Asking For Trouble (5 page)

Regret, as always, was slow to catch up.

In our post-coital stupor, we basked happily. We lay side by side, easy with each other’s body, sipping wine and murmuring bits of nothing. I brought in cheeses and crackers, and we ate, still naked, and talked – about some book Martin was reading, a thing I’d heard on the radio, getting out of Brighton for a day, perhaps Sunday, to remind ourselves what cows looked like.

We didn’t discuss the biggie: Us. We weren’t awkwardly skirting around the issue; it just wasn’t relevant. We’d slipped into lovers’ familiarity and it was nice. To hell with ‘us’; to hell with analysis.

But when the glow wore off and the bottle was empty, something had to change.

‘So,’ began Martin, toying with my hair, ‘is this a one-off, then? Or is it the restart of something beautiful?’ He smiled, faint and hopeful.

‘It’s a one-off,’ I replied, hoping my voice wasn’t too firm or too kind. ‘A very pleasant and very stupid one-off.’

Martin gave a resigned ‘I see’ nod and fell silent.

I watched him staring at his finger as it swirled patterns in the pale-grey carpet. I felt thoroughly miserable, leaden inside. But I didn’t want to talk about it. I was in no mood for getting heavy, for discussing what couldn’t be resolved. It was pointless, just scribbling with words.

‘Don’t be pissed off,’ I said, stopping his trailing hand with my own. ‘You’ll spoil the afternoon.’

His head bobbed up in a snort of ironic laughter. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said, snatching his hand back like he’d been stung by a viper. ‘The afternoon. Lost my sense of proportion there for a while.’

I cursed under my breath and rolled on to my back, away from him. I closed my eyes.

A bitter silence stretched between us. There was nothing to say: he knew my position; I knew his. But I hate sourness and I thought maybe an apology was in order. So I tried it: ‘Sorry.’

I heard coins clink as Martin reached for his trousers. Glancing up at him, I watched him wrench the strap of his belt and stuff it in the buckle.

‘What for?’ he sniped, his face darkened with anger and hurt. ‘For being so free with your fucks?’

‘Yes,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘You said you could handle it and you can’t. So, sorry. Sorry for being an insensitive, selfish, frivolous little bitch.’

Martin drew on his hooded top and sat on the armchair, lacing up his trainers. ‘You forgot stubborn,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘And callous and unscrupulous and thoughtlessly hedonis –’

‘All right, all right,’ I cut in, relieved to see a vague grin flickering on his lips. ‘I want forgiveness, not a demolition job.’ I reached for my clothes, feeling violently naked before his fully dressed state.

‘Forgiven,’ he said flatly. ‘It wasn’t all your fault anyway. More like six of one and two dozen of the other.’

We exchanged half-smiles, accepting blame and offering forgiveness. I smoothed down my vest top.

We were both dressed, no longer touching. We’d entered that awkward no-man’s land of ours: not lovers and not ‘just friends’. We were forced to tread gingerly.

‘D’you fancy an afternoon pint or something?’ I suggested uncertainly.

Martin shook his head. ‘Best if I was off,’ he said.

‘You sure?’ I asked, hoping he was.

He was. I showed him to the flat door, where we stood, not knowing how to broach the subject – in a casual, non-lovers way – of ‘When shall we see each other again?’

‘You going to The Geese on Friday?’ ventured Martin.

‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘Not my end of town any more. You?’

‘Dunno.’ He shrugged, toeing the carpet. ‘I might go . . . Beth?’

He looked at me. I looked at him.

‘Beth,’ he went on. ‘I think we should cool it a bit. Maybe, you know, not see each other for a while.’

I was taken aback. Martin and I have never, ever not seen each other for a while. Oh, we’ve been apart, for months on end, but that’s always been because we’ve had other things going on in our lives. We’ve never actually decided to be apart. Even in the messy end stage of our affair we still managed to be sociable. Anyway, in Brighton, it was impossible not to see each other.

‘Tricky,’ I said, ‘when we go out with the same bunch of people. Or different bunches of people in the same places.’

‘Yeah,’ he answered quietly. ‘But maybe we should avoid each other. I might . . . go and stay at my brother’s for a couple of weeks or something.’

‘Oh,’ I said. Martin never went to stay at his brother’s. This was serious.

‘It’s just . . .’ He stared at me, his face all twisted with pain. ‘It fucking hurts, Beth. It fucking hurts when I see you. Especially when . . . like today . . . you suggest . . . You gave me hope, Beth.
Hope.
I’d rather have despair. At least you know where you are with despair.’

