wasn’t my real dad, and if he knew it too, which I think he probably did, well then – he didn’t have to love me at all, did he?’
A heavy silence fell upon them.
‘I understand,’ said Bendiks, softly.
Lydia glanced at him.
‘I understand you. My brother died. He got knocked down by a truck, outside our home.’
Lydia blinked and examined her fingertips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘You don’t need to be sorry. It is not your fault.’ He smiled.
‘No, of course it’s not, it’s just … it’s just what we say, when we feel bad for someone. How old were you?’
‘Fourteen. My brother was eight.’ He shrugged again. ‘So, you know, I kind of get where you’re coming from. I used to have a brother. Now I don’t have a brother and I walk around and I still see him. I try to imagine him at fourteen, at twenty, at twenty-four. He’d be twenty-four now.’ His eyes filled with sadness for a second. ‘And, wow, if I thought there was a chance for me to find I had another brother or a sister, someone who looked a bit like me or sounded a bit like me, it would be a miracle … I understand,’ he said, cupping her hand with his. ‘I understand how you are feeling.’
Lydia glanced down at the hand that covered hers. She stared at the perfect fingernails, the smooth cuticles, and then she imagined that hand sliding from her hand up her bare arm, moving her hair from her shoulder, cupping the side of her neck, pulling her face towards his. Of all the people, she thought to herself, of all the people to have shared this with … Bendiks . Her trainer. The man who made her do frog jumps and punch him. This man from a foreign land.
There was a whole night’s worth of talking between their two stories, but Lydia could feel herself closing up again, slowly but determinedly, like the jaws of a Venus flytrap. She felt exposed and raw. It was time to go back to basics. ‘Come on,’ she said, jumping to her feet. ‘Time to make me sweat.’
‘You are sure?’ asked Bendiks, his voice soft with concern. ‘We can talk some more?’
Lydia opened her mouth. Yes, she wanted to say, yes, I want to talk and talk and talk and then I want to take all your clothes off and have you take all my clothes off and then sweat and pump and grind and breathe and groan and then lie with your beautiful body wrapped around mine in pools of our own shared salty sweat and then talk some more.
‘No,’ she said, ‘no. I’m done talking for now. But thank you,’ she said. ‘I thought I was going mad. And now I know I’m not.’
LAST SUMMER
ROBYN
Robyn Inglis celebrated her eighteenth birthday with a Voltz energy shot and the morning-after pill.
The night before she’d still been seventeen, but she wasn’t having her birthday party on a Sunday night, no way. Besides it had been half legal, the party hadn’t started ’til nine o’clock, she’d turned eighteen at midnight, the last four hours she’d been partying as a proper bona fide paid up member of the adult population, thank you very much.
The man, the boy (he was still only seventeen, poor fool), was irrelevant. She’d just had to do it, quickly as possible, christen herself and her adultness . Christian was his name. Jewish was his religion. Circumcised was his penis. Quick was his coming. But Robyn didn’t care. He was pretty and smelled nice and she’d only missed out on ten minutes of her totally brilliant party. She’d been planning that party for nearly a year, it was like it was her wedding or something. Her mum and dad had given her £500 towards it and she’d put in another couple of hundred of her own money, saved up from her Saturday job in Zara. A limo, yes indeed, a limo had come to collect her and three of her besties from her house on Saturday night. They all looked like actual celebrities, they really did. Robyn was channelling Anna Friel’s backstage look, in a proper prom dress with petticoats and everything. And red
A heavy silence fell upon them.
‘I understand,’ said Bendiks, softly.
Lydia glanced at him.
‘I understand you. My brother died. He got knocked down by a truck, outside our home.’
Lydia blinked and examined her fingertips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘You don’t need to be sorry. It is not your fault.’ He smiled.
‘No, of course it’s not, it’s just … it’s just what we say, when we feel bad for someone. How old were you?’
‘Fourteen. My brother was eight.’ He shrugged again. ‘So, you know, I kind of get where you’re coming from. I used to have a brother. Now I don’t have a brother and I walk around and I still see him. I try to imagine him at fourteen, at twenty, at twenty-four. He’d be twenty-four now.’ His eyes filled with sadness for a second. ‘And, wow, if I thought there was a chance for me to find I had another brother or a sister, someone who looked a bit like me or sounded a bit like me, it would be a miracle … I understand,’ he said, cupping her hand with his. ‘I understand how you are feeling.’
Lydia glanced down at the hand that covered hers. She stared at the perfect fingernails, the smooth cuticles, and then she imagined that hand sliding from her hand up her bare arm, moving her hair from her shoulder, cupping the side of her neck, pulling her face towards his. Of all the people, she thought to herself, of all the people to have shared this with … Bendiks . Her trainer. The man who made her do frog jumps and punch him. This man from a foreign land.
There was a whole night’s worth of talking between their two stories, but Lydia could feel herself closing up again, slowly but determinedly, like the jaws of a Venus flytrap. She felt exposed and raw. It was time to go back to basics. ‘Come on,’ she said, jumping to her feet. ‘Time to make me sweat.’
‘You are sure?’ asked Bendiks, his voice soft with concern. ‘We can talk some more?’
Lydia opened her mouth. Yes, she wanted to say, yes, I want to talk and talk and talk and then I want to take all your clothes off and have you take all my clothes off and then sweat and pump and grind and breathe and groan and then lie with your beautiful body wrapped around mine in pools of our own shared salty sweat and then talk some more.
‘No,’ she said, ‘no. I’m done talking for now. But thank you,’ she said. ‘I thought I was going mad. And now I know I’m not.’
LAST SUMMER
ROBYN
Robyn Inglis celebrated her eighteenth birthday with a Voltz energy shot and the morning-after pill.
The night before she’d still been seventeen, but she wasn’t having her birthday party on a Sunday night, no way. Besides it had been half legal, the party hadn’t started ’til nine o’clock, she’d turned eighteen at midnight, the last four hours she’d been partying as a proper bona fide paid up member of the adult population, thank you very much.
The man, the boy (he was still only seventeen, poor fool), was irrelevant. She’d just had to do it, quickly as possible, christen herself and her adultness . Christian was his name. Jewish was his religion. Circumcised was his penis. Quick was his coming. But Robyn didn’t care. He was pretty and smelled nice and she’d only missed out on ten minutes of her totally brilliant party. She’d been planning that party for nearly a year, it was like it was her wedding or something. Her mum and dad had given her £500 towards it and she’d put in another couple of hundred of her own money, saved up from her Saturday job in Zara. A limo, yes indeed, a limo had come to collect her and three of her besties from her house on Saturday night. They all looked like actual celebrities, they really did. Robyn was channelling Anna Friel’s backstage look, in a proper prom dress with petticoats and everything. And red
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