by Emlyn Rees
‘Er, no. It’s probably a good idea if I clean the dirt off it first.’ I take a swig of my wine. ‘And fix the wheel. The front one.’ I grimace. ‘It got sort of wrecked on the last jump.’
‘For someone who’s not into kids, you make a pretty good one yourself.’
The hours slide by smoothly, and before I know it Hot House is empty apart from us. I call over a tired-looking waiter and ask him for the bill. I even manage to pay for it and turn down Amy’s offer of going Dutch without visibly wincing.
Her flat’s only about a mile away and so, partly because it’s the kind of hot summer night specifically designed for walking beneath the stars, and partly because I’ve only got enough cash left on me to pay for a cab to the end of the street, I say I’ll walk her home.
‘That stuff you said last week about not having had sex for ages,’ I say. ‘Was that true?’
This could piss her off. Luckily, though, it doesn’t.
‘Yep. Almost six months, if you want to know the gory truth. Something of a personal record. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m just surprised, that’s all.’
‘How’s that?’
‘I don’t know,’ I begin. ‘You’re good-looking, you know … And you’re fun. You just don’t seem the type to end up going without – unless that’s what you want …’
She laughs, says, ‘I’ve been out with my fair share of losers, and now I’m holding out for someone I really fancy.’
‘A case of where are all the good guys, you mean?’
‘Exactly.’
We turn off the main road into a side street, walk fifty or so yards in silence and stop outside a Georgian terrace block.
‘This yours?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. Home sweet home.’
And I say, ‘So …’
And she says, ‘So …’
Suddenly wanting to be the good guy she’s been looking for, there are certain events which I hope might occur at this juncture. She might:
a) Ask me if I want to come in for a coffee
b) Put on some music and sit next to me on the sofa in her living room, sipping her coffee and waiting for me to make a move
c) Forget the coffee and jump me
What I’m not expecting, but what, to my horror, she does, is:
a) Thank me for a lovely evening and for walking her home
b) Briefly kiss me before disengaging and taking a step back
c) Tell me to call her next week
And then she turns her back on me and walks to the entrance of Kit-Off Manor, opens the door and goes inside and shuts it firmly behind her.
I stand.
I stare.
‘Fuck.’
That one word, I manage, but apart from that I’m left speechless.
So much for the good guys getting all the luck.
Getting In
‘You’re kidding,’ Matt says.
It’s the following morning. A couple of minutes ago, Matt came through to the kitchen to find me slumped over the table, gazing at the steam rising from my tea through sleep-starved eyes. My mental health was low, visibly so. He asked me what was wrong. I gave him the lowdown on the previous night’s disaster.
‘Do I look like I’m kidding?’ I snap back.
He sits down opposite me and runs his hand through his bed-battered hair.
‘No, mate, you look like you’re losing your touch.’
‘Thanks.’
He shrugs. ‘So … what next? You going to call her?’
‘Now you’re kidding.’
‘Why? She sounds keen enough. Probably worth a second go – if you’re up for it. Are you?’
‘Well, of course I’m bloody up for it. I wouldn’t have taken her out last night otherwise, would I? Being up for it isn’t the point.’
‘So what is?’
‘The point is, going out on a date is fine. That, I can handle. What I can’t handle is getting blown out by someone who then expects me to call them up and take them out again. I mean, Christ, where’s that going? Same thing might happen next time. And the time after that. Next thing I know, I’m living Groundhog Day – without ever getting the girl.’ I light a cigarette. ‘The point is, Matt, that last night everything went perfectly and she still binned me on the doorstep. The point is that I’m fucking pissed off.’
‘It’s not like it was a total blow out. You got a snog.’
‘You’re not listening. I didn’t take her to Hot House and cough out Christ knows how much just for a snog. Snogging’s what kids do. I’m a consenting adult, for Christ’s sake. If all I’d wanted from the night was somewhere wet to put my tongue, I’d have bought a fucking ice cream.’
‘Only trying to help.’ His grin doesn’t convince me of his sincerity on this point.
