by Emlyn Rees
I doubt very much whether Fred was aware of his soaring social status, or just how many girls in Rushton fancied him, but I decided that I was going to win. As I saw it, Fred rightfully belonged to me. I knew him best, I lived closest and I had the greatest chance of seducing him. So the night before the disco, just to make sure Fred knew what was on offer, I deliberately left the curtains open as I undressed.
At the back of the Memorial Hall the mud had frozen into hard ridges and the puddles were glazed with ice, but I still felt in a warm, cheery mood. After several hours of preening around at Pippa’s house I felt prepared: my eyelashes bowing with an extra-thick slick of electric-blue mascara, my lips lined and glossed in strawberry and everywhere else perfumed with half a can of Impulse body spray. Not only that, I had booze and cigarettes.
‘What’s that?’ asked Pippa, as I proudly unscrewed the top of an orange squash bottle and breathed in the pungent vapours of the murky brown concoction I’d surreptitiously siphoned off from the bottles in my dad’s drinks cabinet.
‘Gin, Martini, Cinzano Rosso … and something green.’
Pippa wrinkled up her nose when I proffered the bottle. ‘Won’t we get smashed?’
‘That’s the general idea,’ I said with a grin.
‘But it’s freezing, Mickey, can’t we drink it inside?’ begged Pippa, stamping from one foot to the other, the Father Christmas dangly earrings she’d bought for tonight swinging in time. There was no reason why she should be cold, what with her sensible shoes and the mohair scarf which peeked out of her warm school coat.
‘No,’ I insisted. As I’d already explained, it would be seriously uncool to arrive before Fred. There was no way I was going to be a groupie. Pippa and I would make our entrance when it was guaranteed we’d be noticed.
‘Drink it. It’ll warm you up,’ I suggested.
Pippa took a swig, winced and slapped her chest, before handing it back. I ground the end of my cigarette under the toe of my new black patent stilettos and peeked round the corner to get a look inside.
Through the open doors it was clear that the Memorial Hall had been transformed. The home-made straw nativity scene had been obscured by the Terry’s Disco, hired all the way from Bowley. Red, blue and green lights pulsed from the bar across the loud disco, while the large mirror ball suspended from the ceiling cast shadows around the walls like a shoal of darting silver fish and turned the scuffed old floorboards below into a magical whirlpool. Above it, streamers hung down from a net of pink balloons, which bobbed in the draft as everyone arrived.
A shiver of excitement rushed through me as I pressed myself up against the wall out of sight and took a hefty swig from the bottle.
‘You’re getting frost on your fringe,’ said Pippa.
‘Am I?’ I asked, carefully dabbing my crimped and back-combed fringe, which was sprayed solid with glitter spray. ‘Will you go and look, then?’ I asked anxiously.
Pippa rolled her eyes. This was the twentieth time I’d asked her in as many minutes.
‘Go on,’ I pleaded.
With a bored scowl, Pippa left our hiding place and went to look inside.
‘Yes, he’s there,’ she reported a minute later.
I clapped my hands with glee. Tonight was going to be a good one. ‘How do I look?’ I asked, pulling down the hem of my pencil skirt towards my knees, the skin of which had gone a mottled blue.
‘Fine,’ said Pippa.
Paranoid, I smelt my armpits. ‘I don’t have BO, do I?’ I checked, gripping my batwing top and shoving it towards Pippa.
She coughed and waved in front of her nose. ‘No,’ she said, squinting.
‘Come on, then, let the party begin.’ I smiled as I sashayed towards the door.
Inside, as the music pumped out, I could feel the anticipation building, as the tables around the dark edges of the hall filled up.
‘There he is,’ I said, nudging Pippa, looking over to see Fred talking to Dave and a gang of our old mates from Rushton Primary. Fred looked far more sophisticated than the lot of them in a blue stripy shirt, and he swept his long fringe out of his eyes as he talked.
Squeezing my lips together, I wrapped my thin satin jacket over the orange juice bottle to smuggle our illegal booze in and walked my best walk across the hall to a table in the corner.
‘Is he looking?’ I asked Pippa through gritted teeth.
‘Mickey,’ she grumbled.
‘Is he?’ I insisted.
Pippa turned round and looked directly over to Fred. ‘Yes,’ she said, raising her hand to wave.
