Boy Parts(74)

An excuse is bubbling on his tongue. I snatch his brand-new phone from his pocket. I invite him to my hotel room, tapping my number into his contacts, along with the hotel postcode.

‘Give it half an hour before you come. I don’t want to be seen leaving with you,’ I say.

I do the rounds, the goodbye kisses. People are disappointed all the photos have been sold, but they are not surprised. I direct them to the photobook in the gift shop, my website. I dish out a fistful of business cards. Sera glares at me, and I leave a smudgy red kiss on her cheek.

‘A few glasses of champagne really go to a girl’s head, don’t they?’

I leave.

In my hotel room, I wait, without my dress, but with the letter opener that came with Mr B’s stuffed bear. I carry it with me. It’s proof, isn’t it? Tangible proof. I place it deliberately on the bedside table and play with a silk scarf I plan to use. It is red to match my lipstick, his insides.

He bursts through my door looking smug, just pleased as fucking punch, with no idea what’s coming to him. He tries to kiss me. I tell him to take off his clothes and lie on the bed.

He asks me if anyone has ever told me I could be a model, that he’d love to take my picture.

I tie his hands together, above his head, then to the bed frame. He tells me I looked amazing tonight, and asks if I wore the dress with him in mind. I laugh at him. He keeps fucking talking, so I stuff a pair of socks into his mouth.

His wallet has fallen out of his trousers, and a fat baggie has fallen out of his wallet.

‘Is that coke?’ I ask. He nods. I have a bump, then another, and I straddle him. I stick a fingernail full of coke under his right nostril, and pinch the left shut. Greedily, he sniffs it. Then I slap him. I slap him harder, and harder, till his lip bursts. His eyes are streaming, and he can’t get those socks out of his mouth.

I stop. I take photos on my phone. Blood drips down his chin. I smile at him. I ask him if he’s okay. In what I think is some attempt at bravery (toxic, masculine bravery), he nods. I lick his chin, and regret it immediately. It’s coppery, sickly, thick, and I gag, tasting blood and cocaine and champagne and bile on the back of my tongue.

His nipples are pink. I poke one with the letter opener, a tiny puncture mark which pisses blood, and he squeaks. I take photos. I prod and puncture his stomach. He has no muscle tone, no fat; he looks fragile and young. His belly wiggles, and flexes away from the sharp point in my hand, his skin sucking in, concave around his ribcage while I jab, and he bleeds. I cut a thin slice from his belly button to the dip of his collarbone. He is whimpering, and crying, now. When I ask if he’s okay, he nods. He’s still trying to hold face, where any woman would be screaming down the hotel.

Unless he’s too afraid to scream.

I run the tips of my fingers through the blood on his chest, and I draw a smiley face on his torso. I slap him again. He starts coughing, so I let him settle.

I open the mini bar, and take out several small bottles of vodka. These won’t do. I throw one at him, and it bounces off his skull and onto the bed. While it leaves a mean welt behind, it won’t shatter, so I sit on the end of the bed and drink it.

When I squint, he reminds me of my boy – the ribs, the young skin. But his hair is too light, and too straight. He’s too pale. He’s wrong. And he’ll be missed, and I don’t have bin bags, or a meat-cleaver.

I can barely stand. Another dig at his mangled nipple elicits a high-pitched, piggy squeal. I slip, and nearly take it off. I’m dizzy – the room whirls. I am extremely nauseous. I try to take a few pictures, but I can’t. Not now.

I stagger to the bathroom, leaving him in a puddle of his own tears and blood. I vomit into the sink. It lands with a splat. It’s fizzy and almost clear – I didn’t eat.

I slam the door and my knees hit the tiles of the bathroom with a thud. I vomit till I’m hacking and dry-heaving into the toilet, staring at myself in the water. My cheeks are streaked with mascara; there’s lipstick all over my face and sick in my hair.

I’ve looked better.

I pull myself up off the floor, and knock my phone into the sink. I wipe off the vomit and look through the photos.

They are perfect. Each one is completely hypnotic. They’re better for being on the phone, because it’s more naturalistic, less staged; I can carry them with me everywhere.

I grab the sink. I stare at myself in the mirror. I stare at her. I press my forehead to the glass, and kiss her, smearing lipstick everywhere, slipping my fingers between my lips and coming, even though I’m numb with the drink and those bumps I didn’t need but did any way.

The force of it makes me vomit again. I get to the toilet this time. I flush.

I crawl out of the bathroom. My scarf is on the floor, and the hotel door is wide open. He’s gone, and so are his clothes. There’s blood on the carpet and he forgot his cocaine.

I crawl on my hands and knees to kick the door shut, and crawl back to the bathroom. I force myself to vomit again. I stick my fingers down my throat till there’s absolutely nothing left to throw up, then I crawl into the shower, forgetting to take the pasties and my underwear off before I switch the water on. I scrub my hair with the hotel shampoo, and sip the spray, and throw up again.

I sit there until everything stops spinning. I need to eat.

I manage to dress, and comb my hair into a ponytail, and get all the makeup off my face. I look halfway presentable – no one would ever know. I can just about walk in a straight line. And I see familiar, comforting lights. The yellow glow of a twenty-four-hour McDonalds, the hard, white light of a Tesco.