buzzer.
“What’s that, Milly Moo?” I turn back to find the dog gnawing on something. I take a step closer and crouch down. It’s a brown padded envelope.
“Where did you get that?” I distract the dog with a well-chewed tennis ball, slip the parcel away from her, and sit down with it at the kitchen table. My name is written on the front in blue pen, but there’s no address and no stamp. I turn it over. Nothing on the underside either, just a strip of brown packing tape holding the flap closed. Whoever rang the doorbell must have pushed it through the letter box.
I peel off the tape and slip a finger under the flap to open it. I can barely breathe as I upend the envelope and tip the contents onto the table.
Something pink and glittery lands on the cotton tablecloth with a clunk.
Charlotte’s phone.
Saturday, October 20, 1990
I didn’t hear from James for three days after the incident with his mum.
He finally rang yesterday. I’d expected him to be contrite, but he acted like nothing had happened and asked what my plans were for the weekend. I said I’d been invited to have dinner with some mates and he was welcome to join us if he liked. I said how much I’d like him to meet my friends. It was, after all, nearly two months since we’d met, and he still hadn’t met anyone I was close to.
“Helen and Rupert?” he repeated down the phone, after I told him whose house we were going to. “The same Rupert you fucked at university?”
I hated that, the way he said “fucked” like it was something dirty that I should be ashamed of.
“No. Rupert, my very good friend who I happened to have sex with a very, very long time ago. Not that that matters.”
“It matters to me.”
“Well, it shouldn’t. It didn’t mean anything then and it certainly doesn’t mean anything now. Helen’s not bothered, so why should you be?”
“Helen’s not in love with you.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t come then.”
“And leave you alone with some guy who fucked you once and would probably love to fuck you again? No chance.”
“James!”
“What?”
“I’m going to put the phone down now.”
“Don’t. Suzy, I’m sorry. That all came out wrong. I’m still smarting from what happened on Tuesday. Forgive me, darling, please. I’ll be very well behaved at the dinner party.”
“You promise?”
“Of course.”
James was drunk when I met him at Willesden tube. So drunk he could barely stand, never mind speak. I took one look at him and told him he should go home. He refused.
“I’ll be the entertainment,” he said. “I tell really good jokes. What’s brown and sticky?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, and he was being very good-natured and affectionate. Maybe it’ll be fun, I told myself. At least he won’t be uptight about meeting Rupert.
I knew the night was going to turn into a nightmare when thirty seconds after we’d walked into Hel & Ru’s flat, James pointed at a Formula One framed print on the sideboard and said, “Only twats are into Formula One. Only a dull mind could watch a car go around and around a track ad infinitum.”
“I think you’ll find,” Rupert said, turning back, “that the number of laps depends on the track and that the sport demands a finite number of laps, otherwise there’d be no winner.”
“A blah blah blah blah blah.” James waved a hand in his direction, then just as Rupert disappeared into the living room, said, “Posh twat.”
I angled him into the bathroom and closed the door. He stumbled backward and collapsed onto the (lid closed, thankfully) toilet. “If you keep this up, we’re leaving.”
He grinned. “So we don’t have to have dinner with Twattle Dum and Twattle Dumber and two other Mad Twatters? Excellent.” He tried to stand. “Let’s go!”
“Not me.” I pushed him back down again. “You.”
“No, Suzy.” He pulled a face. “Please let me spend the evening with Fat Arse and Dull Face.”
“That’s it.” I yanked
“What’s that, Milly Moo?” I turn back to find the dog gnawing on something. I take a step closer and crouch down. It’s a brown padded envelope.
“Where did you get that?” I distract the dog with a well-chewed tennis ball, slip the parcel away from her, and sit down with it at the kitchen table. My name is written on the front in blue pen, but there’s no address and no stamp. I turn it over. Nothing on the underside either, just a strip of brown packing tape holding the flap closed. Whoever rang the doorbell must have pushed it through the letter box.
I peel off the tape and slip a finger under the flap to open it. I can barely breathe as I upend the envelope and tip the contents onto the table.
Something pink and glittery lands on the cotton tablecloth with a clunk.
Charlotte’s phone.
Saturday, October 20, 1990
I didn’t hear from James for three days after the incident with his mum.
He finally rang yesterday. I’d expected him to be contrite, but he acted like nothing had happened and asked what my plans were for the weekend. I said I’d been invited to have dinner with some mates and he was welcome to join us if he liked. I said how much I’d like him to meet my friends. It was, after all, nearly two months since we’d met, and he still hadn’t met anyone I was close to.
“Helen and Rupert?” he repeated down the phone, after I told him whose house we were going to. “The same Rupert you fucked at university?”
I hated that, the way he said “fucked” like it was something dirty that I should be ashamed of.
“No. Rupert, my very good friend who I happened to have sex with a very, very long time ago. Not that that matters.”
“It matters to me.”
“Well, it shouldn’t. It didn’t mean anything then and it certainly doesn’t mean anything now. Helen’s not bothered, so why should you be?”
“Helen’s not in love with you.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t come then.”
“And leave you alone with some guy who fucked you once and would probably love to fuck you again? No chance.”
“James!”
“What?”
“I’m going to put the phone down now.”
“Don’t. Suzy, I’m sorry. That all came out wrong. I’m still smarting from what happened on Tuesday. Forgive me, darling, please. I’ll be very well behaved at the dinner party.”
“You promise?”
“Of course.”
James was drunk when I met him at Willesden tube. So drunk he could barely stand, never mind speak. I took one look at him and told him he should go home. He refused.
“I’ll be the entertainment,” he said. “I tell really good jokes. What’s brown and sticky?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, and he was being very good-natured and affectionate. Maybe it’ll be fun, I told myself. At least he won’t be uptight about meeting Rupert.
I knew the night was going to turn into a nightmare when thirty seconds after we’d walked into Hel & Ru’s flat, James pointed at a Formula One framed print on the sideboard and said, “Only twats are into Formula One. Only a dull mind could watch a car go around and around a track ad infinitum.”
“I think you’ll find,” Rupert said, turning back, “that the number of laps depends on the track and that the sport demands a finite number of laps, otherwise there’d be no winner.”
“A blah blah blah blah blah.” James waved a hand in his direction, then just as Rupert disappeared into the living room, said, “Posh twat.”
I angled him into the bathroom and closed the door. He stumbled backward and collapsed onto the (lid closed, thankfully) toilet. “If you keep this up, we’re leaving.”
He grinned. “So we don’t have to have dinner with Twattle Dum and Twattle Dumber and two other Mad Twatters? Excellent.” He tried to stand. “Let’s go!”
“Not me.” I pushed him back down again. “You.”
“No, Suzy.” He pulled a face. “Please let me spend the evening with Fat Arse and Dull Face.”
“That’s it.” I yanked
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