by Marian Keyes
I stared at Gus in annoyance for a moment and then the pair of us exploded with laughter.
“Are you joking?” I finally asked.
“No, Lucy,” he laughed apologetically. “I’m not. Give your money to anyone in the whole of Camden, except him. Him and his brothers are a crowd of shysters. And he’s not even homeless—he has a subsidized apartment in Kentish Town.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked, intrigued, but not certain whether to believe him.
“I just do,” said Gus darkly.
“Well, what about that man over there?” indicating another poor unfortunate, sitting in a doorway.
“Go to it.”
“He’s not a bastard?” I asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“What about his brothers?”
“I’ve heard nothing but good things about them.”
After I unloaded my pathetic handful of coins, I turned around and bumped into an older man who was lurching along the street.
“Oh hello, good evening to you,” he said to me, in a very friendly way, as if we knew each other. He had an Irish accent.
“Hello.” I smiled back.
“Do you know him?” asked Gus.
“No,” I said doubtfully. “At least, I don’t think so, but he said ‘hello’ so it was only polite to say ‘hello’ back.”
Gus led me across the road and down a side street and into a brightly lit, warm, noisy pub.
It was completely packed with people, laughing and talking and drinking. Gus seemed to know absolutely everyone there. In a corner were three musicians, a man with a bodhrán, a woman with a tin whistle and someone of indeterminate sex playing a fiddle.
I recognized the tune—it was one of my dad’s favourites. All around me were the sounds of Irish accents.
I felt as if I had come home.
“Sit here,” said Gus, guiding me through the throngs of red-faced, happy people and indicating a barrel. “I’ll be as quick as I can getting the drinks.”
He was gone forever, while I sat perched uncomfortably on the barrel, the rim of it gouging a furrow in my butt.
What time was it? I wondered. I was sure it was well past eleven, yet the bartenders were still serving.
A thought suddenly struck me—could this be an illegal bar—the type my dad often waxed lyrical about?
Perhaps it was, I thought in excitement.
I didn’t have a watch and neither did the woman beside me and neither did her friends, but one of them knew someone on the far side of the pub who had one and she insisted on fighting her way through the throng to locate the person and ascertain the time for me.
She was back a while later.
“Twenty to twelve,” she said, returning to her pint of lager.
“Thanks,” I said, a thrill of excitement running through me. So I had been right—this was an illegal bar.
How wonderful. Daring, decadent, dangerous. Maybe it was wrong of Gus to bring me here and put me in danger of being arrested, but I didn’t care. I felt as if I was walking on the wild side, as if I was truly living.
Gus finally came back with the drinks.
“Sorry I was so long, Lucy,” he apologized. “I ran into a crowd of Cavan men and…”
“Fine, fine,” I interrupted, clambering down from the barrel. I was too eager to discuss our breaking of the law to be bothered with his apologies.
“Gus, aren’t you worried about the police?” I breathed, my eyes round with delighted horror.
“No,” he said. “I think they’re well able to look after themselves.”
“No,” I giggled, “I mean, aren’t you worried that they might arrest us?”
He felt around his jacket pockets, then sighed with relief and said, “No, Lucy, not at this particular moment, I’m not.”
He wasn’t taking me seriously and I was annoyed.
“No, Gus,” I protested. “Aren’t you afraid that they might raid here and beat us all up and arrest everyone?”
“But why would they do that?” asked Gus, puzzled. “Haven’t they got plenty of people out on the street to arrest when they feel the need for a punching bag? Weren’t they given the Vagrancy Act especially for that reason?”
“But, Gus,” I said in exasperation, “what if they hear the music? What if they realize that we’re all in here drinking when it’s way past eleven?”
“But we’re not doing anything wrong,” said Gus. “Although that’s never stopped them in the past,” he added.
“But we are,” I insisted. “This is illegal. Closing time is eleven o’clock. We’re breaking the law.”
“No, we’re not.” He laughed.
“Yes, we are.”
“Lucy, Lucy, listen to me! This pub has a special license until twelve. No one’s doing anything wrong!”
“Oh.”
I was terribly disappointed.
“You mean this is all legal and aboveboard?” I asked, subdued.
“Yes, Lucy, of course it is.” He laughed. “You don’t think I’d bring you somewhere where you might get into trouble, do you?”
“Well, er, you know…I just thought…”
At the end of the evening Gus came home with me. There was no question about it, no awkwardness, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Nothing was said, it just happened. When we finally escaped from the pub and all the people Gus knew, we both just assumed that we would get a taxi back to Ladbroke Grove. And so we did.
Gus didn’t suggest that we go back to his house and it never occurred to me to suggest it either. I didn’t think there was anything odd about that.
Maybe I should have.
Chapter 35
On Thursday there were two blots on my otherwise pristine landscape of happiness.
The news broke that Hetty had officially handed in her notice. And it made me sad. Not just because she was the only one of us who ever really did any work, but because I would miss her. I hated change and I wondered with trepidation what we would get in her place.
Second, I had agreed to visit my mother on Thursday when I finished work.
