A Little Rain (14 page)

The air is moist and fresh and I spark up a cigarette.
 One man on the phone outside greets me by raising his eyebrows but I don’t
think I know him.  I look up to the damp grey sky and feel the tiny particles
of rain speckle on my face.  The air is tight and cold.  I start to trot across
the road to the shop.   It seems a quiet enough so I just step out upon the
tarmac and I am met with a startling blast of a car horn. 
BEEEEEEP
!  
Oops
.
 I didn’t see him coming.  “Sorry!”  I say, raising my cigarette in apology.  The
driver shrugs and waves me across.  Outside the shop I wait for a minute.  I finish
my cigarette before flicking it to the kerb.  At that moment my phone rings. “What?”
 I say, still a bit shaken up.

“Get forty.”  Rob says, so I buy two boxes.  One to maybe
share and one for him.  He probably wants them for his cosy night in the
evening.  I jog back into the pub as the cellophane wrapping on the boxes gets speckled
with raindrops.  Evidently it’s now half time now as its bustling.  People are
up and moving about and the bar is now three deep in places.  I don’t remember
it being this busy before.  Then I see that Rob is not at our table.  Luckily
no one else has sat there so I quickly move in to reclaim our seats.  I don’t
want to stand up in this crowd.

Just as I’m sitting back down I hear raised male
voices above the hubbub, like there’s going to be a fight.  Maybe it’s just play.
I know how boys like acting like they’re fighting, pushing and shouting, when really
they’re just larking about.  But I’ve seen it all turn nasty before.  Suddenly
I think,
Oh God, Rob
!  I stand up so fast I nearly knock my drink over
but lucky it just rocks a bit.  I have to see.  I look over.  I see two guys
and Rob’s there too, animated, but not fighting, but Rob’s in the middle as the
other two shout at each other.  Rob sees my head above the crowd and motions me
to get down.  I step down off the sofa seat and in what feels like a nanosecond
Rob’s there.

“What are you doing?” he says.

“What are
you
doing?” I say.

“Well, watching you, now you’re drunk.  What are you
thinking getting up on there?”  He points at the sofa.

“I not drunk,” I protest.  “I didn’t mean to…”  I
trail off knowing my big fat nosey parker got the better of me.  “What’s going
on over there?”  I look over to the space where they were arguing.

“Nothing,” he says.  Obviously I think it’s not
nothing.  He sees my disbelief and knows I’m not going to give in so quickly. 
He shrugs, “Just money, that’s all.”

“I can believe it.”  That’s all men ever seem to shout
about.

“It’s true,” he says as he keeps looking over the
heads like a meerkat.  I don’t think I can hear shouting anymore above the
general noise.  Good.  I don’t want Rob involved in any trouble but I know what
he does is his business.  I don’t want trouble near me, especially when I’ve
got drink inside me, battle fuel.  I’m totally split when it comes to any fight.
 I can go either way, leaping to my brother’s defence fearlessly, unless he’s
really picking on someone and if I’m brave, I may tell him to ease off.  Usually
I think it is best not to get involved.  Sometimes I can just sit there chilled
and shrug a fight off like it’s not even happening next to me.  Rob is more
than capable.  But now all seems calm.  I just stand and breathe.  Rob is still
looking left and right, above the heads.

Suddenly, our food arrives, nearly a whole hour after
I ordered it.  I am happy to see it but gutted I did not get a roast dinner
now.  My basket of dry and shrivelled scampi and long limp chips looks
positively sad next’s to Rob’s beautiful big plate of red in the middle roast
beef, crispy potatoes, sweet roast parsnips, neat circles of carrot, broccoli I
could do without and the shredded cabbage too.  Then there are two giant
Yorkshire puddings balancing on the edge, soaking up the puddle of rich and shiny
gravy.  The smell is just like heaven and I have serious food envy.  I nibble
on a lukewarm chip.  I struggle to swallow one ragged piece of scampi.  It feels
like it scratches my throat on the way down.  I’m still hungry, but I cannot
bring myself to eat any more.

