Boys and Girls (19 page)

Alan's smile was just a fluttering hint of his enchantment.

‘You won't mess it up. Here. Come here – I'll show you what to do.'

Helen shuffled over on her knees Her eyes were blinking in happy anticipation from under the weight of her fringe as she looked up at him expectantly and with a touch of awe
(could it be comparable to a pure and credulous child, who after the headiness of all the rumours – night upon night of sleepless excitement – was finally confronted by the vast and smothering benevolence of Santa, in all his warmth and redness …? Conceivably not – but meat on the bone for Alan to gnaw at later on, when he was back at the seaside).

He had drawn on the cigar twice in deliberate succession, and now he blew gently on its smoky end, encouraging the skulking heat to briefly disclose itself in a reluctant glow.

‘Now you don't have to suck hard, or anything – you just place the end between your lips, and imagine you are sipping something, a liqueur or something. Close your eyes. Close them, yes. Feel it, Helen. Just feel it. Don't inhale … simply fill up your mouth with the total sensation … breathe through the scent of it … and let it just filter away from you. Just let it disappear.'

Helen did her mighty best to achieve just all of that, seemingly eager for his encouragement and approval. She laughed as she handed it back to him.

‘It's like …' Her eyes were dancing as she glanced about the room in search of the words she was needing. ‘It's like … kneeling and receiving a sacrament …'

Alan now made out to be studying the cigar as he revolved it slowly between his thumb and fingers. He turned down the offer to just come out with the first four things that had rushed into his head, and instead he stooped down low, and kissed her. The rush of heat and sweetness in the surge of her lips, just tinged with the hint of Havana, and fired by the contagion of her eagerness … It was she who eased him back on to the divan – he was carelessly aware of the clunk of his shoe against the tumbler on the floor, the clink and hissing as it
toppled and rolled away. When she hoicked up her dress and swung her legs across him, he was not taken unawares by the sight of stockings, their shadowed tops tight against the white of thighs, suspended in the old way by straining straps from a black and lacy cradle. She gasped as he reached up to her and just let the palms of his hands graze and skim, hover and shimmer at the push of her breasts, exactly as he had been imagining since first he had glanced at her glancing at him, ages and an instant ago. She then lay down on her back, her eyes disturbingly childlike and yet so black with hunger and imploring, before the lids fell down and she threw wide her arms. Alan set his heated fingers to the stuttered undoing of each of her dress's fourteen buttons, and laying each wing of it away from her. He bent low over her and closed his eyes as he settled down to snuffling out of her all these scents from the richness and embarrassment of every curve and fold, feeling nearly invasive as he fingered lightly the shocking smoothness, feathery and cool before the rush of warming. He barely had to stir before he came inside her, a shallow communion that at once engulfed him. He fell forward and into the heat of her neck, tasting her dampened hair there, and coughing his exhaustion.

Later, a little later, during his sticky extrication – with care and attempted grace – she lazily smiled at their mutual secret, and seemed then to sleep. Alan picked up his glass from the hearthrug and idled to the table where he poured more warmish champagne. He squatted down on the floor and fiddled with the fire until the blue and yellow flicker licking around the coals at once went dead, and still he was sweating, his glossy forehead prickled and aboil. He drank the champagne and looked across at her, only the rise of a cheek
now clear to him beneath the mass and tumble of her hair. He was standing now – eased back on the shabby Harris tweed and bent down over her head, kissed her brow beneath the fall of her fringe. He was pleased when she stirred. Her eyes looked up at him without enquiry as her arms were stretching out wide, the suppression of a yawn tugging and distorting her mouth.

‘You off now then, are you …?'

Alan nodded. ‘I've left the money on the mantel.'

‘Lovely.'

‘Bit extra for the champagne.'

‘Sweet. Well this was a surprise. Don't often see you on a Saturday, Alan.'

‘No. Well. Bit of an odd day all round, really. One thing and another.'

‘Next week?'

‘Probably. Bye Helen, my dear.'

‘Bye, ange. Oh here—!' she said suddenly, holding out to him in two fingers the mashed and split Cohiba. ‘Be a love, Alan – take it out with you, will you? You know how I hate the bloody things.'

‘Mm.'

‘Well don't look so sad. It's nothing personal. It's just the smell they leave behind.'

So I came down when I heard like people banging around and I went into the kitchen and I said Hi Mum, the way I'd rehearsed it. Because I've been staring at my face in the mirror – it's quite a cool mirror I've got, actually. A bit like oh yuck sick pink, yeh OK – but it's got all these like light bulbs round it like it's in a dressing room in one of those movies you see when someone like knocks on the door? And says Five Minutes Miss Whatever? And she like goes behind a screen and she's wearing all sorts of corsets and feathers and stuff? It's great, but at least one of the bulbs is never working and all Mum says is yeh well we can't go replacing them all the time because it's extravagant; yeh, like she's so thrifty. If it was in her room, this mirror, she'd have a whole great box of bulbs. And whenever one went, she'd throw something at Dad's head like Tara's Mum does and he'd bloody go and replace it. It's shit, you know, sometimes, the way she treats my Dad – I don't know why he never fights back. I mean, yeh he comes out with all his clever-clever sarcastic-type stuff, but he doesn't ever tell her to just, like – fuck
off
, you know? Yeh well.

