What Becomes (18 page)

‘And you're the expert, are you?'

‘There's coming to please someone else and there's coming to please yourself . . . and there's not even knowing who you are any more and being more with someone than you ever have been – just losing it.
That's
coming.'

‘Like your ex-wife did?'

‘Was that necessary?'

‘No.'

‘No, it wasn't. It's just if you're married for any length of time you have all different kinds of sex. And
you
need the great big huge kind. Everybody does. So if you'll let me, I'll try and . . . you know . . . no pressure.'

‘But I'm lousy at coming. Lousy at sex?'

‘Don't be so complicated. I want you to have a great time. I am.'

‘Why, though? Why would you want that?'

‘Who
cares
why? I just do.'

‘Why?'

‘Because why not.'

‘Why?'

‘Fine, fine . . . Okay . . . Honestly? I had a job interview today . . . Yesterday now. Important. Life-changing important – the sort of stuff I never thought I'd get a chance at and I prepared and prepared and I put the suit on – best suit – and I drove down here and I looked at the town and I'm willing to relocate – I'm willing to commit, if they'll commit – and I did well in the interview, I genuinely believe they were impressed and I have a chance – I'm not sure, you can't be certain and I'm not going to get . . . excited – but I think . . . I do think that I did myself justice. They're going to call me on Monday, they said – at least that's not too long to wait . . . And I felt pretty good this evening – yesterday evening – and I came back to the hotel and I was
buzzing
, I was
alive
– the first time for I don't want to count: a decade: more: since way before the divorce – I was so much alive that I didn't want to just go out and eat my dinner and then go up to my room. I wanted to talk, I wanted to be with people and I went to the bar in the basement and I didn't fancy it much, so I came up and tried the one by reception which was such a good move, so sweet, because there you were – you – alone – in the bar, too. This fantastic –'

‘Woman with a mouth you wanted to fuck.'

‘Don't make it like that. You were beautiful and sexy and on the surface you looked in control, but underneath it seemed, it was kind of there, that you'd do more than that – the way you walk – and you didn't ignore me – you wanted to talk to me, you wanted to be with me and flirt with me a tiny bit like a horny bitch – which we know you are – stop pretending you're offended and listen to how beautiful you are and important – and it was all fine – because it was like I was changing into the man they'd hire, the man who'd get the job, the man you'd go upstairs with. They knew in the bar. They saw me – who I could be. They knew I was going to –
we
were going to . . . fuck – make love, fuck, get each other happy. Those guys from Manchester, the loud wankers in the corner – one of them stared right at me as you and I walked out and I know he was jealous, because I had you – and he believed I was who I want to be – someone who makes it, man with a plan, someone who gets what he wants – deserves it – someone you'd come for.'

‘That's not fair. I did.'

‘Not enough.'

‘Then I will.'

‘Promise?'

‘Yes. Promise. I like you. You're . . . you're beautiful, too. And I haven't got any idea why I went in there – into the bar. I don't like rooms full of strangers, but you, then you came in and looked . . . I thought I'd be able to talk to you – and you've got . . . your hair's great.'

‘My
hair
?'

‘You
listened
to me.'

‘That's easy enough done – you don't say a lot.'

‘I get . . . I'll say I'm so happy you're here.'

‘And why is that? What is it you like about me? Tell me. What have I got here that does it for you?'

‘Your . . . the way you touch me and your mouth and . . . your stomach is . . . and where your hair starts.'

‘Oh,
that
hair . . . and what about my cock.'

‘I love your cock.'

‘Say that again.'

‘I love your cock. It's beautiful and . . . so . . . It's the smoothest thing I've ever kissed . . . it's more . . . if they'd wanted to invent something, something wonderful that I'd need to touch and I love sucking it and having it in me and feeling it be itself in me.'

‘Once you get going you're quite the talker, aren't you?'

‘It's got a way of being. I'd know it now. If I ever . . . And I'm . . . I don't really believe we met, I can't . . . that something this good . . . I'll remember your cock. I'll . . . It's not really that I'll miss . . .'

