Then She Was Gone(44)

And then one evening, there you were, in the convenience store, in a blue cagoule and jeans, a bottle of red wine hanging from your fist, studying the breakfast cereals intently. I said, ‘Floyd Dunn.’

You turned and you remembered me immediately. I knew you did. I hadn’t expected that. No one ever remembered me immediately. But you smiled and you said, ‘I know you. You were at the NEC.’

‘Yes, I was indeed. Noelle.’

I gave you my hand and you shook it.

‘Noelle. Of course. The unwanted Christmas present. How are you?’

‘I’m truly grand, thank you. And you?’

‘I am moderately grand, if that’s possible.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘There are many shades of grand.’

There was a small moment then, I recall. It was likely awkward, but I’d be hard pressed to judge as my whole life until this point had been vaguely awkward. But you stepped into the moment and saved it and that was when I knew.

You said – and I shall never ever forget this because it was so remarkable to me – you said, ‘Rice Krispies or Mini Shredded Wheats?’

Which may not sound like much of anything, but it was what it wasn’t that was so important to me. It wasn’t a rebuttal. It wasn’t a glance at your watch and an oh, is that the time, I’d better get on. It wasn’t a suggestion that I was taking up too much of your life; that I was somehow blocking your view of better things. It was an invitation to banter.

So of course I seized it. ‘Rice Krispies’, I said, ‘are delicious, but five minutes later you’re hungry again. All that air …’

You smiled. I liked your crooked teeth.

‘All that air,’ you repeated. ‘You are funny.’

‘No. I’m just Irish.’

‘True,’ he said. ‘You do have a natural inbuilt advantage when it comes to humour. So.’ You turned back to the breakfast cereals. ‘Seven-year-old girl. Mother is a health freak, so no sugary stuff. What would you choose?’

Seven-year-old girl? Well, there’d been no mention of a seven-year-old girl in your biography. I can’t say I was too fond of small girls. ‘Is this your daughter we’re talking about?’

‘Yes. Sara. Her mother and I recently separated and now I’m a weekend dad. So I can’t afford to make any mistakes. My wife already thinks I’m going to leave her somewhere or let her put her hand in a food blender. That kind of thing.’

‘Weetabix then,’ I said. ‘It has the least sugar of all the cereals.’

Your face softened and you smiled again. ‘See,’ you said, ‘I knew you’d know about things like that. I knew you would. Do you have children of your own?’

‘No. Not even vaguely.’

You looked at me then, and I could tell you were wondering whether or not to say something, something in particular.

I acted like I wasn’t fussed and, whatever it was, you decided against saying it. I could see you swallowing the words back into yourself. ‘Well, you have been most helpful. Thank you, Noelle.’

You picked up the Weetabix. And that was that.

But it was enough so that the next time I bumped into you, a week later, we had a little open-ended thing going on, a little rapport. We chatted about the weather a bit that time. And the next time we chatted about some government scheme to ruin all the schools that we’d both read about in the papers that morning. It was the fourth time, a month after the Education Show, that you said, ‘Have you ever tried that Eritrean place? By the Tube?’

‘As it happens, no I have not.’

‘Well, it is excellent. I’ve been going there for years. You should try it … In fact …’

And there it came, your invitation to dinner.

Yes, Floyd. Your invitation to dinner. I know you will try to twist this and rewrite it, like you try to twist and rewrite everything, but you know and I know that you started this. You saw me, Floyd. You saw me and you wanted me. You asked me to dinner. You turned up at that dinner on time and smartly dressed. You did not look at me and say, This has been a terrible mistake, and do a runner. You smiled when I walked in, you stood, you took my shoulders and you pressed your face against my face. You said, ‘You look lovely.’ You waited until I’d sat down before you sat down. You maintained a steady line of eye contact.

You did. You totally, totally did.

And then it was you. You phoned me a few days later (just long enough to make me sweat, just long enough to make me think about calling you first but I did not. I did not). And you invited me to your house.

Yes you did.

Your goal was clear that night. You wanted to fuck me. But that was OK because I wanted to be fucked by you. I didn’t care that dinner was somewhat perfunctory – what was it now? Pasta, I think, with some kind of shop-bought sauce which must have taken you all of five minutes to throw together. But a nice bottle of wine, if I recall. And we ended up on your sofa an hour later and while you were pulling at my clothes and panting all over me I said, ‘Believe it or not, I am a virgin, possibly the last one in existence.’ And you were very kind about it. You didn’t laugh or say, You’re taking the piss. You didn’t recoil or sigh or tell me to go home. You were kind. You touched me all over until I was a blob and then you were slow and patient. And it did hurt. Yes, it really did. But I’d been expecting that and frankly, you weren’t the biggest boy in the class, if you know what I mean. A blessing really.