Goose (8 page)

I lower my arms and I push my way gently through the crowd to the toilets. People smile as I brush past them, but hardly anyone opens their eyes. I lock myself in a cubicle and wait until it's all over. I feel a bit ridiculous and glad I didn't wear anything more fancy.

An hour and a half later the music has stopped. Quite a few people have come into the toilets, knocked on my cubicle door to ask if whoever is in here is OK, and I have shouted back ‘food poisoning' far too many times. It's time to brave the outside world again, but I feel so silly. Checking my face for dislodged make-up, I wash my hands and make my way back out to the main hall. There are around half the people in there, and in the middle I see Gordon, his band mates and Kerry all chatting with bottles of beer. I'm certain I have the indentation of a toilet seat on my bum and thighs from sitting on it for so long. Thank God for clothes.

‘There you are!' says Kerry, cheerily. She's definitely changed her tune. For some reason this annoys me.

‘You were so great,' I say, looking to Gordon.

‘You're here? I was looking for you but couldn't see you,' he says, but I am not sure I believe him. When I saw him on stage he only looked up.

‘I thought you'd left.' Kerry seems friendly now. I can't work out why she's changed moods so quickly. Maybe she's got her period or something.

‘No, I didn't leave. I just went closer to the front. I was down there, by the stage, about two from the front. It was brilliant,' I lie.

‘I knew you would get it it,' says Gordon. ‘You are the kind of person wh—'

‘Does anyone want to come to the pub?' Kerry says, cutting through him. ‘It's only 10 p.m. We could get a few in before last orders?'

‘Not me,' says Gordon. ‘I'm done after all that singing. Do you need a lift home, Flo?'

‘Aren't you coming to the pub, Flo?' Kerry sounds like she really wants me to come. What is up with her?

‘Well  …  '

‘Flo looks like she needs some quiet time,' says Gordon, looking right into my eyes.

Oh my God, it's so obvious that he fancies me. I pray my face doesn't change colour and just say, ‘Thanks, that would be great.'

I hug Kerry goodbye, but she's back to being a bit frosty. ‘See you at church in the morning?' I ask.

She half nods, half shrugs and turns back to the group quickly.

Leaving me and Gordon alone together.

Driving along in Gordon's car he plays a tape of his own band, and sings along with a song that he wrote. It's one where the chorus manages to rhyme the word
might
with
Christ
. It isn't very good. He turns down the volume to speak to me. ‘Thanks for coming tonight, Flo. It means a lot to me that you were there.'

‘It does?' I say, wishing I had just said thank you. ‘It does?' sounds so pathetic and under-confident.

‘Yes, it does. To see that you are serious about worship. It's not just for Sunday church services and a weekly Bible meeting. It's for all days, with all people. The band gives us a new way to pray, a more youthful connection with God. I feel so close to him when I am on stage singing these songs.'

‘Everyone was really into it,' I say, unsure of what the right thing to say is. I want to impress him, and make him feel like I understood tonight. Even though I spent most of it pretending to have diarrhoea in the toilet. ‘It's a different thing, though, isn't it? When the band and the audience are all singing about the same person. Like when you hear a song usually, like, I dunno, when Toni Braxton sings ‘Unbreak My Heart', she has a picture of someone in her head that she wrote the song about and is singing it to. When people listen to it some of them have a person that they can think about too, but some people don't. It doesn't mean they can't enjoy the song, but it doesn't mean as much to them as it does to the people who can visualise something. But with your music, on a night like tonight, everyone is thinking about the same person, Christ, so everyone is involved with what you are singing. You, I mean,
we
were all sharing the exact same experience,' I say, wishing I would just shut up.

‘Flo, you are so right. That was spot on. I knew you would see it.'

We drive up the road to my house. ‘This is me,' I say, and he slows down. I undo my seatbelt slowly, not really knowing if I am supposed to get out or stay put. Will we kiss?

He turns off the engine and shifts to face me.

‘I can take you further into faith than you ever imagined, Flo,' he says, looking me right in the eye. I wonder if this is meant as a euphemism, and hope a kiss is on its way. ‘I think God has asked me to embrace you.'

‘He has?' I say, shyly. ‘Embrace me, then?'

I reach my arms across to his seat and try to hug him, but his arms don't move. He just lets my head rest on his chest and he pats it. ‘There, there,' he says.

There, there?

I look up at him. Maybe he's being gentlemanly and respectful. Should I show him that I want him by kissing him first? My lips are underneath his – it's obvious what I want. And then he does – he kisses me. Just off my mouth and no tongues, but it was still a kiss. Then he pushes me gently back over to my side of the car. Was that good? I really can't tell, but I want to say all of the right things, so I lie.

‘That made my fingers tingle,' I say, hoping he wants to do it again, this time properly.