So I was looking at my face and I was doing it for two reasons, right? One: to see I wasn't all puffy, because then she'd say what's wrong and I'd say there's nothing wrong and she'd say come on Amanda, I'm your mother, I know when there's something wrong – you've been crying. And then I'd go I haven't been
crying
, OK? And she'd say don't lie to me Amanda – tell me what's wrong. And I'd be like there's nothing
wrong
, OK? Why do you have to keep on and on about it? I
said
there's nothing wrong, didn't I? And then she'd just look at me and then I'd probably start crying again and then the whole thing would go and start up again, right, so that's why I had to check I wasn't looking puffy. And the second reason was I had to make sure I could seem all casual, sort of, and like kind of breezy, or else she'd start trying to dig out of me some big dark secret which I so don't want to tell her. And yeh – I suppose there was a third reason too I was looking at myself – really really looking. It's funny when you use your eyes to look at yourself really closely and all you see back is like your eyes, yeh? Just looking, really closely. But I wanted to know if I'd gone kind of strange. Because although I felt pretty sick about what happened to me, there was something not totally uncool about it as well. I sort of didn't want to tell Tara about it because she'd look at me funny and probably say I was lying? But I had to really because I was different to her now, don't know if I mean different, but anyway she had to know it. But inside, I didn't feel anything, not really, except tired, and that I like really wanted some tea? And I looked the same, so far as I could tell. So I just widened my eyes and concentrated on my reflection and I said Hi Mum. And that was no good because I was nearly shouting and sounding a bit mad. So I went lower and did Hi Mum again, but that was
like I was hiding something, which I am. And then I really lightened my voice, like I was really really happy: Hi Mum! Which was OK, but then I thought hang on – do I do that, actually? Do I go into the kitchen and say Hi Mum? Because if I don't, she's going to go What did you say that for? Did you get it from television? You never say Hi Mum. I can't remember if I do or I don't. And if I sound too happy, she'll be like
Someone
's sounding particularly happy this morning: what's the wonderful secret? God you know, it must be so easy just living on your own and having a car and stuff, just not having to give a shit about anyone. Which is another thing I've been thinking about, actually – going away. Just like, you know: going. I mean, if Mum's really serious about … I can't
believe
she means it! What – two dads and one mum and me? All living here, like … what is it?
Friends
? No way I'm doing that. And that Harry, I don't want to run into him again. And school, Jesus – they teach nothing you really want to know, stuff you're like really going to need. So why don't I? Just take off? Trouble is, I live in London don't I? And when you read about it, when you see the movies, these young kids, what they do is, they go to like London. Train. Hitch-hike. Whatever. As if that's like the answer. So where do I go? Well I've got a passport – I could maybe go to, I don't know … France, and be an artist. Like Bernard Buffet, up where that big white church is in Paris. Or in the desert – like with the Bedouins? Or Australia, where it's hot at Christmas and you just go surfing and eat, like – prawns? Got to be better than this.

‘Hi Mum.'

‘I'm busy, Amanda. Make something for yourself, if you want it.'

‘What are you doing?'

‘I'm … I'm just sorting out dishes and things.'

‘We never use these. Hardly remember them.'

‘No well we're using them tonight. Oh yes, Amanda – that's what I meant to say to you. Talk to you about. Now listen, my sweet – Daddy and I are having someone to dinner tonight, yes? And now I don't want you to feel excluded or anything of that sort … but I feel it would be better on this occasion if you weren't, um … there. All right? Next time will be different.'

Amanda had been idly fingering a blue-and-white serving plate which she just about sort of remembered from when she was a child.

‘What are you talking about …?'

Susan slammed her hands down on to the counter and tightly compressed her eyelids; her hair fell over her forehead, and she angrily swept it back.

‘Oh God Amanda I don't have
time
 … Look. It's very simple. Mummy's got a heavy day. I have to plan this dinner, I have a hairdresser's appointment at … oh Christ, it's
that
time already …! And I'm meeting Maria later on for coffee – so I really can't …! Look. I'll give you some money. You and Tara can, I don't know – have a pizza somewhere. Something. Cinema. Are there any new films you want to see? I'll leave you out some money.'

Amanda found herself eyeing her closely, while not even wanting to look.

‘It's him, isn't it? It's the creep. You're having your new creep over, aren't you?'

‘Oh
honestly
, Amanda! How dare you—! He's not a—! And anyway, it's none of your business. Well it
is
 – of course it
is
 … just not
yet
, that's all. Now please, Amanda – do let me get on. I've got a very heavy day. All right?'

