by C J Morrow
He has an abundance of chest hair too.
Every other Thursday, when he picked me up for our illicit tutoring session, it would always be on his way back from the gym. His hair was always damp and a bit tousled and the necks of his t-shirts never quite prevented his chest hair from peeping out.
I imagined a thick mat of hair, running my fingers through it, stroking it, twirling it. I imagined all these things as I sat next to him in his car or opposite him at his kitchen table.
It took until Christmas before that fantasy became a reality.
It was raining and cold when he picked me up from the end of the street. I jumped in and shivered as I dropped Mum’s wet umbrella in the foot well.
‘No coat?’
‘No.’
‘You must have a coat. What do you wear to school?’
‘A hideous thing that I wouldn’t be seen dead in anywhere else. And my denim jacket is too tight.’ Despite my slim build – I was barely a size eight then – the jacket didn’t fit because I’d had it since I was thirteen. Mum said it was fine, but I thought it gaped across my chest. I felt self-conscious in it. It had pink trim and embroidery on the sleeves; I was sixteen now and I thought it babyish. I had other childish jackets too, but I wouldn’t wear them either.
And Mum wouldn’t be buying me a new coat anytime soon, especially as the hideous one was new in September. Despite my dad having a good job, Mum hadn’t worked since Mads arrived and we lived in a money-pit, according to Dad. We had a large, rambling house that always needed work doing; the plus side was that both Mads and I had our own bedrooms and a bathroom between us.
I was saving up for a new coat, or a jacket, I hadn’t decided. It had taken longer than originally planned after I’d spent some of the money on new underwear but now I only needed to work two more shifts and I would have enough to get something in the January sales. It had been Mum’s idea for me to get a Saturday job and our local Tesco had been very convenient. Not that I had told Robin about it. I didn’t want him knowing I worked in a supermarket.
‘So, no, I don’t really have a coat,’ I added.
An absent smile passed over Robin’s face as he drove.
We dashed indoors and I took my shoes off in the hall; he had new carpets and didn’t like them getting soiled. As I padded through to the kitchen I prepared myself for a few hours in Robin’s company, even if it did mean equations and algebra, because I knew I wouldn’t see him again for a few weeks. I would hardly be going to study group during the Christmas break – Mum wouldn’t fall for that one. Anyway, I’d been asked to work extra hours at Tesco.
On the kitchen table was an elaborate present, large and wrapped in gold metallic Christmas paper. Red, curling ribbons spiralled out from the top. Robin would need to move that before we began.
‘Been doing your wrapping?’ I imagined some lovely girlfriend that he’d never mentioned – why would he – whooping with joy on Christmas morning. My heart sank, so did my shoulders and my spirit.
‘Yes.’ He had a faraway look in his eyes.
‘Do you want to move it?’ I dropped my school bag onto the table and let out an audible sigh, immediately wishing I hadn’t.
‘Not really.’
I looked at him. What was that supposed to mean? Did he expect us to crowd into the small space left? It was hardly a big table to start off with. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t come. ‘Oh.’
‘It’s for you.’
‘What?’
‘It’s for you. Happy Christmas.’
I didn’t know what to say, at first. Then I said that stupid thing that people always say when caught out. ‘But I haven’t got you anything.’
He laughed. Threw back his head and really laughed, exposing his throat; his chest hairs rising higher above the neck of his t-shirt.
‘Don’t be silly. I wasn’t expecting anything.’
‘Neither was I.’ How ungrateful I sounded.
Its metallic paper twinkled at me. I didn’t know what to do. It was enormous. I wondered how I could sneak that into the house. Then I saw the tag.
Juliette
Merry Christmas.
Robin
xxxx
Four kisses. Four. I smiled at him, all the while feeling my face redden.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’
‘It’s not Christmas yet.’ How stupid I sounded.
‘That’s okay. Open it.’
I let my fingers drift over the paper. ‘It seems a shame to spoil it. It looks so beautiful.’
He laughed again. ‘Come on, open it. I want to see if you like it.’
