there is the hiss of gas escaping.
‘Keep it airtight,’ she says.
‘Are we making a bomb?’
‘This is a trust exercise, like in drama,’ she says.
‘Are we making a bomb as a trust exercise?’
‘Ready?’ she says.
‘No.’
‘Ready?’
‘No.’
‘And go.’
She scrapes back the flint-wheel. I feel the spark against my skin and instinctively open my palms. For a moment, I am master of the elements. I am Ryu from Streetfighter II, a small blue-yellow fireball in my hands.
It disappears in the air between us.
My hands are not charred.
She has a special skill. And it is not blackmail.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ I say.
‘Okay,’ she says.
I pick up the diary and write:
I asked Jordana about her ex-boyfriend.
She said: ‘He is a really sweet guy but there was just no physical
spark. Mark Pritchard – bless him – he may have the jawline but he
snogs like he’s searching for cavities.’
I asked her the big question: ‘So you didn’t shag him then?’
Jordana shuffles around and sits next to me on the grass, legs tucked beneath her, thighs angling towards me. I wish I was studying GCSE body language.
I hand her the diary. Her eyes jolt as she reads. I wait for her to catch up and answer the question.
‘Technically… no,’ she says, handing me back the diary.
I nod and carry on writing:
‘God, no!’ she said. ‘Minging!’
‘And what about Janet?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t you angry with her – she was your best friend?’
Jordana’s reply was so magnanimous:
‘I know I should be angry but, honestly, I wish Janet all the luck in the world. She’s a nice girl. She’s not had a lot – if any – luck with boys in the past. I remember when I had to teach her how to give a love bite. You never know – they might end up getting married and staying together for ever.’
Jordana has such a great attitude.
Jordana shuffles closer and rests her chin on my shoulder. The wind whips her hair up under my nose. It smells of burnt sugar. I keep writing.
Jordana is sex talent. She can do things with a lighter that you wouldn’t believe.
She slides her hand along my back and around my waist. I keep on writing.
Her body is exceptional: fully developed breasts, a definite neck, legs like a Top Shop mannequin.
She squeezes her boobs against my arm: shape and weight and warmth.
Thank you, God, thank you, Janet, and thank you, Mark Pritchard!
She bites my neck and sucks a little.
Yours smittenly,
Oli T.
She detaches with a slurp.
‘That’s perfect,’ she says, reaching over and tearing out the page. ‘You make it sound as if I couldn’t give a toss.’
‘What are you going to do with it?’ I ask.
‘Distribute it.’
‘How?’
‘Chips.’
There is the sound of her sheepdog barking at another dog.
‘Are you going to tell him that it was all a set-up.’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘What are you complaining about?’ she says, taking hold of my fingers and kissing the back of my hand as if I were a princess. ‘This is conclusive proof that you’ve actually snogged a girl.’
28.4.97
Word of the day: propaganda. I am Hitler. She is Goebbels.
Dear Diary,
They are calling for you.
The results of Jordana’s ‘leak’ have been twofold:
Firstly, my heterosexuality has been established whereas, up to this point, it has been a point of discussion.
Secondly, and contradictory to my being a ladykiller, I am now known as the sort of boy who writes about his emotions and uses words like osculate.
All this has led to three distinct types of playground goad:
1) Hey, Adrian, where’s your diary?
2) (To the tune of the musical) Oliver, Oliver, never before have I thought you weren’t gay.
3) Tatey, Tatey, Tatey: have you shagged her yet?
It is a form of respect to have the letter ‘y’ added to the end of your surname.
So this leaves me with a distinct dilemma – just the sort of problem for which a diary was intended. Do I keep ‘leaking’ sections of my diary and try and create a more beefy persona? Or do I cut my losses, burn this diary right now and just be pleased that I am known as an attentive lover?
Hmm,
Oliver
Zugzwang
I’ve decided that I’m not going to write a diary. It puts my reputation in danger. I’m going to keep a ‘log’. It’s going to be seriously buff: there will be no emotions; there will be no emoticons; it will be sprayed with bullet points like the wings of the Luftwaffe after the Vickers K machine gun was introduced.
I scribble out the word ‘Diary’ on the front cover; now it just says ‘Niceday’. Then I Tipp-Ex out the