by India Knight
‘Not really,’ says Sarah, now stroking the husband’s jowls while maintaining eye contact with me.
‘Never mind,’ I say. What’s up with these women? Why do they all seem to believe that given half a chance I’d fuck their horrible husbands’ brains out on the spot? ‘Nice to see you again. I must find my friend,’ I mutter, peeling off.
‘That should have given her the message,’ I hear Sarah saying to her husband. ‘I can’t believe she tried it on with you.’
‘She’s just lonely,’ he says, loudly and with considerable effrontery, considering he asked me out for lunch and he lunged. Men are so pathetic, I tell myself as I stomp around the room crossly, and so are women, always willing to apportion blame to others of their sex. God. Still, I’m clearly evolving as a person now I have a social life: three months ago, I’d have turned back and given Sarah a piece of my mind.
Instead, I head for the back of the room, where there’s less of a crush, and am surprised to find myself face to face with the person responsible for the terrible din: Yungsta himself, resplendent in yellow track suit and bling-bling jewellery.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘How extraordinary. Hello! I’m Stella – we met the other day …’
‘Yeah, yeah, I remember,’ says Yungsta.
‘You’re doing the music?’
‘Thass righ.’ He gestures to some turntables, currently being manned by a mini-me version of Yungsta, also wearing a track suit. ‘I was gonna ring you.’ He mimes this, extending his thumb and little finger into an imaginary earpiece.
‘Do,’ I say, smiling my best smile. ‘That would be nice.’
‘Get together, yeah? Dinner or summink, yeah?’
‘Sure.’
‘I need to get back to me decks,’ he says apologetically. ‘But whatchou doin’ later?’
‘I’m with a friend, actually – I think we’re going on somewhere.’
‘I’m DJin’ in King’s Cross from about midnigh,’ he says, handing me a couple of comps. ‘If you fancy it. Come an say ello.’
‘OK. And if not, we’ll speak.’
‘Deffo,’ says Yungsta, nodding like a dog – what is he now? From Liverpool? ‘For sure. Dope.’
I make my way back towards the centre of the room again, past all the you-remember-Stella-she-was-with-Dominics, looking for Frank. When I find him, he is, surreally, speaking with the father of my child: there’s Dominic himself, looking slightly rumpled, holding court. I am briefly extremely depressed at the smallness of my world. And then I am lengthily quite seriously pissed off. Why didn’t he say he was coming? One tiny phone call wouldn’t have gone amiss. What about Honey? She sees her father rarely enough as it is – what if we’d been away?
‘Good grief! Why aren’t you in Tokyo?’ I say, as soon as I’ve managed to wade and elbow my way through the mini-crowd surrounding him.
‘Stella!’ He detaches himself from the group. T only got in a couple of hours ago. Guy’s an old friend – this is his space. How’s Honey?’
‘She’s fine. She’s lovely.’
‘I’m over for a few days – business. Can I come and see her over the weekend, when I’ve had some sleep?’
‘You might have warned me. You might have rung, Dom. We could have been away somewhere. But yes, come. She’ll be so pleased. You don’t see her nearly often enough.’
‘I’ll see her tomorrow. So what’s up, Stella? You look fabulous. Frank said you were here – speaking of absentee fathers,’ he adds, lowering his voice. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Fine. You?’ There is one thing troubling me, but this doesn’t seem like the ideal moment to ask my ex whether I snort when I come.
‘Oh, you know, the usual. Tokyo is wonderful – inspirational. Did you meet Keiko, by the way, the last time I was here?’
‘Yes, very briefly.’
‘She’s sleeping it off at the hotel, but I might bring her along at the weekend.’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, I’m out of here. Can I give you a lift anywhere? I’ve got a driver.’
‘No, actually – me and Frank are on a night out.’
‘Are you two …?’
Oh, not again. ‘No, Dom.’
‘Good. He’s not right for you, Stella. And I know him very well, remember – too well.’ He laughs. Dominic has a really unpleasant streak, I must say. ‘He’s doing brilliantly, of course. But I don’t have you down as a Newcastle Brown Ale drinker.’
I give Dominic a dirty look, which he ignores.
