Back at his, he sets up his laptop in the kitchen. She shivers. He notices and turns on the oven with its door open for heat (more effective than you might think, although obviously a waste of energy).
— So, he says. — How we gonna do this?
— Where’s what I sent you? she says.
He settles in front of the computer, opens his email and downloads it.
— I thought you said you’d read it, she says.
— Oh, he says. — Yeah, I’m just not sure where anything downloads to on this computer.
She accepts his answer but watches him closely as he opens the document.
— Shit, he says.
— What? she says, on him like a hawk.
— It’s just a lot of red pen, he says.
— So you didn’t read it! she says. She is triumphant.
— No, he says. — Well, I… He trails off as he scans her first edit. — That is fucking good. He bangs his fist on the kitchen counter and scrolls. — Yes. Agree…
He deletes his text and replaces it with her edit then scrolls some more.
— Maybe I’ll just accept all changes, he says.
— No! she grabs his hand, then realising they’re holding hands, takes her hand back.
— It’s just there’s a lot of questions and stuff that shouldn’t be in the final edit.
He gets to his feet and pulls back the chair.
— Why don’t you sit? he says. — You know what you’re doing. It’ll be quicker.
With her on the keyboard and him pacing the room listening to her reading his words aloud, they make good progress. She adds edits and deletes notes.
— What about moving this bit, how ‘Russians are the only white people anyone is scared of’ to before where they’re laughing at the gringos? she says.
When he doesn’t answer she turns to look at him and catches him shoulders hunched, mouth open, staring at her with a lascivious look on his face.
— Hello? she says.
— Shit, he says. — Sorry. I was miles away.
He comes to stand behind her to look at the extract she’s highlighted, rests his hands on shoulders and leans in to look at the screen.
— Don’t you think that makes more sense? she says, turning to address him without realising how close his face is to hers. They brush lips.
— Yeah, he says. — Do whatever you think’s best.
She turns back to the screen, fingers on the keys. What is going on?
They work on his text for a couple of hours, stopping when they reach a natural break in the action. (The two protagonists are stranded in a railway depot in the blazing heat and will remain there for seventy-two hours). She checks the time on her phone.
— Shit, she says, realising how late it is, — I’ve gotta run if I’m gonna make the last tube.
— Why don’t you just crash here? he says.
She hadn’t thought of that.
— What’s that band you like? he says, taking her place in front of the computer.
— D Block Europe, she says. — Why?
He types it into YouTube.
— Here, he says. — For you.
She smiles and raises her arms half-heartedly before being caught by an enormous yawn. He kills the music.
— Go to bed, he says. — I’ll be in in a minute.
She goes through to the bedroom. Undressing to knickers and bra, the thought crosses her mind that she’s never stayed round his. He’d stayed at hers and they’d slept together in the back seat of vans and at other people’s houses but his bed is a first. She gets into the side of the bed that looks less slept in and smiles at how close the two of them feel and what a productive evening it’d been.
She wakes in his arms to the sound of his radio alarm clock playing Punjabi music. It’s been a long time since she'd woken up in someone’s arms. It’s sunny and everything feels nice.
— Mornin’, he says, snuggling into her before letting go and stretching. — Coffee?
They roll out of bed, don enough clothes to be decent (tops, no bottoms) then go through to the kitchen where he turns on the oven again, then they get straight back to it.
Half an hour in and they’re on a roll. They’re not just correcting mistakes but adding in-jokes and flourishes. They come up with the idea of adding the word ‘mate’ to the end of every sentence the narrator says to make him sound English and to add the word ‘yo’ to the end of every sentence Pear says to make him sound American and are delighted by the effect. They read chunks of direct speech at one another, hooting with laughter.
— This is so fun, he says.
— Isn’t it? she says.
They work into the afternoon when they both remember they have places to be and call it a day. She goes into the bedroom to fetch the rest of her clothes then joins him in the bathroom where he hands her a toothbrush. They brush their teeth at the same time, looking at themselves and each other in the mirror. She smiles at him.
— I love brushing my teeth with people, she says.
— That's cause you're a freak, he says.
She spits, rinses the toothbrush then turns on the hot tap to wash her face. No water comes out.
— No hot water? she says.
— Waste of money, he says.
— What about soap? she says, looking around for some to wash her face.
— Don’t use soap. Don’t use shampoo, he says. — Waste of money.
— I stopped using shampoo too, she says, splashing her face with cold water. — I only wash my hair with conditioner but I don’t think I’m ready to live without soap.
— You don’t need it, he says.
— Maybe you don’t, she says, — but if you’ve got a pussy, you need soap.
He walks her to the Tube wheeling his bike and bigging up the work they’ve done.
— Seriously, he says. — That was amazing. Really, good.
— I think if we have one more crack, we could get it done, she says.
They arrive at the station.
— How about tomorrow? he says.
— Maybe, she says. — But I might try and do some writing myself, you know?
— Ok, he says. — Well, don’t forget the event Tuesday.
