‘You must be one hell of a cheap date.’
My anger is sucked out, as fiercely as life through an open window in a pressurised plane, humiliation rushing in, dousing me in utter shame. I’m a child again, out of my depth, mocked by someone with far more refinement than I’ll ever have. I am nothing. A no one. I want to curl into a ball and hide from him except I don’t do that anymore. I fight back because I’m a grown up.
‘Screw you,’ I say and march down to the water’s edge to refill the billycan purely for something to do. Anything to stop me feeling powerless again. I swallow the angry tears. I’m angry at myself for allowing him to affect me. I’ve built a carefully constructed persona since I gained my independence. I don’t expect anything from anyone. I don’t allow myself to be humiliated or looked down upon and I don’t rely on anyone but myself. Yet, like a bloody tick, Tom has managed to work his way under my skin. I gave too much of myself away that weekend and I’m annoyed. It takes a few minutes of staring at the black water and watching tiny ripples pooling on the edge of the little sandy beach, before I feel my emotions calming.
We sit in silence watching the flames of the fire. In another world it would be companionable, even romantic. But I’m brooding, revisiting past slights, and all in all having a complete pity party, which actually isn’t like me. For the most part, I’ve put my past behind me. I’m an adult now, with my own money and my own home. I can make my own decisions, protect myself and decide who I let in. Eleven months ago, I made a terrible mistake believing that Tom Dereborn came to care for me in that brief forty-eight hour period. What on earth possessed me? I’ve been careful with my heart my whole life. I know people let you down. They can’t be relied upon, so why on God’s earth did I, for one stupid stinking minute, think that in this case it would be any different? But for some reason, it had felt different. I let my guard down. I let myself believe that we had something special between us, that the chemistry was something more. That the tender care he gave me meant something. More fool me. It was just a bloody good shag fest. Excellent sex for both of us.
Spite makes me bring it up because I know he’d rather do anything but talk about it.
‘Do you ever think about that weekend?’ I ask, idly looking up at the pine tree above us. The birds have fallen silent and the only sound around us is the lap of the water and the fierce pop and crackle of the flames of the fire.
‘What?’ He might as well have added ‘the fuck’ because it echoes in the words. I’m not going to let up, not going to give him an inch. We’ve danced around it since Barcelona and earlier in the coach all he could admit to was having a good time, but now I’m fed up, pissy and want to make him squirm. Did it really not mean anything to him?
‘That weekend. When we had sex?’
There’s a pause and I can see him thinking, which is sad because all he can come up with is a very lame, ‘We had sex. We had a good time. End of.’
A small part of me dies. He’s sticking to that story. Deep, deep inside of me, I’d nurtured and caressed this stupid fantasy that it had been as mind-blowing for him as for me. Obviously not. I want to howl at him. Good time? Good? Just good? It was the most amazing sexual experience of my entire life. I have never exposed myself to anyone the way that I did for that brief weekend. I’ve lost my train of thought and it takes me a moment to arrange the carriages back on the track. Tom is very good at avoiding things he doesn’t want to talk about. He’s a champion derailer. But I’m not about to be diverted.
‘Really? You must have a lot of good sex.’
‘What?’ He looks over at me, brows crinkling as if he has absolutely no idea what I’m talking about and is perhaps oblivious to the unintentional compliment. But I plough on, determined, it seems, to make a dick of myself.
‘It was good sex.’ I’m not going to stroke his ego and tell him it was really good sex, that would be stupid. Telling him it was the best ever, even stupider. ‘If you ever think about a career change, maybe you could consider the gigolo business.’
I’m pleased to see his mouth drops open before he gathers himself. ‘Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind. I’m sure my parents would be thrilled.’
This is a complete curve ball. Like his parents would care?
‘They might be,’ I say, for the sake of saying something, but it appears I’ve touched a nerve.
‘I can assure you, my parents would be horrified. As far as my father is concerned, insurance is the only viable career. Gigolo, even if I wanted to be one, would be out of the question.’ Then, with the most surprising and rather charming, self-deprecating frown, he asks with a quick laugh, ‘I have wondered, what, precisely, does being a gigolo entail?’
‘I think it’s being a paid companion to a woman, providing her with sexual services as well as escort duties.’
‘Sounds very much like my parents’ marriage except it’s the other way round.’
‘Civilised,’ I observe.
‘Very. Although I think they’re happy enough with the status quo. The don’t row. In fact, the only people my dad gets hacked off with are me and my brother and sister.’ He gives a mirthless laugh, but I see the tightening of his jaw on one side.
‘My parents used to thrive on rows,’ I muse. The bigger, the better. Drama and passion fuelled by alcohol and the occasional recreational drug.
‘Used to? Are they dead?’
I shake my head. ‘Not as far as I know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I lost touch with them a long time ago.’
‘You lost touch with your parents?’ The incredulity in his voice pinches at me. ‘How does that even happen?’
Is he for real? I can’t believe he’s even asking this.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It happens.’
‘How come? Did they throw you out or something?’
Now it’s my turn to laugh without humour. ‘No, I got a job and left home.’
Why does everyone assume I was despatched from the nest? After I figured there was no Fairy Godmother waiting for me in the wings and learned there was no point complaining to my parents about not having the right uniform or the right shoes, or picking fights with the school about attendance, I began working on my independence. As soon as I could, I got a paper round so that I could buy the right colour school skirt, blue instead of black – so I didn’t keep getting detention – and I learned to forge my parents’ signatures on letters and lied about their whereabouts on parents’ evenings. It wasn’t like they beat me or each other. They weren’t bad people. Just self-absorbed, uninterested in me and hooked on booze. As soon as I saved enough from my job – they thought I was still going to school otherwise I wouldn’t have seen a bean – I upped and left.
Since then, I’ve been on my own.
‘But you don’t keep in touch with them?’
‘No.’ What else is there to say?
He tilts his head to one side, considering. ‘I’d love to divorce my parents. Just imagine, no more nagging texts, complaining about what I’ve forgotten or haven’t done, or those helpful reminder ones, which assume I’m going to forget and won’t do something. Oh, for a quiet life. Lucky you.’
I give him a tight smile. Sounds like his parents at least give a shit.
We both stare reflectively into the fire and I fail to stifle a yawn and a shiver. I’m knackered and it’s definitely getting colder. There’s dampness in the air and if I’m not mistaken the odd rain drop. My body is aching from all the exercise and my back is killing me.
‘What time is it?’ he asks. His watch has long since died.
‘Quarter to nine.’
