Читать книгу Fen - Freya North - Страница 9

Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart, ’Tis woman’s whole existence.

Byron

Oh God. Oh Gawd. Oh Jesus. Matthew Holden has just woken up. The start to the day, to the week, could not be much worse. He has a hangover. He has a bad taste in his mouth. He’s late for work. And his ex-girlfriend is lying in bed next to him. With a contented smile on her sleeping face. He has a very bad taste in his mouth indeed. He tries closing his eyes but realizes that to stare at the ceiling, at the blooms of new paint on top of old, is far preferable to confronting all the current hassles of his life which parade around his mind’s eye as soon as his eyelids touch. Wake up. But he’s so damn tired. Wake up. Stay awake. Force eyes open. Monday. Monday. April Fool’s Day. Only this is no joke. No prank. He’s been a fool, full stop. It would be easier to just go back to sleep, slip into nothingness, to will it all to be a bad dream. However, while sleep might be a good antidote to his raging hangover, it won’t actually remedy the situation in hand or make it any less real. In fact, he’d have to wake again and do the whole oh God oh Gawd oh Jesus thing once more.

He daren’t move. Memory tells him that if he does, she’ll reach for him, claim him with encircling arms and clamping legs. Never let him go.

I wanted to get away.

The severity of his sigh is pronounced enough for her to turn to him, wrapping her limbs around him. She sighs herself. Triumphant.

Oh God. Oh Gawd. Oh Jesus no.

And then the phone starts to ring and Matt has an escape route though he knows in an instant that it is Jake’s mobile phone. He slithers from his bed and hurries through the flat, very naked.

Jake had, of course, answered his mobile phone. Jake was also late for work. But at least he was dressed. Jake just had a hangover, no ex-girlfriend in his bed. Not today. He had, in fact, bedded Matt’s ex-girlfriend. Quite recently. But never again. And not that Matt was to know. Certainly not today. Matt slumped into the armchair, placed a cushion over his dick and stuck two fingers up at Jake’s superciliously raised eyebrow. He couldn’t remember whether the clock on the mantelpiece was five minutes slow or five minutes fast. Whichever, he was categorically late. Jake had finished on the phone. He let his eyebrows soften though he refused to erase the vestiges of a smirk from his face. He sat down on the sofa. Though dressed, he placed a cushion across his crotch in a gesture of camaraderie.

‘Julia’s in my bed,’ Matt groaned, head in hands.

‘April Fool?’ Jake asked, in a vaguely hopeful way. Matt shook his head and cast his eyes to the ceiling. Only, unlike that in his bedroom, it had been replastered and repainted fairly recently and there were no hairline cracks or nuances of old against new paint to provide any welcome distraction.

Neutral nothingness.

It was realizing that I felt neutral nothingness that saw me finish a five-year relationship two months ago.

‘I could say,’ Jake mused, looking out of the window and deciding that it appeared to be spring-like enough to roll up shirtsleeves, ‘you’ve made your bed, now you must sleep in it.’

‘And my only reply would be, “I can’t, my ex-girlfriend is sprawled all over it”,’ Matt groaned.

‘How on earth did it happen?’ asked Jake.

Matt looked at him and couldn’t resist giving an elaborate, if quite medical, description of the sex act.

‘Really?’ Jake marvelled, playing along. ‘You put your weenie where?’

‘In a lady’s front bottom,’ Matt joshed.

‘How the hell did it happen?’ Jake asked again, seriously, stroking his goatee contemplatively.

Matt shook his head, shrugged and made a knocking-back-of-glasses motion before scratching his tufty cropped hair. ‘Oh God,’ he groaned, ‘oh Gawd. I’m late for work. Jesus.’

Clean, dry, if crumpled clothing in the washer-dryer provided Matt with no reason to go back to his bedroom. He dressed in the kitchen, hopping around trying to wriggle crumb-soled feet into odd socks. Shoes. Shoes? Matt had a rather sizeable shoe collection. But they were all under his bed. Jake had an enviable selection himself. Distributed quite evenly around the various rooms in their flat. Matt honed in on a pair of smart loafers behind the hi-fi.