‘Plus,’ he continues, ‘he puts it about a bit. To put it mildly. And he’s not what you call reliable. As I told you, he has a …’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I know. I remember.’
‘Good,’ repeats Dominic. ‘Bear it in mind.’
Frank makes his way back towards us. ‘Don’t tell him I told you, will you?’ whispers Dominic. ‘Client confidentiality and all that. And anyway, better not to raise the subject with him, I’d have thought.’
‘Thank you for your kind advice.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ says impervious Dominic. ‘Anyway, look, I’ll ring in the morning. Maybe we could all have lunch or something. Great seeing you.’
‘And you. Speak to you tomorrow.’
Dominic leaves.
‘Enough?’ whispers Frank in my ear.
I notice the woman with the push-up bra noticing this, and I also notice that she doesn’t like it.
‘Yes. Let’s go. Where are we off to next, and will there be food? I’m starving.’
‘Didn’t you eat anything?’
‘Only a couple of those cherry tarts. Out of vanity rather than reluctance – the other stuff would have given me black teeth. Stupid sort of food to serve at a party.’
‘I’m quite hungry too, come to think of it. Do you fancy a curry? We’re just round the corner from Brick Lane.’
‘Oh, Frank, what a genius idea. Yes, please.’
He looks at his watch. ‘It’s half past ten. We could get something to eat and then on to the party.’
‘Perfect.’
Half an hour later and we’re sitting cosily in the fuggy, flocked haze of the Star of India, a magnificent pile of poppadums rising between us.
‘Do you enjoy those dos?’ I ask Frank. ‘Don’t you ever get bored of them? God knows I used to.’
‘Yeah, they begin to grind after a while. But then,’ he shrugs, dipping a corner of poppadum into some coriander and yoghurt chutney, ‘that’s true of all parties. There comes a point where you’d rather be at home.’
‘With your pipe and slippers and your Airfix kit. I believe you. Could you slow down with those poppadums please, pig? I want at least three.’
‘We’ll get some more. And you’re in no position to call anyone “pig”.’
I actually feel myself blushing at this.
He gives a wry smile and pushes the last poppadum my way. ‘Sorry, babe.’ He emits a tiny, barely audible snort, so I kick his shins under the table.
‘Do you ever miss Dominic?’ he asks, fiddling in his pockets for a lighter.
‘No. Why, should I?’
‘I don’t know. People do, don’t they?’
‘Well, I don’t. Do you ever miss your shags? Come to think of it, have you ever had a relationship that lasted more than an hour?’
‘It’s been known. What are you eating?’
‘It hasn’t been known while you’ve been living with me. What’s that about? Traumatic early relationship that broke up? Teenage sweetheart? Are you trying to fuck someone out of your system?’
‘No,’ Frank says, laughing. ‘Sorry. I’m thirty-five, not twenty.’
‘Have you had your teeth capped? They’re very neat. I’m having the chicken tikka masala, one paratha, one plain yoghurt, pilau rice, one sag bhaji, and perhaps you’d like to share some spicy potatoes? Will you remember my order? I’m dying for a pee.’
‘Off you go, Dr Freud,’ says Frank. ‘What do you want to drink
? Another beer?’
‘Please.’
When I come back from the loo, and from ringing Papa to check on Honey, who is up and watching Bear in the Big Blue House, Frank is leaning back in his chair, chatting to a couple of women at the table behind ours. They’re doing that giggly, eyelash-batting thing that women do when they fancy a man.
I sit down again.
‘See you,’ Frank tells the women, before turning his back on them. ‘I’ve ordered. Where were we?’ he says to me.
‘I was asking you about normal relationships. You know, anything more than ships in the night.’
‘And I was telling you I’ve had them.’
‘Who with?’
‘Girlfriends, Stella. There were a few long-term ones. Went out with someone for three years, actually’
‘Who was she?’ My heart is banging in my chest: here we go.
‘Local girl, up north.’
I say nothing. Neither does he.
‘Come on, Frank. And?’
‘And we went out for three years,’ he says in a patient-but-bored voice, ‘and it wasn’t really going anywhere, so we split up.’
‘And how did she take it?’
‘Not especially well. You don’t, though, as a rule, when you’re dumped.’
