Asking For Trouble (3 page)

But no, we’d been too far away for details, although I was sure I’d recognise him, somehow, if I saw him close up.

My nipples were tight. I scuffed and tweaked them. Somewhere I had a vibrator, a sleek gold-coated thing that I kept in an empty Glenmorangie tin. But I wasn’t sure where it was. Probably lurking in a taped-up box labelled
NOT VERY IMPORTANT BOOKS
or
OLD PHOTOS AND BAD CROCKERY
. It hadn’t exactly seen much action in its time. Shared house, bedroom next door to Jenny’s. Buzz buzz. No thank you.

I ought to have rooted it out when I first moved in, a present to myself. But then, I thought, the batteries have probably leaked. No matter.

Unzipping my trousers, I eased a hand into my knickers. I was silky wet; my clit was hard. I made it harder, circling then rocking until it was fully pumped up and dense with sensation. Hastily, I wriggled my clothes to my ankles so my knees could flop wide, then I drove two fingers into my sweet, slippery pussy.

In my head, a man with no face fucked me. Violently. He bent me over and took me from behind. We were in a non-place. Windows surrounded us, squares of light and dark flicking on and off like some whizz-bang arcade game. And in those windows were men watching us, men with no faces, all wanking themselves off because I was being fucked senseless. They loved to see me, dirty
little bitch on her hands and knees, taking cock from a faceless man.

I thrust and frigged, arching up from the bed, gasping quick breaths. When I masturbate I think of cheap things and seediness: squalid rooms, Soho neon and crude, lewd adverts. I picture myself as one of those wet and willing porn-mag sluts.

I made my faceless-man fantasy more concrete. I brought the spectators down from their windows, made them jeer and laugh. They were foul-mouthed and boorish, hungry for a piece of the action, for a piece of me. They were ready to take over once the faceless man had finished. And though I might be wet and willing, there were too many of them for me.

But they wouldn’t care about that. However exhausted I was, they’d still fuck me in their turn, telling each other, ‘She loves it, she loves it,’ as their arses humped away.

I came. My orgasm crashed, squeezing spasms around juice-hot fingers. Ah God, was there anything better than coming? The flutters died and, with a sigh, I dropped on to my duvet.

My populated mind thinned and a tranquil glow crept over me, soothing my body to languor. My mind stayed awake – not alert, more meandering pleasantly. I was dreamy, drifting in and out of fantasy, recalling the night’s events.

Untouched by anxiety, I mulled over the window game, seeing it in soft focus as if it were a thing I hadn’t quite been involved in. I mused on its consequences.

We couldn’t end it there; something else had to happen. Should I be passive, I wondered, and simply keep a sharp eye on my view? Or should I take action, go across the road and say – what? – ‘How about it, big boy?’

I smiled lazily. He could be pig ugly, I thought. But surely not. God didn’t give people great bodies and rotten faces. But then, I told myself, He damn well did. What was he called, the guy Jenny was seeing for a short
time? Ages ago. ‘Bag Over’ we called him. Seeing ‘Bag Over’ tonight, Jen? As in ‘Put a bag over his head and you might consider fucking him.’ I thought of bag-faces, the Ku Klux Klan, Marlboro cigarettes, cowboys. My mind grew woolly, slipping in and out of surreal nonsense. I was sleepy, very sleepy.

I was just trying to cling to the thought that I should get out of my clothes and crawl under the duvet when, in the living room, the phone rang. My heart leapt. After a split-second’s confusion, recognition and memory slammed into my brain. Fear quickly followed. I struggled to reason with it, to calm my fast-beating pulse.

Let it ring, I said to myself. Phones don’t hurt. Phones don’t expose themselves from across the street.

I lay there, trying to breathe slowly as I waited for the answerphone to click into gear. Probably Jenny or my mother. They were the only people I knew who called at ridiculous hours.

‘Hi, this is Beth,’ said my machine voice, chirpy and stilted. ‘You seem to have caught me out. But you know how the technology works. Beep, message, then I get back to you, ASAP.’

It beeped. A male voice spoke: ‘What are you doing, Beth? Are you wanking?’

Long pause. The voice was soft and husky. I didn’t recognise it. It was him, had to be. He knew my name! He had my fucking number!

A cold dread flooded my limbs. For the second time that night, I held my breath, listening. But this time, I did not have the safety net of ‘just imagination’ to fall into. This was reality: stark, scary, pitiless.

