The Good Sister(28)

‘Oh. No . . . Well . . . it wasn’t just the touch. It was the lights, the music, the smells, the staring. And the touch.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘It’s all right.’

‘I should have known.’

‘You should have known that I don’t like to be touched? Why would you know that?’

‘Because,’ he says, ‘I don’t like to be touched either. I’ve learned to do it – to shake hands, to hug, to pat someone on the back – because that’s what people do. But I don’t like it.’

‘But just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean that I won’t like it.’

‘True,’ he says. ‘But . . . you are little bit like me.’

I open my mouth in surprise. Alike? I want to cry, What ways are we alike?

But then it hits me.

The way that Wally looks over my shoulder.

His commitment to being punctual.

His failing to attend his interview and his frustration at himself afterward.

He doesn’t like to be touched.

Wally is indeed a little bit like me. How had I not noticed this? The idea of this brings on a flood of comfort and security. Like I’m being seen and understood. I feel like a foreigner in a new country who, after months of not being understood, has finally run into someone who speaks my language.

‘You . . . don’t like to be touched?’ I ask. ‘Not at all?’

‘Some touching is okay,’ Wally says. ‘If I’m expecting it, it’s not so bad. And a firm touch is better than a light one–’

‘Light touches are the worst!’ I exclaim. ‘Light surprise touches.’

‘I’m okay with my loved ones touching me,’ Wally says. ‘Though, usually they know how to do it right.’

‘Or not do it at all,’ I agree. ‘What about sex? Good or bad?’

Wally thinks about this for a minute. ‘Good. And bad. Depending on many factors.’

‘I don’t really know what the fuss is about,’ I admit. ‘It seems a bizarre thing to do, if you think about it. How did people even discover it?’

Wally rests his head against the headrest and frowns. ‘It’s a good question. I guess Adam and Eve must have got bored in the Garden of Eden from time to time. Maybe it was a dare? Or maybe Eve tripped and fell and . . . I don’t know, landed . . . on . . . Adam?’

Wally’s cheeks are extraordinarily red, I notice. It makes me laugh a little. And after a second, Wally does too. It’s magic. People rarely laugh at the same things that I do. Usually when I laugh, other people are silent. And when others laugh, I’m still trying to understand the joke. Before long, we are both laughing so hard that tears appear in the corners of my eyes and I have to wipe them away. Wally wipes tears away too. He steals a sideways glance at me, and we lock in a rare moment of direct eye contact. It’s funny what happens then. It’s as though there’s a change in the atmosphere or something. I have to concentrate on taking a breath, which makes me aware how loud I am breathing.

‘Would you like to have sex with me?’ I ask.

Wally freezes. It is, admittedly, a sizable deviation from my plan. For one thing, there are at least two days until I ovulate. For another, at least according to the romance novels I’ve read, when it comes to seducing men, there tends to be very little in the way of ascertaining of the other party’s interest. If the novels are anything to go by, sex is supposed to kick off with the hero crushing his lips against mine after doing something to upset me. So I watch Wally’s reaction with interest.

His eyes widen slightly and his lips part, but he doesn’t speak for some time. I am pleased with this reaction. I suspect I would have felt a little startled by the crushing lips. As he contemplates my request, I settle back into the cosy pod of the van with the darkness surrounding us. I am feeling something approaching relaxed . . . until a sudden pounding on Wally’s window sends us both flying off our seats.

‘Do you have permission to have your van parked here? This is private property you know.’

I recognise the voice as that belonging to my neighbour, Mrs Hazelbury. Through Wally’s window, I see that she’s dressed in her peach candlewick robe, holding it together with both hands at the throat. I can’t see from where I’m sitting but I’d hazard a guess she’s also wearing her matching slippers.

Wally unwinds his window and she peers into the van.

‘Fern!’ Mrs Hazelbury says. ‘There you are! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all night.’

This is a surprise. Mrs Hazelbury never tries to ‘get in touch’ with me. She prefers to wait at her window and call out as I walk by on my way to work. ‘Have you seen my newspaper? It has gone missing two days in a row!’ ‘Do you know what is happening to the block of land down the road that has been purchased by developers?’ ‘Do you think the new people in flat number five have got guests staying?’

‘Your sister called twice,’ Mrs Hazelbury says, craning her neck to see further into the van. ‘Apparently she’s been calling your mobile phone all night and there’s been no answer.’

I feel a shiver down my spine; a sluice of ice water. Rose had called? Again?

What have I done now?