‘No. So …’ I brace myself by taking a sip of beer. ‘Are you still in touch?’
‘With Karen? No.’
‘Why not?’
‘What’s this?’ Frank laughs easily. ‘The Spanish Inquisition? Do you keep in touch with your old boyfriends?’
‘Yes, pretty much.’
‘What, all of them?’
‘No,’ I am forced to admit. ‘But most of them.’
‘I guess we just sorta drifted apart,’ he says in a corny American voice. ‘Next subject.’
Why can I never get him to talk about this?
‘What will happen, do you think?’
‘Happen where?’
‘To you. What’s your plan? Do you want to, you know, settle down?’
‘With my pipe and slippers and my Airfix kit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Eventually. But there’s plenty of time.’
‘Can I ask you something really old-fashioned, Frankie?’
‘Ask away.’
‘Do you ever feel that your life – your sex life, I mean – is sort of empty? You know, kind of unlovely.’
‘Unlovely?’
‘Yes.’
‘No. I don’t like living with people.’
‘But you live with me.’
‘But I don’t sleep with you. Cheers,’ he says to the waiter as our food arrives. ‘I hate,’ he continues, ‘all that moaning and whingeing and bickering you get after a while.’
So he has lived with people.
‘Perhaps you hate women,’ I point out through a mouthful of spinach. ‘Perhaps you’re gay.’
‘I’ve slept with a couple of blokes in the past, when I was at art college, but it wasn’t really my bag,’ Frank shrugs modernly. ‘I prefer women.’
‘But not to talk to or live a normal life with.’
‘I’m talking to you, aren’t I? Live with you, don’t I?’
‘Not the same thing.’ We munch in silence for a while. I know it’s immature, but I have to ask.
‘Up the bum?’ I say, trying to sound delicate.
‘What?’
‘With the men, did you do it up the bum?’
Frank is grinning at me quite wolfishly over the Bombay aloo.
‘Do you really need to know that, Stella?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you done it?’
‘Up the bum?’
‘Mmm.’
‘No. I have a phobia. Hygiene-based. Have you?’
Frank sighs. ‘You don’t feel this conversation is in any way too much information?’
‘No. I’m gripped.’
‘You’re exactly like a bloke,’ Frank muses. ‘You’re like a pretty bloke.’
‘But would you bum me if I were?’
‘I haven’t “bummed” a bloke, Stella, no.’
I nod, and then gasp. ‘Do you mean you were the bummee?’
Frank pushes his hands back through his hair.
‘You’re unbelievable, you know that?’
‘Tell me, Frankie. Tell your auntie Stella. Get it off your chest.’
‘No bums, OK? No bums. Christ.’
I generously reward him with a dollop of my spinach, before continuing.
‘What about with women?’
‘Back to bums?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘Gosh.’ I look up at Frank, who is spearing his rogan josh, unperturbed.
‘Don’t you think it’s sort of rude?’
‘Stella, you are many things but I didn’t have you down as a prude. What do you mean, rude?’
‘I mean, a woman has a perfectly good vagina, which you completely ignore, and that seems to me to be very bad manners. Also, it’s sort of rapey, don’t you think? Overly forceful.’
‘Makes a change,’ Frank says blandly. ‘From the other. That’s all. And anyway, some women ask for it.’
‘What, “Please do bum me”?’ I say incredulously.
‘Yeah. You know, treat me rough.’
‘Does anal sex make one a dirty ride?’
‘It can do. There’s no set of things you do to be a dirty ride. It’s possible to have dirty missionary position, if the girl’s dirty enough. But yeah, anal sex’s quite dirty.’
I go quiet for a bit, trying to take in all of this perfectly absorbing information.
‘Who was that bloke in the yellow you were talking to?’ Frank asks.
‘That,’ I tell him proudly, ‘was my next date.’
‘The DJ?’
‘Yes. Why, do you know him? He’s called MC Yungsta, or DJ Yungsta.’
‘He’s quite well known. Givin’ it large,’ Frank says in Yungsta’s exact accent, throwing ridiculous shapes with both his hands. ‘Make some noooooise.’
‘He’s called Adrian in real life.’
