Girl After Dark (6 page)

As my taxi races through the city streets, I look out the window, at the buildings, houses, offices, shops … and the people. Kids coming home from school, couples strolling hand in hand. Sure, the scene is normal, just like any city, on any weekday afternoon. Just like London.

Except
this
scene seems magical somehow, sprinkled with glitter and fairy dust.

As the taxi speeds me further away from JFK airport, I feel my worries start to drift behind me into the wind, the closer I get to the place that will be my new home, right here in New York.

As soon as Katy suggested it, I knew she was right. I had to get away, and this was the perfect destination to escape to.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like it was an easy decision.

For a start, I’ve had to leave behind my Mum and Katy — the two people who’ve been there for me throughout this nightmare. I don’t know where I’d be without them and it breaks my heart that they’re now so far away.

I’ve also had to give up the lease on my perfect flat in London, and put all my pretty things into storage.

I’m normally a nightmare packer, unable to decide between about a million different looks for just a mini break, but packing to come here was surprisingly easy.

Looking at my wardrobe, I realised how much my clothes defined me — defined VintageHoney. And I just couldn’t bear to be that person anymore.

So I took only one small suitcase, and packed with the plainest, most simple clothes that I owned. Skinny jeans and plain black t-shirts.

I’m starting over again, this time in monochrome.

As I race towards my destination, I feel a pang of loneliness, thinking off all that I’ve left behind. But at the same time, I feel ready … ready to start again from scratch.

§

As the taxi pulls up outside Daddy’s apartment building, I notice him on the sidewalk, pacing up and down, obviously waiting for me. His brow is furrowed as if he’s lost in thought, but when he glances up and catches sight of me a huge grin spreads across his face. As I rush out of the cab to hug him, I notice little flecks of white in his once-jet-black hair and more stubble on his cheeks than I ever remember him having.

But even though he looks a little older and scruffier than usual, he’s still my dad, and I feel
so
glad to be finally wrapped up in his big strong arms once more.

Before we go any further, I should probably explain my family situation properly, right?

Okay, here goes …

My
mum
is British, while my dad is American (with Greek heritage). He was a Rhodes scholar and they met in Oxford back in the eighties. It must have been
so
romantic. Like Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath, they married when they were still students, which was practically scandalous back then. They had me soon after they both graduated. Probably too soon, because the marriage didn’t last too long afterwards. Dad did plan to stick around, to help bring me up, and for a while that was what happened. He was a great dad, so fun while I was growing up. But he was sad too, sad and lonely: even
I
picked up on it and I was just a little girl.

So, after a few more years, he moved back to the states. I guess he’d never really felt at home in Britain.

Mum and Dad remained friends though, and at least once a year, he’d make sure to come and visit, to stay with us.

When I was younger, I used to pretend they were back together on those holidays. But as I’ve grown up, I can see that they’re so much better apart. And I got to spend every summer in America, too. Everyone in school was really jealous of that. Particularly when Dad got a job teaching English at Columbia University, and moved to New York. His girlfriend, Gretchen, would always take me shopping at the coolest stores. So I’d come back home to England in September with these really awesome clothes that nobody else in my school had.

But as we stand there hugging on the step, it hits me that I haven’t seen him in almost
two
years (if you don’t count Skype, which I don’t).

“It’s been too long, Honeybee,” he murmurs as we hug, as if able to read my mind.

I hadn’t named myself VintageHoney for no reason, you see. Honey was my childhood nickname. My dad’s half Greek and often enjoyed reminding me that Melissa meant ‘honey bee’ in Greek. It kind of stuck; so much so that he rarely called me by my real name. I guess using the name had made me feel close to him, even when we were so far apart for so long.

I fight back the warm prick of tears — it’s a real mixture of emotions. Relief to be back with him again, guilt that I’ve been so busy over the last couple of years that I’ve not been able to visit sooner, not to mention the swirl of memories and emotions concerning the events of the last few weeks.

“I’m sorry I’ve not visited, Daddy,” I begin. “I’ve been busy …”

But then I feel the rest of my words get swallowed up in a sob, and before I know it, I’m balling my eyes out into his rumpled cream linen shirt.

“Hey, hey,” he croons softly, gently stroking my hair. “We don’t need to get into all that right now. Come on now, let’s get you inside.”

He takes my single suitcase from the sidewalk, easily carrying it — and me — into the apartment, one big warm arm slung comfortingly around my shoulder.

As I snuffle back the tears, I catch sight of way more mess than usual in his apartment: discarded takeaway containers, books and newspapers strewn all over the coffee table, but I’m too tired all of a sudden to ask him why everything is so messy, when Gretchen’s usually so neat and tidy.

He leads me gently up the stairs to the room I always stay in. And when he pushes the door open, I’m taken aback.

This is so different from the childish bedroom he’s kept for me all these years. The room is totally minimalist now: white walls, wooden floor, white bedding, a white lacquered desk and matching chest of drawers, a single chrome clothes rail and a large rectangular mirror, leaning against the wall.

