was sensitive, prone to break out in rashes of tiny pale unobtrusive spots. She hated going into work with spots, however unnoticeable. Claire smiled at the memory of Grainne’s morning gloom over a slight bump on her chin. Spots undermined the pupil-teacher relationship, she had announced, and Claire had done her best not to crack up.
“What, what?” Grainne had asked, and Claire had been unable to explain why she was laughing.
“What?”
Grainne. She could almost see the unlocked door swingopen and Grainne come in, as she often did, unbuttoning her trousers.
“If you didn’t take so long in the bath …”
Claire, her back towards the toilet, almost thought she heard the slap of naked thigh against plastic, the hiss and splash of Grainne’s piss. Claire splashed her hands in the foamy bathwater.
“Listen, Grainne,” she muttered.
The toilet roll would rattle on its holder.
“I have to tell you something.”
Soft scuffling noises.
“I fucked your boyfriend.”
Trousers being pulled up, buttoned. “Ah, right.”
A pause, then the rush and gurgle of the toilet flush.
“So what did you think? He’s good isn’t he?”
“He was fucking great.”
Claire closed her eyes, breathed out sharply, wiped her face with her hands. She didn’t know his phone number, or even his address. She had no fucking clue how to get in touch, and even if she had, she realised, lifting her bent knee to inspect the pulsing cut on her ankle, there was no way she would have the balls to phone. But, when he had reached out for her last night, his face cut and hurt, he had looked at her, and had seemed to see someone he recognised. Someone he knew, and wanted. Claire, suddenly caught up by the dizzying knowledge that she was
there
, had been unable to speak. But what she had wanted to know more than anything else, and had wished that she could ask him, and was now glad that she hadn’t, was what he’d seen.
She jumped. The phone had burst out ringing. Down thestairs, dripping, towel clutched round her, leaving heavy dark footprints on the stair carpet.
“Hello?”
“Claire?”
“Yes—”
“Paul.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
A pause.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Fine. What about you?”
“Fine.”
“How’s the cut?”
“It’s okay. Listen.”
She felt her stomach twist tighter.
“Mm?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve been feeling terrible. It wasn’t fair of me. You’re not over Alan yet—and Grainne, you know—”
“Yes.”
“I’d hate to upset her. It’d be terrible if she got hurt.”
“Yes.”
“I mean, it’s not like it was anything serious. It’s not like we’ve had an affair or anything. It wasn’t, like, well … When you think about it, she doesn’t really need to know, does she? It would be kinder, really. Don’t you think?”
“Right.”
“So you won’t tell her?”
“No—”
“Well, listen, you’re alright then?” She could hear the relief in his voice.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“And this is just between the two of us? No one else needs to know?”
“Right.”
“Well, listen, thanks. I’ll see you soon.”
“Right.”
She put down the phone, stood looking at the receiver’s smooth white plastic back. A breath, held.
The white tiles were granular. Flecks danced like static on a TV screen, bright pixels blinking on and off.
It was dizzying. She closed her eyes. Behind her eyelids, the same. Little dancing squares of light and dark. Her picture breaking up. Underneath her, the floor seemed to shift. She slid her feet away, planted her hands on the tiles, leaned her head back against the cold ceramic rim of the bath.
Windy dark outside. The screen fizzing. Dad crouched, twisting the plastic dial, and the
Doctor Who
theme tune wailing from the TV set
.
She opened her eyes. The light and dark specks still jostling, dancing. She narrowed her vision, stared at her wineglass, trying to grip it with her attention. A tiny pool of liquid
“What, what?” Grainne had asked, and Claire had been unable to explain why she was laughing.
“What?”
Grainne. She could almost see the unlocked door swingopen and Grainne come in, as she often did, unbuttoning her trousers.
“If you didn’t take so long in the bath …”
Claire, her back towards the toilet, almost thought she heard the slap of naked thigh against plastic, the hiss and splash of Grainne’s piss. Claire splashed her hands in the foamy bathwater.
“Listen, Grainne,” she muttered.
The toilet roll would rattle on its holder.
“I have to tell you something.”
Soft scuffling noises.
“I fucked your boyfriend.”
Trousers being pulled up, buttoned. “Ah, right.”
A pause, then the rush and gurgle of the toilet flush.
“So what did you think? He’s good isn’t he?”
“He was fucking great.”
Claire closed her eyes, breathed out sharply, wiped her face with her hands. She didn’t know his phone number, or even his address. She had no fucking clue how to get in touch, and even if she had, she realised, lifting her bent knee to inspect the pulsing cut on her ankle, there was no way she would have the balls to phone. But, when he had reached out for her last night, his face cut and hurt, he had looked at her, and had seemed to see someone he recognised. Someone he knew, and wanted. Claire, suddenly caught up by the dizzying knowledge that she was
there
, had been unable to speak. But what she had wanted to know more than anything else, and had wished that she could ask him, and was now glad that she hadn’t, was what he’d seen.
She jumped. The phone had burst out ringing. Down thestairs, dripping, towel clutched round her, leaving heavy dark footprints on the stair carpet.
“Hello?”
“Claire?”
“Yes—”
“Paul.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
A pause.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Fine. What about you?”
“Fine.”
“How’s the cut?”
“It’s okay. Listen.”
She felt her stomach twist tighter.
“Mm?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve been feeling terrible. It wasn’t fair of me. You’re not over Alan yet—and Grainne, you know—”
“Yes.”
“I’d hate to upset her. It’d be terrible if she got hurt.”
“Yes.”
“I mean, it’s not like it was anything serious. It’s not like we’ve had an affair or anything. It wasn’t, like, well … When you think about it, she doesn’t really need to know, does she? It would be kinder, really. Don’t you think?”
“Right.”
“So you won’t tell her?”
“No—”
“Well, listen, you’re alright then?” She could hear the relief in his voice.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“And this is just between the two of us? No one else needs to know?”
“Right.”
“Well, listen, thanks. I’ll see you soon.”
“Right.”
She put down the phone, stood looking at the receiver’s smooth white plastic back. A breath, held.
The white tiles were granular. Flecks danced like static on a TV screen, bright pixels blinking on and off.
It was dizzying. She closed her eyes. Behind her eyelids, the same. Little dancing squares of light and dark. Her picture breaking up. Underneath her, the floor seemed to shift. She slid her feet away, planted her hands on the tiles, leaned her head back against the cold ceramic rim of the bath.
Windy dark outside. The screen fizzing. Dad crouched, twisting the plastic dial, and the
Doctor Who
theme tune wailing from the TV set
.
She opened her eyes. The light and dark specks still jostling, dancing. She narrowed her vision, stared at her wineglass, trying to grip it with her attention. A tiny pool of liquid
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