He smiles. ‘I know that feeling well. It's how I feel when I sing my songs to God. It's like he runs through me.'

I want to tell him that God had nothing to do with it, but I think better of it. I don't want to ruin the moment, or to be rude. I liked the kiss, kind of. It was better than no kiss. And in a way I much preferred it to the horrid, sloppy, beer-smelling snogs I have had in The Monkey on the nights when I have got so drunk I thought I might as well.

‘Goodnight, Flo,' he says.

‘Goodnight, Gordon.'

I get out of the car, and before he sets off he pushes in his tape again and turns up the volume. I can hear him singing along to it as his car drives out of sight.

It wasn't exactly a passionate encounter, but it's a start.

Is it possible that I, Flo forever-the-virgin Parrot, have a boyfriend?

As I walk into the house I hear noises coming from the kitchen. Mum is still up and she obviously isn't alone. Her date must still be here. Usually I do everything I can to avoid anything to do with her love life, but her laughter stops me going upstairs. Because my mum never laughs, at least not like she is now. It's not the fake, sexually charged laughter I have heard her do around boyfriends before, but more natural-sounding.

‘Mum?' I say, opening the door.

‘Flo, you're home.' She looks a bit flushed. ‘This is Arthur.'

Usually when meeting Mum's blokes I brace myself to have either my hand shaken or my cheek slobbed on, but when I look at Arthur, I am happy to have my hand shaken by him. He is tall, with dark brown hair, small glasses and a nice suit.

‘Hello, Flo,' he says. ‘Lovely to meet you. Are you desperate to get to bed or would you like to join us for a glass of wine?'

Mum and I both look at each other strangely. Us? Have a glass of wine together? That's the weirdest thing I have ever heard. But before I have the chance to say no he has poured me one and put it in my hand. I then do something I thought I would never do – I sit up until the early hours of the morning laughing and joking with my mother and her really nice new boyfriend.

I call my boss at about 5 p.m. to say I have been feeling sick all day, and I can't work tonight. He says, ‘Sorry to hear that,' but in an annoyed voice, which means he knows I am lying, but nothing is going to stop me from going to see Dean's play.

I drive into the youth theatre car park and see Meg and Dean standing outside smoking. I quickly put some make-up on using my rear-view mirror. I'm wearing blue jeans with a light blue jumper, a black bomber jacket and Converse boots. I think I look quite cool. Getting out of my car I am careful to look like I don't care if Dean is watching, but I do, I do – I want him to be watching me so much. As I walk over to them my heart is pounding, but I am determined to be confident and not show my nerves. I have been such a nervous idiot around so many boys, but this time I am not doing it. Cool, I am going to be cool.

‘Hi guys, you all right?' I say, like I have been coming to plays on Saturday nights for years.

‘Renée, you came,' says Meg, in her usual laid-back and slightly stoned way. ‘This is Dean. You guys haven't met properly yet, have you?'

Rather than shake my hand, Dean kisses me softly on the cheek. ‘I feel like I know you,' he says. ‘I've seen you around for years.'

Flattered, I feel I should reciprocate. ‘Me too. I love your work. I read the piece you wrote in the
Globe
about the controversial right turn up in Torteval. I thought it was really great.'

‘Ha! That's very kind. But I hardly get to flex my creative muscles in the
Globe
. Guernsey is hardly the epicentre of gripping news stories. Tonight, though, you'll get to see some of my real work, the stuff that makes me tick. You should go in – curtain up in five. I'll see you two afterwards.'

‘He's so nice,' I say to Meg as we take our seats.

‘Yup, and such a talented writer. His stuff is really deep.' The lights go down and two actors come on. They are half dressed and look intense. Meg turns to me and smiles as if I am about to experience something wonderful. I see Dean sitting down in the front row. He must have seen this a thousand times, if he wrote it. I am excited. Coming to the theatre feels so grown-up.

I spend the next hour and a half trying to follow what's going on, but I just don't get it. Two men, speaking in low monotone voices, using modern language but really long and complicated words that nobody in real life would ever use. The basic plot is that one of the men slept with the other man's wife, and that they are trying to work out who should have her. In the end they decide they both should but just not let on to her that they know. I didn't realise it was possible to feel so sorry for a fictional character that wasn't even in the play. That poor wife. When the lights go up, the thirty-two (I counted) people in the audience clap, and we go outside. Dean is already at the door and people are congratulating him as they leave.

‘That was so great,' drawls Meg, hugging him languidly.

‘Thanks, babe.' Dean looks to me. ‘What did you think, Renée?' he asks.

‘It was really interesting,' I reply, taking note from Aunty Jo, who told me that if you can't think of anything to say about an artist's work, you should always just say it was ‘interesting'.

