He stops and leans down. I use his shoulders to steady me, and edge up on my toes. It’s quite awkward. Nothing like the dream with Peter.
Not the time, Bea. I really need to get him out of my head. Colin. Colin is here. Colin wants to have sex with me. I might want to have sex with Colin.
We kiss.
The angles are all a bit off. It isn’t giving me the tingles. It’s not that it’s bad, but it isn’t setting my world on fire.
Am I asking too much for my world to be set on fire?
It’s probably me; I am probably the reason my world isn’t currently on fire. I need to stop worrying and thinking, and instead allow my world to be set on fire. By Colin, the chicken man.
He breaks away quickly. ‘Let’s take this to the bedroom.’
I look towards the counter.
‘But the chicken will get cold.’
Apparently that isn’t a good enough reason. He smiles and guides me, a touch more aggressively than I am comfortable with, to the bedroom. He does have a nice smile, and he is a good kisser. And he did bring chicken. And I have nothing else to do. Let’s do this. Get under someone. I wonder if he will growl again.
He starts undressing. Why is he always so keen to get naked?
Personally, I hate this part, but not necessarily because I don’t want him to see me naked. Something I’m grateful for is the growing acceptance I have of my body and all its lumps and bumps. I know I could do with more gym time and less chicken, but my body is my body, and it has housed my soul well for the last thirty-something years.
But what I don’t like are witnesses to me undressing.
I’m very aware that I undress like a toddler. I bend in the wrong places. I take things off in the wrong sequence. My feet get stuck. Nothing about the way I undress is sexy, which is unfortunate as the undressing happens at a peak moment in the run-up to sex.
By the look of things, my awkward undressing hasn’t dampened his desire. That’s good, I guess.
We resume the kissing and his hands start wandering as we lie down on the bed. Mine won’t move from his shoulders.
Then he starts moving his head lower. I might be plucked and primed and aesthetically ready for him, but I don’t want his face going there.
So instead, I grab his penis.
He can’t go further down if he can’t move his penis. He moans and stops moving down, thank God. Bribery and distraction work so well – maybe I’m good at this. Maybe I could actually enjoy this.
‘Sit on my face.’
Wait, what?
‘What did you say?’
‘Sit on my face.’
My vagina is in risk of retreat.
‘Ummm, no thanks, not right now.’
He grabs my neck, and I am definitely not OK with it.
‘Sit on my face.’
All of a sudden I panic. Shit balls. I don’t know anything about Colin. Why have I done this? It all feels very wrong. My vagina has fully retreated.
I shake my head. ‘Please stop.’
He lets me go. Thank God.
‘I’m really sorry, but you need to leave.’
He looks at me with a very confused face.
‘What? I won’t grab you again, if that’s what you’re worried about. I was just in the moment. I can get kinda kinky sometimes.’ He gives me a face that I think is meant to be reassuring. I do not find it reassuring.
‘I don’t think – I’m sorry – I realize that I was the one who invited you here, but I don’t want you here any more. Please go.’ He doesn’t move, so I make myself clear. ‘Now.’
A while after he’s gone, I pull on comforting clothes and head out of my bedroom.
Massive plus point – he left the chicken.
I put the chicken on a plate, wipe up the grease left by the bag, and decide to eat it all by myself. I don’t think I can handle noise, so I don’t turn on the TV, but I do need something to quiet my mind, so I look around my apartment for distraction.
As I sit down, I can see Mia’s stack of research. I read her key points. Just out of interest.
CHAPTER 33
Having initially been very proud of the fact I did nothing towards organizing the hen party, I’m now starting to fear that nobody has done anything towards organizing the hen party. Everyone has already spent a fortune without actually doing anything. So far all we’ve done is wander around outside, getting wetter and colder. We are all looking tired and deflated. Our group chat explodes with a series of suggested locations and maps. I pretend to look, but as everyone else decides where to go, I’m actually answering emails and arranging bumper card deliveries ahead of Christmas. Apparently people love a festive boast.
Finally, we end up in a very poorly lit bar that appears to have cornered the market in memorabilia featuring palm trees and bright pink flamingos with sunglasses. It’s perfect, and the slightly sticky floors add to the overall ambience. There is only one downside: two bar staff, and more than twenty people to serve all at once. As I wait at the bar, I’m reminded of Mia’s birthday. And Peter saving me from an hour-long wait.
It’s as if my brain can’t escape him, no matter how hard I try not to fancy him.
It takes about thirty minutes for us all to sit down with prosecco, but we’ve finally managed it and have commandeered the seating area at the back. Our gentle and sometimes stilted chatter comes to an abrupt end when one of the bridesmaids, I think her name is Nicole, stands up.
‘Hello, ladies! I’m Nicole,’ (yes), ‘and I’m this gorgeous gal’s maid of honour!’ For some reason, maybe relief at being inside, or possibly because we now have a face to blame for our cold feet, we all whoop at this. ‘And tonight, we are going to have some fun! Drink up because we’ve organized some activities –’ you could have fooled me – ‘and we need to leave here in about fifteen minutes!’