“Wow, Dad—” I begin.

But he cuts me off before I can even say thank you. “I though it was about time we redecorated this room,” he explains. “And I figured you might want a … how can I put it?
Blank canvas
?”

“It’s absolutely perfect,” I whisper. “This is everything I need …”

I pause.

“Actually, Dad?” I add, with a sheepish smile. “There is
one
more thing … What’s the wi-fi password?”

I’m so jet-lagged, I just can’t seem to get myself to sleep. And I promised myself I wouldn’t — I promised myself I’d leave all that mess behind me in London — but I’ve been doing it again: googling myself.

And even worse than all that?

I’ve been watching my video again, too.
The
video. The one where I strip totally naked and then touch myself on camera until I come.

And this time, when it’s finished playing, in the corner of the page I notice
another
video — from the still image, it looks like a clip of a girl with jet black hair, her body covered in intricate, beautiful tattoos, lying back on her bed, her hands between her legs.

Am I really about to do this?
I think, as I watch my cursor float towards the video clip, hovering for a moment over the large red play button, before I feel my index finger click down decisively on the touchpad.

I’ve never really watched porn before. I know some girls do, but in the past I’ve just always thought it icky and gross — so much of it obviously just male fantasy.

But for some reason, this amateur clip seems different. Maybe it’s because this girl filmed it herself — and because she looks so totally
in control
. She’s staring defiantly into the camera lens, her full glossy lips plumped in a sexy pout, her large dark eyes staring straight out at me, and I can just tell immediately that unlike me, she absolutely
loves
the idea of people watching her; of people getting themselves off to her video.

And as she begins to softly run her slender hands over her own slim body, her fingertips playfully tugging and tweaking at her small dark nipples, I realise with a shiver of excitement that I want to play right along with her.

I glance nervously towards the door, as if someone might suddenly burst in on me.

But I know I’m totally safe from that up here on the third floor at four am in the morning.

So with nervous trembling fingers, I wriggle out of my PJ bottoms then slip off my vest top, too, feeling the cool air on my breasts, my fingers beginning to knead my soft, tender flesh, my nipples hardening into two puckered points as I begin to pull and tweak them, just like the girl on-screen is doing.

I gaze into her eyes as I, too, play with myself, feeling the familiar swirls of pleasure begin to build in my belly.

Still cupping one breast in her left hand, I watch her other hand slip down between her legs, so I let mine do the same.

I have to suck on my bottom lip to stop myself from gasping as my fingers graze over my swollen, throbbing clit.

But the girl on screen doesn’t care — she’s beginning to gasp and moan as she toys with her clit in fast circles, working herself up into a state of ecstasy.

I try to match her motions, tweaking my left nipple while circling my clit, my legs spread wide apart.

Still playing with her clit, the girl onscreen then moves her other hand between her legs too, fucking herself first with one, then two fingers.

I do the same, registering with a shudder just how hot and tight and wet I am. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever felt this turned on before.

And as the girl on screen comes loudly, she begins to suck on her glistening fingers, and I do the exact same thing: my orgasm shuddering through me so hard and intense that I can’t help but let out a soft moan, quickly sucking on my fingers to stifle further noises — and tasting my own honey in the process, something I’ve never done before. 

Afterwards, once the video clip has finished playing, I lie back, wrapping my shivering body in the softness of my bedsheets, my mind spinning and whirling, my breath coming still in shallow, shivery pants.

That was intense
, I think.

And as I come back down to earth, I realize two important things:

Number one, that Will never made me come like
that
.

Number two, that I can be just like that girl in the video if I want.

§

The jet lag means I wake up again just a few hours later. But even so, the sun is shining, and it looks like it’s a beautiful day, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I finally feel positive and ready to actually make a start on my new life.

I spring out of bed, then head down the stairs to the kitchen …

Woah
, I think, as I take in the scene before me.

The kitchen is messy, too. Like,
really
mess. Gretchen is usually so house proud — she must have totally
chilled out over the last couple of years.

I start to make coffee, then call up the stairs in the direction of Dad’s room. “Oh daddy!” I say in my sweetest voice. “Breakfast!”

And eventually, he shuffles into the kitchen like a zombie, dressed in his favourite rumpled old dressing gown, then slumps onto a stool, still half-asleep.

“Morning daddy!” I chirp brightly. “So, I lied when I said ‘breakfast’. It’s actually just coffee at the moment. I’m not really sure where anything
is
, you see. It’s a bit … um …
messy
in here? I mean, I can’t even find the toaster. Gretchen’s usually so tidy, she’s going to freak out when she sees the state you’ve left the place in! When is she back, anyway?”

“Oh sweetie,” Dad mumbles, rubbing his stubbly cheeks with palms, “about that. I was meaning to tell you when you first arrived. Gretchen and I are … on a break at the moment.”

“What?” I blurt out, surprised. “How long has this been going on for?”

He leaves a long awkward pause before he speaks.

“Just over a year?” he says sheepishly.

“Oh daddy,” I say, gently placing his coffee mug in front of him.