Dean obviously likes what I said. He smiles and I see his eyes start to wander down my body. I try not to look too ecstatic about that. Which I am.

‘Shall we go into town?' suggests Meg, who seems oblivious to the electricity between me and Dean. ‘I think you probably want to get drunk, don't you, Dean?'

‘I certainly do. The Ship and Crown?'

‘Oh no, I can't go there tonight,' I say quickly. ‘I am supposed to be working and I did a sicky. I probably shouldn't go into town at all. If I get spotted I'll lose my job. You guys go.'

Dean frowns.

‘I tell you what, fuck The Ship. Why don't you two come back to mine? I have loads of booze, and some other treats. It'll be fun.'

A very high-pitched and annoyingly girly squeal is released into my brain, but I manage to contain it and just say, ‘Cool. Sounds great!'

‘And I think we should go in your car, Renée. Looks like a laugh.'

We all pile in. Dean in the front, Meg in the back. Dean laughs at the way I have to pour anti-freeze into the engine before we can leave, and I warn them that there is a good chance they'll have to bump-start me if the engine doesn't start. But it's OK. My little car is on my side for once.

‘I live in the Canishers,' he says, ‘just above The Royal Hotel. On the far side of town. There should be plenty of parking down there.' He pushes in the tape that's currently poking out of my stereo and I prepare to cringe, but Dean laughs when he realises it's the Spice Girls.

‘GIRL POWER!' I shout, though neither of them shout it back. I must remember that I can't act the way I do with Flo with everyone else.

When we arrive at Dean's flat it is obvious that Meg is a regular there. She goes straight into the kitchen to get some drinks from the fridge. As she clanks around getting glasses, Dean and I are left alone in the living room.

‘So I liked your dance the other night. They were some moves you were throwing.'

‘It was the routine Madonna does in the ‘Papa Don't Preach' video. I wanted to put on a bit of a show for you.' I laugh, letting him know I don't take myself at all seriously.

‘Well, you succeeded. I couldn't stop thinking about you after that.'

‘Really? I saw you at the bar with Meg and thought you guys were together.'

Dean shakes his head.

‘No, we haven't been together for a long time. Just friends.'

Meg comes in with three glasses and a bottle of white wine. I am turning things over in my head. Dean and Meg are exes? I wonder what Dean means by ‘a long time'? Why has Meg never mentioned it? I take a glass of wine from Meg and decide not to bring it up right now. I can't be jealous yet – nothing has even happened between us.

‘Where's the gear?' Meg asks Dean.

‘You know where it is. It's where it always is.' She goes over to a little wooden box on the mantelpiece and gets out a big bag of weed.

Dean's flat is small. It's nice, though – the few things he has are interesting. A glass coffee table that has thick, hand-made wooden legs. A deep-green sofa, loads and loads of books on shelves around the room and tons of VHS along the skirting boards. There are photos of him and various people all over the walls – it is very obvious that he is well travelled.

‘You live on your own?' I ask him.

‘Essentially, yes,' he answers. ‘Come on, I'll show you around.' We leave Meg skinning up on the sofa; she doesn't even look up when we leave the room. Down a short corridor he shows me his bathroom and then leads me into his bedroom. The bed is very low, a wooden frame that slightly elevates a double mattress from the floor, but not by much. It smells of essential oils, cedar and neroli, I think. I recognise them from the selections Flo has given me as birthday and Christmas presents. She gets a good staff discount from Smellies.

‘Here, sit here,' says Dean, sitting down on his bed and patting the spot next to him. I feel slightly odd about the fact we left Meg in the living room, but she looked pretty happy, just her and her weed. I sit down next to him. I feel inexplicably horny. He is so fit. Dark hair, nice deep-brown eyes, big eyebrows, a good nose, thick lips, strong jaw. Handsome. Interesting. Arty. Writery. He oozes experience and knowledge. He makes me want to know stuff, about everything.

‘I'd like to see those later,' he says, pointing at my breasts. From anyone else this would have sounded like the sleaziest line of all time. Somehow from him, it just sounds sexy.

‘What about now?' I catch myself saying in a whisper. I don't want him to see me as too young. I am eighteen – I am an adult. I need to act like one now.

The light is off in the bedroom, but the hall light gives enough that my skin will look nice.

‘What about Meg?' I say as I start to take off my top.

‘Don't worry about her. Meg's happy sitting in there for hours just smoking and reading my books. She's fine.'

My jumper is now on my lap. Dean wets his lips.

‘I knew they'd be good,' he says, stroking my left boob with his hand. Then he leans forward and licks my nipple. The lick turns into a suck, and then his teeth gently nibble it. Then he nibbles a bit too hard and I jump from the pain.

‘Gently, please,' I say, and he goes to lick the other one.