I grabbed it. ‘Don’t.’ I eyeballed Pippa menacingly.
‘What?’ she asked, exasperated.
‘The whole point is to play hard to get,’ I said, quickly sitting down at the table, pretending to be completely oblivious to the boys. I waved to Annabel, Lucy and Claire, and before long our table was chocka-block full of Bowley Comp girls.
We didn’t have to wait long before the disco was in full swing. With a midnight curfew only four precious hours away, and the limitations of orange juice and Coca-Cola being served from the Memorial Hall kitchen, everyone had brought their own alcohol and was determined to get stuck in as quickly as possible.
‘So is there anyone you fancy, Mickey?’ shouted Annabel over the music, as she surreptitiously divvied up her bottle of Cinzano and lemonade.
‘Maybe,’ I replied. ‘What about you?’
She nodded, looking meaningfully in Fred’s direction. ‘But I’m not telling.’
Feeling cross, I got up and started a tireless campaign on the dance floor. I wasn’t going to play her game. I wasn’t going to be that obvious. Instead, I made it clear that I didn’t have a care in the world, leading our new dance routines, as I stood in line with Claire, Maria and Denise. By eleven o’clock, Fred hadn’t had the chance to get near me.
‘Relax!’ I sang, in time to Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s hit, flicking out my foot, my hands on my waist as I jumped round ninety degrees in line with the others.
‘Mickey!’ It was Lisa shouting in my ear.
‘What?’
‘It’s Pippa. She wants you. She’s in the loos.’
Lisa thumbed over her shoulder towards the toilet door at the back of the hall.
Pushing my way to the front of the queue, I knocked loudly and called out for Pippa. I heard the bolt being moved inside and pushed open the door. Pippa was kneeling on the speckled maroon lino, hugging the toilet bowl. She looked up at me, her eyes bloodshot and her hair clumped into puke-soaked rat’s tails.
‘Oh no, Pippa!’ I pulled the cubicle door shut behind me.
‘Ugh,’ she managed in greeting, before throwing up her guts. I turned away, gagging at the smell of regurgitated alcohol and half-chewed peanuts.
Pippa groaned and I rubbed her back, hearing the muffled sound of the disco.
‘Grab your partners, ladies. We’re slowing things down,’ Terry crooned, the microphone squeaking with feedback as he changed the record. It was Wham!, ‘Last Christmas’, my favourite record. I couldn’t miss this one.
Panicked, I bent down. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked. ‘Only it’s the –’
Pippa interrupted with a violent gush of vomit. Spitting and coughing, she let out a whimper. ‘Don’t go, Mickey,’ she begged, looking up at me. Even in the dim light of the toilet I could tell she was pale green.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ I said, as kindly as I could, crouching down beside her, and trying unsuccessfully to mop up with the shiny paper loo roll, as I listened with a sinking heart to my favourite lyrics going on without me.
‘Who’s in there?’ It was Mrs Bevan-Jones, Rushton’s Youth Club Manager, who was running the drinks stall from the kitchen. ‘There’s a queue out here.’
Gingerly I opened the door of the cubicle and slipped out. ‘It’s Pippa. She’s not feeling very well.’
‘Oh?’
‘I think she’s got food poisoning,’ I lied. ‘She’s puke—’ I caught sig
ht of Mrs Bevan-Jones’s scowl. ‘She’s terribly sick.’
‘Oh, dear,’ tutted Mrs Bevan-Jones. ‘She’ll have to move out of here. Perhaps the vicar will take her home.’
Behind us I could hear Pippa straining as she threw up get again. ‘Mickey?’ she bleated.
‘Hang on,’ I called.
I looked at Mrs Bevan-Jones. ‘I think it’s best if I go and get some water,’ I said with a grimace. Mrs Bevan-Jones nodded and pushed me aside, rapping on the toilet door. Guiltily, I slunk away. I knew Pippa would be furious, but Mrs Bevan-Jones was the authority on first aid. What she didn’t know about giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a Tiny Tears doll wasn’t worth knowing and, when she finally sobered up, Pippa would thank me for leaving her in such capable hands.