My fingers trembled as I turned it around and around, looking for the opening. I didn’t want to ruin it; somewhere there should be Sellotape I could peel away carefully. But there wasn’t. Robin was watching me intently. I looked into his eyes and forced a smile.
‘What are you doing?’ He patted my shoulder. I flinched, but not because I didn’t like it.
‘I don’t want to wreck it; it looks too lovely.’
‘Pull the ribbons, that’s what’s holding it together.’ He took my hands in his and guided them towards the red-ribbon curls. I felt my heart beating in my chest and my ears. Could he hear it?
Together we pulled the ribbons and the parcel opened, the paper floating down with elegance to reveal the treat within.
The coat. The black coat. The one with the too-big buttons.
I gasped. It was gorgeous. I’d seen it in a magazine only the week before. Had I mentioned it to Robin? Of course not.
‘Oh my God.’
‘Try it on. Here, let me help you.’ He held the coat up for me to slip my arms into the sleeves, then turned me around to button it up. I felt the pull of the fabric across my breasts. ‘Perfect,’ he pronounced, standing back to admire me. He guided me into the living room, stood me in front of the mirror. His hands stayed on my shoulders as he hovered behind me.
The coat looked great. But not as great as him standing so close, smiling, his reflected eyes twinkling as they looked into mine.
‘Gorgeous.’ The word was whispered into my ear. I shuddered. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I, I, love… it.’ I stuttered. I had almost said, I love you.
‘I knew you would. I knew you’d look amazing in it.’ He kissed me on the cheek. My knees buckled. And he caught me.
As he spun me around it was me who made the first move, me who thrust my face towards his, me who kissed him. I expected him to push me away, I was petrified he would be repulsed. Why would he, a grown-up, drop dead gorgeous man who could have anyone, want a swotty sixteen-year old? I decided to enjoy the experience while it lasted and suffer the humiliation afterwards.
He did step back. He held my hands and pulled them out from my body.
‘Well,’ he said. He sounded kind.
I looked down. Ashamed. Embarrassed. I didn’t want kind. ‘Sorry.’
‘Why?’
‘I was just saying thank you. For the coat.’ I tried to pull my hands away but he held them fast.
‘You like it?’
‘I love it.’ Hadn’t I already said so.
‘I love you.’
I blinked in astonishment. Had he really just said that? Or, had I misheard? Our eyes locked.
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘I, I think so.’
‘I said I love you.’
‘I love you too.’
He let go of my hands and took my face in his. Then he kissed me, rather more expertly than I had kissed him. I was in heaven.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, stepping back, letting my face drop; the face he had just been cradling. ‘I shouldn’t have done that, or said that. I don’t know what came over me. I can only apologise. My feelings…’ He left the words floating in the air.
‘Oh?’ I was confused, bewildered.
‘Maybe I should take you home.’ He turned as though looking for his keys.
‘But why?’
‘It’s wrong. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m your tutor. It’s just that my feelings overtook me then. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’
‘This isn’t going to work. I can’t be near you and not want you.’ He left the room, found his keys on the kitchen table. ‘I’ll take you home. Come on.’
‘I don’t want to go home.’ I nudged the table leg with my foot. I was sulking, I knew I was. I even knew how immature it looked.
‘Juliette, you’re too young for me.’ He sighed and looked up to the ceiling as if praying for an answer.
‘I’m old enough. I’m legal. I’m sixteen.’ The words trotted out with practised ease; I’d said them enough times in my head.
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘But what?’ I didn’t wait for his answer, I just wrapped my arms around his head and pulled his mouth to mine. I was sure he would succumb in the end.
When it was time to go home, the coat, along with my other clothes were draped across the chair in his bedroom. I fumbled to get my bra back on as he kissed my bare shoulders.
Alternate Thursday evenings would never be the same again.
I sneaked the coat home, hid it and later passed it off as one I had bought in the sales with my Tesco earnings. Mum said it was quite nice. It was a year later before I accidently let slip the truth and Mum and Dad expressed their extreme disapproval. Especially Mum.