‘Can I?’

‘What! My Patrick Cox? With those trousers?’

‘Excuse me – they’re Paul Smith, thank you.’

‘Well, that’s fine then.’

‘Cheers, mate.’

Though Jake could barely function without being fuelled by a hefty injection of caffeine, he left the cafetière full and smelling gorgeous so he could leave the flat with Matt. He didn’t want to be alone with a sobbing girl, nustling up to his neck, pleading for comfort and affection, advice and inside information. If he answered her direct questions with direct answers, she’d cry and nustle and need comfort and affection all the more. If he didn’t, she’d believe there was still a chance to rekindle the relationship with Matt. And he couldn’t do that to Matt. Plus, quietly, he found weeping women craving affection and comfort rather difficult to resist. And how she had sobbed that day a month or so ago. And they’d ended up in bed. And all the while, deludedly, he’d told himself he was performing not just a selfless act, but a charitable one which was useful too. He was doing it for Julia. He was doing it for Matt. A good distraction. Get her off his case. Help her get over him. Proof for her that she’s attractive to other men. Bla bla. Etcetera. When he had come, however, he had come to the more fitting conclusion.

Big mistake. Bad idea.

The two men stopped for bagels and coffee en route to Angel tube. Nourished by the former and woken up by the latter, they chatted.

‘Oh God,’ said Matt, ‘why, why, why?’

‘I’d’ve done the same, mate,’ said Jake.

‘But what now?’

‘Dunno? Give up drinking?’

‘You what?’

‘Celibacy?’

‘You what?’

‘Find a distraction,’ Jake concluded. ‘You can’t go on the rebound with your ex-girlfriend. It defeats the object of the exercise. You need a good old zipless fuck.’ Jake was rather proud of such logic despite his hangover and juggling a bagel, a coffee and a ringing mobile phone.

‘Who was that?’ Matt asked, when Jake had finished the call.

‘Your ex-girlfriend,’ Jake said, ‘asking me if she could stay at ours. That she’d clean the flat and have dinner awaiting our return from work. Asked whether she thought you’d like her to iron all your shirts. And change your sheets.’

‘Oh Jesus,’ Matt moaned, losing his appetite and throwing the bagel away, the coffee too – knowing nothing could help a headache whose provenance was now not alcohol driven.

‘Hey, Matt,’ Jake called, as they headed for their separate platforms.

Matt turned.

‘April Fool!’ Jake laughed, winking and making to pull an imaginary pistol. ‘It was just Jim on the phone. About five-a-side on Thursday.’

‘Wanker!’ Matt mouthed very clearly.

I did love her. Really love her. I was madly in love with her, for a while, way back when. But it faded. I didn’t really love her at all towards the end. I guess I kept hanging on in there because I was in love with the idea of it all. That it seemed easier to stay together than to split up. On a practical and emotional level. We went through months of arguing. And then months of indifference. Which was worse?

Matt! Pimlico station. You’re about to miss your tube stop.

Splitting up hurt. Though it was something that, amongst the acrimony and indifference, had seemed like a good idea, it still hurt. I was afraid that the decision was wrong. It took some getting used to, but I never actually missed her. Not Julia herself. Her position in my life, yes. The familiarity of having her, yes. But her? In person? No.

Matt! It’s a red pedestrian light and there’s a double-decker haring along Vauxhall Bridge Road towards you.

Oh God. Last night. It happened but it can’t happen again. Shit. It happened and it can’t happen again. Jake is right. I should take a leaf out of his book. Dip in here and there. Just like he does. Dips his dick here and there. No relationship-incumbent panoply. Have a laugh. Be light-hearted. I’m twenty-nine. Thirty soon. Rebound? Sure, whatever.

You’ve arrived at the Trust Art offices, Matt. And you’re following Fen McCabe along the corridor. You have no idea who she is. You’re too preoccupied to really notice anyway. You’re late. Not very seemly for the editor of the Trust’s bimonthly magazine, Art Matters. Don’t make a habit of it.