We Are All Made of Stars (29 page)

‘I was getting into it. Weren't you?' he asks me. ‘I mean, there isn't a rule that says we can't get into it, is there?'

‘Yes, I mean no,' I say. ‘I was enjoying it. But … look, I haven't been with even three women … I mean men … so cut me some slack. Let's just be a little less … into it. At least out loud.'

Ben grins, and I pick up a cushion and throw it at him.

‘So what next?' he asks me. And the way he looks at me, it's different from any way he's ever looked at me before. The atmosphere has changed between us; it's charged with something that I didn't expect at all: anticipation, expectation, even desire. I realise that we both want whatever it is that is going to happen next, and it's a revelation that's both exciting and terrifying. I need to be in this moment, and I need to be brave. I liked the way he wanted me just then. I liked the way my kisses made him moan with desire; it makes me feel bold. I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it off over my head, revealing my black vest, which shows pretty clearly that I am not wearing a bra.

‘Shit,' Ben says, staring at my breasts. ‘You look good in that.'

‘Your turn,' I say, tossing my shirt over my shoulder, warming to my role as sexual siren. He hesitates, and my confidence ebbs a little. ‘Come on, fair's fair.'

Still his hands remain at his sides, and I think, well, I'm in this deep, so I attempt a sort of a flirty swagger over to him and start to unbutton his shirt, my fingers fumbling with the stupid little buttons.

‘Press studs would be easier,' I mutter. ‘Didn't you have anything with Velcro?'

His hands still mine, and finally he pulls the shirt off over his head.

‘That works,' I say. Well, I more sort of squeak. It's odd to look at him this way, to see the curves of his muscles, the flat surface of his stomach.

‘Relax,' he says. ‘Can we just go back to kissing again? We aren't in a rush. And you look so good, I want to kiss all of you.'

‘You're sure that it isn't that I look disgusting with my shirt off?' I ask him.

He shakes his head. ‘You really don't.'

Hesitantly, he reaches out. The tips of his fingers graze my breasts in a downward stroke, and I hold my breath, unprepared for the jolt of lust that it sends coursing through me. He grabs me, tighter this time, and I hear myself sigh as his lips find their way onto my neck. I don't know how it happens, just that we are clinging to each other, kissing again. Only this time it's different: not searching or hesitant, but passionate, needful. We stumble onto the bed and I don't need to worry if he finds me attractive; I know that he wants me. I can feel his hardness against my hips and thighs. His lips are on my neck. His hand drags my vest top up, revealing my breasts to his eyes, his mouth. And I close my eyes and think, if I die now then that will be OK, actually – this is the most wonderful feeling I have ever had in life. Except, except that now I want more than ever to know what it feels like to have him inside me; I don't want to wait a second longer. I want to feel his skin against mine, now. But as I feel my desire for him build, he is suddenly still and backs away.

I stop.

‘What? What did I do?' I ask him. ‘Too much… enthusiasm?'

‘Nope, nothing. It's fine,' he says, smiling at me so sweetly. ‘I just got a bit, you know, too into it. As you were.'

‘Too into it? What do you mean? You mean like, you know, about to pop your cork, sort of thing?'

‘Are you seriously asking me this question now?' Ben asks me, moving away from me.

‘Um … well, I suppose I am,' I say. ‘Sorry, I'm just nervous. And that's what we do, isn't it? We take the piss out of each other; that's what mates do.'

He looks at me for seconds, and I'm aware of him retreating rapidly from the moment.

‘This is a mistake,' he says. ‘It's not your fault, it's mine. I don't really know what I was thinking.' He picks up my vest top and hands it to me, turning his face from my nudity, and hastily I drag it back on.

‘Ben, I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to take the piss out of your sexual prowess. Please, Ben, don't be pissed off with me. You know what an inept person I am.'

‘I'm fine,' he says, although he is clearly not. ‘So … are we back to the way things were before tonight?'

‘Ben.' I sit down on the bed as he starts to gather his things together. ‘What just happened?'

‘Nothing happened, and that's for the best. Everything is fine,' he says, but his shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched. Nothing is fine.

‘Tell me,' I say.

‘Shit, Hope. If you don't know, then you will never know,' he blurts out angrily. ‘And fuck you for making me talk like a woman!'

‘What? What?' I stare up at him, bewildered, and he turns to stare at me.

‘You're so caught up in your own tragedy,' he says. ‘And who can blame you? Anybody would be. Anybody would be angry and hurt and frightened if they had to live with what you have to live with. And so … everything is fine. There is nothing to worry about. I should never have let it get as far as it did; I'm a fool for even …'

‘I've made you really angry, and for once I don't know why,' I say.

He presses his lips together as he stares at me, and I'm frightened to see tears standing his eyes. I can tell he's trying hard not to blink, afraid that they might fall.

‘I am in love with you, you idiot,' he says. ‘I love you, Hope. I don't know when it changed from being platonic to an all-consuming, unbearable passion, but it did. I am in love with you; that's what I meant when I said I was getting too into it. I was afraid that I was going to blurt it out. I've been waiting like a goddamned girl for years for you to notice that I am in love with you, and you never do.'

‘Wait … what?' I ask him, and for a moment it's almost as if he's talking another language.

‘I thought that one day you would notice me, that you would suddenly realise that the guy that hangs around you all the time is actually the guy for you, but you haven't, not ever. And then you nearly fucking
died
, and even then – nothing. No epiphany, nothing. And no thinking that maybe I kissed you because I fucking love you, Hope. No, it had to be something all weird and doomy and Hope-like, because you live in your own little psychodrama and you don't notice or care that there are other people in this world who need you to be alive. And now, now you've made me do a stupid girl speech. Next you'll be forcing me into some kind of prom-dress makeover situation. But no – no more. I'm not being your pathetic little hanger-on any more. I'm getting a life.'