Already, the dance floor was a seething mass of swaying couples and I searched frantically for Fred, ducking round the edge of the room to try to see him. It didn’t take me long. In the middle of the crowd, Annabel had her arms wrapped tightly round Fred’s neck. Even with her eyes closed it was clear that she was steering him straight for the dangling bunch of mistletoe. I stopped, rooted to the spot in the shadows, my throat constricting as I watched them sway to the dance I’d planned for myself. Then Terry released the string and the net full of balloons fell from the ceiling and everyone looked up, their faces delighted as the balloons cascaded romantically among them. Turning on my heels, blinded by tears, I marched through the door and out into the night.
Outside, it had started to snow. I turned up my thin collar, shivering as thick flakes wafted down around me, settling in a fine layer on the steps of the Memorial Hall. Ahead, the road was deserted, the white stillness only broken by the frenetic circuit of coloured lights in the plastic Santa Claus frieze in the Spar window. I trudged out, my hopes shattered, as George Michael crooned on in the warmth behind me.
What was I thinking of? Of course Fred was going to go with Annabel. What chance did I possibly stand? Why would he think of us as anything other than old friends?
‘Mickey! Wait.’ I heard Fred’s voice shouting out behind me and stopped, not turning back. Quickly I wiped my face and dug my hands deep into my pockets.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, out of breath as he caught up with me. He looked cold in his shirtsleeves, his cheeks pink as he pointed back at the Memorial Hall.
I shrugged and looked down at my feet. They’d been fine when I was dancing in the disco, but now they were killing me. ‘Home,’ I mumbled, avoiding Fred’s concerned look. The last thing I wanted was for him to see how upset I was.
‘Don’t you want to stay till the end?’ he asked, looking back at the disco.
I screwed up my nose. ‘It was getting boring,’ I said, walking on and trying to stop myself limping.
‘I thought we were going to dance,’ said Fred and I could hear the disappointment in his voice.
I turned round. I could see plumes of white vapour coming from Fred’s mouth, as the snow started settling in his hair. ‘Did you?’ I said, managing to sound casual. ‘You looked busy to me.’
‘Don’t be like that,’ he implored. ‘Come on, I’ve hardly seen you since I came home. Come back inside.’
Stubbornly, I shook my head.
‘But it’s Christmas.’ He took a step towards me.
‘So?’ I grouched, refusing to be cajoled by his friendly tone.
Fred rolled his eyes at me and smiled. ‘So, if you’re not going to dance with me inside, Mickey Maloney, I’ll just have to dance with you out here,’ he said, laughing as he grabbed me and pulled me into the middle of the road.
‘Fred!’ I protested, but I was smiling as he put his arm round my waist and held my hand in his. Inside the Memorial Hall the muffled strains of Tina Turner singing ‘What’s Love Got To Do with It’ seeped out from under the door as Fred swung me round in the road.
‘Hello, stranger,’ he said, smiling down at me. ‘What do you want for Christmas?’
You, you idiot, I felt like shouting. Instead, I shrugged and adopted my friendliest ‘old mates’ tone. ‘Nothing much. It’ll probably be jumpers as usual. Grandma Ritchie is coming and you know how mad she is. What about you?’
‘We’re not talking about Christmas at ours. Miles hasn’t turned up yet.’
‘What? You mean you haven’t seen him?’
‘Nope. Mum’s in a filthy mood about it. If he doesn’t show, I expect Christmas will be cancelled.’
‘I’m sure it’d be all right if you come to ours,’ I said. ‘We’ll just be watching telly and stuff. I think there’s a James Bond on …’ My voice trailed away as my eyes melted into Fred’s.
‘Mickey?’ He wiped a snowflake from the end of my nose.
‘What?’
‘Shut up,’ he said, pulling me towards him and wrapping his arms tightly round me. And then, as the soft snow fell around us and covered our footprints, he kissed me.
The café owner wipes some spilt sugar off my table, interrupting my reverie. Smiling, I pay for my coffee and take the breakfast I’ve ordered over the road to Fred’s house. I’m convinced that my visit can’t be interpreted as anything other than a friendly drop-by and that Fred will be happy to see me. Yet as soon as my trembling finger leaves the bell, my courage deserts me.
