Noughties (23 page)

“Hey.”

Placing a confident hand on my chest, she pushed me back into the bathroom, and with surprising dexterity turned and locked the door behind us. Even in my loose
state I felt uncomfortable; vague allegiances bubbled in my bloodstream.

“I saw you in the bedroom with Ella just now,” she said, impractically nuzzling my face.

“Oh?”

“You do realize that Jack likes Ella, don’t you?”

“Errr, yeah, we all like her, don’t we?” I replied, arching backward.

“No, as in he fancies her. Be careful is all I’m saying … things could get complicated.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he told me earlier tonight. That doesn’t bother you though, does it, Eliot?”

“Huh?”

Yanking me forward by the belt buckle, fingertips grazing the underside at the top of my boxers, Abi’s lips confronted mine. These lips—thinner than Lucy’s, less understanding than Ella’s—contracted my own to two minutes’ hard labor. She tasted of cold Malibu and Coke. While taking gouges from each other’s mouths I thought of Ella waiting in the bedroom, growing increasingly impatient.

Fumbling behind my back after the toilet lid (the pesky seat sliding loose), Abi steered me to our station. Straddling me front on, she slipped out of her top, revealing a chest that was fuller than I had ever suspected of her. Well, you kept them a secret, didn’t you? As she clutched after my belt and fly, unraveling me at the seams, I couldn’t help thinking of all the past occupiers of that same seat, with their clenched buttocks and grinding teeth. Next I had visions of Leopold Bloom dropping a roundhouse dump, which in turn reminded me of the essay I had to write that week, which also in turn gave my erection the sharp sensation of a downward tug. And, by the look of things, I was
going to be needing that stiffy right about now, because Abi’s commandeering hand was delving into my pants, kneading balls of dough. It was remarkable really, how she managed to cling on to me, bury her tongue down my throat,
and
deliver a thorough handjob, all at the same time. I mean, I was genuinely astonished.

Whether I put it there, she put it there, or it was guided involuntarily by the gods, I soon found my own hand clamped tight in the crotch of her jeans, on the fleshy side. There was little room to operate, my mitt held firmly in place by uncooperative denim. Nevertheless, I started to wriggle my fingers about, freeing up a bit of space, and just hoping for the best. Fumbling in the recesses, I bore the aspect of a man rummaging for loose change. Abi seemed to be enjoying herself all the same. I had to work through spells of severe hand cramp, what with the non-user-friendly positioning, but I think the alcohol helped massively on that front.

“Bite my neck … bite my neck?” were the only words she said the whole time.

It was an odd exchange, just sort of rubbing and prodding each other in jagged unison; nothing more than a play of surfaces. At one point I thought her cavewoman industriousness was going to start a fire on my cock. Throughout I puzzled over her breasts that were not Lucy’s and the rumpled torso that was not Ella’s. It was a wank with a question mark at its end.

And guilt. I felt guilt, like a dull pain throbbing at the back of my throat. I couldn’t tell if that was for Lucy or Ella. I think it was for both. But I wasn’t going to let up. Increasingly, climax became something I needed, hurtling toward it ferociously, the solution of primal rapture.

I came all over Abi’s hand, but mainly up the bottom inside of my shirt and along the ridge of my boxers. Standing up
and re-dressing I was snared in all sorts of hygiene hazards, matted and glued against myself. There was no post-match small talk: no “What are you thinking about?,” no tender spooning, no “I love you,” no playful nose pinches. When Abi opened the bathroom door I was exposed for all to see, hopping around with my hands down my pants, belt and trousers flapping, a motley to the view.

There in the doorway was Ella, framed in her moment of hurt and shock. I could feel the air fleeing from her zero-shaped mouth. She bolted, and I didn’t have the guts to follow—

“You know,” continues Jack, “the party where Abi gave you a shiner?”

“Cheers.”

“Sorry.”

“And it was a handjob, by the way.”