And suddenly it all makes complete sense: the messy apartment, his scruffy unshaven appearance, and even all that free time it must have taken him to redecorate my old room …

“Gretchen’s not coming back is she?” I say softly, after another pause.

“No, Honey,” he mumbles. “She’s not.”

§

We have a real heart to heart, that bright sunny morning. We talk properly, for the first time in
ages
. Okay, so we don’t really talk about ‘the video’ — I’m not ready for that just yet, especially not with my
dad
of all people, but I didn’t want him to find out on the internet either, just like Mum had done. That wouldn’t have been fair. So I asked her to tell him. They’ve been in contact a lot lately, to help me plan coming over here.

But I do tell him that Will cheated on me. And in return, Daddy tells me all sorts of encouraging things: that it was good I found out when I did, so I hadn’t wasted any more time with him, and that every young woman needs her horrific break up story and at least now I have mine.

As the clock hits nine, his eyes dart up at the clock on the wall.

“Oh damnit,” he says, pushing himself off his stool. “I’ve got class in an hour. What are you gonna do with yourself all day, Honeybee?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I reply. “Maybe go for a little walk? Or go shopping? I didn’t bring that many clothes with me. But my main goal is just to try and chill out, for once. Give myself a few days off working, and worrying, and worrying about work.”

“Good idea,” he says with a smile. You know, you should call your cousin, too. He’s been asking about you. He seemed really excited when he found out you were coming to stay …”

“
Jonathan
?” I say surprised, my mind casting back to the few scant memories I had of my cousin — sure, we’d played together as little kids, but I’d kind of lost touch with him since we both became teens. “Wow, I’ve not seen Jonathan in
years
.”

“Well, you should get in touch once you’re over your jetlag,” Dad replies. “I’ll leave his number in the hall.”

“Great,” I mumble, but deep down I’m not sure quite how I feel about that. I was kind of hoping to leave my past
behind me
with this trip …

When I see Daddy off at the door a little while later — once more taking in his scruffy, unshaven appearance, his rumpled shirt and creased seen-better-days slacks — I promise myself that I’m going to help him get
his
life back on track, too.

“Be good now, Honeybee,” he smiles, kissing me a warm goodbye.

And no sooner has the front door closed behind him, than I pick up the rubber gloves and start on some cleaning.

§

There!
I think, satisfied.

The kitchen is finally spotless. And on top of that, I’m showered and dressed and ready, finally, for New York …

Not for the first time, I breathe a happy sigh of relief that I actually paid attention to my mother’s advice and saved away a good portion of my VintageHoney income. Okay, so in my head, I might have been saving up for the deposit for the house that Will and I were going to buy in Hampstead. But oh well … Now I’m going to do something
far
more sensible with the money:

I’m going shopping.

First stop, American Apparel. It’s not a store I usually spend much time in. The shops I like are usually quiet, dusty old vintage stores. But this place is bright and brash and loud. And today, for once, I actually find myself attracted to these short tight clothes in a way I totally haven’t been before.

I eagerly grab the first two items that take my fancy and head off to the changing rooms.

There in the harshly-lit cubicle, I strip down to my underwear and, for a moment, I pause to assess myself in the many surrounding mirrors that display me back at myself from all angles.

Standing there in my plain black t-shirt bra and panties, I think to myself:
You know what, Melissa? You’ve actually got a pretty good body. And what the hell: everyone’s seen it now, after all. Maybe it’s time to stop hiding it behind all those frilly, floral dresses …

So I try on the outfit. A daringly skintight black leather A-line miniskirt and an ever-so-slightly
see through
chiffon secretary blouse in polkadot (I’m not quite ready to give up my love of all things polkadot just yet!).

And this time, there’s no denying that the girl in the mirror is confident and proud of her body.

Yes
, I think to myself, with a mixture of excitement and determination.
This is the way forward.

§

I collapse onto my bed, completely exhausted and surrounded by shopping bags.

But what’s the point of all these exiting new clothes if I can’t share them with anyone?

I look up eagerly at the clock. It’s 4pm here, which means it’s just after nine at night in London. Katy will have definitely have finished work by now!

So I pull out my laptop, ready to Skype her. But my screen tells me she’s offline, so I send her a quick email instead:

Are you home? Skype meeeeeee!

xxxxx

And as I sit here on the edge of my bed, wondering when she might reply or turn up online, I realize that it’s pretty stupid to just wait for someone who lives
so
far away and has their own life — in a whole other
time zone
, no less — to get in touch.

I make up my mind: maybe I will call my cousin Jonathan, after all. I mean, I’m not the awkward thirteen year old he last saw; he’s probably changed, too.

In the meantime, there is still one thing I’m good at: getting dressed. Looking around me excitedly at all these shopping bags — American Apparel, Urban Outfitters, Beacon’s Closet — I decide to start working on my Brand New Look.

And as I begin to unpack my purchases, it’s almost like a reflex. I take out my camera, too, and begin to set it on video mode before the thought flashes into my head once again:

VintageHoney is over.