‘Well, you’re not.’
‘Don’t take it so bad. There’s probably a perfectly good explanation for her acting like that.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe she’s a bit old-fashioned. Doesn’t want to look easy.’
‘She’s not old-fashioned. That’s the last thing she is.’
‘Well, maybe she’s on. Off games week.’
This conversation’s doing my head in, so I change it. ‘What about you? How was the party?’
‘Good,’ he says, taking my cigarette and having a drag. ‘Linda was there. Asked after you.’
Linda’s a bunny-boiler, a one-night dream who turned into a six-week nightmare. Phonecalls, letters, emails … the kind of case study Freud would have killed for.
‘What did you tell her?’
‘Same as we agreed I would, if I ever bumped into her: that you’ve turned God Squad. Don’t go out. Gone celibate. The whole deal.’
‘And she believed you?’
‘You questioning my ability to feed a girl a line?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Good.’
I take my cigarette back.
‘What about you? Any luck?’
He doesn’t need to reply. I hear footsteps heading towards the kitchen, then the door swings open and a girl appears. She’s nice, I have to admit. Even with the pillow creases fresh on her face. Even with Matt’s dodgy old dressing gown – his only sentimental and unfashionable item of clothing – wrapped round her.
‘Hello,’ she says to me, her voice husky from too many cigarettes and drinks, ‘I’m Sian.’
‘All right,’ I mumble.
‘Okay if I fix myself a coffee?’ she asks Matt, heading for the kettle.
‘Go ahead,’ Matt replies. ‘Only you’d better make it quick. Me and Jack here have got to leave for Bristol in about half an hour.’
She looks confused. ‘Oh?’
‘My mother’s sixtieth. Surprise party. I told you last night. Remember?’
She doesn’t, but then again why should she? This must be about the tenth surprise sixtieth Matt’s mother’s had to my knowledge. No matter. She says she’ll hurry. I hang around for a few minutes, listening to their small talk shrinking towards microscopic, then excuse myself, saying I’d better get my bag together for Bristol. Matt winks at me, grateful for my participation in the scam. I can’t bring myself to signal him back. To tell the truth, I’m a little hacked off with him. Purely on a jealousy level. He’s got a doe-eyed, shagged-out girl in the kitchen. Where’s mine? That’s what I want to know. Hey, Amy! I want to shout. Where’s mine?
This frustration hangs out at the back of my mind throughout the next day. At first, I do a pretty good job of ignoring it. But it doesn’t last. Saturday night, I head out drinking with Matt, Chloe and Co. When Chloe asks me how it went with Amy, I tell her it was OK. When she asks me for details, I cut the conversation cold. I get blitzed and get talking to some girl. Only I can’t get into it and so I cab it home alone.
I am, of course, aware that this is a Sign. What happened with Amy has shaken my confidence. You do everything right and it works out wrong. So what does that mean? That
Matt’s right? That I’ve lost my touch? That my pulling days are drawing to a close? That Amy’s getting to me?
I don’t like the answers I come up with.
Sunday afternoon I go for lunch at Zack’s with Matt and he tells me to forget it. Just put it down as a bad experience. Don’t dwell. So I won’t. McCullen to look forward to on Friday. Concentrate on that. Only I then get back to the house to find a message from her, saying that she won’t be able to make Friday because she’s going up to Glasgow to watch Jons playing in some crappy student rock festival.
Come Monday afternoon, I admit to myself that I do have a problem. And my problem has a name: Amy. I keep catching myself staring at the phone. The urge to call her is there, no point in kidding myself it’s not. This doesn’t make sense. I try to analyse what’s going on in my head. The only relief I find is that the main emotion I’m feeling is anger. I’m angry with her for leading me on. And I’m angry with myself for failing to achieve closure. Bollocks, I’m just angry. It’s obvious she fancies me, so what’s her problem?
I’m not going to call her.
But, as it turns out, I don’t have to.