‘Ben.' I stand up. ‘Ben, you are crazy. Stop it. You aren't my pathetic little hanger-on – I'm yours!'

‘You are not mine,' he says. ‘You mean, you seriously haven't noticed that I am your entourage? It's fine. I get how you wouldn't feel the same about me. I mean, I am a kid off an estate, who still lives with his mum – who ignores him – and who works in a phone shop. I'm not a catch; I get that. But you know … you know what? You could at least try being a bit more gracious, a bit more polite about the fact that I fell in love with you. You could at least say … thank you.'

‘But …'

He leaves, bowls out of the room at a furious rate, the door slamming against the corner of the desk as he goes.

‘Thank you,' I say to an empty room.

What the hell just happened? What was that? Was that an elaborate ruse to get out of the sex pact … Was it a joke? I think about everything he said, and the way that he said it, and it sounded like a joke. Ben doesn't love me, does he? I mean, not in that way, does he?

I mean … how could he possibly? I mean, does he?

My phone rings and I see his name and a photo of him appear on my phone. I answer the call.

‘I'm really sorry,' he says. ‘You'll need walking back.'

‘I'm OK to walk back,' I say. ‘It's just down the road.'

‘You're sure?'

‘Ben.' I go to the window and see his tall figure ranging from under a street light across the road. ‘I am really very stupid and self-obsessed, you know.'

‘I know.' Our eyes meet – even though I can't see his face, I just know it. I sense our connection. I press my palm against the glass.

‘I'm a fucking loser, anyway,' he says.

‘You aren't,' I tell him. ‘You're the best person I know.'

‘But you have literally no friends, apart from me,' he says. And I laugh; it's not exactly true, but almost.

‘I'm waiting for you to come down, and then I'll walk you back,' he says.

‘Ben, about what you said … it's not that I don't …'

‘Stop talking now,' he said. ‘I'll see you in five.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

‘Vincent?' She opens the door in a dressing gown, and I salute her. I didn't plan it that way, that's just the way that it happens. She gives me a little nod, a signal that I can stand at ease.

‘Maeve,' I say. ‘It's been too long. I'm sorry about that.'

‘How are you?' she says, putting her arms around me. I don't think I should hug her back, so I don't, but she leans into me, just for a moment, resting her head on my shoulder. ‘Oh, but it's good to see you. I don't know, somehow hugging you, it's a bit like hugging Kip, in a way.'

She presses her cool palms against my face, as if she is checking I am real.

‘I'm sorry I wasn't at the funeral.'

‘Don't be so silly,' she says, standing back to invite me into her home.

Hesitantly, I take a step over the threshold; I feel like an intruder.

‘You were fighting for your life,' she says. ‘Of course you couldn't be there. But I'm so glad, for you and for Stella, that you pulled through. And for Kip, too; he'd be so pleased that you did. Do you want a coffee or a tea, or I have beer? I don't normally keep it in, these days, but I saw some of Kip's favourite on special offer and just picked it up – didn't even think about it until I got home and unpacked the shopping. She smiles at me, but it's a smile fringed with tears. ‘Hey, maybe he knew you were coming. Kip always did like to be the host with the most.'

‘Mama, who is it?' I hear a small voice from upstairs, and a moment later this little girl, so small, with curly strawberry-blonde hair and a chin just like Kip's, comes running into the kitchen in her pyjamas.

‘Casey, you should be in bed, you tinker!' Maeve scoops the little girl up and sits her on her hip. ‘This is Uncle Vinnie. He was Daddy's very best friend.'

I swallow. ‘Maeve, me and Kip, we made a promise to each other. We said that if the worst ever happened, we'd be there, you know, for who was left behind. We said we'd do what the bigwigs never do and tell you what it was like at the end, what it was really like. Because we knew how it drove families mad, the not knowing. How the not knowing is so much worse than anything.'

Maeve nods but doesn't speak. There's a deep slot of worry in the centre of her brows, extending down to the top of her nose, making her look so much older than she is, which can't be much more than thirty.

‘Vincent,' she says, gently, offering me an open bottle of beer. ‘I know you've come across London with something to say, and I know it's important you say it, but will you wait a moment, till this wee one is settled?'

‘Of course,' I say, smiling at Casey.

‘Would you like Uncle Vinnie to read you your stories tonight?' Maeve asks the little girl, who laughs with delight at the idea, and for a moment she looks even more like her dad. I'm not sure if I can do it and keep my shit together, but I don't know how to say no, so I carry the kid upstairs, and she finds me a book and then another one and clambers into bed.

‘I just read it out to you, do I?' I say.

‘Yes, silly,' Casey says. ‘And do all the funny voices. Daddy did all the funny voices, and Mummy tries but she's not as good at it as Daddy is. Are you good at funny voices?'

‘I'll give it a go,' I say.

I sit on the edge of her bed and open the book and read to her about some bears. After a page, she nudges me in the ribs, so I try it in a deep growly bear voice, and she giggles. So I do it again, and again, a different voice for every bear: a deep one, a high one and a squeaky one, which is the one she likes the best. And she laughs and laughs, and I find myself smiling back at her, aping around like a fool just to get that giggle once again.

‘Again!' she demands as soon as we reach the end, and so we read the story again and again, until we are both laughing and she is bouncing up and down on the bed, like it's a trampoline. Maeve is in the doorway, arms folded, pretending to be cross with us.

‘Well, Uncle Vinnie knows how to settle you down,' she chides me, with a wink. ‘Come on now, chicken, time to go to sleep. Love you. Sleep tight. See you in the morning.'