‘Oh, now, don't.'

‘Sorry. Again.'

‘Don't cry. Don't do that. No. Come here, love. No, come here. If you're going to cry you might as well do it here. That's it. Why don't you . . . take your mind off . . . whatever's . . . wrong. There's nothing really wrong. It's just us here and all the jealous bastards listening . . . God, I really don't know what to do here . . . Why don't you, why don't you kiss it some more. Yeah, that'll cheer you up. Sweet girl, you kiss it – I want you to. That's better. Isn't it. You do that for a while and keep it safe in your hand – yes, lovely – and you do whatever you want and I'll just lie back here and . . . let you.'

‘Yeah, I miss my daughter. I still get to see her, but it's not much use. She thinks I'm a tosser.'

‘She'll grow out of it.'

‘Yeah? Dunno if I will. And moving down here won't help.'

‘She'd maybe stay with you for longer – make special trips instead of doing weekends and evenings and . . . it might be good.'

‘Stay with me? Yeah. Stay sitting in the house, texting her friends, being bored, ignoring me, refusing to eat. God. I'm not the best father, but
fuck.
I never did anything but the best for her. Nothing was my fault in the divorce. I haven't ruined her life. She's doing that all by herself.'

‘It'll work out.'

‘Yeah? Anyway. Enough of that. How about you?'

‘I'm okay.'

‘I didn't want to upset you. I didn't know.'

‘Well, how would you know? I'd taken off the sign from round my neck –
Mum's just died. In a mess.
'

‘Shhh. You're not in a mess. You're hurt. It's natural.'

‘There's nothing about me that isn't a mess.'

‘Trust me – that's not true. See . . . ? Not true. I'm going to kiss all the bits of you that aren't a mess. Okay? Okay?'

‘That's . . .'

‘And if it makes you cry again, that's okay, too. I'd even like it.'

‘I had the same thing happen a couple of years ago – my mother – pneumonia. They gave her the wrong antibiotics and she died. It's crap. Makes you crazy. Makes you divorced, in fact.'

‘If it weren't for the funeral I wouldn't have said yes.'

‘Oh, well. That's me told.'

‘No, listen – I would have wanted to say yes, but I wouldn't have. Because I don't take chances. I don't . . . try things when I should. Since I was a kid – the same. Every time. Sitting against the wall at school dances, getting too pissed at parties, because then I won't mind when I go home and I won't keep going through the way I screwed up again. If I hadn't decided –
fuck it, my mother's dead, not me. There's nothing she can say, she can't stop me, thinking about her can't stop me – so, fuck it – I'm doing what I have to for once.
Any other time, I'd have come up here by myself and wondered what you would have been like – the cute guy in the bar. I wouldn't have found out. It's . . . yesterday was the shittest day of my life. Cremation. No one but me dealing with it. My dad died years ago and so I'm left choosing a coffin, for Christ's sake. A coffin. Does anybody think they'll end up doing that, ever? Genuinely? I had to decide what they'd burn, what her pals in their hats would see rolling back behind the curtains before they asked about my life and I couldn't give them answers – not one. Then after all that, I get an urn. And urn full of her. Mostly her – there's bits of other people, too, though, I saw a documentary and it was pretty clear, you don't know who you end with, really . . . A fucking urn. And when everyone's gone and stopped doing their duty, stopped being sorry for you – then you end up . . . so small – bloody tiny – bloody ugly.'

‘You're not ugly.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Don't cry.'

‘I'm not.'

‘Just . . . kiss me. No, I enjoyed the talking, but let me kiss you. Let me. Let me fuck you – while you're . . . while you're soft. You're so opened up just now, you know that? It's beautiful. Soft. So we should fuck. We should go nuts, we should go crazy. Let it happen.'

‘I can't.'

‘Yes, you can. Let me. Just let me. And I promise you'll come. You'll come like you never have. My present. Let me. You want to. You do want to. No point shaking your head. Let me. Let me do it all. That's it, love. That's it. You take it. Let me. Let me. And then you'll cry. Then you'll fucking cry.'