“A blowjob
and
a handjob?”

“No! Just a handjob.”

“Bilateral?”

“Keep focused.”

“Sorry. My bad. There I go avoiding it again!” He stares at his feet and takes a deep breath.

“So, Joel Shaw’s party?” I say, somewhat impatiently.

“Well, I slept with Ella that night. We went home together and one thing led to another, as they say.”

“Hang on, you slept … but …”

“Yeah, we got it on. We were both hammered.”

“Oh, right.”

Jack takes a slurp from his beer.

“Did you ever confront her about the abortion, uh, thing, whatever it was?” I ask.

“God, no.”

“Good, good.”

“What do you mean, good?”

“Well, you know, it was probably just a misunderstanding and it would’ve been embarrassing for you, wouldn’t it?”

“But it’s tormented me ever since. Why else would she have a letter?”

“Did you read it?”

“No, I just caught the top of it before she came in.”

“So why didn’t you ever bring it up with her?”

“Well, because I wasn’t sure if I
had
got her pregnant. Plus, as time went on, I figured that if she had been pregnant, she’d obviously dealt with it, so why create all that awkwardness for nothing?”

“I guess it is quite bad for you not to have said
anything
.”

Jack drops his head and sighs in regret.

“But understandable in some ways.” I pat him on the back. “You wore a condom though, right?”

“I don’t remember. We were so drunk … I always do, but I can’t be absolutely sure.”

“Well, it’s all in the past now. And let’s be rational about this—you probably did wear protection, you’re just not sure … and even if you didn’t, it doesn’t mean you got her pregnant. For a start, doesn’t she have to be ovulating and shit?”

“I guess … Does she? I’m not really sure how it all works … are you?”

“Err … And let’s say she
did
have an abortion—how do you know she wasn’t … sleeping with anyone else?”

“I’m almost positive she wasn’t. At least I hope she wasn’t. I would’ve been crushed if she had … I mean, I was crazy about her.”

I nod silently. We lift our pints to unsmiling mouths and stare ahead into nothing, disconnected. “Maybe you did get her pregnant and maybe she did have an abortion, but—”

“What if she didn’t have the abortion?”

“What! You think she’s got a little baby hidden away in a room with
your
face on it? Fuck my life!”

“I know, I know!”

“How long ago was this anyhow?”

“Nearly a year, I guess.”

“Well, she would’ve been looking pretty pregs just a couple months back, wouldn’t she!”

“Okay, okay, she hasn’t had a baby … of course not. I would’ve known, for sure. We all would. It’s just the paranoia … it really fucks with your brain. But let’s say she was pregnant and did have an abortion—I’m responsible, aren’t I?”

I don’t know what to say.

“And then after everything that happened afterward, I felt so bad … like I’m also responsible for, you know,” Jack mutters into his pint, “
what she did
”—I start sweating at the unwanted reminder—“but obviously, after
that
, there was no way we could talk about any of this.”

My head is thumping, and this is all I’ve got: “You wouldn’t think about bringing it up with her tonight, would you?”

“I’m not sure. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you.”

“Mate, don’t do it.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Just don’t. It isn’t worth it. What’s done is done. If it did happen you’ll be digging loads of sad shit back up for her. And if it didn’t you’re gonna look like such a dick.”

“You’re right.” He fidgets a bit, uncrossing his legs and slumping down. “It’s so good to talk to you about this. I’ve wanted to for ages, but, well, you know … I felt like I couldn’t.”

“Mate, don’t worry.”

“Thanks. But, you know …” He stutters and swallows nervously.

I lean over and give him a man-hug.

“Fuck. I’m so glad to have you … and shit. I really appreciate it … bruv.”

“No worries. I feel the same about you … mate. I’m always here for you … and that.”

We both chug the rest of our beers. Jack hawks for extra manly measure.

“Just one thing,” I say. “I
definitely
wouldn’t tell Ella about any of this.”