It's hard to tell guys when they do something you don't like, but I have learned that you have to. Or they just don't know. Imagine a world full of men who have never been told by women about the things we don't like? It would be awful. So we have to tell them – it's our duty. It feels good that I am grown-up enough to say it to someone like Dean.

‘Dean?' comes Meg's voice from the living room. ‘Dean, do you want some of this?'

‘Yes babe,' he shouts back, then whispers to me, ‘Stay here tonight,' before he gets up and heads back into the living room, leaving me on the bed.

I pull my jumper back on and take the opportunity to use his bathroom, which is right opposite the bedroom in the narrow hall. It's pretty clean, for a guy's bathroom. There are quite a few products – shaving foam, aftershave, a selection of deodorants. His toothbrush is in its holder and the lid of the toothpaste is on. I open a little cupboard to the right of the sink, just to see what else he likes to spray himself with, but amongst an impressive selection of aftershaves is a bottle of women's deodorant, some mascara and a box of tampons.

Meg's? Who else's could they be?

‘He isn't your boyfriend, Renée,' I say at my reflection. ‘Stay calm.'

I have a wee, and head back into the living room.

‘What the fuck?' are my first words when I see their faces up against each other's. Kissing. So blatantly. How was I so  …  And then I see the jet of smoke shooting from Meg's mouth. She's giving him a blow back. I feel like a total fool. ‘Sorry, I thought you were  …  '

‘Come and sit here,' says Dean, patting the sofa next to him. It's obvious that he and Meg are both so stoned they haven't even noticed what I said. He passes me the spliff.

I take it, but I know it's probably a bad idea. I haven't smoked much pot but when I have I've spun out, felt sick, had what I have come to know as a ‘whitey'. It's when the world stops spinning and you spin instead, and then everything stops, and you can't even move. So I do that, then I go into a coma. It's nothing dangerous, just a heavy drug-induced sleep, but I am always really jealous of the people who smoke loads and get the giggles, or do what Meg seems to do and get cleverer and cleverer the more she smokes. Regardless of my experience, I take the spliff. After one drag, I know it was a bad idea. Everything goes hazy. I pass out.

My eyelids can barely block the light of the morning. It feels like a torch is being shone right into my face. Before I open my eyes I assess myself. I am lying down, I am under a cover. I don't have socks on. As I move I feel that the duvet is directly on my skin. My hands reveal I have my bra and knickers on but nothing else. My eyes ping open. Where am I?

I'm in Dean's bedroom, in his bed, and he is asleep next to me. His back is facing me. It's a nice back, smooth. There is a tattoo on his left shoulder – it looks like a Chinese symbol or something like that. His boxer shorts are Calvin Klein. He looks nice, but this is so weird. I have been in bed with boys I don't know before, but at least I remembered getting into bed with them. I don't even know if we had sex or not, but I have my pants on so I presume not. I try to get out of bed quietly. I don't want to wake him and I really need the loo.

‘Good morning, sleepy head,' he says, turning over.

Damn it!

‘Morning,' I say, sitting on the edge of his bed. ‘It goes without saying I can't remember anything.'

He laughs. ‘Don't worry, you were perfectly dignified. You just fell asleep after about four drags. It's Meg's fault, she packs so much in when she skins up. I carried you to bed at about midnight. I took off your clothes, but I didn't think you would appreciate me stripping you naked.'

I try not to dwell on the thought of being carried. I hope I wasn't too heavy.

‘Thank you,' I say, meaning it. A lot of boys wouldn't have missed an opportunity like that. I feel a little less ashamed knowing that I wasn't spreadeagled in front of him.

‘I'm just going to pop to the loo,' I say, getting up and slipping on his T-shirt.

‘Don't be long. I am not such a good boy when the girl I fancy is awake.'

In the bathroom I feel very aware that he is still lying only feet away from where the toilet is and that the flat is silent. I am desperate for a poo. I run the cold tap, lay a few sheets of loo roll in the toilet and sit down, leaning forward so I can reach the running water. I flap my hand under the tap so it sounds like I am washing my hands and hope to God I manage to do this without any embarrassing noises.

I get through it and feel oddly proud of myself. I have never actually spent the night at a boy's house before. An entirely plop-free poo was surprisingly easy to achieve. It's a skill I feel glad I have acquired. After a quick spray of the women's deodorant I found in the cupboard last night, I think I dealt with that really well. When I come back into the bedroom, Meg is sitting on his bed. I'm relieved to see that she's wearing a big dressing gown that comes down to her ankles. It must be Dean's, but at least she's not naked.

‘Morning,' she says, as if her being there is completely normal. Then she runs into the bathroom with a towel and I take it upon myself to close the bedroom door.

‘Meg stayed, then?' I ask him, trying not to sound jealous.