‘Well done, Juliette.’
I grunt in response to Robin’s praise. The sound comes from my throat. He pats my left arm. I wish he wouldn’t as it’s sore. I grunt again, attempting to show my displeasure.
‘What you need to do now, Juliette, is move. And get those eyes open.’
I grunt again.
‘Try wiggling your toes. Focus all your energy and attention on your toes.’
I try. The bed clothes are resting on my feet and I can feel the texture, or at least I think I can. I focus so hard it hurts, then miracle of miracles, I move my right toe.
I grunt to let Robin know; I just hope he is watching.
‘I saw it, Juliette. I saw it. Just keep working on it.’
I grunt again. If only I could move my lips, then I might be able to speak.
‘I’m going to stay with you until your parents come back, so let’s work together. Move those toes.’
I’d rather move my mouth.
‘Move those toes. Move those toes.’ Robin sounds as though he’s at a football match, but his encouragement is working, I manage another miniscule twitch. I hope he remembers to tell the nurses and Mum and Dad.
‘How are we doing, Juliette?’ It’s nurse Jeff’s voice.
‘She’s doing really well,’ Robin says, pride in his voice. I add my grunt.
‘Good stuff. I’m off soon, so I’m just going to turn you.’ He’s already started moving me before he’s even finished the sentence. It hurts and I don’t like it. I was comfortable, I was moving.
After he’s finished I feel like a dead weight. Solid. Immovable.
‘Good news about your MRI this morning. Congratulations.’ He laughs. ‘Soon have you up and about.’
MRI? I don’t remember that. What’s he talking about? Must have gone well if he’s congratulating me.
I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Nurse Jeff taps my foot. I can’t even twitch it in response; how annoying. ‘Keep up the good work.’
I lie in the bed on my side and I am uncomfortable. I grunt but no one responds. Has Robin left without saying goodbye? I grunt again. Nothing. Where is he?
Minutes pass.
‘Sorry about that, I had to nip to the men’s.’
Yeah, and you could have told him I moved my foot. I sigh. It’s quite audible, even through the oxygen mask.
‘Then I stopped off at the nurses’ station.’
I wait. He pats my left arm. Stop doing that.
‘Seems your MRI went well, earlier.’
Yes. I wait. But apparently, that’s it. It’s annoying how I can’t remember anything and I’m not able to ask questions and Robin doesn’t seem to think I need more information. I think I need to concentrate on moving my mouth, not my feet. Communicating is more important than moving now.
‘Let’s work on moving those toes.’
I ignore him. I’m working on my mouth, but the muscles don’t respond.
‘Come on, Juliette. Toes. Toes.’ This reminds me of ballet class when I was little. Good toes, naughty toes. I started when I was three. I loved it. Prancing around in my pink shoes and tights, my little black leotard, the pink cross-over cardigan Mum had knitted. Mads later wore it to her first classes too, years later. We used to joke that it was indestructible. Neither of us was ever going to be a ballet dancer, but we both loved going.
‘Toes. Toes.’
I ignore Robin and focus on my mouth. If I can just get some movement, maybe I can say something. Anything.
‘Toes. Try harder.’
I grunt, but it’s still a grunt.
‘Toes. Come on, flex those toes.’
Mouth, move mouth.
‘I’m not seeing any movement, Juliette.’
Oh, shut up, Robin. Mouth, move.
‘Make an effort, move those toes.’
‘No.’ I hear a shout.
‘Juliette? Was that you?’ Nurse Jeff is back; I thought he’d gone home.
I struggle then manage a feeble, ‘Yes.’
‘Well done. Well done. Hey, I’m glad I’m running late and was here when you said your first word. Well done. I’ll let them know on my way out.’ His voice fades away.
I wait for Robin to congratulate me.
‘No wonder your toes weren’t moving.’ Is he sulking? ‘I suppose you were working on that rather than your toes.’ He is sulking. He should be pleased for me.
‘Yes,’ I manage again.