‘They all are. There used to be one called Mista Killa, who turned out to be a bloody vicar’s son from Penge. Called Nigel. Kickin’.’
We chuckle happily over this for a while.
‘And you’re going to go out with him? Christ, I’m stuffed.’
‘Well, he’s sort of asked, and I don’t see why not, do you?’
‘Nope. Well … No.’
‘So. I mean, it can’t be worse than Dr Cooper.’
‘I don’t suppose it can.’
‘Oof, I’m stuffed too,’ I say, pushing my plate away. ‘Though I could possibly squeeze in one tiny kulfi, if they have almond.’
‘Cheap date,’ observes Frank.
‘Oh, be quiet. Do you know,’ I suddenly tell him, ‘I’ve got a whole list of films about anal sex. It’s a game I used to play with myself.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, a film called Deep Impact came out, and I thought to myself that it sounded exactly like a film about anal sex.’
‘You’re a very silly girl,’ Frank says, but he is grinning.
‘And then I noticed there were loads of them … Unlawful Entry.’
Frank shakes his head and sighs, but his grin broadens.
‘And Backdraft.’
‘Oh, God,’ says Frank, beginning to snigger out loud. ‘Is this how you spend your time?’
‘It was a few years ago, when I was very bored. But it’s become a sort of ongoing thing. A hobby, if you like. I collect the titles now. There was an older one, with Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, which I caught on Channel 4 the other day. Unlawful Passage.’
Frank is really laughing now, choking on a corner of my paratha, gesturing me to stop. But I don’t. I am very much enjoying sharing my carefully garnered information.
‘There are the subtler ones, like Lethal Weapon, with Mel Gibson, do you remember? And The Deep. And
First Blood. And Blood and Thunder, though that sounds more windy’
‘The Wind Jammers,’ Frank chokes. ‘It was a classic when I was a kid.’
‘Oh, if you’re talking classic, there’s Gone with the Wind and A Passage to India.’
Frank motions at me to pass him my water. He takes a huge gulp.
‘I see,’ he says, sounding hoarse. ‘They divide into two genres really, don’t they – the actually anal and the more windy.’
‘Exactly,’ I beam back at him, pleased that he’s noticed.
‘Can I play too?’
‘Of course you can.’ I raise my beer glass to him. ‘Bottoms up. Welcome to the game. You need to come up with at least one a week.’
‘Done,’ he says, clinking glasses. ‘Do you know – ’ he wipes his eyes – ‘I haven’t had such a laugh for ages.’
‘That’s because you should try talking to girls,’ I explain patiently. ‘Instead of immediately sticking your hand down their pants.’
‘I don’t immediately stick my hand down their pants.’
‘Hmm,’ I sniff. ‘You could have fooled me. Here, taste my ice cream.’
Frank opens his mouth dutifully.
‘Perhaps you’re a sex addict, like Michael Douglas or your fellow ginge, what’s his name, the really plain one?’
‘Hucknall,’ Frank says, not laughing any more. ‘Mick Hucknall. Thanks.’
‘Anyway,’ I say chirpily, ‘less of the pant-hand and more of the chat next time, I reckon, and you’d be pleasantly surprised.’
‘Most women don’t have your conversational skills,’ Frank says with heavy sarcasm. ‘Or your great charm.’
‘Frankie, don’t be so babyish. I didn’t say you were like Mick Hucknall …’
‘Could you stop saying “Mick Hucknall” please?’
‘I didn’t say you were like him, or that you looked like him, even. He’s hideous and you’re, well, you’re very handsome, in a way. I mean, he’s a gargoyle, a child-frightener. You’d have to be blind. You’re much easier on the eye. Much.’
‘Cheers,’ he says, cracking a wan smile. ‘It’s just I can’t stand Mick Hucknall, and people are always mentioning him around me.’ He points upwards. ‘It’s a hair thing.’
Outside on the pavement, the wind is icy and it’s been raining. I am clinging to Frank’s arm, because standing up makes me realize how drunk I actually am. Frank’s drunk more than me but seems entirely sober.
‘Oh,’ I moan, as we stand, frozen, waiting for a cab. ‘I wish I had a lovely hot cup of tea.’