I start to feel like I don’t like being here anymore.  The
atmosphere has changed since I stood on the sofa.  It feels loaded with angst,
cold and heavy like a thunderstorm brewing, and is making me feel more than a
little tense.  Every loud shout makes my head jerk in the direction it comes
from.  I don’t know why as I usually always feel safe when I’m with Rob but not
now.  Maybe it’s the drink, maybe I’m pre-empting something.  Maybe it’s just the
unstoppable fast running undercurrent of nerves rippling through me.  Rob still
has nearly a full pint of beer. My bottle is near empty.  I try and eat some
more of my food but it still feels like its sticking in my throat.  Rob eats
his quick, all gone in ten minutes.

The football is finally finished after having gone on
for an age.  The home side have lost which does not help the already charged
atmosphere.  I see bad losers, grown men visibly sulking, getting angry at the
television and shouting at the barmaid.  It would maybe be funny and I might
have laughed, but not now.  I make the decision to leave.

I look round to see that Rob is up and now engaged in
some new semi-heated conversation with a grey-haired man, and I just don’t want
to be here anymore.  I should take his drink over.  I think it will be ok where
it is.  It would have to be some fool that takes away Rob’s unfinished drink.  I
make a move.  I pick up my carrier bag off the floor and it’s not hard to sneak
out unnoticed.  As I slide out through the door, I don’t feel a single pair of
eyes follow me.  I feel fresh air on my face and instantly relax.

The previous tension caused by the het-up atmosphere
evaporates.  The touch of cool, damp air on my face calms me.  A few raindrops
that land on my forehead and taste dirty in my mouth bring me back in touch
with earth.  This tiny bit of calm only lasts a few fleeting seconds as I
remember my date.  
Oh-my-God
.   This day is like a dream.  Maybe I have
not woken up.  In just a few little hours I have to go and meet him.  I could
not go, just go home now and stay there.  But I need to live a little.  Face and
fight my fear.

I really do want to see him again, if only just to look
at his beautiful face.  I want to see him again, maybe even get to touch him.  His
soul seemed iridescent.  He sparkles like an inky blue night sky full of
stars.  But I don’t know if other people see it.  No-one else seemed to staring
at him in the club like I was.  Maybe it was the drugs and I have to consider
that I won’t see it again but I have to at least try.  This is not like a lust
I’ve felt before.  I want to touch him but more than just physically.  I want
to connect with his soul and maybe one day I hope, be joined to it.  He seems like
a good soul.

I shake my whole self, my head from side to side,
shoulders up and down, arms in big circles, fingers little Mexican waves.  I try
and shake out all the nerves in me.  I need to get a grip.  I am going to see
him and I will be fine.  I am nervous to the point of terror but I will force
myself to run on autopilot now.  Flick the switch.  Go.  Block all these
crippling thoughts.  I will have a little drink to steady my nerves.

I walk steadily on in the direction of home.

Through the door and the flat is cold.  I quickly turn
up the heating and take out my phone.  I have a missed call from Rob.  Confused
about how I didn’t hear it, I call him back straight away.  He answers and I
tell him that I’m home and about to start getting ready.  He sounds a bit
weird.  Maybe he’s cross because I left without saying goodbye.  He’s says he’s
going to be late in tonight and not to expect him home.  It’s just a quick call. 
Now I’ve got to get organised.

I realise it’s getting late in the afternoon and I
haven’t spoken to mum.  I feel upset with myself that I almost forgot.  I
always call her on a Sunday to let her know I have survived the weekend.  I
know she worries.  We speak more during the week when I stay over sometimes.  I
usually end up sleeping on the sofa.  Her flat has only two bedrooms.  Mum’s
room and the bedroom for the twins.  There isn’t really space for me.  I used
to sleep in mum’s room in her bed, but it got hard with her illness, her
getting up in the night.  She does not sleep well.  At weekends too, when I was
out, coming home at all hours, it just was not fair.  I suggested I start staying
at Rob’s, and it just continued that way.

Another reason that I don’t speak to mum before Sunday
is usually before then I’m too high, stoned, drunk, sleepy or maybe even unconscious. 
Sometimes I’m working.  I hope she doesn’t know all of what I get up to but I
think she has an idea.  She knows the sort of crazy hours I keep, the all-night
clubbing, the drinking, the hangovers and of course the part-time job.  She
knows the pub.  It’s not far at all from her flat.  She’s so close, she says,
she’s thankful to hear the bell ring at chucking out time.  I don’t believe
this.  She says she definitely hears the singing, shouting, and screaming when
it is past chucking out time and the drunks are all staggering and fighting their
way home.  Before I call her, I turn up the heating a few more degrees and then
take hold of my mobile again and phone her.

