by Holly Bourne
‘I don’t think that,’ I say. In fact, I’m thinking, maybe you are different.
‘You never talk about your job,’ he says. ‘I think it’s really cool what you do yet you don’t talk about it much.’
I shrug. ‘It bums people out. Makes them uncomfortable. I’ve learnt not to.’
He begins to stroke my thumb. ‘But I want to know.’
‘Know what? How many rape victims I deal with every day? How awful it is? How relentless? How we never have enough money to help properly? How sometimes I feel like we’re just shoving novelty plasters onto a giant seeping wound?’
‘I’m interested. I want to know.’
‘You think you want to know,’ I tell him, ‘but then you’ll get all defensive and want to pick holes in the things I tell you. Like Neil.’
‘That’s not fair. I’m not like him. I really am sorry.’ He leans his head towards mine until our foreheads are kissing, needing to make it OK. He cups my face, and grazes his lips against mine. They instinctively kiss back before I turn my head.
‘Do you really want to know all the awful parts of my job?’
‘Yes.’
‘I mean, I literally deal with terrible sexual violence every day.’
‘And that makes me sad but it’s something I need to know more about. For Christ’s sake, I work in coding, Gretel. I just don’t know about this stuff. I’m woefully ill-informed.’
‘I don’t feel like talking about it right now,’ I say. I just want him to kiss me again. I want it so badly that it throws me.
‘Well then, we don’t have to. But some other time. Talk to me. Tell me more about what it’s like to be you …’ He kisses me again and I kiss him back in surprised relief. The way he’s looking at me, the way he sounds like he means it. Gretel sheds her skin to the floor. April is left, kissing him, running her hand through his hair. I can feel his goodness; it radiates like central heating. I want to get closer to it, closer to him.
‘My towel’s falling off,’ I say, because it is. We both look down to see one exposed breast hanging out, my nipple grazing the towelling. We both laugh quietly.
‘What a shame. Mine too.’
We fall backwards onto the sofa, dislodging the remnants of our towels and kiss slowly, heavily, like we mean each and every part of it. Joshua’s hands run down my back. I find myself clutching him tightly. It all falls away. The night. The anger. The embarrassment. Even the angry thrashing of the storm fades to white noise. We kiss and kiss. He doesn’t try to turn it into anything more than kissing. He doesn’t assume it will lead anywhere. It feels so good just to kiss, to feel like the man is just enjoying the kiss rather than wondering how long he can use it to segue into something else. My muscles relax. I lose sense of time, logic, the lies I’ve told. I find myself whispering into his ear. ‘You’ve not seen my bedroom yet.’
‘I’ve not.’
‘I didn’t know you were coming round. I haven’t tidied up.’
‘I couldn’t give a flying fuck.’ He picks me up like he’s rescuing me from a plane wreck, both of us completely naked, and carries me towards it.
‘Not that door, the other door.’
‘OK, right.’
‘Hang on, you have to turn the handle. I’ll try to do it with my foot. Hang on. No. Put me down a second.’
And we fall, giggling, onto my unmade bed.
Maybe he is different
Maybe he is different
Maybe he is different
Maybe he is different
Maybe, he is … different?
The first tickles of morning light hit the crack in my ceiling as I wonder how to arrange my jumbled thoughts into coherency.
Something peculiar happened last night you see.
Joshua made me orgasm. Not just a regular one, but an earth-shattering, lost-all-sense-of-myself, made-noises-without-embarrassment, one.
That’s not happened to me since It happened.
I still can’t stop smiling when I think about it. How the sex was long, and slow. I didn’t orgasm through sex, because I never have, even before Ryan. But he stopped halfway and went down on me until I did and … and … God I want to have sex again just thinking about it.
I watch his sleeping face crumpled into the pillow. Fondness stirs in my guts. I want to reach over and stroke his cheek. I cannot help but smile when I look at him.
After we finished, and were lying there and listening to the storm outside, he asked me more about my job. How I got into it. What the day is like. How I cope with all those hard questions. I told him about starting as a volunteer manager, about being asked to take on some shifts, about how much joy I get when I hear that I’ve helped someone, about Matt and how close we are, about clinical supervision and identifying triggers and how terribly hard it is some days.
