Love on the Dancefloor

by Liam Livings

  “You still listening to me?”

  “Yep.”

  “So can we come over, visit you, like? Both of us. I doubt he’ll come if I’m honest, but we’ll cross that bridge as and when.”

  “Fine, yeah, whatever.”

  Mum was talking about if they could stay at ours, or if they’d have to book somewhere else, and saying she’d prefer staying with us, and then asking which airport to fly from and whether or not they’d have to drive on the wrong side of the road, on the wrong side of the car, and how the hell we’d got used to all that palaver. At the point where I thought my stomach was going to drop through the floor into the flat below us, the door opened with a click and the chatter of a group of people.

  “Mum, gotta go. Something’s come up.” I put the phone down, walked to the door and hugged Paul tight. Then, once I’d established he wasn’t a mirage and was indeed stood in front of me, grinning and twinkling those beautiful eyes of his, I said, “Where the fucking hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick. Thought you were dead, in a ditch, kidnapped, taken by the Mafia. All sorts.”

  Paul said, “You do worry, don’t you? Have this.” He handed me a pill. “Catch up with us lot. Come and let me introduce you to everyone. I’ve told them all about you. They’d heard of us on the posters and flyers, and when they met me, they were made up—they wanted to meet you. I said they could as soon as we got back here.” He paused, smiling at me. “Come on.” He twirled round and danced into the middle of the room in time with the quiet music floating through the open door.

  The room filled with dancing strangers, and the music became louder when Paul inserted a clubbing mix CD into the player and resumed his position in the middle of the room, hands in the air, eyes closed, hips gyrating.

  It all happened so quickly, I hardly knew what to feel, never mind what to do. I was so relieved he was back, safe, alive, but now he was with a group of randoms wanting to have a party in our living room, my living room. I didn’t know how to broach those two facts at the same time. I pushed past a few dancing strangers into the small kitchen where I put my head under the running tap and closed my eyes, drinking the water and enjoying the cooling sensation as it soaked my hair and face, wishing when I opened my eyes again I would find something different from when I’d closed them.

  I shook my head, spraying water all around the kitchen, and turned to face the living room. Same random people, same random music, same random situation. Same random fucking life.

  Fuck it, this is my life, my living room, my boyfriend, I’m going to talk to him.

  I strode across the room, knocking a few people over. The crowd parted like Moses with the Red Sea until I reached the middle. The core of all this. Paul. My Paul.

  He was gyrating in time with the music, staring at me, arms stretched far either side of his body. “All right?”

  “Can we have a word?”

  “Now?”

  I nodded, grabbed his arm and led him to the balcony. Once there, I said, “What the actual fuck?”

  “Come on, it’s a party. It’s a laugh. It’s fun. Remember fun?”

  “Yeah, I do, as it goes. But unlike you, I know when I’ve had enough, when I have to return to earth to get on with my normal life.”

  “We’re not working for a while. I checked. I think I did.” He looked out the corners of his eyes, screwed up his mouth, then looked back at me, smiling. “I think.”

  “Not the point.”

  “Let’s go higher and higher. Together.” He took my hands and tried to lead me back into the room. I resisted.

  I twirled Paul round so his back was against the balcony rail, walked across the living room, switched the music off, turned the lights on, clapped and said, “That’s it, everyone. Party’s over. Home, please.”

  A chorus of “No!” and “Why?” and “Do we have to?” filled the room, but I stood resolute.

  Paul walked into the middle of the floor, next to me, his eyebrows furrowed as he took in the guests gathering their things and slowly walking towards the door. “He’s only joking. Stay. Dance. Come on.” He walked to the CD player and pressed play. The room filled with music.

  A few people started dancing again, but I unplugged the CD player. “Off you fuck, please, everyone.” I clapped.

  Once all the randoms had gone, I sat next to Paul on the sofa. His legs were shaking in time with some imaginary music, and his hands tapped in time to some beat on his thighs. “All right?”

  “I’ve had better nights.”