The mood shifts. Everyone has just got comfortable and now we’re going to have to drink our overpriced prosecco too quickly to enjoy it, probably get a bit burpy, and then head back out into the cloud of rain.
Throughout my many years, I have learnt that at moments like this, you have two options. Option one: you accept that you’re going to be miserable and hope to slip away early. Option two: you dive right in and hope that your enthusiasm can lift everyone’s spirits.
Option one is definitely more Bea. But in an unusual turn of events, I go for option two. I’m already wearing eighties dance gear and Tilly deserves a fun hen party.
In hindsight, the shots I ordered were a good and a bad idea. They really separated the group, but luckily for this version of me who was eager to have a good time, I had more takers than leavers, and when our fifteen minutes were up, I’d made at least three new friends. We marked each other out by putting our compulsory temporary hen party tattoos on our foreheads.
But from Nicole’s perspective, I imagine I was quickly becoming her worst nightmare. I was shouty and overly enthusiastic, as apparently that’s the way this party gal rolled. But this party gal was also a secret weapon, Nicole just didn’t know it yet.
Because although I was getting less sober, I was also getting more shouty and enthusiastic, so when Nicole asked for us to move on, I quickly became the person who was up and chivvying. I even held out people’s coats to speed up the process. As if I was somebody who enjoyed organised fun.
And as soon as we arrive at our actual destination, I rather wish I hadn’t chivvied.
We’re at a gym.
What on earth are we doing at a gym?
‘Ladies!’ An extremely camp man sashays around the corner. ‘We are here today to become Queens! Queen Beys!’
I have no idea what that means. Did he say my name?
‘I’m going to guide you through her most iconic work of dance – “Single Ladies”.’
On any normal day this might fill me with dread. But the current version of me, the one who does tequila shots at 4 p.m., actually claps and runs to get a space at the front, eager to watch (and try
my very hardest to follow) what the dance instructor is doing.
And he is good. He makes me want to dance. He makes me want to become a Queen Bey. But unfortunately his skill only goes so far. Every time I spy myself in the mirror, I’m not positioned how everyone else is. He knows I’m bad and at first he tries to help me, but soon gives up, saying, ‘You gotta work with what ya got.’
And I don’t got this.
I should have had more tequila, so at least I won’t be able to remember the singular pain and humiliation that comes with being particularly bad at enforced group activities. But towards the end of the hour, despite the overall lack of coordination possessed by our dance troupe, he still insists on putting on a show, a show with Tills as the lead Bey.
I make a mental note to delete all footage of this. An act that everyone will thank me for.
And right at the part where we are all supposed to be bending down and stroking our bums, the lights go out. The music stops. There must have been a power cut.
The scene is quiet; a couple of people try to be proactive and take charge, a couple of others squeal.
But then a different song starts playing. Disco lights are going off everywhere. And someone dressed as a delivery man and holding a box comes in.
‘I’ve got a special delivery for Matilda Bertram.’
Nicole’s face is a picture of pure joy. Holy shit. She’s organized a stripper. Most of me, and apparently everyone else, is shouting ‘Yaaaaaaaas’. And just like that, all the wandering around in the cold and damp, the dancing and the rushed prosecco, has been forgiven and forgotten. Even the dance instructor is smiling.
CHAPTER 34
The hen party continued pretty much as anyone would have expected. Stripper, squealing, shots, dancing, confessions of love and questionable snogs. And the party gal version of me showed little sign of slowing down. Espresso martinis really keep you going.
But as soon as midnight strikes, the lonely hour hits. Some people, who weren’t quite as dedicated to the party train as I was, have already left. Some claimed they had to get the last train home. Others said they had an early start the next morning. Some snuck out without so much as a wave.
And Tilly is nowhere to be seen. Even the hen has gone home.
It’s clearly time for me to bow out semi-gracefully. I retreat to the safety of the loo.
But the queue for the loo is long and lonely. As I stand, lightly swaying, I can’t help but notice how loud everyone is being now that there is no music to drown them out. The girls next to me are talking about their boyfriends, both of whom sound horrible. So I try to block them out. But blocking out the noise means I quietly think about Peter. He wouldn’t be a horrible boyfriend. I think about the way he always used to bring me a cheese and crisp sandwich whenever I was hungover. The way he helped my mum with the crossword by working out the answers and then giving her easier clues. There was one particular night I remember crystal clearly – we were sitting on a random bench, late at night on the way home, not saying a huge amount. But looking back, I wonder if I could have leaned across and kissed him. I didn’t, of course. Because we were just friends.
But I don’t think of him as just a friend any more.
I break out of the line.
I don’t need to pee. I need to tell Peter how I feel. I need to tell him now, before he goes to Australia. I need to tell him now, before I bottle it.
I need two burritos and a taxi.
CHAPTER 35
I ring his doorbell a couple of times, not 100 per cent confident I’m at the right place.
‘Bea? What are you doing here?’ He squints a bit in the dark and turns on another light. ‘What are you wearing? What the hell is on your forehead?’
I had forgotten about the Lycra. And the tattoo.
‘It was Tilly’s hen party. Are you going to let me in?’ It’s cold. My feet are doing a mini march on the spot.
