Gavin?’
‘I’ll take sex over love most days. It doesn’t hurt half as much, under normal circumstances at least!’
I grimace at Gavin, but he just winks and I blush. It’s not him, I blush if anybody winks at me. I find it intimate and peculiar and sexual. I’d blush if my own grandmother winked at me, and then of course I’d throw up.
‘So Tristan doesn’t have sex, ever?’
‘Oh no, that’s not true, I think he has it quite a bit. It’s just not about him. He doesn’t care if he gets it or not. I think he does it for other people …’
‘But – I’m sorry, Gavin, for all these questions – but how does he get … you know … aroused? If he doesn’t want it, or care about it?’
‘My guess is Viagra. Any more questions?’ Gavin pulls the door open again with one of his huge hands. He could be a one-man circus, with a few lights around his torso, offering rides on his palms for fifty pence or a pound. I’m sure I could sit in one of those hands.
‘Gavin, what’s your girlfriend like?’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Is she freakishly tall too?’ I smile at him and I see a smile form in his eyes in return. The big Gavin smiles must be rationed, like chocolate in the war.
‘Not freakishly tall, but not short like you either.’
‘I am not short, I am five foot five, which is two inches above average. Is she pretty?’
‘Why all the questions about my girlfriend?’
‘I’m just interested, Gavin. Other people’s relationships interest me. I just wonder what you go for, what your type is. Everybody has a type. Some men just go for baubles, decoration. The only thing more attractive to a man than a beautiful woman is an easy life. And I just wondered what your type is. Beautiful or easy?’
Gavin looks at me with an element of serious concern. I don’t think he likes this line of questioning. But he answers anyway.
‘Arabella? She is very beautiful. And not at all easy. So there’s your answer I guess.’
‘Arabella from the play? But Gavin, she’s stunning!’
‘And?’ he asks me, like a dry old maths teacher waiting for an answer from a stupid young pupil.
‘And nothing, nothing at all. That wasn’t surprise, I just meant … good for you!’
Gavin lowers his head and inspects the coffee I spat out onto his trainers, which is drying into a dirty stain that looks a bit like the birthmark on Gorbachev’s forehead.
‘We’ll see,’ he says, half out of the door now. ‘She is gorgeous. But she’s definitely not easy, and it can wear you down.’
‘Not easy is the best kind!’ I say, as he is almost gone, but I hear him mutter ‘Tell that to your boyfriend,’ just as the walkie-talkie on his belt starts spewing white noise and static, and I hear a muffled voice say,
‘Dolly’s at the back door.’
My door opens again and Gavin pokes his head back in. ‘Dolly’s arrived,’ he says, and turns to leave.
‘Should I wait here?’ I shout, a hint of panic in my voice.
‘Depends on her mood. She might throw you out, she might want to meet you straight away. You may as well stay, I suppose. I’ll try and gauge how she is before she gets down here.’
‘Should I be scared?’ I ask him.
‘I don’t know, are you scared of most things?’
‘It’s starting to feel that way.’
‘Well if you are she’ll sense it, like an attack dog, so try and keep it under control. And don’t worry, with any luck she’ll be hammered.’
Gavin shuts the door.
I unpack and inspect my brushes to see if any of them need replacing, and open up a couple of samples that a new make-up company have sent me. I check my own hair in the mirrorand mess it up a little, and re-gloss. The trouble with talking is that it wears your gloss away. I think about sitting, but I don’t know where Dolly will want to sit, and I don’t want her to burst in and chuck me straight back out again for nabbing her favourite spot. I try to lean back nonchalantly, cross my arms, uncross them,
‘I’ll take sex over love most days. It doesn’t hurt half as much, under normal circumstances at least!’
I grimace at Gavin, but he just winks and I blush. It’s not him, I blush if anybody winks at me. I find it intimate and peculiar and sexual. I’d blush if my own grandmother winked at me, and then of course I’d throw up.
‘So Tristan doesn’t have sex, ever?’
‘Oh no, that’s not true, I think he has it quite a bit. It’s just not about him. He doesn’t care if he gets it or not. I think he does it for other people …’
‘But – I’m sorry, Gavin, for all these questions – but how does he get … you know … aroused? If he doesn’t want it, or care about it?’
‘My guess is Viagra. Any more questions?’ Gavin pulls the door open again with one of his huge hands. He could be a one-man circus, with a few lights around his torso, offering rides on his palms for fifty pence or a pound. I’m sure I could sit in one of those hands.
‘Gavin, what’s your girlfriend like?’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Is she freakishly tall too?’ I smile at him and I see a smile form in his eyes in return. The big Gavin smiles must be rationed, like chocolate in the war.
‘Not freakishly tall, but not short like you either.’
‘I am not short, I am five foot five, which is two inches above average. Is she pretty?’
‘Why all the questions about my girlfriend?’
‘I’m just interested, Gavin. Other people’s relationships interest me. I just wonder what you go for, what your type is. Everybody has a type. Some men just go for baubles, decoration. The only thing more attractive to a man than a beautiful woman is an easy life. And I just wondered what your type is. Beautiful or easy?’
Gavin looks at me with an element of serious concern. I don’t think he likes this line of questioning. But he answers anyway.
‘Arabella? She is very beautiful. And not at all easy. So there’s your answer I guess.’
‘Arabella from the play? But Gavin, she’s stunning!’
‘And?’ he asks me, like a dry old maths teacher waiting for an answer from a stupid young pupil.
‘And nothing, nothing at all. That wasn’t surprise, I just meant … good for you!’
Gavin lowers his head and inspects the coffee I spat out onto his trainers, which is drying into a dirty stain that looks a bit like the birthmark on Gorbachev’s forehead.
‘We’ll see,’ he says, half out of the door now. ‘She is gorgeous. But she’s definitely not easy, and it can wear you down.’
‘Not easy is the best kind!’ I say, as he is almost gone, but I hear him mutter ‘Tell that to your boyfriend,’ just as the walkie-talkie on his belt starts spewing white noise and static, and I hear a muffled voice say,
‘Dolly’s at the back door.’
My door opens again and Gavin pokes his head back in. ‘Dolly’s arrived,’ he says, and turns to leave.
‘Should I wait here?’ I shout, a hint of panic in my voice.
‘Depends on her mood. She might throw you out, she might want to meet you straight away. You may as well stay, I suppose. I’ll try and gauge how she is before she gets down here.’
‘Should I be scared?’ I ask him.
‘I don’t know, are you scared of most things?’
‘It’s starting to feel that way.’
‘Well if you are she’ll sense it, like an attack dog, so try and keep it under control. And don’t worry, with any luck she’ll be hammered.’
Gavin shuts the door.
I unpack and inspect my brushes to see if any of them need replacing, and open up a couple of samples that a new make-up company have sent me. I check my own hair in the mirrorand mess it up a little, and re-gloss. The trouble with talking is that it wears your gloss away. I think about sitting, but I don’t know where Dolly will want to sit, and I don’t want her to burst in and chuck me straight back out again for nabbing her favourite spot. I try to lean back nonchalantly, cross my arms, uncross them,
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