He listened while stroking my hair. ‘I wish my job was important like yours.’
‘Coding is important.’
He laughed.
‘You could code for a charity. They have websites. They need coders.’
‘You know what? I could actually, couldn’t I? Sorry again, about Neil.’
‘Oh God. Your friends are going to hate me now.’ A pinch of anxiety rippled through our post-coital bubble. I suddenly cared about it, the awkwardness I’d caused, how I would face them in the future.
‘Don’t be daft, they won’t hate you. They all said how much they liked you.’
‘Yeah right.’ I buried my face into his armpit. It smelt of sour sweat mingled with new sweat, and yet I could not get enough of his scent. Would bury my face further in if I could. Snort a line of him.
His voice was heavy with sleep, but he still made an effort to be reassuring. ‘It could’ve gone better, for sure. But you’ll meet them again. And it was Neil who kicked it all off anyway. It’s about time he was told, to be honest.’
‘Are you sure?’
He tilted his chin down and planted a kiss on the top of my head. ‘I’m sure.’
The next peculiar thing is that I slept after that. Wrapped up in Joshua’s arms. A deep, heavy, dreamless sleep. The sort of great sleep you get when you accidentally nap in the afternoon. I only regained consciousness fifteen minutes ago, when the heat between our bodies got too much. The fresh air cleared by the storm is already forgotten – the heatwave well and truly back in action. But, when I woke, I was still in his arms, wrapped up in him, totally naked and comfortable, like we were a pack of wolves but without the rest of the pack. I’ve not been able to sleep next to a man since It happened either. I force myself to look away from Joshua and back at the ceiling crack.
I don’t know what any of this means.
I’m very confused right now, it has to be said.
He’s not behaving how I know men to behave. Intellectually, I’m certain this is only because I’ve been Gretel. That his lack of game-playing and mind-fuckery and not-really-knowing-what-he-wants and emotional-whiplashing is only a non-event because Gretel is a non-event. A safe, make-believe woman for him to be infatuated with. I mean, I’ve never met someone that it’s got so serious with so quickly, so it must be the Gretel effect, right?
But a tiny part of me is starting to believe. In him. In men. Maybe he really is a good guy. Maybe they do exist. Maybe I’ve been lucky enough to stumble across one because, for once, I wasn’t looking. They always tell you it happens when you’re not looking. The mattress shifts. Joshua stirs. I turn towards him and watch him wake up to this morning and my face.
‘Hello.’ His voice is gruff, sexy.
‘Hello.’
He pulls me into his naked body. I can feel what he wants pressing into my thigh. But he’s also staring at me in wonder. He leans in to kiss me on the lips. ‘Come here,’ he whispers. ‘I want a cuddle.’
Though inevitably we do more than cuddle.
*
‘You don’t have a coffee machine.’ Joshua’s wearing only yesterday’s boxers and looking around, offended, at our tiny kitch
en. ‘You don’t even have a cafetière. I can’t cope under such conditions.’
‘I’ve got Nescafé.’
‘That’s it. I’m out. I’m leaving.’ He smiles to check I know it’s a joke. I smile back. We’ve been doing this all morning. Talking. Kissing. Grinning. Kissing. Grinning. Every sentence the other utters is worthy of a joyful smile and a congratulatory peck on the lips.
‘I have tea? Lots and lots of tea?’
‘I suppose it will have to do.’
I get out two mugs and the special Teapigs bags that I always get from my mother for my birthday – alongside the obligatory Richard and Judy Book Club novel, a small vial of Jo Malone Pear and Freesia, and the yearly lecture about how men are all shits and she can’t believe Dad just left her to bring me up alone. I boil the kettle, splash water onto the teabags, tip on some milk, and hand a mug to Joshua who says thank you. We return with them to my mangled sheets and sit up against the wall, legs twirled around one another, sipping even though the drinks are still too hot.
‘I like your bedroom,’ he comments.
