Читать книгу Mhairi McFarlane 3-Book Collection: You Had Me at Hello, Here’s Looking at You and It’s Not Me, It’s You - Mhairi McFarlane, Mhairi McFarlane - Страница 63

Ben walked me home that night through quiet, suburban tree-lined streets, the sodium orange glow of the streetlights buried among their leaves. The air still and thick, even late at night, as if we were in the Med. It was as though Manchester itself was laying on a farewell party for us and had ordered in special weather. We reached my front gate.

‘Urgh, I don’t want to go in,’ I whispered to Ben. ‘I don’t know whether creepy Derek’s left or not. He’s locked his door. He’ll probably start bumping around and growling at three a.m.’

‘You’re on your own? The girls have gone?’

‘They’re only coming back for the ball tomorrow.’

We looked at the house. An interior light was switched off somewhere and it plunged into darkness.

‘Brrr,’ I said to Ben.

‘If you’re that bothered about Derek, I can crash here,’ Ben said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Have you got sofa cushions, a spare blanket?’

‘I’ve got a sleeping bag, somewhere.’

‘I’ll kip on your floor, then.’

‘You would? Really?’

‘As long as you don’t snore.’

‘Great!’

Ben pretended to be grudging and I grinned like a fool. The house looked strange, a husk stripped bare of our décor and emptied of Mindy’s multi-coloured swap shop heap of shoes in the hallway. It was our End Times. Though Derek would probably live on, like the cockroach after a nuclear war.

‘I think I have a bottle of Pernod with a gummy screw-top if you want a nightcap?’ I said.

‘Pernod? I’m good, thanks. Ball tomorrow. Probably shouldn’t encourage a filthy hangover.’

‘Agreed.’

I got ready for bed in the upstairs bathroom, changing into my animal pyjamas and brushing my teeth. I contemplated my nightie but it was far too short and anyway, I consoled myself, Ben had seen me in these horrors before. I got a wave of self-loathing at being clad in something so silly, sharing my bedroom with someone so good-looking. Child’s mittens, cartoon pants, toddler PJs. If you were my girlfriend, I’d be desperate for you to take them off. I cringed, rinsed, spat.

On my return to the bedroom, I crossed my arms and hurtled towards the covers, eager not to be seen. Ben had arranged a makeshift bunk-down. Increasingly, the wine ebbing away, the situation felt more intimate than I’d anticipated.

‘Can I borrow something to sleep in?’

I swerved off course and rummaged in my chest of drawers. I could only come up with a size XL grey t-shirt, creased from the cardboard insert, with a real ale festival advertised across its not inconsiderable width. I shook it out to its full proportions.

‘I won this in a pub quiz and haven’t got round to throwing it away.’

‘What did the losers get?’

‘OK, sleep in your clothes then.’

I threw it at him. He caught it.

‘No, no, beggars can’t be choosers. They have to be’ – he studied the back of the shirt – ‘hog wild for the hops.’

I switched the main light off. The room was lit by my rocket-shaped red lava lamp.

‘You gonna leave that on?’ Ben asked.

‘Usually, is that OK?’

‘Sure. Rooxxxaannnnee …’

I giggled, watched the globules of scarlet goo lazily separating, colliding and bouncing in the Martian water.

‘Shut your eyes then, I’m not changed.’

I obliged, slapping a pillow over my eyes so there could be no doubt I had, and heard the soft noises of clothes dropping on the carpet, the clink of a buckle, the sound of him pulling the t-shirt over his head. It was proof of our intensely platonic nature we could do this. I had a strong tingly impulse to look because, you know, it was only human.

‘Are you decent?’

I crawled across the bed and looked down. Ben was cocooned up to the armpits in navy blue nylon.

‘How is it?’ I asked.

‘Like lying on the floor, Ron.’ He shifted around.

‘We can swap if you want.’

‘No need.’

I wriggled over so I was lying on the edge of the bed, as near to him as possible.

‘What a weird day,’ I sighed. ‘I’m single. Best get used to it.’

‘Mmm.’

Pause. ‘Hey, d’you know, I’m absolutely terrified about being single again.’

I expected an avalanche of you’ll be fine platitudes and they didn’t come.

‘You’re so good at falling in and out of relationships. And then look at me,’ I said.

Still nothing from Ben.

‘I mean, you were prepared to let Pippa go,’ I blundered on.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing, only, Pippa’s beautiful and bright and has that amazing Irish accent going for her, and she still got dumped. What are the chances of anyone persisting with me?’