— I won’t, she says.
He leans down to kiss her goodbye but instead of kissing her on the cheek like he usually does, he kisses half-on, half-off her mouth. He lets his lips linger on hers and squeezes her tight. She feels his chest expanding and detracting for one breath, two breath, three breath, four breath, five breath, six breath… but she can’t breathe. She wriggles out of his arms and ducks into the Underground.
On the way back to hers she mulls over the events of the past twenty-four hours. The kisses, the cuddles, the highly-efficient work rate. Was there something going on or was it her imagination? It kinda seemed like they liked each other but no, that couldn’t be. She’s never thought of him like that and she doubts he's had any thoughts about her. No, she wasn’t like the plethora of women his penis has recently been inside. She was his friend…
She makes a stab at her own work that afternoon but doesn’t get far. She tries again the next morning and gets absolutely nowhere. She ends up trawling social media, clicking on the page he’d made for their last event and reads the comments.
Dream team
What a night. Restored my faith in humanity.
Best flyer ever.
He’s liked them all and she wonders why he didn’t bother to mention how popular her flyer was. Seventeen likes! Thinking she should text him to give him shit about not telling her about everyone loving the flyer, she unlocks her phone but before she can open messages, he calls.
— Ha, she answers. — You are so psychic.
— Why? he says. — What you doing?
An hour later she’s back at door. She drop-calls him, hears his phone ringing, his footsteps on the stairs then he swings opens the front door and steps into the street in his underpants. Tight jockey
s. He twangs the waistband.
— Woah, she says.
— What? he says.
— You’re naked, she says,
— Oh, he says. — Yeah. I’ve got the oven on full blast.
He hugs her, the skin of her face meeting the hairs on his chest.
— Go up, he says. — I’ve got some rum. It’s really good. It’s like four hundred quid to buy.
He sits by the oven. He pours them a drink. She gives him a ‘what are we doing?’ look. He grins. She shouldn’t care that he’s naked, it’s not like she can see anything, but it puts her a little on edge.
— Aren’t we gonna look at the text? she says.
— Sure, he says.
He pulls his laptop out of a backpack on the floor and opens it.
— Oh wait, he says. — Let me play you this. He opens iTunes. — This is what we were listening to in the train yard. ‘Esto es Mexico’ by La Malagueña. This is what real G’s listen to.
She takes a sip of her drink and sways in time to a violin. He takes her hand, lifts his arm and spins her underneath it.
— Sorry, he says, letting go of her hand. — That was so cheesy.
A woman starts to sing.
— But isn’t this music nuts? he says. — Like Latino opera or something.
When the song is over they sit down in front of the computer. The Word document is open where she left it.
— Have you looked at this while I've been gone? she says.
He shakes his head and tops up the drinks.
They go through a couple of paragraphs: the train starts moving, someone nearly loses a foot…
— Fuck this, he says. — Let’s go out.
— Out where? she says.
— Out nowhere, he says.
She likes the sound of that.
— Okay, she says. — But you’ve got to put some clothes on first.
They head to one of the Portuguese bars on the high street and order brandies. It’s rowdy at the bar and a drunk Brazilian takes a shine to them, tells them they make a handsome couple and pays for their drinks. He puts his arm round her, playing up to the misconception. He winks at her.
Some more brandies and a couple of beers, then they head into the estates. He tags stairwell after stairwell with his tag and her name.
— I don’t know about tagging estates, she says, drunker than she thinks she is.
— What don’t you know about it? he says.
— Well it’s one thing tagging a bank or a bus or a shop, she says, noticing her voice sounding like her mum’s. — But here it’ll never get cleaned off. And you know, people live here.
— Fuck that, he says. — Did you see what I wrote about Blaise Belleville on his house?
— Blaise who? she says.
— The guy who runs Boiler Room, he says. — What a prick. Do you know he’s a fucking aristocrat? Landed gentry, no less.
They talk about this and that, nothing and everything, are kinda flirting, kinda being friends, flipping between both like it doesn’t matter.
They manage to slip into one of the tower blocks behind an entering resident and ride the lift to the top floor.
— Shit, he says. — I’ve got the key to get up on the roof of this block but I didn’t bring it. I fucked a girl up there once.
— Oh, she says. — Really?
— Maybe we should go back and get it? he says.
Was he saying what she thought he was saying?
— Okay, she says.
They take the lift back down and he takes a photo of their reflection in the mirror.
Back at his he doesn’t look for the key. He pours more rum and they goof about, drunkenly setting the world to rights aka taking the piss out of people. He doesn’t ask her to stay, it is assumed. They go to bed together. She strips to her underwear in front of him without giving it a second thought, shivers and gets under the duvet. He lies down beside her, rests a hand on her shoulder but remains upright, fiddling with his phone.
— What you doing? she says.
— Gotta take my insulin, he says. — I fucked it up yesterday.
She closes her eyes and listens him to take his blood sugar.
