Boyfriend in a Dress (31 page)

He dishes out the beers, then gestures to the girl with his head.

‘Too many spring rolls.’ The boys laugh, and the three of them head over to the dance floor, leaving Josh with the brunette, as the other boys come through the doors, and Charlie tells them he didn’t have enough hands, and they’re on the beers. The new boys make their way to the bar, sticking
their heads over Josh’s shoulders and leering at the brunette he’s chatting up. Charlie leans back against a sofa facing the dance floor, with about thirty centimetres of personal space to drink his beer in, and surveys the scene. Luther Vandross, an eighties classic, is pumping out of the speakers from every corner, and Harry and Deacon are standing slightly in front of him, swigging their beer from bottles, checking out the action. One group of girls has caught their eye – office girls all of them, no lads with them as far as Charlie can see, all very do-able, all completely in his league. He notices the blonde first, in a bikini top and low cut jeans, riding on her hips, hair pulled back off her face, not too much make-up.

Charlie doesn’t trust girls with it caked on – he doesn’t get to pretend he’s better looking than he is, so why should they? And besides, he has gone to bed with some stunners and woken up with some pigs before now, and it’s always the ones with bright red lips and shit all over their eyes that stain his pillowcases black and powdery. Charlie sizes her up, sees her dancing with her mates, stopping and laughing every now and then, and taking the piss out of a group of blokes with no rhythm dancing behind them. She catches his eye just as the song changes. Looks away, and then back again. And Charlie holds his gaze.

She smiles. He’s in.

Charlie is paying his dues, putting in the groundwork, chatting to his bikini top girl, pretending to listen, but dipping his head so that she can talk into his ear and staring straight at her tits. The flat bit in between them, her breastbone, has a trickle of sweat running down it, and Charlie wonders if it would scare her off to move in right now, and just lick it up …

Waiting for a cab, 1.15 a.m.

The blonde and Charlie hail a cab, and leap in the back. Straight away his hands move under her bikini top and feel
her tits, damp with sweat, and his tongue is so far in her mouth their faces are a blur.

She sits astride him, and unbuttons his jeans, while he sucks her neck and her chest, and as she reaches into his pants and feels how hard he is already, she pulls back and gives him an impressed smile. Because Charlie is very drunk.

The taxi driver checks them out in his mirror, but decides to look elsewhere, and concentrates on the road, as they move horizontally to get the blonde’s jeans off. The cab stops at traffic lights and drunken clubbers bang on the windows and shout out obscenities, but Charlie is in a fucking trance and ignores them. The blonde seems to get embarrassed, however, and jumps off him, just as he was fumbling with his dick, trying to get it into her. Charlie lays back, dazed and confused. He had hoped she wouldn’t even have to get out of the cab. Pushing himself up on his elbows, his erection standing between him and the blonde who is pulling her jeans back on, he feigns sincerity.

‘What? What’s wrong?’ he sighs.

‘I’m not gonna shag ya in the back of no fuckin’ taxi – I ain’t like that. Let’s wait till we get back to yours.’ Her voice rings nastily in his ears – she is young, twenty maybe at most, and common. She doesn’t pronounce her words properly. She looks suddenly grotesque to Charlie. Some little tart who buys her clothes down the market, and makes ten grand a year as a hairdresser’s apprentice. He knows the type – he knows every type. Nicola’s underwear drawer flashes through his mind quickly, full of expensive bits of silk and lace. He shakes the thought off.

‘Look,’ he says, pulling himself up, but not bothering to put himself away. ‘I thought it would be fun, exciting.’ He reaches over and massages one of her tits. The boys would love this. How much had he bet them that he could have her in the cab anyway? A twenty? A fifty? A ton?

‘Nah.’ She pushes his hand away, and pops herself back into her bikini top

‘Let’s wait till we get back, yeah? It’ll be nicer.’ Charlie almost laughs out loud. ‘I don’t want it to be nice, love. I just want it to be …’ Charlie sees her face dropping, her angry little jaw setting in front of him, and the prospect of not actually getting a fuck in the next half an hour.

‘I wanted it to be exciting, didn’t I?’ He smiles over at her, but now he is getting increasingly fucked off himself, for having to try so hard. This was supposed to be an easy one.

The blonde smiles and leans forward and pecks him on the mouth, and then nestles under his arm, trying to get a hug. Charlie freezes – what the fuck is she doing? Jesus Christ, he’d picked wrong tonight.

‘What number?’ the taxi driver yells into the back. Charlie’s erection has abated, and he tucks himself away.

‘Just by the entrance is fine,’ he says. What now?

The blonde jumps out before him, and he sees the tight little arse in her jeans, and the curve of her back. Fuck it, he’ll fuck her.

Charlie pays the cabbie, and pushes her into the stairwell, spins her round and sticks his hands down her jeans. She pushes him back.

‘Not yet, wait till we get upstairs!’ She laughs like she’s the ultimate, the fucking bee’s knees, like she can keep him waiting. Charlie considers pushing his hand straight back down there again, but changes his mind, and walks off ahead of her, up the stairs to his apartment. The blonde follows.

Charlie’s flat, 2.04 a.m.

Charlie’s erection has gone. Rolling around on his bed with this little blonde tart, grabbing her and tossing her from side to side, they had both got naked within seconds of getting into his flat. But nothing is happening downstairs. His dick is limp,
even though he is tugging it himself, guiding it into her little mouth, lipstick smeared all over her face now. But the more she sucks, and moans, and moves up and down him, the more he sticks his fingers into all her openings, the less difference it makes. Charlie flips her over suddenly, and tries to guide his limp dick into her arse, but she jumps off him, and he lays back, defeated.