I nodded, deeply ashamed. ‘Sorry,’ I whispered, my eyes stinging.

He hitched his rucksack higher on his shoulder. ‘I’ll give you a ring when I get back,’ he said, and turned on his heels.

‘Don’t I get a goodbye peck?’ I asked, my voice cracking.

At the top of the stairs, Martin looked over his shoulder, holding my gaze for a second or two.

‘No,’ he said firmly, then he jogged down the steps and turned the corner, out of sight. A moment later, the heavy front door creaked on its springs and banged shut.

For the next hour or so, I did nothing much except hate myself.

All this heartache because of me: stupid me who’d thought horniness was reason enough to fuck; stupid me with stupid fantasies about some guy across the street who happened to have got his dick out the other evening; who happened to know my name and number; who happened to have asked me what I thought about when I masturbated; who happened to have returned home recently after several days away.

Shit. Though my mind was spinning the needle kept getting stuck. Faceless man. Faceless man. I wanted to be in the mood to open my curtains again and see what, if anything, was happening in his window. But I had no game-playing spirit. I was too sad, too drained.

I pottered round my flat, flicked the TV on and off, thumbed a book, lay on the floor and stared at the ceiling. I wished I didn’t like sex so much; wished you could get it without the strings that tangle everything up. A relationship where sex and friendship are separate – was it really as impossible as it seemed? Maybe I could pay somebody to fuck me. Or maybe I could be a whore, a special whore who worked according to ‘Beth’s Prerogative’: I get to choose the punters.

I debated whether to phone Martin. I could suggest meeting up to try to talk things through. But then, I reasoned, my motivation was purely selfish. I wanted to stop him from going to his brother’s because I’d miss him. Me, me, me. I decided not phoning was more generous, more loving.

I had a shower and thought of Lady Macbeth trying to wash away her crime then going bonkers because her brain was still stained. But I felt better for my little water – cleansed of sweat if not cleared of my deed. I got dressed, changed my top and put the radio on. Bit by bit, I distanced myself from the afternoon.

And, bit by bit, my fingers grew twitchy about the curtains. It was early evening – softly light – when I opened them. I was nervous. If he were still standing
there, wouldn’t that mean he was dangerous and deranged? Normal people didn’t stare at drawn curtains. And yet I wanted him to be there. I wanted him to be dangerous and deranged.

I was disappointed. His window was lifeless.

I was cross with myself for being so foolish and desperate. But I rose above it. I stood there, willing him, challenging him to step into view. He’d started this intrusive exchange; he’d watched me getting off with Martin. I was damned if it wasn’t my turn now; damned if I was going to wait to be summoned.

Whether he could see me from somewhere, or whether it was mere coincidence, I don’t know. But within a shortish while he moved into the frame of his window and took up his staring post.

My heart pounded. Excitement. Terror. We just stayed there, looking over at each other; rabbits and headlights stuff. And, just like the last time, I didn’t know what to do.

So I stood perfectly still. After all, the last time
I’d
made the first move, hadn’t I? I’d stripped off my top and he’d simply copied me. Well, this time, he’d have to take the initiative. I was out of ideas.

I psyched myself up to mirror him. Whatever he did, I would follow. Would I have the nerve, though? Everywhere I looked there were uncurtained windows. But if he was bold enough, maybe I could be bold too.

As it happened, I wasn’t given the chance. His only move was to walk away from his window: ‘away’ as in I could no longer see him; ‘away’ as in he was no longer interested.

‘Bastard!’ I spat. He’d beaten me again. I wished I’d done it first. I wished I’d walked away: cool, casual, indifferent, bored. Bastard.

I turned, resolving to forget it, to get on with the book I was supposed to be reviewing.

The phone rang.

I flew to it, then paused, hand hovering above the receiver. It had to be him – anyone else was too much of a coincidence. Had to be. What would I say? Should I encourage him? Be offended? Insult him?

Three and a half rings and the answerphone was about to kick in. I lifted the receiver, my throat dry, my heart going thud, thud, thud.

‘Hello?’ I sounded worried, like an old woman on the end of a 2 a.m. wrong number.

‘Beth. At last.’

Gentle, husky, deep; as real as the voice on the tape. Except, this time, I didn’t know what came next; and I had to respond.