‘Sorry if you are. Didn’t mean to disturb you. What do you think about when you touch yourself, Beth? How do you touch yourself?’ Another pause, then: ‘You should call me sometime. We can have a chat.’

A click, and the tape started to rewind.

I jumped from my bed and raced to the phone thinking,
Please, Mother, please, Jenny, please, wrong-number-person, do not phone me now.

Snatching up the receiver, I viciously one-four-seven-oned him. I clawed for a newspaper and jotted down the number on the top corner. My hands shook. I tore around my writing and, after a moment’s thought, I labelled it: ‘Him’.

I sat there for a while, my mind spinning. How, how, how? How did he know who I was? Why did he know who I was? How long had he known? Did I have a stalker?

Then I one-four-seven-oned again, just to check. On the scrap of paper I wrote the time I was called. I thought: that’ll help the police when someone finds me dead.

Then I played back his message. Again and again and again.

BODY LANGUAGE.

It’s Body for the performance art stuff: the dancers, cabaret, weird theatre and so on; and it’s Language for the spoken word: the poets, the writers, the wags and raconteurs. Or at least it was, originally.

And it was – still is – only part of what I do. I don’t have a career, just a career direction, which is working in the arts for something more lucrative than love. My life’s a patchwork quilt made up of running the club night, writing for a couple of local rags, sporadic voice-over work and, when I’m skint, I can usually find some bar work. Sew it all up and you’ve got something that covers rent, bills, food and leaves me enough to enjoy myself with.

Anyone with half an eye on the local arts scene knows who I am. I’m a fairly big fish in one of Brighton’s many little ponds. My name’s always in the listings: ‘For more information, call Beth on . . .’; my photo pops up occasionally, alongside interviews or little news items; I’m forever dishing out publicity flyers; and anyone who’s been to a gig will have seen me on stage, introducing the acts, doing my mistress of ceremonies routine.

That, I reckoned, was how he knew who I was.

He’d been watching me for longer than I thought.

After that, I didn’t see him for three or four days. He wasn’t there. His window was dark at night, his blind was permanently down and there was absolutely no movement. He’d gone away, I concluded.

But even so, every ring of the phone made my heart shoot. I would stare at the phone, fingering the slip of paper with his number on, and my pulse would accelerate. Several times I went so far as pressing in the first five digits, daring myself to tap in that final sixth. Maybe he really was at home. Maybe he’d be walking into his flat as I was letting it ring. Maybe he’d have an answerphone and I’d leave a message. Saying what? Who are you? How dare you? Leave me alone! Kiss me! Fuck me!

I couldn’t put him from my mind.

I couldn’t press that final number. I knew he would one-four-seven-one me; he would listen, faceless man, to that staccato nasal voice telling him: ‘The caller – withheld – their number – but the caller – is mildly – obsessed – by you. The caller – is no longer – sane.’

On the outside, I was fine. I was Beth Bradshaw going about her normal hectic business. On the inside, I was fanciful and pathetic. Our exchange at the window lingered in my mind, vivid and yet nebulous, like a crazy dream.

But I couldn’t file it in the dream bit of my brain; nor could I file it in the reality bit. It belonged to neither category. So instead it roamed around, restless and haunting, infecting me with its strangeness. If it weren’t for the tape of his voice – that soft, gentle ‘What are you doing, Beth? Are you wanking?’ – I might have forced it into the dream file: subsection ‘tired to the point of delirium; not to be reopened’. But I had the tape; I knew it off by heart. I had reality on record.

I bought a plant – not because I particularly liked it,
but because it needed lots of sunlight and water, love and attention. I moved a small table into one side of the bay window, put my new plant there and smothered it with love.

Nothing moved in the flat across the road.

One afternoon, when I was working from home, the entry phone buzzed. I jumped – it’s such an aggressive sound and I was used to a doorbell with a melodic ‘ping-pong’. And in my teenage-fantasy head, my first thought was: It’s him.

I picked up the receiver, a touch nervous: ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Beth!’ comes a fuzzy intercom voice. ‘Only Martin.’

Only
Martin – so sweetly self-effacing.

‘Honey-pie!’ I trilled merrily and buzzed him in.

I stood in the doorway of my flat, smiling and listening to him clomp up the steps.

