please try to put her off.”

  I pout. “But see, now I’m curious too.”

  “I’m sure he’ll tell you later. But it’s not my place.” He taps the side of his nose just once, and pulls his hand from my hip. A flash of he
at dissipates in its wake. “I’m gonna grab that shower. You go eat some chocolate for me.”

  “Well, I suppose if it’s an order…”

  “Damn straight, it is. I used to hate seeing it all go to waste.” He catches my quizzical look. “I lived here for about two months, while I got myself sorted. On that exact sofa.” He points to the one on the left.

  “You spent two months staring at your naked brother on the wall there?” I say, incredulous.

  He shrugs. “Didn’t bother me. Besides…he’s hardly naked, Cait. You can’t see anything.” A smile teases his full bottom lip. “Are you disappointed?”

  “Discombobulated.”

  He bursts into a full grin. “Ooh, she broke out the big words.”

  “You sound like Drew,” I chide.

  “Why do I get the feeling that isn’t a compliment?”

  “Go and get your freaking shower!”

  He shuffles off, flashing his eyes at me. “Yes, Miss.”

  And now I’ll spend the next ten minutes thinking of him in that shower, wondering what his playful mood would make him do with the soap if I was there. Marvellous.

  Turns out he’s right about the chocolates; when I open the American-style fridge, a whole shelf is dedicated to boxes of expensive truffles. Be still, my beating droolface–Godiva apple cinnamon balls. I grab the neat gold package along with two cans of Diet Pepsi, and take them through to Mills.

  It does not escape me that the crash of the shower floats into the living area, or that Art appears to be humming November Rain beneath it.

  Mills is already starfishing on the bed. It’s massive, piled high with white pillows, and takes up most of the room. Mirrored tables sit either side, their silver surfaces spotless; a huge fitted wardrobe encompasses the opposite wall.

  “Feels weird, knowing this is that dude’s bed,” she announces with a frown. “But it’s so…comfy.”

  “If you’re getting changed, best hurry up.” I put the chocolates and Pepsi on her side of the bed. “Here you go–sustenance.”

  “Not sure I can eat. My stomach’s all funny.”

  I pause, hands deep in my bag in search of the red lipstick. “Mills…is everything alright? With you, I mean.”