I suppressed a ‘Who are you?/What do you want?’ because it was too Hollywood. But no other words came to mind and I was silent.

He spoke: ‘Did you come? This afternoon, did you come?’

My blood rushed. What was I getting into? I felt the buzz of fear, like watching
The Exorcist
or surging along the biggest big-dipper: seeking the pleasure of being scared stupid. Except with films and fairgrounds, you know you’re safe. You can see the borders, the end. I couldn’t.

‘Well?’ he urged. ‘Did you?’

We’d made contact. It was sexual. This was the point where I backed down and told him to mind his own business, or I took the plunge.

My voice was slightly hoarse when I spoke.

‘Yes, thanks,’ I said. Then, to make myself seem sexier and full of appetite, I added a lie: ‘Twice.’

‘
WHY DIDN’T YOU
call me?’ he asked.

‘Call you? How?’ I answered. I couldn’t help but feel nervous, though I was determined not to show it. I really wanted to hold my own with this guy. ‘I don’t know who you are,’ I said. ‘I don’t have your number. And anyway, why should –’

‘Liar,’ he cut in. There was a smile in his voice. ‘You’ve got my number. You one-four-seven-oned me, Beth. Don’t tell me you didn’t.’

‘How do you know I did?’ I heard my question, mistrustful and wary, as if I suspected him of magic.

‘Because you’re not stupid,’ he said. His voice was deep and slow, so very sexy. ‘Well? Why didn’t you call me?’

‘But you haven’t been home for –’ Shit. Fool. Think before you speak, Beth.

‘Ahh,’ he replied, knowing and smug.

So now he knew I’d been keeping an eye on his movements. I tried to rescue myself: ‘Anyway, I don’t know you. Why would I call you? You could be anybody. Some headcase who gets off on flashing. Or . . . or a curtain fetishist. Or . . . Who are you? What do you want?’

Damn. I’d done the Hollywood cliché. Keep a cool head, Beth. Don’t let him frighten you.

‘Ilya,’ he replied. ‘Ilya Travis, if you think surnames matter.’

I felt compelled to repeat his name. I liked it. So I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece and moved the receiver away. ‘Ilya,’ I said, very quietly. ‘Ilya.’ I liked the way my tongue undulated and pressed, then withdrew on the final ‘ya’, like I was licking his name into my mouth.

‘Is that foreign?’ I asked. Of course it is, shouted a voice inside my head.

‘Travis?’ he said. ‘No, it’s an ordinary Eng–’

‘You know what I mean,’ I replied, a little put out at his sarcasm.

‘Yeah, I do.’ There was a pause. I moved on to the sofa and lay back. The phone wire snaked across the floor. He obviously wasn’t keen to answer. His silence, his refusal to expand, unnerved me.

‘How do you know who I am?’ I asked.

‘Body Language,’ he said, his voice smiling again.

Did he say that with capitals? Did he mean he knew me from my club? Or was he referring to me, to my body language? Perhaps I’d met him once, flirted a little but never got around to asking his name. Was he some kind of body-reading expert? Had he seen into my soul because I’d angled my head a certain way, crossed my legs just so? Jesus. Is that the kind of ‘knowing’ he was referring to – deep stuff rather than passport stuff?

‘There aren’t many B Bradshaws in the phone book,’ he said, breaking my troubled silence.

‘But I’m not listed yet,’ I replied.

‘I rang your old place. Someone gave me your new number.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said, making a mental note to tell my friends not to be so free with my details.

‘So what about Beth?’ he asked. ‘You’re obviously not an Elizabeth. Is that Beth in its own right? Or are you –’

‘Bethany,’ I said, glad we were back on safer ground. I shifted a cushion and wriggled to lie full length on the sofa. ‘But I prefer it shortened. I’m not a Bethany. I’m a Beth. My father chose Bethany because –’

‘No histories,’ he said firmly. ‘I don’t want to know about your parents or your pet rabbit. I don’t want to know your birthplace or your star sign. I like purity. Take people as you find them. Much more interesting.’

‘Maybe,’ I replied, settling into the conversation, though I’d no idea where it was leading. ‘But background can be interesting too. Or helpful.’

‘Yeah?’ he challenged. ‘So tell me something about your background that I might find interesting. Or helpful even.’

I did my CV in my head: literature at university; bumming around; hotch-potch jobs in arts admin and bookshops; falling in and out of love far too often; voice-over work; set up Body Language. Was any of that interesting?