She sounds tired but happy to hear from me.  She
quietly shares the excitement of my upcoming date.  She tells me it will all be
fine but be very careful, sensible and be cautious and not to do anything
stupid or dangerous.  I tell her ok but I make no promises so I can break
none.  I don’t tell her what happened last night.  I tell her I will come and
see her tomorrow, after college.  This is a promise I will keep.  She offers to
have me round to dinner.  I say yes, gratefully.  I haven’t eaten a proper meal
at a table for a while.  It must be over a week.  She says she will cook
sausages with real mashed potato and baked beans.  I say that this sounds
lovely and ask her to put lots of butter and milk in the mash.  I say I’m
looking forward to it.   I tell her I love her, and will see her tomorrow.  She
tells me again to be careful.  Call over, now I really have to get moving.

Now the place has warmed, I head to the bathroom and
jump in the shower.  I turn it up as hot as I can stand it and wash away the
dirty pub smell using Rob’s shower gel that says it is uplifting.  I’m not sure
how it can be.  It just smells of lime and mint.  I wash my hair too and
de-fuzz everything that needs de-fuzzing.  I use Rob’s shave gel and razor to
do this.  I carefully wash away all the speckles of evidence and every last
drop of the blue-tainted foam down the plughole.

I jump out of the shower and wrap up in the biggest,
softest towel on the rail, like a sheet and bigger than me.  I head back to my
room and realise that the clothes I have here do not leave me with much choice. 
I don’t own many that clothes like I know some girls do.  Demi for example has
loads stashed away in two floor-to-ceiling wardrobes and she is younger than
me.  Marcia too has cupboards, shelves and drawers absolutely full.  Mum has
enough to start a jumble sale.  I don’t have nearly so many. A couple of pairs
of jeans.  A smart pair of trousers. Clubbing gear.  Combats.  Two skirts
maybe.  A few t-shirts, jumpers, vests and hoodies and that’s about it. 
Fashion has never really been my thing.  I would rather just be comfortable and
not stand out too much.  I wear make up for my confidence and not to impress
other people.  I start from the bottom up.  I will wear my smartest black knee
high boots that by luck are here as I wore them out last Saturday.  I cannot wear
my suede boots now.  They are still filthy after last night.  I could wear my
trainers, but this is a date, so some is effort required.   The boots are not
particularly comfortable.  They have a three inch and a half inch heel which is
high enough for me.  Working up, I suppose my black denim skirt is best.  It is
a bit short but not obscenely so.  Not so short that people will stare, I
hope.  I put it on.  It’s a bit tight but does up just about when I breathe
in.  The denim digs in a bit.  I think maybe it would be more comfortable
without pants but think it unwise to wear a miniskirt with no knickers.  I
decide against this and find the only clean pair I have at the flat, an
unflattering greying pair of ladies boxer shorts.  These will have to do.   I
pull on a pair of tan tights too.  It’s cold outside after all.  Up top I just
go for a long sleeve, dark green low cut top and a chunky silver chain.  I wear
my black waterfall cardigan too.  I look in the mirror.  I look fine.  I find
some big silver hoop earrings to finish and I’m done.

I put a little more makeup on than usual.  A full face
of foundation.  Solid blocks of cream shimmer eye shadow with a dark brown
socket.  Kohl pencil on my brows and under my eyelashes.  Deepest black
mascara, layer upon layer, thick as I dare before it clumps together like dead
spiders.  Lots of gold bronzer too so I might look sun-kissed in winter.  Baby
pink lip gloss for a bee-stung effect and finally a finish of perfect sweeps of
black liquid eyeliner across the top of each eyelid, Cleopatra-style.  I find
myself ready and I’ve still got time to kill.

Suddenly, sharply, the nerves kick in again.  I feel
scared and think I’m not going to go.  I can’t remember eating anything
substantial today.  Even though I’m always hungry the thought of food now makes
me feel a bit sick.  Maybe I just need a drink.  I go to the kitchen to look
for a beer but find instead a lonely bottle of blue alcopop.  I pop the lid off. 
I start to drink the sickly sweet syrup but know one is not going to be enough so
I head out to the corner shop, I have time.  It’s only a few minute’s walk
away.  I leave the now half empty bottle on the kitchen worktop.