incomprehensible information. She used to do this when we studied Russian language at night classes. Although I am trying to be clear, it’s understandable that Issie feels she’s neck high in the sludgy waters of an unknown territory. She naturally assumes that when I say I wanted him, I mean sexually. Exclusively sexually. A fair assumption in light of my history.
Inaccurate.
She lights one of my cigarettes, without asking.
‘I thanked him for the coffee and tried to walk away but—’
‘But?’
‘He put his hand on mine and said, “You’re welcome. The pleasure really was mine, Cas.” ‘I repeat this conversation in a stupid drawling voice, which is actually nothing like Darren’s voice. It’s just that I am aware that what I’m saying is serious stuff. I hope the ridiculous voice will serve to make the story funnier, less intense.
‘Noooo.’ Issie latches on to the idiotic voice, hoping it’s a lifeboat. She assumes I’d find this action inane. Any man, trying to get inside my knickers, should know never, ever to appear sentimental once, never mind twice. I can’t stand it.
Usually.
‘And did he say your name like, Kez.’ She says my name as though she is a drunk David Niven impersonating Jimmy Tarbuck. Unaccountably, her mocking makes me ashamed. It’s always felt fine to be harsh and heinous; now it seems puerile. Darren deserves better.
‘Er, to be frank, no.’
‘But his hand was clammy.’ Issie, understandably disconcerted, is still holding out for the reassurance of one of my ‘scathing dismissal’ stories, as supplied on countless occasions. Scathing dismissal stories make Issie feel better about the fact that she is horribly needy and couldn’t be stinging to save her life. My cruelty to the opposite sex evens things up for her. It’s no use. I’d like to help but I can’t lie.
‘Actually, it was cool and smooth.’
Issie nearly spills her G&T on the floor as the shock makes her overestimate the size of my coffee table.
‘Careful,’ I grumble, thinking about the Purves and Purves carpet.
‘When you say you wanted him…?’
I take a deep breath. I force forward. ‘I just couldn’t leave him.’
As best as I can, I explain it to Issie. I tell her that the pots are still dirty because I can’t bear to wash him away. I even tell her that the sheets are rank for the same reason.
‘Sheets? When did we get to sheets?’ she squeals.
I could tell her about the first time. No sheets, just a filthy brick wall. Hurried and frenzied. My coat left damp and grubby, in need of a clean. My scarf sticky with dried love, because I used it to wipe his dick.
And I know that if I tell Issie this she’d think this is in character, it’s what she expects of me. It’s what I expect of me. But if I elucidate and add that whilst the act was undoubtedly basic and animalistic, it was also bashing against the surreal. We were wrapped in a pure light that made us us. Distinct and apart from anyone else, we floated in an individual time dimension that no one else knew about, or could ever visit. There was a secret, silent acceptance that hearts and flowers and all that they have come to symbolize were an option, even for me. I was there. I was involved.
He completed me.
Against an alley wall.
What would she make of that? Only one way to find out.
I tell her the stuff I’d vowed not to tell her. I can’t do otherwise; it bursts out. I’m overpouring with Darren. Thoughts of Darren. Memories of Darren. Imaginings about Darren. I’m not nervous exactly; it’s something different to nervous. I’m excited, I’m exhilarated.
I’m terrified.
Issie listens to my garbled account of events to date; she says nothing but is wearing a ridiculous smirk on her face. The smirk broadens to a grin and then it widens an unfeasible fraction more. She’s beaming as I tell her that I didn’t get on a train back to London that Thursday morning, or Friday, or Saturday for that matter. Instead we booked into a tiny country house. As I repeat these facts the image of Darren licking me out, which has been more or less permanently burned on my mind, becomes 3D again.
We are in bed; limbs, sheets and senses entangled and confused. Yet as he asks, ‘Here, do you like it here?’ I experience an unparalleled sense of clarity and certainty. I like it there, very much. I recall my fingers (which had never looked so slim and tapering)