would come across as a slight on her company. More than that, I just
couldn’t say it out loud that I had made a mistake in letting him go. Because
that would make it true.
“I can't believe we're doing this,” I yelled,
downing the remains of my third gin and tonic.
Catherine didn't answer. I looked round and
realised she was asleep.
A young guy appeared next to me. He must have been
all but twenty. He mouthed something at me and raised his eyebrows.
“What did you say?” I hoped he wasn't asking me to
dance.
“Do you want to dance?” he leaned forward and
shouted into my ear, nearly bursting my eardrum.
“I can't.” I looked up at him, apologetically. He
seemed nice enough, in a gangly kind of way, but I suddenly felt panicky. I didn't
want to lead him on.
“My name's Michael,” he added.
“I can't, Michael,” I said firmly. “I've got a bad
ankle,” I added, nodding at my crutch, although my ankle was actually feeling
much better.
“That's a bit of a lame excuse,” he shouted, in my
ear. “Get it? Boom boom.”
I shot him a withering look. He shrugged, and
started jigging around. “All right then,” he shouted. “What about your mate?”
We both looked at Catherine, whose head was tipped
back over the top of the leather seat, her mouth slightly ajar.
“I don't think so,” I said.
He didn't appear to be leaving. “What’s your name?”
he asked, crouching down beside me.
I told him.
“Busy Lizzie,” he said, and smiled as if that
meant something.
The DJ announced the last dance and the music
changed to a slow song. Catherine was making a snuffling noise and her hand was
twitching in her lap.
“Come on,” said Michael grabbing me by the hand. “I'll
hold you up, don't worry.”
I hobbled resignedly behind him onto the dance
floor. He put his arms round my waist and pulled me to him. I reluctantly
draped my hands over his shoulders. It felt too intimate, my breasts pushed up
against his chest like that, when I barely knew him. I could feel his breath on
my cheek and his hair tickling my forehead.
The song was Madonna’s “Crazy for You.” You
couldn’t actually dance to it. So we just went round and round, like you do to
slow songs at discos. It had always seemed a bit stupid and pointless to me,
not actually going anywhere, especially with a load of strangers dotted around
you doing exactly the same thing. It wasn't as if any skill or dexterity were
required, either, like when you tangoed or waltzed. It was simulated sex,
really, which is fine when you feel like simulating sex, but I didn't. Not
there, not with him, in spite of all the gin.
When the song ended he tried to kiss me. I let him
for a moment out of a combination of pity and curiosity, until he started
trying to push his tongue into my mouth. It felt hard and dry, and unpleasantly
alive, like a small furry animal. I pushed him gently away and limped back to
Catherine, who was sitting up and rubbing her eyes. The lights were coming up
and the bar staff were collecting glasses. Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares
to You” was now blasting out of the speakers, and it was just about all I could
bear.
“What time is it?” Catherine asked.
“Time to go home. Very
much so, in fact.”
We joined a queue at the taxi rank and eventually got into
a mini-cab. As we turned into Catherine's street and pulled up outside the
house, she stiffened and peered nervously out of the window. Amidst the row of
darkened terraced houses, one glowed with light from every window.
“It must be Martin,” she said, looking startled. “What’s
he doing back home?”
I paid the driver and followed Catherine up the
path. Just as she was putting her key in the lock the door swung open and in a
flash she'd disappeared inside, the door slamming shut behind her. I stopped on
the path, stunned, not quite sure what had happened. I turned and looked back
at the deserted street behind me. The taxi was just turning round the corner
out
couldn’t say it out loud that I had made a mistake in letting him go. Because
that would make it true.
“I can't believe we're doing this,” I yelled,
downing the remains of my third gin and tonic.
Catherine didn't answer. I looked round and
realised she was asleep.
A young guy appeared next to me. He must have been
all but twenty. He mouthed something at me and raised his eyebrows.
“What did you say?” I hoped he wasn't asking me to
dance.
“Do you want to dance?” he leaned forward and
shouted into my ear, nearly bursting my eardrum.
“I can't.” I looked up at him, apologetically. He
seemed nice enough, in a gangly kind of way, but I suddenly felt panicky. I didn't
want to lead him on.
“My name's Michael,” he added.
“I can't, Michael,” I said firmly. “I've got a bad
ankle,” I added, nodding at my crutch, although my ankle was actually feeling
much better.
“That's a bit of a lame excuse,” he shouted, in my
ear. “Get it? Boom boom.”
I shot him a withering look. He shrugged, and
started jigging around. “All right then,” he shouted. “What about your mate?”
We both looked at Catherine, whose head was tipped
back over the top of the leather seat, her mouth slightly ajar.
“I don't think so,” I said.
He didn't appear to be leaving. “What’s your name?”
he asked, crouching down beside me.
I told him.
“Busy Lizzie,” he said, and smiled as if that
meant something.
The DJ announced the last dance and the music
changed to a slow song. Catherine was making a snuffling noise and her hand was
twitching in her lap.
“Come on,” said Michael grabbing me by the hand. “I'll
hold you up, don't worry.”
I hobbled resignedly behind him onto the dance
floor. He put his arms round my waist and pulled me to him. I reluctantly
draped my hands over his shoulders. It felt too intimate, my breasts pushed up
against his chest like that, when I barely knew him. I could feel his breath on
my cheek and his hair tickling my forehead.
The song was Madonna’s “Crazy for You.” You
couldn’t actually dance to it. So we just went round and round, like you do to
slow songs at discos. It had always seemed a bit stupid and pointless to me,
not actually going anywhere, especially with a load of strangers dotted around
you doing exactly the same thing. It wasn't as if any skill or dexterity were
required, either, like when you tangoed or waltzed. It was simulated sex,
really, which is fine when you feel like simulating sex, but I didn't. Not
there, not with him, in spite of all the gin.
When the song ended he tried to kiss me. I let him
for a moment out of a combination of pity and curiosity, until he started
trying to push his tongue into my mouth. It felt hard and dry, and unpleasantly
alive, like a small furry animal. I pushed him gently away and limped back to
Catherine, who was sitting up and rubbing her eyes. The lights were coming up
and the bar staff were collecting glasses. Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares
to You” was now blasting out of the speakers, and it was just about all I could
bear.
“What time is it?” Catherine asked.
“Time to go home. Very
much so, in fact.”
We joined a queue at the taxi rank and eventually got into
a mini-cab. As we turned into Catherine's street and pulled up outside the
house, she stiffened and peered nervously out of the window. Amidst the row of
darkened terraced houses, one glowed with light from every window.
“It must be Martin,” she said, looking startled. “What’s
he doing back home?”
I paid the driver and followed Catherine up the
path. Just as she was putting her key in the lock the door swung open and in a
flash she'd disappeared inside, the door slamming shut behind her. I stopped on
the path, stunned, not quite sure what had happened. I turned and looked back
at the deserted street behind me. The taxi was just turning round the corner
out
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