Читать книгу Dirty Talk - Jane O'Reilly - Страница 8

Chapter One

It’s a typical Friday night in the pub, and the usual crowd is here. Two men, two women, two pints of lager, two glasses of white wine and a conversation that inevitably steers in the direction of the thing that men and women do after too many pints of lager and too many glasses of wine. It’s gone there tonight, unsurprisingly, though about ten minutes ago, it took an unexpected turn. I should have kept quiet, I know I should, but if we’re going to discuss literature, I feel it’s my duty to join in.

‘Book sex is not better than real sex,’ Dave says, his voice loaded with derision.

I don’t like Dave. I want to clarify that up front. I tried to like him, really I did, ever since Jules said that she’d met this really amazing guy at work. She said he treated her like a princess, that he made her feel like the most important woman in the world, that she couldn’t believe a man like him would be interested in a woman like her. I tried the first time I met him, and the second. By the third, it was getting a little difficult. I surrendered to the inevitable shortly after that, though I didn’t tell Jules, because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.

‘I guess that depends what sort of book you’re reading,’ Phil replies. ‘And what sort of sex you’re having.’

I like Phil. We’ve been friends since college. I met him when I couldn’t work the photocopier in the college library, and he helped me out. As for the sort of book I’m reading, well. I can’t help thinking about the one I started reading last night, Spank Me Sir, and the delicious scene I’d got to, in which the hero, Mr Smith, had bent the heroine Sally over the end of the bed and was preparing to do some shocking things to her bare backside. I squirm a little in my seat just at the memory of it, and wish that I was home right now, finding out exactly what those shocking things are, because that’s the sort of sex I’m having. The imaginary kind.

‘Amy’s read one,’ Jules says.

That jerks me back into the conversation, not just because that’s the first thing Jules has said all evening. ‘Read what?’ I also like Jules, or at least I used to, before she started going out with Dave. She had the room next door to mine in halls. We met on our first day, when we didn’t know anyone else, and it stuck.

‘A dirty book,’ she replies, with enough emphasis to let me know that I’m supposed to know what she’s talking about.

My face flushes, an instant of panic, until I catch my breath. ‘I don’t read dirty books!’ I say loudly. It’s a lie, of course. I wipe the condensation from the edge of my glass. They don’t know that I was up until midnight, barely able to breathe as I devoured page after page of one.

‘Yes, you do,’ she replies. ‘You had a copy of Fifty Shades in your bathroom. I saw it last time I was over.’

‘Oh, well, everyone has read that,’ I say. ‘It hardly makes me an avid consumer of erotica.’ Though some of the other books I’ve got might.

‘I haven’t,’ Dave says. ‘I bet I could write a book like that, though. How hard can it be?’ He puts a little pressure on the word hard, and sniggers a little at his own joke. He’s such a smug bastard. Unfortunately, he and Jules are in one of their on phases, which means that I have to put up with his sexist jokes and boorish teasing.

‘Too difficult for you,’ I mutter. I wish I hadn’t come tonight. I wish I’d gone straight home. I wish I was neck deep in a bubble bath with Spank Me Sir, right now. But I come to the pub with everyone every Friday. It’s routine, it’s our way, and every week I tell myself that it will be fun, though if I’m honest it never quite hits the mark.

‘Yeah?’ Dave replies. I jerk my gaze up to him. There’s a teasing tone to his voice, but his brown eyes are hard. He’s got both hands wrapped around his pint, and he’s leaning forward in his seat. He’s got that polished, suited look that a lot of women find attractive, and he knows it. ‘Fifty quid says I can write a better dirty story than you,’ he says. Then he sits back in his seat, his eyes gleaming, daring me to refuse.

My mouth goes dry as I try to work out what to say. The obvious thing to do is to laugh it off. But I don’t. I swallow, and I lick my lips.

‘Might as well hand over the money now,’ Dave jeers at me, holding out his hand. ‘Save yourself the embarrassment.’

I still don’t say anything. I don’t want to say no. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

‘Be careful, Dave,’ Phil interjects. He’s lolling back in his seat, his half-finished pint in his hand. ‘You know what they say about the quiet ones.’

‘Yeah,’ Dave says. ‘They’re quiet.’

Jules laughs, and he squeezes her thigh.

I feel a bit sick, a bit shaky, if I’m honest. I know they all think I’m a frigid prude, and maybe I am. But I don’t want to let Dave win this one. I’m tired of being the butt of his jokes. I’m tired of being laughed at because I’m a little shy, because I don’t know how to flirt, because somewhere along the line, I missed the seminar on how to be good with the opposite sex.

When I’m alone in my flat, I can lose myself in my books. I find people who have kinks and quirks and find like-minded people to share them with. I read all the dirty words and imagine that I’ve met a man who knows how to use them, who doesn’t play around with euphemisms and smooth words and charm. A man who just gets straight to the point, and says Fancy a fuck, Amy? And I say If you insist, and he says Pussy or arse? and I say Oh, I can’t decide. How about both?