Ben said, noticeably coldly: ‘I’m not following your logic, sorry. Different woman has different situation shock?’

‘She’s amazing. I’m less amazing. I’m hardly going to fare any better.’

‘What are you on about?’

‘And,’ I had a sense this was a very stupid thing to say and I’d regret it in sobriety, but the words were already tumbling out of my mouth, ‘back when we did that kiss in the Och Aye The No pub, you said yourself it was like snogging a sister. Shit. I’m going to be useless.’

A creaking silence ensued. What did I want or expect Ben to say? I knew I was being unfair and embarrassing us both. Nevertheless I suddenly craved the ego boost of a demonstrably attractive person of the opposite sex confirming I wasn’t at least revolting.

‘Stop pushing,’ he said, flatly.

‘What?’

‘Stop pushing me and fishing for compliments.’

‘I’m not!’ I wasn’t. Was I? Oh. Yes, I was.

Another funny pause.

‘There’s no need for the low self-esteem schtick.’

‘Easy for you to say.’

‘Why?’ Ben had an edge to his voice. I guessed I must’ve said something to particularly offend to him in all of this, I couldn’t put my finger on quite what it was. Perhaps it wasn’t very tactful of me to bring up Pippa when it was still raw.

‘You have naturally high self-esteem. The same way some people have good teeth or congenitally raised cholesterol.’

Ben sighed, exasperated.

‘I don’t understand you, sometimes. But I don’t think you understand me ever.’

I wondered why we were talking at cross purposes and when we were going to chat easily about how I would be fine as a single girl.

‘I’m being dumb,’ I said, and Ben grunted in assent. ‘But if you do have any hunting tips that I could apply to northern boys and enjoy the same success you’ve had with southern girls, I’d appreciate them.’

‘I’m not gonna do that.’

‘Why not? Selfish! From the Don Juan of Withington.’

‘What do you mean by that? I have no standards? I’m a slag?’

‘No! You’re just very popular with the laydeez. Hey, if you won’t help me score – fine.’

‘Ron, you’re a girl. You won’t have any trouble.’

‘Yeah,’ I sighed. ‘It’s meeting the good ’uns, isn’t it.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ he said, again.

‘If I do do any wildly off-putting stuff to a potential mate, as my best male friend, I’m counting on you to tell me.’

‘Do you actually want me to answer these questions? If you keep asking me them, I will. Final warning.’

‘Which questions?’

‘Questions about that kiss, my ex-girlfriend and you being on the pull.’

‘Yeah, I guess I did ask those questions,’ I said, suddenly all bold and casual and more than a little bit frightened. His irritation made me wonder if he was about to say I’d effectively tasked him with being the one to tell me I ponged like a rabbit hutch.

A very noisy silence.

‘Right, I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable. There’s only so much I can take,’ Ben said. ‘Did I say kissing you was like kissing a sister? Yes I did, because we were being goaded into getting off with each other. Was it like kissing a sister? No, it was bloody amazing, like kissing someone you fancy very very badly usually is …’

I physically started at this, a whole body twitch, my heart going at a woodpecker-on-speed bpm. Did he say fancy? No – he couldn’t have. I’d misheard.

‘… Was Pippa nice? Yes, she was, she wasn’t the problem. You were the problem. I split up with her for the same reason I have with everyone in the last three years. Men who are hopelessly hung up on someone else tend to make crap boyfriends …’

I was in a cold sweat. ‘I couldn’t believe what I was hearing’ is usually hyperbole, yet here it was entirely apt. My ears took delivery but my brain wouldn’t sign for the parcel. I kept thinking he’d drop a hot girl name in like Beth or Freya and I’d go ‘Ohhhh I thought,’ and then have to kill myself when he realised what I’d thought.

‘… Will you be OK finding someone else? You’re the cleverest, funniest, nicest, most beautiful, if occasionally most infuriating, woman I’ve ever met, so, yes, I’m sure you’ll have tons of blokes after you. But given I’m in love with you, the thought of you with anyone else makes me want to kill, so forgive me for not encouraging you with handy hints and tips on how to take men home who aren’t me.’

My chest rose and fell with shock. I couldn’t speak. And if I had been able to speak, I wouldn’t have known what to say. Love. He said love.

‘What was the last one? “Do you have any off-putting habits?” Being with someone else was the only one that bothered me. However, it at least allowed me the fantasy that was why you weren’t with me. Now that’s gone too. There. We’re done.’