It’s very much April’s bedroom, not Gretel’s. I’m not sure what Gretel’s bedroom would look like. I guess she’d have framed photos of all her travels. Or maybe not. Maybe she’s someone who ‘doesn’t need to take photos because the memory is enough.’ She’d probably have a vinyl record player, not because she’s a hipster, but because she genuinely understands music and genuinely knows it sounds better on vinyl. There’d be a glass filled with wildflowers that she’d somehow managed to pick herself in inner-city London. Her bookcase would contain The Catcher In the Rye and Catch 22 and all the other books men love women to read because they’re all about men and written by men.
But Joshua only gets April’s bedroom.
I try to see it through his eyes afresh. There are quite a lot of clothes on the floor, and a big pile on my chair, which never gets sat in, what with the constant pile of clothes. The top of my wardrobe has a nice framed photo of Megan and me on it, from that one good holiday we managed to take together in Greece. But it’s somewhat obscured by the scattered bottles of all the things I apply to my face and body each day in order to pass as a functional woman. Deodorant. Moisturiser. Night cream. Day cream that I’m still not sure is different from moisturiser. Make-up remover. Cotton pads. Eye make-up remover. Vitamin C that stings my face and I don’t understand why I need it, just that I do. E45 anti-itch cream for whenever I shave my legs or bikini line. Tweezers to pluck out my nipple hairs. There are piles of make-up-blackened cotton pads I haven’t been arsed to transfer the whole metre to the bin yet.
‘I really like that poster,’ Joshua comments, pointing to the one by the door. It’s a framed Harry Potter print I got as a leaving present from my last job. A quote about finding light in the darkness.
‘You like Harry Potter?’
‘Yeah, of course. Doesn’t everyone? I even dressed up as Dumbledore once at a uni party.’
‘And, there I was, thinking people in IT are all geeks.’
‘Oi!’ He tickles me in protest and I shriek and spill tea down my chest and then shriek louder. He takes my mug from me, puts it on the side, and pulls me into him. I nestle in, take another inhale of his scent, ignore all the nagging in my brain.
‘I had a really amazing night last night.’ He kisses the top of my head again.
‘Even though I stormed out on your friends?’
‘Especially because of that. In fact, I’m glad that happened. I mean, I’m sorry it made you sad. It was nice to talk to you about …’ He picks up my palm, and starts to stroke the inside of it with his thumb. He’s about to say something deep and meaningful.
‘About …?’ I prompt, hungry for it, even though I know how deliciously dangerous such moments are.
‘Just about …’
There’s the crash of our front door. A wail like a dying animal has been trodden on. We jump comedically. I pull up my sheet to cover myself.
‘Are you here?’ Megan howls.
‘It’s my flatmate,’ I whisper. ‘Shit.’
‘ARE YOU INNNNNN?’
It sounds bad. Really really bad. I get out of bed and shrug into a T-shirt and knickers. ‘I’m here,’ I call out. ‘Hang on. I’m coming.’
Joshua is still, watching me, eyebrows drawn up in confusion. What was he about to say?
‘I think she’s upset,’ I tell him needlessly. ‘I’m just going to check she’s all right.’ I skid out of the door, closing it behind me, but it doesn’t quite catch. No time to worry about it though, as Megan is right outside my room. She’s fallen to the ground, bag exploding at her feet, and she’s gone into full-on child’s pose, her back heaving as she cries.
‘Megan? What’s happened?’
Worst case scenarios ricochet through my head. She’s been raped. She’s been mugged. She’s just been fired even though it’s Saturday. She’s just been diagnosed with incurable brain cancer.
She raises her blubbering face, shot through with red-raw emotion. I brace myself for the impact. ‘It’s … it’s … him.’
I close my eyes for a second. Malcolm. I allow myself a moment’s relief. This is a problem we have overcome many times before. I should’ve known, really, the moment she got into the foetal position. ‘Oh hon, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry,’ I say, even though I’m not sure what he’s done yet. I drop to the floor. Pat her back. Tug her armpits. Encourage her to come and sit on the sofa to tell me what happened.
