hungry.’
Quite often, the two coincided rather nicely.
Andrew and I lasted almost a year purely because of
the sex. It was sensational. No problems with that side
of our relationship at all. Unfortunately, there weren’t any
other sides. Things were very simple with Andrew. When
he said: ‘You have beautiful eyes,’ he meant I want sex. When he told me I had a pretty smile, he meant I want sex. It didn’t take a PhD to master the lingo. Trouble was, he didn’t believe in limiting classroom size. I wanted one man to fulfil my every need. Andrew
wanted every woman to fulfil his one.
I’m guessing - from Auntie Pearl’s sotto voce infomercial
that having just obtained his second divorce at the
age of thirty-one, Andrew is newly eligible, ‘so it’s not
too late, love’ - that he hasn’t changed in the six years
since I caught him teaching linguistics to Mrs-Newcombe
from - two - doors - down’s seventeen - year - old daughter,
Libby, in my parents’ bed.
Looking around, it’s clear I’m the tribal bike. But
frankly, I think the number of notches on my bedpost
is fairly modest, all things considered. It’s not my fault
that three-quarters of them are currently in the same
room.
Oh, God. And Martin. I’d forgotten about Martin. And
let me tell you, that hasn’t been easy.
If English schools did those American yearbook things,
Martin would be voted Most Likely to Die Alone. Put it
this way: if he were on fire, I’d toast marshmallows.
‘Well, hell-ooo Martin says to my breasts.
Nice glasses, Martin. I particularly like the Star Wars band-aid holding them together. Neat touch.
‘Sorry, just leaving—’
‘Leaving? I thought you were staying the night?’
1
I pull the half-chewed piece of coronation chicken that
has just fallen out of his wet mouth from my cleavage.
Trust me, this time I’m not doing it for erotic effect.
‘I am, but I - er - just have to check in with the office;
no reception on my mobile - have to go outside—’
It’s Christmas Day. Isn’t the office shut?’
‘Yes, it is, but I’m the - ah - duty solicitor. Lot of
divorces at Christmas. All that family time. And indigestion,
often a trigger.’
‘Really? I never realized. Well, we must catch up some
time,’ he calls after me as I leg it towards the back door.
‘Pick up where we left off, hmm, hmm?’
Where exactly did we leave off? For the life of me, I
can’t remember. Little shit probably used a roofie.
I’m halfway up the back garden before it clicks that it’s
four o’clock on a December afternoon and I’m wearing
thin silk jersey and a fixed smile.
Shivering, I plonk myself down on the stone bench
beside my mother’s new ‘water feature’, a hideous stone
abortion that would be spouting fluid from every orifice
if it wasn’t frozen solid. Bloody Ground Force, they have a
lot to answer for. My mother doesn’t need any encouragement.
I’m really not sure the seven-foot nude bronzes
are very Reading, to be honest. We should never have
let her go to the Chelsea Flower Show. Talk about putting
the chateau into shantytown.
I stamp my feet to get the blood flowing and blow on
my hands. Oh, God, what am I doing here? My life sucks.
I’m twenty-six years old, with my own job, flat, friends
and glow-in-the-dark vibrator, and here I am spending
Christmas Day shivering in my parents’ back garden with
assorted pieces of faux classic statuary.
At least when I was a kid there was still the hope of
escape. I’d pass round plates of turkey vol-au-vents and
dream of one day spending Christmas with a bronzed
Adonis on a sun-drenched, white-sugar beach somewhere.
I’d watch the twenty-something losers slinking into our
sitting room with their parents and sneer at their total sadness with all the worldly superiority of my fourteen years. Like, get a life. I couldn’t ever imagine choosing to
come back once parole was granted. I’d certainly never
have
Quite often, the two coincided rather nicely.
Andrew and I lasted almost a year purely because of
the sex. It was sensational. No problems with that side
of our relationship at all. Unfortunately, there weren’t any
other sides. Things were very simple with Andrew. When
he said: ‘You have beautiful eyes,’ he meant I want sex. When he told me I had a pretty smile, he meant I want sex. It didn’t take a PhD to master the lingo. Trouble was, he didn’t believe in limiting classroom size. I wanted one man to fulfil my every need. Andrew
wanted every woman to fulfil his one.
I’m guessing - from Auntie Pearl’s sotto voce infomercial
that having just obtained his second divorce at the
age of thirty-one, Andrew is newly eligible, ‘so it’s not
too late, love’ - that he hasn’t changed in the six years
since I caught him teaching linguistics to Mrs-Newcombe
from - two - doors - down’s seventeen - year - old daughter,
Libby, in my parents’ bed.
Looking around, it’s clear I’m the tribal bike. But
frankly, I think the number of notches on my bedpost
is fairly modest, all things considered. It’s not my fault
that three-quarters of them are currently in the same
room.
Oh, God. And Martin. I’d forgotten about Martin. And
let me tell you, that hasn’t been easy.
If English schools did those American yearbook things,
Martin would be voted Most Likely to Die Alone. Put it
this way: if he were on fire, I’d toast marshmallows.
‘Well, hell-ooo Martin says to my breasts.
Nice glasses, Martin. I particularly like the Star Wars band-aid holding them together. Neat touch.
‘Sorry, just leaving—’
‘Leaving? I thought you were staying the night?’
1
I pull the half-chewed piece of coronation chicken that
has just fallen out of his wet mouth from my cleavage.
Trust me, this time I’m not doing it for erotic effect.
‘I am, but I - er - just have to check in with the office;
no reception on my mobile - have to go outside—’
It’s Christmas Day. Isn’t the office shut?’
‘Yes, it is, but I’m the - ah - duty solicitor. Lot of
divorces at Christmas. All that family time. And indigestion,
often a trigger.’
‘Really? I never realized. Well, we must catch up some
time,’ he calls after me as I leg it towards the back door.
‘Pick up where we left off, hmm, hmm?’
Where exactly did we leave off? For the life of me, I
can’t remember. Little shit probably used a roofie.
I’m halfway up the back garden before it clicks that it’s
four o’clock on a December afternoon and I’m wearing
thin silk jersey and a fixed smile.
Shivering, I plonk myself down on the stone bench
beside my mother’s new ‘water feature’, a hideous stone
abortion that would be spouting fluid from every orifice
if it wasn’t frozen solid. Bloody Ground Force, they have a
lot to answer for. My mother doesn’t need any encouragement.
I’m really not sure the seven-foot nude bronzes
are very Reading, to be honest. We should never have
let her go to the Chelsea Flower Show. Talk about putting
the chateau into shantytown.
I stamp my feet to get the blood flowing and blow on
my hands. Oh, God, what am I doing here? My life sucks.
I’m twenty-six years old, with my own job, flat, friends
and glow-in-the-dark vibrator, and here I am spending
Christmas Day shivering in my parents’ back garden with
assorted pieces of faux classic statuary.
At least when I was a kid there was still the hope of
escape. I’d pass round plates of turkey vol-au-vents and
dream of one day spending Christmas with a bronzed
Adonis on a sun-drenched, white-sugar beach somewhere.
I’d watch the twenty-something losers slinking into our
sitting room with their parents and sneer at their total sadness with all the worldly superiority of my fourteen years. Like, get a life. I couldn’t ever imagine choosing to
come back once parole was granted. I’d certainly never
have
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