  “What you have to go and do that for?”

  “What did you have to go and disappear for? You had me worried sick! I thought you’d died. I thought I was never gonna see you again. I went to the fucking police station. Politzie, or whatever it is in Spanish. I was worried. What the fuck happened to you? You just disappeared.”

  He shrugged. “I forgot.”

  “What did you forget? Being at Amnesia and forgetting—that’s pretty poetic, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled awkwardly. “Funny.”

  “It’s anything but funny, actually. It’s scary. Terrible. Worrying. Me not sleeping. Me not telling Mum you’d gone missing cos I was embarrassed. It’s me going to the Politzie station and reporting you missing. That’s what this is. This fucking mess. So don’t say it’s funny. Don’t you dare say it’s funny to me, with your big smile and your big, wide, innocent eyes. Cos it’s not gonna work. I’d kill you if I hadn’t already thought you were dead.”

  He shrugged. “So I went off for a bit. You knew I’d be back. I know where we live. I’ve lived here as long as you. I’m a big boy, I can look after myself, you know.”

  I leant forward so my face was inches from his. “I can hardly look at you. I can’t believe you’ve done this. Why would you just disappear?”

  “You know I’d never cheat on you. You can trust me.” He held my hand and started stroking it.

  I pulled my hand away. “But sticking together, always sticking together, all night, that is our thing. That was our thing. Why the change?”

  “I didn’t think. I wasn’t thinking. I got swept up with everything. I didn’t think.”

  “That’s just it, isn’t it? I don’t know who you are anymore. You’re disappearing before my eyes.” I left the flat, slamming the door on my way out.

  I had to leave him alone when he was like that. There was no point trying to have a sensible conversation with him while he was totally off his face and I was on a comedown. I walked along the nearby beach, found the shade under a tree where we sometimes had picnics together. I lay on my front and—using my arms as a pillow and with the background chat of people, the splash of the waves and the cool breeze on my face—fell asleep.

  ***

  Sometime later, I was woken by a tickling sensation on my nose.

  Paul knelt in the sand by my head with a bag in one hand and a feather in the other. “Thought I’d find you here.”

  “What do you want, a prize?” I rolled over, my back to him.

  “I brought lunch. Chorizo, bread, manchego cheese and olives. The green ones you like. An apology picnic.”

  I did like olives, especially the green ones. And the cheese and chorizo was our comedown lunch that we’d had dozens of times before on the beach, each mouthful of crunchy bread, red spicy sausage and creamy cheese gradually revising us back to our usual human-being levels of functionality.

  “Sparkly water too.”

  That was what we always called sparkling water to each other. Our little joke. I sat upright, legs crossed, elbows resting on my thighs. The sun was low in the sky, and it was no longer too hot to sit out of the shade. “Do you want to sit in the sun or is it too bright for you?”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  We moved a few steps into the sun.

  Paul sat opposite me, putting his hands on my legs. “What did your mum have to say?” He unwrapped the cheese, sausage and bread and laid them on the bag.

  “When?”r />
  “You said you’d spoken to her and hadn’t told her I’d gone missing. See? I do listen. I was listening. I wasn’t totally bollocksed.” He was assembling a sandwich with the separate ingredients.

  “You were pretty bollocksed. You were well beyond having a sensible, well-reasoned conversation.”

  “I wasn’t. I got a bit over-enthusiastic, inviting all those people back.”

  “I’m not arguing about it. I can soon walk home alone.”

  Paul handed me a cheese and chorizo sandwich on crusty bread. “Please don’t. Please stay.”

  I bit into it. The oily paprika of the sausage mixed with the creamy cheese encased in the crispy bread were, as always, the perfect combination. I chewed thoughtfully for a while.

  Paul handed me the bottle of sparkly water.

  “Thanks.” I took a swig. “I sometimes wish we were back to working in the shops, living in that flat in Catford, doing this at the weekend. Things were simpler then, don’t you think?”

