Sweet Sorrow(84)

‘A bed is a good idea.’

‘Because a tent or a haystack or a bench, frankly …’

‘No good.’

‘With a door you can close and no one around.’

But where would we find such a thing? ‘My dad’s always home.’ Impossible to conceive of having sex with Dad downstairs, and there was the issue of the bunk bed, which still embarrassed me.

‘And my room, whenever I’ve had a boy there – the very few times I’ve had a boy there – they just walk up and down on the landing, coughing and making the floorboards creak.’

‘And I ought to meet them first.’

‘Meet them properly, rather than meet them then immediately have sex with their daughter.’

We went into our act. ‘You have a lovely home, Mrs Fisher,’ I said.

‘Call me Claire.’

‘You have a lovely home, Claire, Graham, now if you’ll excuse us …’

‘And Graham, mate – stay off the landing.’

‘But if they go out?’

‘That could be ages,’ she said. ‘Anyway, mine’s a single. A double’s better and my parents’ bed, it’s not ideal. That’s a lifetime of therapy, right there.’

‘A double would be good.’

‘Like a wrestling ring. Room to roam.’ She turned her head. ‘You all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

She leant over me, her face close. ‘You look quite flushed.’

‘No. I’m okay. We’re being practical, it’s good.’

‘And you’re sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you don’t think I’m some sort of … wench?’

‘Temptress.’

‘Seductress, for suggesting it?’

‘No.’

‘And you’re not nervous.’

‘No. A bit. I mean I want to get it right.’

‘Yeah, I want you to get it right too.’ She laughed. ‘And me.’ A moment passed, and she flipped to her side. ‘Okay, there is one possibility.’

‘Go on.’

‘Can you tell your dad you’re staying at Harper’s?’

‘When?’

‘Friday.’

‘I never really stay over there.’

‘But you could this weekend, you could stay until Sunday night.’

‘Until Sunday?’

‘Or say you’ve gone camping or something. Can you?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Okay. Then I’ve got a plan.’





Starry Starry Night


I knew that Fran was not a virgin. She’d told me her history and we’d laughed at the word, like it was a GCSE: ‘We’re doing that, and the Tudors.’ I knew about her boyfriends and had worked up a mental image and conventional hatred for each of them. In turn, I’d told her about my near miss with Sharon Findlay down the back of the sofa. ‘It’s just as well you didn’t have sex,’ she said. ‘Otherwise you’d have to tell everyone that you lost it down the back of the sofa.’

‘Literally.’

‘Literally.’ ‘Literally’ was one of our private jokes. You see, I told you.

This conversation had taken place a few nights earlier, in a sloping field with a view of the town. Fran and I had a tendency to seek out these beauty spots, scouting locations for our own scenes.

‘I don’t know why people talk about “losing it” anyway,’ she said. ‘You lose a sock or your umbrella; it’s sort of passive or accidental. Much better to, I don’t know, throw your virginity. Something active. Not “lost it with” but “hurled it at”.’

‘Or maybe “given”.’

‘“Given”. Like a precious gift. Is that what you’re going to do with your virginity, Charlie?’

‘Yeah, but with the receipt.’

‘In case they don’t like it?’

‘Tried it on, sorry, not for me.’

‘Wrong size.’

‘Not my colour.’

‘Can I have the cash instead?’

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I think it’s only a gift if it comes from a girl. Boys have to take it.’ She frowned at me, and I quickly clarified. ‘Usually, I mean, that’s what people say.’

‘Bit sexist.’

‘It is. Really sexist.’

‘Well, I think you should give yours, Charlie. Gift it. Bestow it, like frankincense, or a nice fountain pen.’

‘When I meet the right girl.’

‘When you meet the right girl.’

We were silent for a while.

‘Did you lose yours or give it?’ I said.

‘No, I sort of … fumbled it. Oh, God.’ She clapped both hands to her face and exhaled, took them away, opened her eyes wide. ‘We were rehearsing Romeo and Juliet’s morning-after scene the other day, and Ivor had Miles and me all sort of tangled up in each other’s arms, like we’d had this magical mutual experience and woken up transformed with lovely hair and clean sheets. I said to Ivor, I wonder if it was really bad, the first time Romeo and Juliet did it – really awkward, clumsy sex. Maybe there was blood and Juliet saying it’s uncomfortable and maybe it only lasted ten seconds, Romeo apologising, and maybe the Nurse kept walking about outside the door, putting them off. I think I sort of went off on one about it, this idea, Romeo and Juliet having bad sex, how they could still be in love and it be awkward. Maybe it was better, more real, if it was awkward because they’d be working it out together like you’re meant to.’