‘Come in. I’ll make you tea. Are you drunk?’ Yes, very.
‘I brought burritos.’
‘With guac?’
‘And two types of beans.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Not for anyone who comes across you tomorrow.’ Gross. Why did I have to go there? Fart jokes are never appropriate, but especially not tonight. I’m meant to be the most attractive version of myself tonight.
‘So how was the party? From the look of things, pretty good.’
In my eighties dance gear, I feel very colourful against his grey walls. I should leave, I’m too drunk for this.
‘Yeah, it was fun. I’m sorry. You’re in your pyjamas. I woke you up. I’ll leave you alone. You can have both of the burritos.’ I give him the bag and turn to leave, but he makes a move to try and stop me.
‘Whoa, hold up.’ A familiar hand on my arm. ‘Bea, these are not pyjamas. These are my lounge pants.’
His smile makes me smile and I don’t want to leave.
‘It’s cold, it’s late. You’re exhausted. It’s well past your bedtime. Why don’t we eat the burritos and then you can sleep here and go home in the morning.’
That does sound very tempting, and suddenly all I want to do is sleep. It’s so nice and warm in here; despite now having a boiler that works, I rarely turn it on.
‘Are you sure?’
He gets out a couple of plates and forks, and more than a couple of flower-patterned napkins that I’m sure he didn’t buy himself. It’s nice to think that he still lets his mum buy him the essentials.
He passes me all but one of the napkins. ‘You spill.’
He’s correct there.
‘So, tell me.’
My eyes go wide. ‘Tell you what? There’s nothing to tell.’
‘What happens at a hen party … there can’t be nothing to tell.’
‘Ha.’ I’m relieved, but also a little disappointed. ‘Nothing salacious happened. Just the usual. Strippers, group bonding through humiliation, whipped cream, shots, questionable dancing. You know.’
‘They sound much more friendly than the male version. If I ever coerce someone into marrying me, I don’t think I’d like to have a stag do. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to survive. I think I would cry.’
The talk of marriage makes me clam up a bit. This conversation feels quite loaded. I manage to throw out a single word. Hopefully a lack of words will also mean a lack of mind-reading.
‘Really?’
‘Really. I’ve been on quite a few and they keep getting worse. Every stag do is bigger than the last. And the last one ended with the groom almost getting his manhood taken off by a baby bull. Men are competitive, and ideas are getting riskier with age. I’m not excited to see what happens on the next one.’
‘Men?’ I scoff in a forced, comedic way, hoping to get my heartbeat back to normal. ‘Boys, more like.’
‘Hey. I’m a man. I own lounge pants.’ He motions to his legs. ‘I’ve mowed a lawn.’
I look through the window. I can only see a wall. ‘But you don’t have a garden.’
‘I didn’t say I mowed my own lawn. I’m not a masochist. I would pay someone else to do that. I don’t want my lawn to look terrible.’
‘Again, you don’t have a garden.’
‘Details.’ He shrugs and shovels a forkful of burrito into his mouth.
We sit in silence for a while. Not long, but long enough for the stare to get too intense. I break first.
‘The burritos are probably cold and gross now, sorry.’
‘I love burritos in all their forms and temperatures. Thank you for bringing them over.’ He sits back against the sofa. ‘I feel like you’ve been avoiding me. That maybe that night with me and all my work colleagues scarred you.’ He has no idea. He touches my knee and I look up. I’m normally quite awkward with physical interaction. I never know what to do when someone touches me, but Peter’s hand feels comforting. ‘You really OK? You almost seem a little sad.’
‘I’m good, really. It’s nice to see you.’ Despite his attempts to
make me feel comfortable, I still feel a little exposed and unsure of myself.
‘You too. I have to say, you look quite fetching in eighties gear.’
I hide my face in shame.
He pulls my hands away and uncovers my face. He gently tucks my hair behind my ear and smiles his slightly crooked smile. It makes me happy. I realize seeing him smile is one of my favourite things.
I came here to tell him the truth. Oh God, this is the moment I should be telling him I fancy him. But I can’t because I don’t fancy him.
I love him.
I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realize. I love his stupid hair and I love the way he smiles. I love his terrible sense of humour and his too-loud laugh. I even love the way he dances. I love his attempts at cooking, although I feel safer when he orders in. I love how my apartment feels when he’s in it. I love how he looks out for me no matter the situation. I love how he can follow my thoughts, and I love how he translates things for me so I can understand them. I love how he makes me feel that I’m OK just as I am.
But I will understand if he doesn’t love me back. I don’t particularly love me right now. I have to know if there’s a chance.
But instead of saying all of that, I kiss him. It seems less scary.
He kisses me back, and for a moment everything is perfect. But then he gently pushes me away.
‘Bea.’
I can’t read what his eyes are saying, but I can’t face rejection. Not tonight. Not from Peter.
‘Please, just kiss me.’
And he does.
CHAPTER 36
Oh. Shit.
I’m in Peter’s bed. What the fuck happened last night?
I stay very still, staring at the ceiling until I can be sure that he isn’t asleep next to me. Where is he?
Why did I drink tequila?
Just Friends Page 17
