himself: either an apology or a lynching was coming. He opened the door to find Jenny on the other side. She’d changed into a nightdress but hadn’t taken off her make-up. She welcomed herself in, a drunk, playful grin on her face.
‘Hi, Pasha,’ she said, pressing a palm on his chest as she breezed past. He closed the door, bemused, and turned to see that she was sitting on his bed.
‘Get us a drink, Pasha. Wine would be good but anything will do.’ Feeling a little awkward he turned away, towards the mini-bar. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about Jim. Him getting all aggro with you like that.’
Pasha was crouched down and inspecting the mini-bar contents. ‘Why are you sorry? Anyway, to be honest, he had a point.’
‘What do you mean?’
He handed her a glass of red. ‘Oh, nothing. I can’t blame the Jims of this world for falling out of love with us, that’s all.’
She looked uncertain and changed the conversation. ‘So are you married, then?’
‘No.’
She sipped generously and laughed. ‘Don’t look so nervous. I’m not about to propose!’ He smiled and sat down beside her, and which point she flopped backwards and closed her eyes. ‘You’re different to other paki lads.’
‘Different ‘good’ or different ‘bad’?’ he asked, trying to shake off her casual use of ‘paki’. She’d clearly had more to drink than he had realised.
‘Different ... good!’ They tittered at her hesitation.
‘So are you going to get yourself a nice Pakistani bride?’
Pasha was irritated by the question. ‘Why? Do you know any?’
‘Not many down my way, I’m afraid. Just us local girls. We’ve got more ... spirit.’ And with her eyes still shut she nestled up closer. Her hands were by her sides whilst she absent-mindedly opened and closed her legs, with the soles of her feet remaining together. Little butterfly wings. Flutter flutter , come taste my nectar . He considered just chucking her out and going to sleep, or fucking her first before chucking her out and going to sleep. Nip-and-tuck. Her head moved gently from side-to-side, as if she was listening to some tune. But there was no music. This was easy, too easy, and a surge of anger bolted through him. For a moment he was close to hitting her and he was relieved he hadn’t done so. Still looking down, he curbed his disdain – he couldn’t hate her, this salt-of-the-earth British girl. British women: they didn’t have the élan of the Italians, the femininity of the French or the sheer native beauty of the Spanish. No. But they had a rawness, a baseness, a kind of prostitute-quality that really worked for him. He leaned in to touch her hair and, feeling his weight, her smile widened. He ran a finger over her bubble-gum pink lips and her butterfly wings re-opened. He moved on top, pinning her, and kissed her with hunger. Enjoying her firmness he bit her neck, holding a fold of skin and flesh in his teeth, inhaling her cheap, stale perfume. Pasha’s mist descended. He sprang up, pushing her pliable legs to either side and smoothed histhumb over her knickers. He moved slowly from outer to inner labia, and then clitoral hood – mapping her out through silk. He could tease himself no longer. Pulling down her lace, he descended – bubble-gum pink to bubble-gum pink. And instantly he recoiled. She stank. She was giggling and for a second time he came close to violence, but again he pulled back. He studied her ethnic features, her blotchy pink arms and her pink, pink skin. Indissoluble pink. Jim Pink. Jenny opened her eyes and clasping his tie, pulled him onto her.
‘Love me, Pasha,’ she said. And they’d been together ever since.
He’d reached the outskirts of west London. A mortal dread gripped him. He looked around like a wide-eyed tourist who, expecting to see pinstriped suits and bowler hats à la Mary Poppins , could instead barely see a white face. Into the heartlands he went: a sari shop passed him on his left and a Middle-Eastern
‘Hi, Pasha,’ she said, pressing a palm on his chest as she breezed past. He closed the door, bemused, and turned to see that she was sitting on his bed.
‘Get us a drink, Pasha. Wine would be good but anything will do.’ Feeling a little awkward he turned away, towards the mini-bar. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about Jim. Him getting all aggro with you like that.’
Pasha was crouched down and inspecting the mini-bar contents. ‘Why are you sorry? Anyway, to be honest, he had a point.’
‘What do you mean?’
He handed her a glass of red. ‘Oh, nothing. I can’t blame the Jims of this world for falling out of love with us, that’s all.’
She looked uncertain and changed the conversation. ‘So are you married, then?’
‘No.’
She sipped generously and laughed. ‘Don’t look so nervous. I’m not about to propose!’ He smiled and sat down beside her, and which point she flopped backwards and closed her eyes. ‘You’re different to other paki lads.’
‘Different ‘good’ or different ‘bad’?’ he asked, trying to shake off her casual use of ‘paki’. She’d clearly had more to drink than he had realised.
‘Different ... good!’ They tittered at her hesitation.
‘So are you going to get yourself a nice Pakistani bride?’
Pasha was irritated by the question. ‘Why? Do you know any?’
‘Not many down my way, I’m afraid. Just us local girls. We’ve got more ... spirit.’ And with her eyes still shut she nestled up closer. Her hands were by her sides whilst she absent-mindedly opened and closed her legs, with the soles of her feet remaining together. Little butterfly wings. Flutter flutter , come taste my nectar . He considered just chucking her out and going to sleep, or fucking her first before chucking her out and going to sleep. Nip-and-tuck. Her head moved gently from side-to-side, as if she was listening to some tune. But there was no music. This was easy, too easy, and a surge of anger bolted through him. For a moment he was close to hitting her and he was relieved he hadn’t done so. Still looking down, he curbed his disdain – he couldn’t hate her, this salt-of-the-earth British girl. British women: they didn’t have the élan of the Italians, the femininity of the French or the sheer native beauty of the Spanish. No. But they had a rawness, a baseness, a kind of prostitute-quality that really worked for him. He leaned in to touch her hair and, feeling his weight, her smile widened. He ran a finger over her bubble-gum pink lips and her butterfly wings re-opened. He moved on top, pinning her, and kissed her with hunger. Enjoying her firmness he bit her neck, holding a fold of skin and flesh in his teeth, inhaling her cheap, stale perfume. Pasha’s mist descended. He sprang up, pushing her pliable legs to either side and smoothed histhumb over her knickers. He moved slowly from outer to inner labia, and then clitoral hood – mapping her out through silk. He could tease himself no longer. Pulling down her lace, he descended – bubble-gum pink to bubble-gum pink. And instantly he recoiled. She stank. She was giggling and for a second time he came close to violence, but again he pulled back. He studied her ethnic features, her blotchy pink arms and her pink, pink skin. Indissoluble pink. Jim Pink. Jenny opened her eyes and clasping his tie, pulled him onto her.
‘Love me, Pasha,’ she said. And they’d been together ever since.
He’d reached the outskirts of west London. A mortal dread gripped him. He looked around like a wide-eyed tourist who, expecting to see pinstriped suits and bowler hats à la Mary Poppins , could instead barely see a white face. Into the heartlands he went: a sari shop passed him on his left and a Middle-Eastern
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