He doesn’t reply and the effort of saying those three words has exhausted me and I’m so tired that I start to doze off. It’s proper sleep too, not just the absences which I seem to have been having.
I wish I could remember the MRI scan.
Mum’s voice wakes me, though she’s not talking to me. Her words drift towards me, she’s thanking a nurse for some good news – my speaking, I guess. I can hear the smile in her voice. Then her tone changes.
‘Oh. Are you sure? Right. Okay. Well, we’ll leave it at that.’
‘Your parents are here, so I’ll get off.’ Robin’s voice is little more than a whisper in my ear.
I manage a grunt in response.
‘I’m tutoring tonight, so I might not make it back until the morning.’
‘Yes.’
He pats my arm. ‘It’s good to hear you speak.’ I hear the pleasure in his voice. Good. He’s forgiven me for not following his instructions. ‘She’s all yours,’ Robin says to my parents as he leaves. ‘Look after her.’
‘Hello Juliette.’ It’s Dad’s voice. He wipes my hair aside and kisses me on the forehead.
I focus all my energy.
‘Hi.’
Mum sniffs; she’s probably crying. Even Dad’s voice sounds thick with emotion when he tells me how clever I am.
It’s only speaking, Dad. A feeble little laugh escapes my mouth. I’ve just noticed that I’m on my back again, half sitting up – I’ve been moved in my sleep.
‘You’re looking much better.’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry I haven’t been up for a few days; bloody Ofsted. But I can see such an improvement in you.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s been tough, watching you lying there.’
‘More.’ I need so much more and no one is telling me anything.
‘You want more?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you want more of?’
‘More,’ I say again. ‘Info.’
‘Start at the beginning, Brian.’ That’s my mum issuing instructions. Bless her.
My dad coughs to clear his throat. There’s some scraping of chairs as they sit dow
n.
‘Do you know what happened? How you got here?’
‘No.’
‘Start at the beginning, Brian.’ Mum is getting annoyed with Dad. She often gives him directions when really, she’d prefer to do it herself. I suspect she’d do a better job too.
It was Dad, under mum’s instruction, who had to warn me of the dire consequences of my relationship with Robin. It was after they’d found out I’d been seeing him every other Thursday, for nearly a year. It hadn’t been a happy time for anyone.
‘He’s far too old for you, Juliette,’ Dad had said while Mum perched on the arm of his chair biting her lip.
I’d been called into the living room the morning after Robin dropped me off. We’d long ago given up the pretence of extra tutoring; I never even took my books with me any longer, not that Mum and Dad knew that. Mum’s best friend, Sally, had seen us kissing goodnight outside in the car – we were getting careless, or maybe we wanted to get caught. She must have been on that phone immediately, though they probably suspected something was going on by then. We were probably too familiar, laughing and nudging each other, during our official tutoring sessions in Dad’s study. We were foolhardy. We were in love.
Dad had gone through his preamble, obviously rehearsed by Mum, asking how serious this relationship was, how far it had actually gone, and the killer question; had we done anything? He kept looking at his watch, he wanted to get to work, he would be late, but he had to do this first.
I remember laughing out loud, which Mum and Dad interpreted as contempt but it was actually embarrassment. I couldn’t believe they were asking me about sex, with Robin. No.
‘I’m seventeen now,’ I’d said. I’d had my birthday two months previously, at the end of August.
‘Barely.’ Despite delegating to Dad, Mum couldn’t hold her tongue. ‘You’re a child. He’s not.’
She was right, Robin would be thirty after Christmas. I was proud to have lost my virginity to a proper man, not like so many of my friends who had lost theirs to gangly boys at drunken parties. My boyfriend was a man.
‘I’m not a child.’
‘He’s your teacher.’ Dad struggled to keep the horror from his voice. ‘It’s wrong. Unethical.’
‘Tutor,’ I corrected. ‘He’s never taught me at school. Ours was a private arrangement.’ Robin and I had already discussed what I would say when we were found out. We’d run over it several times, so I was quite relaxed when confronted by my parents.