‘He … he …’ she leans forward onto her knees and starts crying again. All I can do is keep rubbing her back, waiting for her to get the words out. I glance at my door. I can feel Joshua’s getting-ready movements. Is he going to stay in there? Or come out? How do I explain any of this? But Megan howls again and snaps my attention back.
‘Tell me,’ I urge. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘It’s stupid. I’m so so stupid.’
‘You’re not stupid.’
‘Yes I am. So fucking stupid. I’m pathetic. I’m JUST SO PATHETIC.’ She lurches up and she looks like a possessed demon. Snot smeared over her, hair matted from tears, last night’s make-up streaming down her face. It’s at this exact moment that Joshua decides to make his sheepish entrance. Megan jumps. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
I leap up, step between them and grab Joshua’s wrist. ‘This is Joshua.’ I don’t know what else to say. Megan’s mouth is open. She shakes her head.
‘Joshua?’
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll leave you guys to it.’
The shock’s at least snapped Megan out of her hysterics. She watches as I lead him to the door. We step into the corridor, just as I hear her sobs start up again.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Umm. Boy trouble.’
‘I could hear.’
‘I think it’s going to be a while.’
‘And there I was, looking forward to making you eggs.’
‘I don’t have any eggs.’
He does the smile again. ‘And there I was looking forward to going out and buying eggs and then making them for you.’ There’s a twinge in his voice. The smile is covering something. But Megan’s pain echoes through the ajar door and I have no time to contemplate it.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ I promise. ‘Have a good Saturday.’
‘Call me.’
We kiss goodbye. He wraps both arms around the small of my back and mashes his lips against mine more angrily than I’m expecting him to. I look up to see that he’s kissing me with his eyes open, staring vacantly over the top of my head.
‘Um, bye then,’ I say.
‘Bye.’
There’s no time for psychoanalysis. Not with the sounds coming from inside. I go back in and find Megan sprawled across the sofa, face down in a cushion, convulsing with grief.
‘Hey, hey, it’s OK.’ I bend down, balancing on the balls of my toes as I comfort her. ‘Please tell me what happened.’
‘I’m so embarrassed.’
&nbs
p; ‘Don’t be. What happened?’
‘I’m so stupid. I’m so crazy and fucking stupid!’
‘You’re not. What’s going on?’
She flips over and pushes herself up, her knees bent. She hiccups and can’t look at me she’s still crying so hard.
I try humour. ‘You look like Dawson in that meme.’
It lands. She snorts and wipes her face in a useless attempt to get rid of all the snot, but instead just turns it into a paste. ‘Don’t.’
‘Sorry Dawson.’
Another burp of giggles. ‘Stop it.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
She whimpers and clutches her knees further into herself. ‘It’s all my fault anyway,’ she starts. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything, but I really honestly thought we were on the same page. Argh.’ She shakes her head. ‘We were having such a good night. I was feeling proper loved up. Malcolm took me out for cocktails, he got us such a good table. He kept staring into my eyes, putting his hand on my back, telling me I was gorgeous every five minutes. We got back to his and things were still great. We ordered in Deliveroo and ate it in our pants. We felt like a proper couple, you know? I wouldn’t have said anything if I hadn’t … ARGH!’ She clutches her head in her hands.
‘What did you say?’ I’m rubbing a figure of eight into her back with one hand, and patting her foot with another.
‘We were lying there, and he was staring at me, and playing with my hair. You know how you can just tell when a man is really into you? Well that was the vibe I was reading, and I said … I said … I said, “So, are we exclusive?”’ Her bottom lip trembles, cheeks flushing at the memory. She looks up at me with her wide tear-glazed eyes. ‘The mood changed right away. Oh my God, April. He honestly flinched like I’d just revealed I had fucking herpes or something. The first thing he did was take his arm away and didn’t look at me. And I started fucking backpedalling, saying shit I didn’t mean, like “don’t worry, I don’t mind if we label it or not”. Even though of course I fucking want to label it. That’s why I asked.’