‘Can’t you get it up no more?’ she asks, angry.

Charlie lays back in silence. She stomps her skinny little foot.

‘Charlie, can’t you get it up now – what about in the taxi? It was up in the taxi!’ she screams at him.

‘Just fuck off, okay,’ Charlie says, and closes his eyes.

‘I’m sorry? Excuse me? Did you just tell me to fuck off? Charlie, did you just tell me to fuck off – did you?’

‘That’s right. Fuck off. Shut the door behind you.’ Charlie rolls over and stares straight ahead. This is the third time in two weeks.

‘You bastard. You can’t just fucking chuck me out!’ The blonde’s tiny, tinny voice shrieks at him. Charlie just stares ahead, naked; he pulls the sheets over himself.

‘You can’t just chuck me out, you fucker – where am I supposed to go?’ She walks around and stands naked in front of him. Charlie is repulsed.

‘Just leave. The phone’s through there if you want to phone a cab.’

Charlie rolls the other way – he doesn’t want to look at her ugly skinny little frame now; spot-lit from behind, she looks like a child.

‘You cunt,’ she whispers, and spits on him. She grabs her clothes, and storms out of the bedroom. Charlie hears her swearing and a vase smashing in the lounge, and then his front door slams shut.

Charlie sits up, and pulls on his jeans from the floor. He walks
into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, pushing a hand through his hair. He feels sick, with the heat, and the sweat creeping down his back. His flat is quiet. He steps over the glass of the shattered vase that Nicola bought him, then changes his mind, leans down and picks up the pieces, and places them on the side by the kettle. He grabs a beer from the fridge, pulls open the door to his balcony, and steps out into the night air.

Leaning over the balcony, he stares out at the street. He tries to clear his head of the day. Nicola flashes through his mind. He wonders if she’s home. He pictures her asleep in her flat, oblivious to everything, to what he’s doing. If she cared she’d know. Or does she? She knows. She won’t say anything though. And he’s starting to hate himself. Thinking of her, lying in bed, he feels something rise slightly in his trousers. He can hear a tiny clicking below him, and he sees the blonde emerge from the front of his apartment block, and struggle down the steps. She is still adjusting her top. She looks like a prostitute stumbling down the road. Charlie watches her try and hail a passing cab without a light on that just speeds up and drives straight past. He hears a muffled high-pitched curse. She was laughing at him before. Goading his lifeless dick with her giggles. It’s not lifeless any more. Charlie feels it stiffen in his jeans. The blonde flops down on the side of the street. Two drunken blokes on the other side stagger past and shout out abuse. She screams at them to fuck off. Charlie walks back inside, grabs his keys, and leaves the flat, his erection growing harder by the second, throbbing slightly in his jeans. He hits the button for the lift, which comes straight away. His mind whirls at the thought of catching her up.

The music in the lift is straight off some hand-held organ. It tinkles along annoyingly as Charlie paces the lift, waiting to get to the ground floor.

The blonde is still sitting on the floor as Charlie walks towards her purposefully. He is within shouting distance.

‘Now, I’m ready now,’ he shouts at her as he gets closer and closer.

‘Eh?’ She turns around to see him getting nearer by the second, and tries to scramble to her small feet, to run, but he is on her, grabbing her arm.

‘Get off me, ya fucking asshole.’

Charlie and the blonde grapple for a few seconds. ‘Get off me, ya fucking queer. Get the fuck …’

Something snaps behind Charlie’s eyes. A pain shoots through his head, and he grabs it with his hand, letting go of the blonde’s arms. Instantly, she lashes out at him and misses, but Charlie reacts and strikes back with the back of his hand. Her tiny head hits the wall, and her eyes close. Her body goes limp in his hands, and he drops her to the ground. The pains shoot through his head, and Charlie looks around himself, trying to work out how he got here, where he is. Who is this young girl lying at his feet – what was he going to do to her? The tears start to pour out of his eyes, and he reaches down to shake her, but she won’t wake up. He feels like he is going to be sick, to pass out, his breathing comes quick and fast. Charlie runs, as fast as he can, back to his flat, leaving the girl lying out in the middle of the pavement. He gets back to his flat, and grabs the phone, and heads out to the balcony. He can see her still lying there. The pains in his head begin to subside as he dials 999. As the phone rings, Charlie has the sensation that the lights are going out.

Thanks to Jen for being wise and wonderful, and to Max for being fabulous. Also to Sara, Kelly, Fiona, Jane Harris, Martin Palmer, Nick Sayers and all at HarperCollins. And of course a continued big thank you to my agent Ali, Carole, and everybody at Curtis Brown.

To Ken, Alice and Karen, for caring, wisdom, and fun, in that order – am I anything yet? To Nix, for always reminding me what I am at the end of a phone line, Jules, Nat, Nim, Claire, Marc (for adding value), to JP for making me think, to Jamie for inspiration (which surprised me more than anyone), and to Watson, for his penis – now you see, how does that look?

And as always my love and thanks to my family: Amy, an adult now and taking it seriously, to Laura and Jase, for their constant support, and to Mum & Dad, for always being where I need them to be.

Louise Kean was born in 1974 and grew up in Essex. A graduate of the University of East Anglia, she worked as a marketing manager at an international film company in London for five years. Her first novel,
Toasting Eros,
was published in 2002 to great acclaim.

Toasting Eros