My fingers were grasping the bed as if the furniture was suddenly tilting at an angle.

Ben added: ‘I’m sorry if you now feel massively weird. Tell me if you’d rather I went. I’d understand.’

‘It’s OK,’ I said in a strangled voice.

Pause.

‘Fuck, great timing, Ben, staying in her bedroom,’ he said, with a rueful, humourless laugh. ‘And look, you don’t have to break it to me that you don’t see me that way. I know you don’t, trust me. This is my problem. We’ll just have one helluva awkward cup of tea in the morning and say our farewells.’

Tomorrow morning. I was having trouble imagining a world beyond this bedroom, one that would keep turning and bring daylight and other days. And farewells?

‘Did you really not know?’ he asked.

‘Nope,’ I squeaked.

‘Oh God. I always thought you had some clue, even if you didn’t know how much.’

He tailed off, waited for more, and when I didn’t say anything, continued: ‘Christ, please at least say “Ewww, gross”. The silence is killing me.’

‘It’s not gross,’ I said, trying to find words in the psychological tumult.

Where were the words I needed? Ben’s words had made me to face up to feelings I’d been ignoring, twisting out of shape and denying for the last three years. It was like not giving a plant enough light to grow properly, only very rarely watering it, but the seed in the soil still being there.

He felt and thought those incredible things about me? ‘Likewise’ ‘Why’ or ‘Good God Merciful Jesus Hooray!’ didn’t do the moment justice.

Uncharacteristically, I made a snap decision. I pulled my voluminous pyjama top off over my head. I wriggled the trousers down, kicking them off my feet with a swimmer’s paddling motion. I balled up the body-heat-warm nest of fabric and threw it out of the bed. I thought this would be enough to make my intentions clear, but Ben didn’t react at all.

‘Ben.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Do you want to get into bed?’

‘Floor’s not that bad, thanks. And also – no.’

‘No. Into bed. With me.’ Then I added, like the silver-tongued, erotic adventuress of the age: ‘I took my pyjamas off.’

A stunned pause.

‘… Are you sure?’ he said, quietly, into the crimson gloom.

‘Very sure.’

This was when the scene should’ve rippled into a woozy sexy slo-mo with a boom-chicka-wah-wah bassy soundtrack. Instead what actually happened is, Ben got caught in the sleeping bag, needing less haste and more speed to achieve a t-shirt-less exit from a well-made camping accessory my dad got from Millets.

‘Bollocks,’ he muttered, trying to push it down and getting caught.

‘Unzip it,’ I giggled. ‘I’d help you, but I’m nekkid.’

‘You don’t need to mention that again, I’m on my way,’ Ben said, and I giggled some more.

There was something absolutely brilliant about being in this situation and being friends already. Suddenly it wasn’t: how strange to be doing this, it was how strange we’ve never done this before.

Ben wriggled free, climbed into bed. When we’d successfully grappled with his boxers (Rachel starts, makes a poor effort, Ben takes over, result still delightful) suddenly there was skin on skin, all over the place, all of Ben and all of Rachel pressed against each other. It felt strange, but very-very-good-strange. Rhys was solid but reassuringly soft round the edges, and hairy; Ben was a lean, football-playing, smooth and muscled contrast. I didn’t know bodies could have that little fat on them and still function. I thought a physique like his might make me feel like a chonker but it actually made me feel womanly, even more like myself, somehow.

We got tangled in the sheet and it was soon thrown aside completely. While admittedly he was seeing me by a light that could’ve probably made the elderly dean of the university look fairly sexy, Ben evidently had no issue with the full unedited version of my appearance. He was confident, and I understood why. It was obvious it wasn’t his first rodeo and I very much hoped I was meeting and/or exceeding expectations – my experience no more than a string of times with a clumsy sixth-form boyfriend, and Rhys.

Only now I discovered there was a kind of intense desire that bordered on nausea. I finally understood what everyone was going on about. Who knew that the outer frontier of lust was the urge to regurg?

And although I was outclassed in the company, I didn’t fret it might not be mutual: when I murmured a sweet nothing along those lines, minus any implication I might actually vomit on him, Ben replied forcefully: ‘I’ve never wanted anyone or anything like I want you’, proceeding to kiss me so hard I thought my mouth might suffer minor lacerations. Nnnngggg.

Then, at the point where it went from something we were about to do to something we were definitely doing, he gasped, buried his face in my neck and said my name. My real, actual name. Another first.