— I feel sick, she says.
He pats her head.
— Go to sleep, he says.
She listens to him self-administer the injection then pack away the kit. Lying down, he scoops her up in his arms.
— Night, one of them says.
— Night, says the other.
He kisses the back of her neck then rolls away from her. Her drunken nausea passes and she drifts off for few seconds then wakes again at the touch of his hand pawing the duvet, looking for her. It finds her and pulls her towards him. She rolls over so she is big spoon and he is little. They stay like that until she gets pins and needles in her arm. She takes it away and turns around in the sheets. He rolls after her then ever so gently rests a hand on her waist. She can feel it vibrating. He moves it slowly, sliding it onto her stomach then up her torso towards her tits. He cups them both in his palm then returns to her stomach and spreads his fingers out.
— You’re shaking, he says, his voice loud in the residential quiet.
She wriggles, pushes her bum into his lap. He takes it as a signal and pops a finger under her knicker elastic. She turns her face to his and they kiss for a couple of seconds. They stop kissing at the same time.
— It’d be a disaster, one of them says.
— A total disaster, says the other.
They both giggle. He takes his arm away and they lie on their backs in the dark, both awake. His hand returns. Feels the contour of her hip, her bum. Squeezes it and they’re kissing again. Surprisingly effortless for a first kiss. He rolls onto his back and pulls her on top of him, holds her hips, holds her bum then, with her straddling him, puts an index finger in her pussy. He moves his finger in and out. She makes the appropriate appreciative sound, riding up and down on top of him. She can see him looking at her intently, even in the dark. She reaches a hand between her legs in search of his willy but before she finds it, he snatches her arm away.
— No, he says, his finger still in her.
Suddenly self-conscious, she dismounts. Back on the mattress, she rolls away from him, to the other side of the bed.
— It’s be a disaster, he says, sounding apologetic.
— A disaster, she says.
She tries to go back to sleep but it’s impossible. Her brain is going a million miles an hour. How come he could put his finger in her pussy but she couldn't touch his dick? It didn’t seem fair. Then she thought maybe he had an STD and didn’t want her to get it. Or did he have a small willy and not want her to know?
He rolls over in bed again, dropping an arm heavily over her and bringing his mouth right up close to her ear.
— I just want to pull down your panties and fuck you, he says.
If the lights'd been on and they were looking at each other it would've been awkward, but in the darkness with her back to him it's only surreal. Him holding her, her not breathing until the atmosphere goes crackly.
She breaks the silence.
— Well, she says, breathing out and adopting a jovial tone to try and clear the air, — you probably will at some point but I don’t think this is the moment.
He laughs. His normal, friendly, not-sexy laugh.
— Yeah, he says, — If we’re gonna fuck we shouldn’t do it half asleep in bed. We should do it somewhere amazing.
— Like the rooftop of a council estate? she says.
— Yeah, he says. — Exactly.
She wakes the next day feeling awful. He’s next to her in bed surfing radio stations.
— You were snoring, he says.
— What’s the time? she says.
— Just gone three, he says.
— Jesus, she says. — I never sleep this late. I should get home.
— Nuh-uh, he says. — We gotta be in Kilburn.
Blank.
—
The event? he says. — We gotta be there in two hours to meet your friend, he says.
— Flora, she says.
Coffee makes her hangover worse but makes him eager to edit.
— Just the last few paragraphs, he says. — Then it’s done.
He sits at the computer. She lies on the floor, backseat editing and eating dry granola but can't pay attention.
— Let’s just leave it for another time, she says.
That’s when he gets stressed.
— I just want to get it done, he says and kicks the bin.
She chuckles.
— Chill, she says. — We will.
But a bad mood has descended. They walk to the Tube in close to silence, him grunting one syllable replies to her questions. She beeps her Oyster card. He skips through the barriers behind her. She wonders whether she should say something about last night.
— You okay? she says, as a lame attempt.
He shrugs.
When they get on the train it is empty but instead of sitting beside her like he usually would, he sits two seats down. Was he being weird? Or was he just being hungover? She can't tell. She watches him for a minute, eyes shut, head nodding. But then the roaring whoosh of the train through the tunnel starts giving her a headache. Her hangover takes over and she shuts her eyes, letting the train's movement vibrate her.
They get off at Kilburn Park with him still not looking at, or talking to her, except to remind her he'll come through the gates at the same time. But then, when they get to Tin Tab, he changes tack completely. As soon as there's an audience, he comes on all touchy-feely. He gets her to sit on his lap when there isn't a chair, holds her hand, puts his arm round her shoulders, even slaps her on the bum when she says something funny.
The event goes seriously off-piste. A line up of nutters have to be prised off the mic, there’s lot of drum ’n’n bass, one of his graff mates tags up the bathroom. It’s fun but stressful for her because Flora is worried about the building and the neighbours. So as soon as the event is over, she does her best to coax the audience into relocating to the pub.
Man Hating Psycho Page 12