I’m not that Amy here. Instead, I’m weird, awkward Amy, who always turns up ten minutes early, who never has more than two glasses of wine, who always goes home alone.

‘I…I don’t have any money on me,’ I say. Something inside me crumples.

‘Of course you don’t,’ Dave replies. ‘Any excuse.’ He takes another pull on his pint, and laughs, and Jules laughs too.

My face is burning. I stare down at my drink, and the urge to leave is overwhelming. I reach for my bag.

But then Phil stops me with a hand on my arm. I feel a faint tremor of heat under my skin. I always feel like that around Phil. ‘Amy could beat you, easy,’ he says to Dave.

‘If we were betting on who could write the worst story,’ Dave replies.

Phil looks at him. He sighs. He tolerates Dave, because of Jules, but I can tell that even he is starting to run out of patience. Then he turns to me. ‘Go on, Amy,’ he says. ‘Take the bet. You can do better than this ape.’

Everyone is looking at me. A strange quiet has fallen, as they wait for my answer. Overpriced chardonnay burns in my stomach. Can I? I think to myself.

The answer, when it comes, rushes through me with a pure certainty. I look at Dave, with his smug face, with his tanned hand resting on Jules’ thigh. I look at Jules. You used to be my friend, I think to myself. What happened to you? I can’t look at Phil. I don’t know why. I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, heavier than all the others. If I say no, Dave will never let it go. He’ll use it to embarrass me for weeks. But that’s not what is bothering me now.

It’s not why I accept the bet.

‘OK,’ I say. I drain the rest of my wine, using it to choke down my nerves. ‘We both bring ten pages we’ve written with us next week.’

‘Make it twenty,’ Dave says.

‘All right,’ I reply. ‘Twenty. Well, I better make a move. I guess I’ve got a story to write. See you later, everyone.’

I get to my feet, and linger for a moment, waiting to see if Jules will try to stop me, if she’ll say no, Amy, don’t go, have another drink. But she doesn’t. She says ‘Bye!’ And ‘have a good evening!’ and that’s it. It’s another nail in the coffin of our friendship. We used to talk every day. Now I barely see her, except on these Friday nights.

Phil picks up his bag and pushes to his feet. ‘I think I’ll call it a night, too,’ he says.

I make my way to the door, not wanting to hang around. I’ve got more important things to do than worry about that. First, I’ve got a hot date with the rest of Spank Me Sir, and then I’ve got to work out how the hell I’m going to fill twenty pages. I’m almost at the door when Phil catches up with me. He reaches out and pushes the door open just as I get to it. My gaze locks onto the rose tattooed on the back of his hand, and I swallow, hard.

I step out into the cool evening air, practising a few cool, easy things to say in my head, a few casual ways to say goodbye. But when my mouth opens, none of them come out. I should have predicted that, really. I should have predicted that I’d make a prat of myself. ‘I can’t believe I agreed to that,’ I tell him. I rub a hand over my face. ‘God, what was I thinking?’

‘Relax, Amy,’ Phil says. ‘It’s going to be fine.’

‘How is it going to be fine? I can’t write a book. I especially can’t write a…a dirty book.’

‘Why not?’

I start to walk, and Phil falls in alongside me, his stride loose and relaxed.

‘Because I’m me,’ I point out. I almost roll my eyes, it’s so obvious.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘You are.’

‘There has to be a way to get out of it,’ I say. ‘I’ll say I was ill and I didn’t have time, or something. No one is taking it seriously anyway. No one is actually expecting me to do it.’

‘Come on, Amy,’ he says gently.

‘I can’t do it, Phil. I just can’t.’

‘Yes, you can.’

‘No,’ I say. I turn to him then. All of the things I wanted to say back there in the pub are boiling up inside me, and I can’t seem to control them. ‘I can’t. And I can’t back out of it either, because Dave will never let me hear the end of it, and you will all laugh, and go oh look, it’s frigid Amy. And I wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t pushed me into it.’

‘Let me make it up to you,’ he says.

‘How?’

‘I could help you write it,’ he says.

Those words hover in the air between us, loud and heavy. We stare at each other, and my face is hot, and I start to sweat, but I can’t look away. This is Phil, I think to myself. I can’t talk about sex with Phil. The last time we went to the cinema together, I pretended I needed the loo so I could make a hasty exit during a love scene. We’ve got a comfortable, casual friendship, partly because sex is absolutely not on the table. I wouldn’t be able to cope with him if it was. He’s got this sort of acute masculinity, the kind that makes me ache a little inside. Every part of him, from the dark hair, to the bright blue eyes watching me from behind heavy-rimmed glasses, to the striped shirt, to the newly grown beard, screams Y chromosome.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say. And then I run up the steps and disappear inside my flat.