“You’re right. I don’t want to ruin our last night.”

“Good lad.”

Sitting in a cinema. I’m watching some superhero flick, not really my cup of tea. It drags and drones with the occasional special-effects thrill rocking my popcorn-peppered gut. I slouch in the aisle seat for leg room and easy pee flee access.

The place is full of couples. You’ve got to question the logic of the cinema date: getting dressed to the nines to sit in a dark room where you can’t comfortably look at one another, let alone talk. Ideal for the three-year relationship that’s barely hanging on, oh sure; stupid for the fourteen-year-old desperadoes that form the unsilent majority in here.

The picture changes. All of a sudden I’m watching myself in the waiting room at the clinic, fidgeting and burying my head in my hands. I close my eyes to escape it, but the same film is projected onto the back of my eyelids.

I’m sorry.”

The babe’s pram has appeared in the aisle. He’s clutching a super-super-size Fanta and he’s got a bowl of dripping-cheese nachos resting on his paunch. He is nearly bald, just a scraggly ring of hair running round his head, and the bags beneath his eyes have almost hidden his cheeks. The white blanket is now sodden and seeped in dark stains. It clings to his body like an extra layer of skin. The baby’s eyes well up and I can hear him sobbing over the movie.

my fault.”

The picture on the screen changes again. Now I am confronted by a medium shot of Jack and Ella locked in an embrace. And then the image flicks—for a split second—to a long shot of the horrible scene that I’ve been burying this whole time: the last night of second year. I jump with shock. This is one memory I can’t hide from forever.

The pram disappears.

I’m leaning forward onto the bar, trying to grab someone’s, anyone’s, attention. I play the game. Firstly, having spotted an opening and slotted my way pathetically in (sideways initially, then straightening up with hand on bar and prizing elbows), I’ve made sure that I’m someway toward central. If you line up in the wings, it’s all over; you’ll never get served, just like the wreck at the end there who has been waiting since 1986. His arms are glued on to the corner at the farthest point of the bar. He doesn’t even muster a lift of the eyebrows or a point of the finger. This one’s given up on life, invisible to the barmen, rushed off their feet.

Secondly, I make certain to establish eye contact with one of the almighty concoctors as they crush ice and splash our spirits. Once identified, I’m placed on the hallowed waiting list.

Thirdly, I make elaborate and experimental noises of disgust when anyone who hasn’t waited as long as me, who hasn’t done the time (fucking newcomers), gets served first. But it’s hard when you’re not stacked or over six feet tall. My average frame is average in so many averagely interwoven ways that, in this kind of setting, I’m as inconspicuous as room temperature. The rest is just concentration.
Focus. Don’t allow anyone or anything to steal your—

“Boo!” Ella.

“Oh, hey.” (The guy next to me gets served.)

“What are you getting?”

“Pint,” I reply.

She wriggles in until she’s level with me at the bar.

“How about you? My shout,” I offer.

“What can I get you?” says the barman, going straight for Ella.

“Vodka and Coke, and a pint of …?” (she looks at me inquiringly).

“Stella. Thanks,” I say with more than a twist of bitterness.

“And a pint of Stella please” (it has to be relayed by Ella. He’s just not interested in helping me out here. I puff my chest and fold my arms).

That taken care of, we retreat to a high circular table with two vacant bar stools.

“How’s Lucy?”

I choke ever so slightly on my first pull of the pint. Ella sips her drink, eyes cast down.

“Errr, she’s fine I guess … I think … thanks.”

Ella nods but seems miles away. She’s gone pale.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she says. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Eliot. I hope you know that.” She reaches out to touch my arm but changes her mind, steering her eyes away instead and looking at the table. She seems slightly embarrassed. “A really good friend.”

All I’ve wanted to do tonight is tell Ella that I think I need her as
more
than a friend. I want to make a decision for once. If I dive in now it might change her direction: “Ella—”