‘Sorry.'

‘Nothing to be sorry about, love. I wanted you to . . . have a nice time, that's all.'

‘You didn't upset me – I'm already upset. My mother died. That means you get upset – means
I
get upset. Sorry. I have to get used to it. The way I am . . . It's not your fault.'

‘It feels like my fault.'

‘It's not. You've been – You've helped.'

‘That was a lot of crying . . . They'll have heard you next door.'

‘They'll have heard us next door all night.'

‘Up and down the corridor I would think. Dirty fuckers. Every word, every everything. I bet they made up pictures to go with it. I bet they'll stare at you over breakfast.'

‘We might have annoyed them.'

‘Then they could have gone away, stopped paying attention, stuck their fingers in their ears . . . People only do the things they want to – if they're honest, they know that – but then if they feel bad about them they blame somebody else. Unless they're like you – then they blame themselves.'

‘I'm not blaming myself . . . But it was all right, though? Was I all right?'

‘Silly monkey. 'Course you were. You were . . . the best present I've ever opened.'

‘Well, since you'd seen everything else . . . why not see me falling apart. Would you have breakfast with me? Would that be okay? We could sit together.'

‘You weren't falling apart – you were just coming and crying and crying and coming. You were amazing . . . I could ride you all my life. And look at the state of you. Sweetheart . . .'

‘Yes. I must be a sight.'

‘You're like a different woman – this incredible, wet, sweaty, sexy . . . I can see everything that's happened, I can see everything you've done – we've done – you're covered in it. You're amazing.'

‘You said that.'

‘Astonishing. You should know that.'

‘Well. If you ever want –'

‘
Shit!
Do you know what time it is?
Fuck!
'

‘Shhh. No, I don't.'

‘The curtain's all light, it must be . . . Where's my bloody watch . . . ?'

‘It's here if you really –'

‘
Shit.
It's five thirty. Five thirty tomorrow.'

‘Really?'

‘Five thirty-three precisely. I've got to drive home this morning. Fuck. When did we come up here?'

‘About eleven.'

‘
Fuck.
'

‘But you've got time to . . . five thirty's still early. We've got time to, arrange things. Like . . . if you did want to know my name and I wanted –'

‘
Fuck.
Sorry, what were you saying, love? I'm trying to work out which route in my head. If I can clear out of town before the rush hour . . .'

‘I don't want to be needy.'

‘Needy? Oh no, love – you're the least needy person I've ever met. Truly.'

‘Now we've come this far, though . . . it might be . . .'

‘I know. It might . . . Need to get my things together . . . God, but here are those tits . . . love kissing those tits . . .'

‘Thanks.'

‘Don't mention it. Hold that thought while I . . . My shirt smells of you. I think everything does, actually . . . Are you checking out today?'

‘No. I have to go through the house: her belongings, clothes, ornaments . . . it'll take a while. She had a lot – not enough for a whole life when you think about it, but a lot – saved things – my toys, for God's sake. I found a box full of them yesterday. No end to the rubbish. And I can't seem to sort through it quickly – and I can't spend the night – not at her place, it's too . . . so I'll be staying here. I'll stay for the weekend. Until Monday.'

‘Poor sweetheart. Where did you put my tie?'

‘Over there. I'm not looking forward to it. In fact, I'm scared.'

‘I bet. And I wish I wasn't rushing, but . . . Throw the covers back.'

‘I don't know if –'

‘You worry too much, I've said. Throw back the covers for me, love. Don't you want to give me a good send-off?'

‘I don't want you to go yet. I mean, I know you have to. But this is still early, isn't it?'

‘I said I'd be back by lunchtime.'

‘Sure. I realise that.'

‘Now get that sheet all the way off . . . and you can think of me tonight thinking of you. Ah, there she is . . . Are you a bit sore? Because of me?'

‘Yes. I am.'