Wednesday night and I’m sitting in the living room, listening to the radio and reading the paper, when the phone rings and the answerphone message kicks in: ‘Hi, Matt and Jack aren’t here right now. Please leave a message after the tone and we’ll get back to you.’
And I listen to the beep and then I listen to the caller’s voice.
‘Hi, guys. Amy here. Hope you’re both well. This is a message for Jack. Just ringing to say—’
And then I do the strangest thing. I pick up the phone and say, ‘Hi, Amy. How’s things?’
When I replace the receiver and check out the clock, the surprise I feel when I see that I’ve been talking to her for over an hour is only surpassed by the overwhelming sensation of shock at what I asked her and what she agreed to. Dinner. My place. Friday night. Like, hell-o? Who’s going to cast her from his mind and get on with his life? Who’s not going to arrange another date? Not ever?
OK, so I’ve fucked up.
I’ve fucked up and I’m smiling.
Work that one out.
I give Phil, a mate of mine who also happens to be a top chef, a call. He owes me a favour for fixing him up with a date with Chloe last year. I call it in. One three-course meal for two to be delivered here on Friday afternoon. Nothing too complicated. Something I can chuck in the fridge, then oven it when Amy arrives and make out what a great cook and all round nineties guy I am.
Sorted.
Nothing can go wrong.
I will get my woman.
I will make amends for my failure last week.
Friday evening comes and Amy arrives on time. I lay it on thick. She wants romance? That’s what it’s going to take? Fine. I’ll be her Valentino. The table’s already laid in the living room, the curtains drawn. Ella Fitzgerald’s singing about hearts and hurts. Candlelight flickers across the walls. As I serve up the food (Phil’s) and pour out the wine (Matt’s), I’m almost convinced of the situation myself.
But not quite. Because Jack the Lad is back.
We wine.
We dine.
I feed her lines.
I know, deep down, she will be mine.
But my cynicism doesn’t last. Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe I’m just not as immune to the effects of candlelight and wine and a beautiful woman as I thought I was. Maybe it’s because, halfway through the meal, she gets up and changes the CD. Only puts on Cat Stevens. Only puts on the one CD everyone I know hates and I adore. Or maybe it’s just that I like her. Our conversation’s indicative of this decline in my predatory standards. It doesn’t stop. Not once. Topic runs into topic, an endless row of dominos. I’ve got to admit it: she’s a find. I can’t remember having talked this much for ages, not since I was a kid and my imagination ran wild. Not to Chloe. Not even to Matt.
‘So why did you chuck her?’ she asks, kicking her shoes off and sitting back on the sofa beside me.
She’s just finished drawing me the heart-chart of her life, telling me all about her shithead of an ex, and now it’s my turn. I feel myself closing up. Talking about Zoe and why we broke up isn’t something I’m good at. It’s something I’ve avoided doing ever since it happened. It gives too much away, leaves me exposed.
‘Just because,’ I say
‘You can’t just chuck someone you’ve been seeing for two years just because.’ She studies my face, shakes her head. ‘Or maybe you can.’
I’m about to change the topic, but then our eyes meet. And, suddenly, I can see right through her and I know it’s OK to let it all out. There’s no wolf lurking there, waiting to eat me alive, no judgement waiting to be passed. I look down at the floor and I don’t know whether it’s the booze or me that’s doing the talking. I don’t even care.
‘I loved her. Right up to when we broke up. That’s the fucked-up thing. I still wanted to be with her, even when I was telling her that I was leaving. It doesn’t make much sense, does it?’
‘These things never do.’
‘It’s just that I knew she wasn’t … all that stuff people say about there being someone out there who’s made for you, someone who fits you perfectly. She didn’t. She was wonderful and she was beautiful. But she wasn’t the one. And I wasn’t the one for her.’ I light a cigarette, take a swig of my wine. ‘Whatever. It wasn’t meant to be. History.’
‘And since then? You found her?’
‘Who?’
‘The woman who fits.’
‘No,’ I admit, ‘I haven’t even come close.’