I was at that phase of the relationship with Gus when my every waking thought was of him. I was delightfully happy nearly all of the time (except for the hours between seven-thirty and ten o’clock). If I wasn’t actually with Gus, I wanted to talk about him, to anyone, to everyone. To describe how gorgeous he looked, to tell how smooth his skin was or how sexy he smelled or how green his eyes were or how silky his hair was or how beautiful his accent was or how fascinating his conversation was, or how nice his teeth were for someone who’d been brought up on a remote farm, or how his butt was the size of a stamp. Or to recount, in great detail, stories of the nice things that he’d said to me and given to me as gifts.
I was buzzing with happiness and adrenaline and it never occurred to me that I might be the most boring person in the world. I felt that everyone else was surely as happy for me as I was. Of course they weren’t, and they consoled themselves by saying to each other, “It’ll never last,” and “If I hear once more about how he opened her bra and took it off with his teeth, I’ll scream.”
Not, of course, that Gus did remove my bra with his teeth. Although we did indeed consummate our relationship on Tuesday night, Nine and a Half Weeks it wasn’t. Which was fine with me—being blindfolded and fed pickled onions wasn’t my idea of pleasant sex. Because I had such an inferiority complex and wasn’t very sexually confident, I liked things straightforward in bed. Men who expected lots of different positions scared the lust out of me.
Even without the different positions, I was still a ball of nerves when Gus and I got back to my flat. Luckily, I was a very drunk ball of nerves and that removed most of the potential awkwardness. In fact we were both roaring with laughter and fell into the bedroom right away.
Gus pulled off his clothes at high speed and then jumped onto the bed with me.
I fully intended not to look at his erect penis—I t
hought I was far too shy. But, as though against my will, my eyes kept being drawn to it. And drawn to it. And drawn to it. I couldn’t stop. I was mesmerized by it.
Very attractive it was too, for a six-inch lump of throbbing, veiny purpleness. It never ceased to amaze me how something so intrinsically, well…weird looking, I suppose, could be so erotic.
Then it was my turn to disrobe.
“What’s going on here?” Gus plucked at my clothes in mock alarm. “You’re still dressed. Come on, get them off, quick, quick.”
It was great fun. It reminded me of when I was a little girl being undressed by my mother.
“Legs out straight,” he ordered, as he stood at the foot of the bed and held the toes of my tights and pulled. When I heard the sound of them ripping, all I could do was laugh and laugh.
“Arms up,” he barked, as he tugged off my top. “Jesus! Where’s your face gone?”
“In here.” I muffled through my top. “You’ve got to do the neck hole as well as the arm ones.”
“Thank God for that—I thought I’d decapitated you with my passion.”
I was undressed in record time, but, for once, I wasn’t shy and embarrassed and ashamed of my body. There was no chance to be modest and coy because Gus was so matter-of-fact about it all.
“You’re not a medical student, are you?” I asked suspiciously.
“No.”
Of course he wasn’t. I’d forgotten that medical students were the very ones to snigger uncontrollably every time they heard the word bottom.
Gus didn’t bother much with foreplay. Unless him asking me, “Are you on the pill?” counted. He was really frenzied and eager. Of course, I was delighted with his enthusiasm; it showed that he really liked me.
“You’re not to come in three seconds,” I admonished. And when he did come in three seconds, the pair of us fell onto the bed laughing.
Then Gus practically fell asleep on top of me. But I wasn’t disappointed or annoyed. I didn’t scream at him and demand that he get it up again immediately and service me until I had had ten orgasms—as was my right as a nineties woman. I was relieved that he wasn’t very sexually sophisticated, because it meant that there was nothing for me to live up to. For me, sex was more about warmth and affection than orgasms. And he was good at the warmth and affection bit.
With Gus, I had bypassed all that gentle, getting-to-know-you nonsense and gone straight for the falling-in-love jugular.
Which is why I bitterly resented having to go and see my mother. It was a waste of time that could have been better spent with Gus, or at the very least telling people about Gus.
The only thing that made it remotely bearable was the fact that Daniel was coming with me. I couldn’t talk about Gus while I was actually with my mother, but on the train journey both there and back I could bend Daniel’s ear.
After work on Thursday I met Daniel and we caught the tube to the far reaches of the Piccadilly Line.
“I can think of far better things to do this evening than going hundreds of miles to see my mother,” I muttered, as we stood swaying on a packed train, the air thick with the smell of damp overcoats, the floor awash with briefcases. “Like mining salt in Siberia.”
“Don’t forget your dad,” reminded Daniel. “You’re going to see your dad also. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
“Well, yes, but I can’t talk to him when she’s around. And I hate leaving him; I feel so guilty.”
“Oh, Lucy, you make life so difficult for yourself,” sighed Daniel. “It doesn’t have to be that bad, you know.”
“I know,” I smiled, “but maybe I enjoy it.”
I didn’t want Daniel to start counselling me, because I knew it wouldn’t do any good, but he was the type of person who, once he got the bit between his teeth, wouldn’t give up easily. And many a friendship has come aground on the rocks of misguided help.