‘What are you cooking …?'

‘Not. Not, no. Chinese. Now please, Amanda. Yes?'

‘Yeh Mum. OK. Hairdo. Coffee with Maria. Takeaway. Heavy day. Yeh right.'

So. I needn't have bothered really, need I? All that rehearsing and staring at me in the mirror. She didn't even like look at me once. Didn't think I seemed different – didn't want to know what was wrong, didn't ask me why I'd been crying. I just so don't matter to her, It's just the creep, the sleazeball, the new fucking toyboy – probably like an Italian waiter or something, young and yuck and oily, except he probably owns a whole load of restaurants because it's rich she wants now: rich. If I've got enough Play-Doh left, I'm going to make another model – him I'll skewer in the head. And Dad's just meant to – what? Sit there and just like take it? Oh God. Just so crap. Why doesn't he
fight
? Yeh well – because he's Dad, that's why: stupid question. Well that settles it, really. I'm not going. Running away. Someone's got to be here – someone's got to do something about all this. Someone's got to like just stop it happening. And it's not going to be Dad. Well is it? No. So OK, then: looks like it's going to be me.

‘Now, Black – tell me what I can get you. A few more noodles, maybe. God's sake, Alan –
must
you eat your ribs like that? It's just so Neanderthal. Well, Black – noodles? Yes?'

Black touched his mouth with his spread-out napkin, and taking advantage of the temporary camouflage, his fingernails were scrabbling at the wild and livid redness of his jowls. That second bloody shave of the day had of course made the eczema flare, and yes yes yes he knew he wasn't meant to scratch it, he'd been told all that since he was a boy in pain, permanently inflamed, plastered with gunk, swathed in
gauze and jeered at by everybody. But
you
try having eczema and not bloody scratching it: yeh matey – you just try it. And this whole situation, of course, this merry little evening – can't really be helping, can it? Breathing's a bit shallow – noticed it earlier on. Not quite chesty, but I know it wants watching: have to keep an eye on it, oh Lord yes, otherwise it's off to the bloody lavatory again with my brace of inhalers. Been there twice already – once to attend to nature (which I wish would cease forever
calling
and just pipe down and leave me bloody alone) and that had involved – well of course it had – the whole palaver of braces and waistcoat and then the bloody corset, we know the routine (my sympathies with the Edwardian matron are practically boundless, do let me assure you), and the second time had been to loosen the laces in my shoes because the swelling down there had been verging on the chronic. Now normally, I am thoroughly aware – if, say, we were dealing with a fully-functioning human being – well then: your shoes are on the snug side, you casually reach down and quickly attend to the little bit of business. Yes well – I attempt bending of any sort whatever and (a) the demeanour of my bowel is going to shift up a notch from its customary irritable to decidedly cantankerous, and from there we will find ourselves but a short hop, skip and a jump away from borderline insane, believe me (chucking around the furniture) – and (b) there would be ruptures, and maybe not solely in the architecture of my dress. And also, where laces are concerned, it's the same scenario as socks, I'm afraid. It's lying flat on your back, you want the terrible details – I wish I were joking – and sort of drawing down your legs, bent like blazes at the knee, and then trying to ball up just that little bit tighter, for all the world as if a
dedicated midwife is in the wings and urging you shrilly to expel those overdue triplets from your big and vile and idle gut like so many dum-dum bullets, to spatter the walls and ceiling. And prior to that, all the underpinnings have first to be loosened, hardly needs saying, and then there is the challenge of becoming vertical again – no mean feat at the best of times, but within the measly confines of what I have heard referred to as a ‘guest toilet', may the gods preserve me … well Christ Almighty. My head was clanging into the bloody brush thing there, and a column of lavatory rolls fell over my face and I was snorting like an engine and spitting out tissue – blowing it away from the corner of my mouth – because both my hands were still messing around with the God-damned shoelaces, I ask you. Jesus, it's all far from easy. My bootmaker has told me that I could have even higher lifts than these (and these are my vertiginous ones – the ones that make me look as if I am poised and terrified on the brink of a diving board) – yes, even higher than these, he tells me, and we could do away altogether with the laces problem, if only I would consider the extra benefits of a gusset-sided and Cuban-heeled boot like the Beatles used to wear because the added sweep of the angle, or the angle of the fucking sweep, whatever the bugger was saying to me, would serve to disguise the extra inserts as well as adding the two-and-a-half inches that would be down to the heel itself. Apart from the fact, as I explained to him, that I should then feel as if I were living my whole life balanced upon the pommel of a flagpole, I am not, by any stretch of the, oh – what is it? – am I, a
Beatle
? And further – I could not contemplate the Cuban heel; I feel, in some unspecified way, that it would somehow diminish me. Imagination. Stretch of the. Mm.