‘I guess we’re both due some luck, then,’ she finally says.
And the real me knows that this is my cue to lunge. The real me is holding up a flashing neon sign, which reads, ENTER JACK THE LAD. NOW! MAKE YOUR MOVE. This is where I should think that the only luck worth considering is mine, and the only consideration is that it’s now officially In. So how come when I look at her and she smiles, all I manage to do is smile back? Why am I afraid that if I pounce and she’s not ready, then all this might come to an end, that all this talk will have been just that: talk? And how come I believe that what she’s saying might be true?
Because Matt’s right, that’s how. Because I’m losing my touch.
She gets up from the sofa and walks to the window, draws back the curtain and stares up into the sky. I stay where I am, try to shake the alcohol from my mind.
‘This is one of life’s good nights,’ she announces.
‘Yeah,’ I agree, ‘the kind of night you don’t want to end.’ And this is better. This is more like the old me. Feeling back on track, I say, ‘The last thing you want to do on a night like this is end up sleeping—’
Alone. I’m about to say, alone.
But, before I can, Amy turns and walks towards me, her face suddenly animated.
‘Really?’ she asks.
‘Really,’ I confirm.
‘Well, there’s a party. An old college mate. We could go there, if you like. What do you say? Are you up for it?’
And, yes, I am up for it, but, no, I’m not up for that.
But she doesn’t even give me a chance to reply. Before I can stop her, she’s reaching for the phone and calling a cab, replacing the receiver and returning to the window.
Inside the cab, she gives the driver the address of the party and we head on up the street. It’s dark outside and the radio’s playing some dance track, and I’m thinking, Why didn’t you make your move before the cab turned up? Two seconds, that’s all it would have taken.
Bugger.
For a moment, stoicism descends. Maybe this whole Amy deal is jinxed, just not meant to be. Maybe that’s why I keep on blowing it. Way things stand right now, I can see how the evening’s going to pan out. We’ll get to this party and Amy will know a million and one people and I won’t know squat. She’ll go schmoozing and I’ll go boozing and, chances are, Nothing Will Happen. The Moment Will H
ave Passed. I stare out of the window at the street lamps flashing by and I can feel her leg against mine. And I’m thinking that the only way I can rectify the situation is to do now what I should have done then.
And so I do.
I kiss her.
As kisses go, it’s a good one. Not the best. That honour goes to Mandy Macrone, the first girl I ever kissed. That was electric. Literally. We both had fixed braces and when they touched it was like sticking a fork into a plug socket. Still, this is a good kiss. This is a kiss I want to last.
Shame is, it doesn’t look like Amy agrees.
But after I hear what she says next, I’m quick to forgive.
What she says is: ‘Let’s bin the party, go back to yours instead.’
And I want to scream. I want to jump up and down. I want to graffiti YES! on every building in the street. I want to thank my teachers and my parents and my friends and everyone who’s ever been there for me. Losing my touch? Fuck you, Matt Davies. Watch this.
‘Good plan,’ I say. ‘Let’s do it.’
The only person not happy with this turn of events is the cab driver. I tell him he can have his money anyway, just turn round and take us back. And then he’s happy, too. Jesus, the whole world’s smiling. He drops us back outside Matt’s and I pay him and we get out. We go inside and I shut the front door behind us.
And then the fun begins.
It starts against the wall, moves down the corridor and continues at the bottom of the stairs. Behind us is a trail of clothing: my jacket, Amy’s coat. Not that I’m not looking behind me. Forget that. I’m looking straight ahead, concentrating on the matter in hand (the matter in both hands, at least).
My fingers are off on autopilot, performing an exploratory mission. First, they scout under her top and under her bra, across her breasts. They hang around her nipples for a while, as she pushes against me and unbuckles my belt. Then they move down, gripping her buttocks and pulling her close. Then round, over her thighs, under her skirt, inside her knickers.
The preliminary findings thus far relayed to Ground Control include:
a) Expensive bra
b) Expansive tits
c) Stiff nipples