“Maybe you do actually enjoy it,” he admitted, looking a bit surprised at the discovery.
“Good.” I smiled. “I’m glad we agree. Now I don’t have to put up with you worrying about me.”
When we came out of the tube it was dark and cold and there was a fifteen-minute walk to my house.
Daniel insisted on carrying my bag.
“My God, Lucy, this weighs a ton. What’s in here?”
“A bottle of whiskey.”
“Who’s that for then?”
“Not for you.” I giggled.
“I might have known. You never give me anything except abuse.”
“That’s not true! Didn’t I give you a beautiful tie for your birthday?”
“Yes, you did, thank you. At least it was one step up from last year.”
“What did I give you then?”
“Socks.”
“Oh yes.”
“You always get me ‘Dad’ presents.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know—ties, socks, hankies—they’re the type of thing everyone gives to their dad.”
“I don’t.”
“Don’t you? What do you give him?”
“Money, mostly. And sometimes a bottle of nice brandy.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, this year I was going to get you something different. This year I was going to get you a book…”
“But I have one already, yes, I know, I know, Lucy,” he interrupted briskly.
“Oh,” I laughed. “Have I said that to you before?”
“You could say that, Lucy. Once or twice, maybe.”
“Whoops, how embarrassing. Sorry.”
“Sorry for what? Sorry for repeating your crappy joke for the hundredth time? Or sorry for calling me an uncultured philistine?”
“Palestine,” I said vaguely.
“Filipino,” he countered.
“Sorry for repeating my crappy joke—hey, it’s not crappy anyway—for the hundredth time. I’m certainly not sorry for implying that you’re not very bright. Look at the women you go out with!”
“Lucy!” he barked. I looked at him in alarm—he sounded like he was really annoyed. Then he laughed, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Lucy Sullivan, I let you get away with so much, I really don’t know why I haven’t killed you before now.”
“Actually, neither do I,” I said thoughtfully. “I am very unkind to you. And the thing is I don’t really mean it. I don’t really think you’re thick at all. I do think you have awful taste in women and I do think you treat them very badly, but apart from that you’re quite all right really.”
“Jesus, praise indeed,” grinned Daniel. “Can I have that in writing?”
“No.”
We marched on in silence, past rows and rows of boxy little suburban houses. It was freezing.
Daniel spoke after a while.
“So who’s it for then?”
“Who’s what for?”
“The whiskey. Who’s it for?”
“Dad, of course. Who else?”
“Is he still on the sauce?”
“Daniel! Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“You’re making it sound like he’s a wino or something awful.”
“But it’s just that Chris said he’d given up.”
“Who, Dad?” I said scornfully. “Given up drinking? Don’t be ridiculous. What would he want to do that for?”
“I don’t know,” said Daniel, ultra-mildly. “That’s just what Chris told me. He must have got it wrong.”
We trudged on in silence.
“So what did you get your mum?”
“Mum?” I asked in surprise. “Nothing.”
“That’s a bit mean.”
“No, it’s not. I never get her anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because she works. She has money. Dad doesn’t work, Dad doesn’t have any money.”
“So you wouldn’t ever think of bringing her a little present?”
I stopped walking and stood in front of Daniel, forci
ng him to stop also.
“Look, you big rat,” I said angrily. “I get her presents on her birthday, at Christmas and on Mother’s Day and that’s enough for her. You might get your mother presents every time you see her, but I don’t. Stop trying to make me feel like a bad daughter!”
“I only meant…oh never mind.” He looked so woebegone that I couldn’t stay angry with him.
“Okay,” I said, touching his arm, “if it makes you feel any better, I’ll get her a cake when we get to the shops.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Daniel! Why are you so sulky?”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You said ‘don’t bother.’”
“Yes,” he laughed, sounding exasperated. “I said don’t bother, because I’ve got a cake for her.”
I tried to look disgusted.
“It’s good manners. Your mum is giving me my dinner, I’m just being polite.”
“You might call it politeness. I call it kissing up.”
“Okay, Lucy.” He laughed. “Call it what you want.”
We rounded the corner and I saw my house and my heart sank. I hated my house. I hated coming out here.
I thought of something.
“Daniel,” I said urgently.
“What?”
“Mention Gus to my mother and you die.”
“As if I would.” He looked hurt. “Good, I’m glad we understand each other.”
“You don’t think she’ll be pleased, then?” asked Daniel archly. “Shut up.”
Chapter 36
I saw a curtain twitching in the front room. Mum had the front door open before we even had a chance to ring the bell.
For a moment I felt a little bit sad.
Doesn’t she have anything better to do? I wondered.
“Welcome,” she said gaily, all hospitality and good cheer. “Come in out of the cold night. How are you, Daniel? Aren’t you very good to come all this way to visit us? Are you frozen?” she asked, grabbing Daniel’s hands. “No, you’re not too bad. Take off the coats and come on in, I’ve just made a pot.”
“I didn’t know you’d taken up pottery.” Daniel smiled at Mum flirtatiously.
“Stop!” She laughed and rolled her eyes at him. “You’re a terrible man.”
