“You can’t do this,” he said.
“Why not?”
“You don’t know me at all,” he said. “My name, where I’m from. You know nothing about me.”
“I want to know you,” I said, squeezing my hand around his arm, which was roped with thick muscles. His hands, resting lightly on my waist, were easily the largest and finest I’d ever seen on a man.
Just then another woman-maybe biologically not female, it was difficult to tell in the dark-interrupted us. “Love the boots, honey,” she said.
“Cheers.” I was wearing knee-high leather shoes with vertiginous heels. They were practically hobbling me, but worth it.
The Boy looked down. “They are actually rather good,” he said, fingering the skin just under my knee. I melted. “But I don’t think we should go back to the others. You’d likely break an ankle dancing in those.”
“Guess we’ll have to find something else to do?”
“I suppose,” he agreed, and we groped a bit longer, until I caught a glance at my watch. It was time for Cinderella to make her escape. “Come home with me,” he growled in my ear, fiddling with the zip of my left boot. It was the kind of order a woman dreams about. Irresistible.
“I have a boyfriend,” I said. It seemed only fair to mention it. The Boy said he didn’t care. I was technically in an open relationship, but knew this man was not one-night material. He was far more interesting than that; there was too much crackling energy around him. “Well,” I said, “you can have me one night or see me again. Which will it be?”
“I can’t not see you again,” the Boy said. I shrugged- tant pis. “Shameless trollop.” But he was smiling, and took my phone number. He followed me as far as the bouncers. The rest of his friends were still inside. There was a pause. I could have invited him back and wanted to, but also knew, as I walked out the glass doors, he’d be watching me go.
I went home and told the housemates I was in love. The fact that I was also blind drunk and trying to balance four candles in a fir wreath on my head is by the by.
The Boy and I met for drinks later that week but nothing happened. I felt uncomfortable following up on the promise of that first meeting. He did try at first-a lingering glance here, a trailing hand there-but soon learned the boundaries. He may have been a fully paid-up member of the bon ton, but he was no cad. Or perhaps he was biding his time. The relationship I was in was clearly not healthy. By the time I split with that boyfriend and moved to London, the Boy had new digs in Brighton. He drove up to meet me and moved everything into my new flat. We fucked for the first time among the scattered boxes and suitcases and piles of books on the floor. Wooden planks. I had friction scars for weeks after. samedi, le 29 novembre
I was cleaning off the makeup shelves, discarding crusty bottles of drying nail varnish and foundation-sodden sponges. I thought this job would just be a stopgap, but it’s been absolute months now. It’s become almost routine now but didn’t always seem like that.
Preparing for my first appointment had felt like making up for the stage. I remember laying out a liquid base and a stick one; eye shadow, liner, and mascara; lip liner, gloss. Preparation had started early. Too early. But I had no inkling of how to put it all together, how long it would take.
I showered and dried myself carefully in the white-tiled bathroom, looking for stray hairs missed by waxing and shaving. A quick blast of deodorant. Applied a drop of cologne to my cleavage and inside elbows. Put on a white lace bra and knickers, stockings, dried my hair. Part it here or there? Which way should it fall? Hair up or hair down? Fluffy or straight? I straightened the ends so they wouldn’t curl in the damp night air but otherwise left it alone. Small pearl earrings.
I put the dress over my head, then started on makeup. Foundation, no powder. A damp tissue applied lightly to take the excess off. Violet eyeshadow-only a touch. A dab of silvery white eyeliner just at the inside corner of my eyes. Cat eyes or not? Vamp or girlish? My hand was shaking slightly. Unwound the mascara, wiped the excess on a tissue, let it sit in the air a moment. Brushed on one layer. Then a second.
My eyes in the mirror stood out a mile from the rest of the face. I lined my lips, wondering how much to use and how much would come off on him. What would I have to take with me, would there be time to reapply? With the tip of my little finger I dabbed a liquid blusher on as lipstain. Gloss. More gloss. I thought of the manager’s advice: men love glossy lips. I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to think why.
A touch of gel to keep the hair off my forehead and cheeks. A clip to keep it back. I put the shoes on and buckled them at the ankles. Black, patent-leather stilettoes showing a long stripe of instep. Incredibly high heels, but once I’d run for a bus in them. I had danced till morning in these many times. Fuck-me shoes.
Then my coat. College scarf or fluffy blue one? The blue would leave fibers on the coat; I decided against it in the end. It was a cold night. Navy gloves with tiny buttons along the wrist. I stuck a pin with a butterfly in the coat lapel. Nervous; took deep breaths. Still a quarter of an hour to wait.
My mouth had gone dry. Went to the kitchen and poured a drink. Was alcohol a bad idea? Didn’t know. One couldn’t hurt. My lips left a crackling pink half-moon on the rim of the glass. Packed a handbag. I was sweating inside the coat and scarf and gloves. Still ten minutes until the taxi. Looked at the location for the appointment again on a map. Didn’t want to carry it with me. It was near a tube station. If I could memorize the directions from the tube station, I should be fine.
Went downstairs and stood outside. The cold wind tickled the damp hair at my neck. Looked down my road. No one was out walking. Very few cars came by. A bus paused at the bus stop, no one was waiting, it drove on. A small car came up behind it. A man looking out the window. That must be the cab, I thought. Focus. I’m working as of now. Smile, wave, give him the address. From here on, I am not me.
We found the house. Paid the driver. Up the walk, brass knocker on the door. A light on inside. My hair was falling in my face. I took the clip out and shook the hair loose. Smiled. Rapped at the door. No turning back.
The next morning I woke up in my own bed. Held my hand up, stared at it for ages. Was something supposed to be different? Should I have felt victimized, abused? I couldn’t say. The finer points of feminist theory didn’t seem to apply. Things felt as they always had. Same hand, same girl. I got up and made breakfast. dimanche, le 30 novembre
The Boy has been casting around for a new position for some time (working position that is, not sexual, though all offers gratefully received). He’s been unhappy at work for so long, but it’s secure, but this, but that, well, and so on, and so forth. His workmates are the same crowd he ran with at university. But now one of them has been made redundant and he’s starting to feel the full focus of the upper echelons of administration looking carefully at what he does. I keep suggesting military service, and not just because I think he would fill out a uniform in a most attractive manner. So he e-mailed his CV to see if there was anything I could do.
I returned it within the half hour. Almost immediately the phone rang. It was the Boyfriend, and he was laughing.
“This is great stuff, kitty… but I don’t think I can use it.”
“No?”
“For one thing I don’t think the Army cares either way about the size of my member.”
“You don’t know that for sure. You could get anyone interviewing you.” I hear the services are really very modern these days.
“Nice thought.” I heard him scrolling down the e-mail from the other end of the phone. “Recovery time between ejaculations should not be in the Other Qualifications section.”