  “It was your idea to come here. It wasn’t all me. ‘It’s what Auntie Luella would have wanted,’ you said. ‘It’s the perfect timing just as we’re about to be thrown out of the flat,’ you said.”

  I had. That was exactly what I’d said; there was no denying that. “Aren’t you eating?”

  He tapped his stomach. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You made all this for me and you don’t even want any?”

  “Yep.” He smiled. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have brought the randoms back with me. Shouldn’t have disappeared, sorry.”

  “It was always us two. Together. That’s our thing. No matter who we bump into, who we talk to, where we end up, we stay together. We knew I was going home with you, and you were going home with me. No matter what else was going on, that was our thing. And this sort of threw all that out the window. I don’t know what’s happening to you.”

  “Nothing’s happening to me. I’m still me. Nothing’s changed. Promise.” He kissed me.

  I offered him some of my sandwich. It was too delicious to not share.

  He waved it away. “Not hungry. Not at all.”

  I stared into his eyes; the pupils were pretty large for sitting outside in the afternoon sun. “Did you go to sleep after I left? Or did you just carry on partying on your own?”

  “What does it matter? The randoms left, I’m here now.”

  I put my half-eaten sandwich back on the bag with the rest of the food. “Are you ever going to tell me where you disappeared to yesterday?”

  “If I knew, I’d tell you. I sort of lost myself. I’m sorry. I’m back now.” He stared at me.

  Are you? I felt the sickness welling up from the bottom of my stomach, rising into my throat as the smallest thought about whether this new life in Ibiza, thanks to wonderful generous Auntie Luella, was actually pushing him farther away from me. Farther away and into what, I wasn’t quite sure. Even though he was sitting a few inches in front of me, I still wasn’t a hundred percent convinced he was back; not all of him, anyway. And a little bit of me worried I’d never quite get him back if things continued as they currently were.

  “I didn’t mean to disappear. I got talking to some people, they suggested I come back to theirs for an afterparty. I went back to find you in the club and you’d gone. They were just about to leave so—”

  “You left without me.” I stared at him.

  He nodded. “Not good. But I wasn’t thinking. I just…did it.”

  “Same with this morning, I suppose?” I asked.

  “Pretty much. More of the same. I remember thinking when I arrived with everyone that you’d missed out on the party last night so you’d want to join in with this one.”

  “I can see your logic. Kind of.”

  “Not thinking. Again. Sorry. Very sorry.” He paused and took a bite of the crusty bread sandwich he’d made me. “Shall we walk home, cuddle up on the sofa, put some chill-out music on, watch the sunset from the balcony? How’s that sound?”

  Because I was exhausted from lack of sleep, from a busy week of working, from the conversation we’d been having, from the worry, from the night at the police station, from pretending to Mum everything was OK, I just nodded, and we tidied up the picnic and walked along the beach, as the sun set, holding hands, saying nothing.

  Once back in the flat, I felt an urgency from him, a desperate need to be with me, to show me he still loved me, that he was still him, to do what we’d always done so well together, how we’d always had such chemistry, fitted together so well in bed. He grabbed at my clothes, kissing my face, my chest, my stomach. With the balcony windows open, he knelt in front of me and made love to me, taking me in his mouth as I stood, stroking his head. Although I enjoyed it, there was a tinge of desperation in his actions, like he was giving me a blow job as if his life depended upon it, not coming up for air, not pausing to look up at me like he usually did, just keeping on with his head bobbing up and down.

  Sensing something wasn’t quite right, I pulled back and lifted him to stand in front of me, kissed him, enjoying my taste in his mouth, turning myself on even more than I’d been before.

  “My turn,” I said with a smile. I knelt and unbuttoned his combat trousers, pulling them down with his underpants. His musky smell hit me strong in the nostrils, and I felt myself stiffen, reaching to pull on myself.

  He hunched forward, saying he was OK, and he wanted to carry on where he’d left off.