‘This way,’ I called. Moments later, Martin rounded the corner: mop of black hair, broad cheeky grin, tatty little rucksack hanging from one shoulder; that’s Martin, only Martin.

As soon as he reached me, he hooked an arm round my back and dramatically pulled me close like we were a couple of cheesy tango dancers. He pressed his lips to mine and we kissed – a long smacker of a kiss ending in a mutual ‘mmwah!’ – a kiss loaded with history.

‘Not bad for a shoebox,’ he said, making for the living room, his head turning this way and that.

He set his bag down and began wandering about, inspecting the rooms and chatting away. I followed him, telling him how great my flat was and pointing out all the good bits he’d miss: look at all this storage space; did you see the marble fireplace in my living room?; this shower, now
this
is truly state of the art; I made these curtains, Martin. I actually made them. Pay homage.

‘Lot of big old windows,’ he said, and clucked ironically. ‘Be a bastard to heat in winter.’

‘Fuck off,’ I said in a light-hearted riposte. ‘Summer’s here.’

In the living room, Martin plonked himself on the sofa, put his rucksack between his feet and began loosening the drawstring.

‘Didn’t get my invite to your flat-warming party,’ he said, rummaging in the bag.

‘I’m having a serial flat-warming,’ I replied. ‘No more than three guests at a time. Tea or coffee?’

‘Neither,’ he said, pulling out a bottle. ‘We’re drinking wine.’

I was just heading for the kitchen and his words pulled me up short. I turned to him, uncertain, awkward. It must have shown on my face.

‘It’s just wine,’ he said with a hint of exasperation. ‘No candles. Don’t worry. No shag.’

I smiled an apology.

‘Unless you’re offering,’ he added with an impish grin.

I lunged to poke him in the ribs, and for a few seconds, we squealed and grappled, trying to be like we once were: old friends, uncomplicated, our bodies and desires our own individual business. The charade worked for a while, then there was a moment’s eye contact that was just too long; and, on Martin’s part, too longing.

With a final playful punch I drew back and went to fetch glasses.

Oh, Martin. A decade of friendship blasted apart by sex.

For ages, I clattered around in the kitchen, washing glasses that didn’t need washing, hunting for a corkscrew that didn’t need hunting for.

Only Martin. He’s one of the rare people I still know from when I first arrived in Brighton, a happy little undergraduate, full of ideals and party spirit. Over the years, we’ve grown together – tears, laughter, the lot. He became, to me, a guy who could hold my hair back when I was drunk and throwing up and I wouldn’t feel
disgusting; we could snuggle up in front of the telly, eating crisps, watching scary films; we’d fall out – anything from ‘I can’t stand that man/woman you’re so in love with’ to ‘you’ve bought me the wrong sort of peanuts’ – and then we’d patch things up just as quickly.

We were as comfortable together as on old pair of jeans, and we loved each other massively. But somewhere along the line it all went a bit pear-shaped and we ended up sleeping together.

I put it down to a combination of Martin being miserable because Emma had just dumped him; and a tacit frustration of ‘my love for you is so much bigger than this cuddle’. It’s so difficult, so confusing when you have limits on bodies and none on love.

So we found ourselves in bed – a mistake that lasted four months. I finished it; it was so wrong, like sleeping with your brother or something.

Martin didn’t quite see it that way. He still wanted me. ‘It’s just a phase,’ I told him. ‘In a few weeks’ time, you’ll wake up one morning and think, I must’ve been mad. I fancied Beth.’ But he disagreed, said he must have been repressing his true feeling for years, or he’d just been blind to how goddamn sexy I was.

I went back to the living room. Martin had put a CD on, something poppy and unthreatening, and we drank a toast to ‘Beth in her new pad’.

‘Oh, I forgot,’ said Martin, delving in his bag once again. ‘Clare asked me to give you this. The woman who’s moved into your room found it.’

His lips were pursed with the effort of not laughing and, with a flourish, he produced my vibrator, gold and gleaming in brash June sunlight.

I blushed. I don’t often blush, but I did then.

‘Shit,’ I said softly, closing my eyes and repressing laughter of a fool unmasked. Then I snatched it from him. ‘Thanks,’ I snapped with mock vitriol. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’

Martin laughed in good-natured delight, trying to turn the moment into mere mischief. But it was more than that for me.