In the vital moments as I wait to see Fred’s shadow on the other side of the glass panels in the door, doubts crash into my head. Fred, or the concept of Fred, is just in my imagination and pursuing these feeling is like attempting to sail off into the sunset in a much loved, but nevertheless punctured, rubber dinghy. I’m being ridiculous; seeking out friendship from a man I haven’t seen or heard from in fifteen years. Surely it’s just fluke that we still get on and make each other laugh? I’m simply being sentimental for old times’ sake, because once he was a boy I had such overwhelming feelings for that I thought I’d die without him. But now? Now he’s a man and he’s probably safely cuddled up in bed with the woman he’s going to marry.
Every impulse in my body tells me to run and the longer I stand glued to the doorstep the longer I feel like I’m back in Rushton playing rat-a-tat ginger. I’m about to bolt for it at the last minute when the door opens, making me start.
‘Mickey?’ says Fred, sounding and looking confused as he holds on to the latch. His face has crease marks on it, and his hair is all rumpled and sticks up at the back. He’s wearing a pair of cotton pyjama bottoms and his chest is bare. It’s tanned and muscular, and I can see the outline of his ribs as he yawns. Since I’m on the doorstep and therefore lower than Fred, his chest fills my entire field of vision. Immediately, I feel blood rushing to my face.
I haven’t been this close to a half-naked man for a very long time and up until this moment, and for as long as I can remember, my sex drive has been well and truly parked. Parked, that is, in a forgotten lock-up in a dingy part of town. At the sight of Fred, however, the dusty doors are flung open and it bursts into action. Before I know what’s hit me, hormones are revving around parts of me that I’d forgotten were parts.
‘What time is it?’ asks Fred, scratching the fluff of hair on his belly. The last time I saw Fred’s belly it was hairless and smooth, and I have to make my hand into a fist to stop myself touching it and claiming it as mine again.
‘Eight-ish,’ I stutter, keeping my eyes locked with Fred’s so that I don’t look down again. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think. It’s the middle of the day for me. I’ll leave you to it.’
‘No, no,’ says Fred, opening the door wider. ‘Come in, come in.’
‘Forget it,’ I squeak, feeling choked with confusion and panic. ‘I’m disturbing you. If Rebecca’s here …’
‘Rebecca?’ snorts Fred, shaking his head. ‘Don’t worry. Rebecca never stays and Eddie didn’t come back last night. I’m home alone. Come on in.’
He stoops down and picks up a pile of takeaway menus and cab cards from the doormat, before straightening up. I follow him into the house and up the stairs.
I ca
n do this, I tell myself, as I tread carefully up the threadbare carpet, willing myself not to look up at Fred’s bum. I’m here as a … as a … what? A friend. That’s it. A neighbourly friend. But as quickly as I think this, I know that it’s the concept of being Fred’s friend that confuses me. Joe seemed perfectly happy to describe Fred as ‘our friend’, but what kind of friend am I really?
Fred and I certainly aren’t best friends, as we were when we were kids, but does that make us ex-friends? Or are we new friends? And if we are, then why should the past matter? If we’re new friends, should I feel less pleased that we’re alone? Would a friend of any description have the words ‘Rebecca never stays’ excitedly chiming round and round her head with each step she takes nearer to being home alone with Fred?
I’ll stick to being a neighbour. You’re always safe being defined as a neighbour – even if I am the curtain-twitching, nosy kind. The truth is that for the past few days I’ve been longing to see where Fred lives. I’ve wanted to see him in context and I’ve imagined his place to be all designer, full of trendy couches and minimalist furniture. So I’m quite shocked when he prods the door open with his foot and I follow him into his flat.
The living room has a fusty smell of stale cigarettes and the sofa is covered with newspapers. Fred picks up a T-shirt from the back of it and puts it on, inside out. I feel intrepid and nervous as I peek at the stacks of videos and CDs. It’s been ages since I was last in a bloke’s flat and I’m not quite sure what to do with myself.
I’m wondering just why it is that Rebecca never stays, when I glance through a doorway to the bathroom and see one of the possible reasons. There’s a Game Boy on the toilet cistern and the toilet seat is up. A neglected brown spider plant sits on the windowsill and the ridged opaque glass is cracked. It’s not exactly what I’d call girl-friendly and certainly nowhere near ‘Gucci enough’ for Rebecca, as Susan, Fred’s colleague, implied.