  I told him I wanted to make love to him, and for him to relax. But it wasn’t until five minutes of licking, squeezing, rubbing and teasing later I realised something wasn’t right. He was having a serious case of Mr. Floppy, and nothing I was doing with my hands or mouth was having any effect.

  He pulled his trousers and underpants up and sat on the sofa, arms folded. “Said I wasn’t bothered. You should have let me get on with it. I’m all right.”

  I tucked myself back in and joined him on the sofa. “You’re not all right. What’s up? Am I doing it wrong?” I knew I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to go in all guns a-blazing with accusations of him being off his tits still.

  “No.”

  “When did you last drop?”

  He counted on his fingers after looking at the wall clock. “Four hours. It’s not that. I dunno what it is. It’s nothing. Stand up and I’ll do you.”

  “Someone mentioned something about a chill-out album and the sunset. Does that offer still stand?”

  “After.” He tried to undo my trousers.

  I held his hands and shook my head. “It’s all right. There’s other times. I want it to be both of us, when we’re both in the mood, so we can click together, like we always do.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It just happened. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This never normally happens to me. I didn’t want to let it spoil things for you. Let me finish you off.”

  I stood and put a chill-out CD on. “Mum said she wants to fly over, see the setup for herself. Reckons Dad might come too. That’s OK with you, isn’t it?”

  The room filled with a slow song, floating through the air, wrapping us in its comforting noises.

  He leant his head on my shoulder. “Suppose so. Bit serious, isn’t it? Parents visiting us?”

  “Why?”

  “Showing them we’re together. Pressure, that’s what it is.”

  “Is it?” I hadn’t thought about it like that before and told him so. “It’s just Mum and Dad wanting to spend time with us in the sun. Doesn’t mean anything more.”

  “OK, then,” he said quietly. “I don’t like all the talk about future intentions.”

  “Mum was joking. Anyway, never mind future intentions. What happened to you last night?” I sensed he wanted to change the subject.

  “I don’t know where I went. Honest. If I did, I’d tell you. Some people’s flat a taxi journey away. But I do know I didn’t cheat on you. Cross my heart and hope to die.” He crossed his heart.

  “I believe you.” Because I
have to. Because I’m pleased you think I’m not useless enough to cheat on.

  We stared out the window at the orange-red sunset as it descended over the buildings, disappearing into the sea beyond.

  ***

  Later that evening, once we were in bed, he spooned me from behind, reaching round to pull me at the front, kissing my neck.

  I leant back to kiss him, pushing myself backwards, anticipating his hardness pressing into me, into where he pushed his thumb, but as I pushed myself backward, backward, backward, there was no hardness to meet.

  He continued pulling me towards the finishing line. I reached behind, trying to grab his hardness, but was met with Mr. Floppy again.

  His hand frantically pulled at me, quicker and quicker.

  I asked what was the matter, and did he want me to do him? He could lay back and I would fill him—that was something he usually loved, something that would awaken his sexuality, reignite our spark. But he stopped me talking, pushed my lips together with a kiss, and continued pumping away at me with his hand until I finished.

  “Where were you?” I asked quietly, trying to stroke him behind myself.

  “I’m here. I’m always here,” he said, closing his eyes.

  I’d never felt further from him before. Even when he was missing in the club, he’d felt like the possibility of returning to me, but in our bed, him lying behind me, his breath on my back, he was nowhere to be found, and I didn’t know why, or what I could do about it.

  CHAPTER 13

  A FEW WEEKS later, we took Mum to a daytime Spaced dance party on one of our rare nights off: something laid-back, something chilled out, something we felt would be a good introduction to the whole Ibiza clubbing scene. We wanted to take it easy. We agreed we’d not go mad, not get completely mad out of it, and would ease Mum into the whole scene.

  Mum had wanted to visit us for ages and finally we’d managed to make it happen. She’d also been on about dropping with us since we’d agreed the dates she was visiting us.

  In fact, she’d been interested in it as a new drug since the first time I’d come home with eyes like bin lids, having a one-man disco in the kitchen, throwing shapes in time with the little kitchen CD player.