Kissing Frogs

by Tori Turnbull

  “If you’d gone on a couple of dates in the past year and a half, I wouldn’t have had to resort to this. You have to go out, to meet people and kiss a few frogs if you are ever going to meet your Prince Charming.” Mum shifted on her throne, hurt lacing her tone. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Pleased? Pleased?” I gasped. My legs gave out and I sagged down onto the arm of the sofa. “To have a photo that makes me look like a fatter, uglier version of the Girl with a Pearl Earring plastered across half the Underground stations in London? Pleased to be arrested for trying to remove hideous pictures of myself from public view?”

  “It’s only one Underground station, and there’s nothing wrong with that picture.”

  “I have to agree with Muriel there, KT,” Mark said. “You look cute and fresh-faced in that picture.”

  “Wholesome,” Mum added, smiling at Mark. “Besides, you’re not wearing earrings. If anything, you’d be the Girl with a Pearl Necklace.”

  “Shut up, Mark,” I snarled, turning at his burst of laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Mum looked from me to Mark and back again, clearly confused, her platinum bob swinging with her movement.

  “Nothing, Mum. Not a thing.”

  “Then why’s he laughing?”

  “Why don’t you explain to my mother what you find so amusing about my wearing a pearl necklace?” I dared him. I should’ve known better.

  “It’s a euphemism, Muriel,” Mark said.

  “Pearl necklace?” Mum’s forehead furrowed. “A euphemism for what?”

  “A man ejaculating on a woman–”

  Comprehension dawned. “Oh, Kate’s father did that on–”

  “Stop it! Stop it.” I’m a visual person, and the image accompanying Mum’s words was going to scar me mentally for life.

  “I’m just saying–”

  “Don’t.” I would agree to almost anything to end this conversation. Mark, the bastard, was laughing so hard that he had to sit down, practically on my lap.

  Mum sat back shaking her head. “Such a prude. It’s no wonder she can’t get a date.”

  “Oh God.” This wasn’t something I could ignore and it would go away. It wasn’t going to be one of my mum’s passing fancies. She was fixated on this.

  “I don’t know what you’re worrying about.” Mum shrugged. “If the picture is as awful as you say, maybe no one will call and ask you out.” It just kept getting worse and worse. Stephen King couldn’t make this shit up.

  “The only way to get her to stop is to go on a date,” Mark said in an undertone.

  “Why are you still here?” I snapped.

  “I didn’t want to miss all the fun.” His lips twitched, laughter lines fanning out around his eyes.

  I gave him the death glare I learnt from my time in jail (and my addiction to watching Orange Is the New Black). He shrugged, turning back to my mother. “Have you thought about the internet?”

  What? “No!” My elbow landed solidly in his stomach – it was like hitting a brick wall, a surprisingly warm and firm wall, and the shock radiated up to my shoulder. I bit back a whimper as he grunted in pain. “No. Don’t give me that look, Mum.”

  “Everyone uses the internet these days,” she said.

  “Not you.” Please, God, not her. “You can’t even access your email without help.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve been talking to Sarah Fricker’s boy – he’s designing a website now, just like the digital posters. I got the idea from an article I read in a magazine, about a girl who sold her virginity on the internet to raise money for her university fees.” I shuddered at my mum’s idea of interesting reading material. “She got loads of offers from all over the world.” She beamed with satisfaction.

  All over the world echoed in my mind. This horror could go global. There would be no place I could hide. I struggled to focus, to think of the right thing to say to make this nightmare end, but all that came out of my mouth was “I’m not a virgin.” I started to rise from my seat – I couldn’t take any more of this, and no way was I going to sit in front of Mark talking about my lack of virginity. “But I am done with this conversation.”

  “I was only trying to help,” Mum said, lips trembling, tears welling. My heart clenched. I feared her breakdown.

  “You stay here, KT,” Mark said. “I’ll pop through to the kitchen and get you both a nice cup of tea.”

  “Th-thank you, Mark,” Mum hic-sob-spoke.

  I reluctantly sank back down to my chair, flinching with shock as he squeezed my shoulder bracingly on his way out.

  “It was that horrid, spotty boy when you were sixteen.”

  The tears had vanished and my mother picked up the conversation like it hadn’t been disrupted. Why couldn’t she be one of those uninvolved mothers who spent their lives at bingo or on cruises?

  “Fuck!” I raked my fingers through my snarled hair.

  “Don’t swear in front of me, Kate Turner! It’s bad enough that you have a criminal record now. I won’t have you speak to me like…” I closed my eyes and prayed that when I opened them I would discover this was all some sort of shitty practical joke. “Like that,” Mum continued, still hung up on the swearword.

  It didn’t look like my prayers would be answered. This nightmare was my real life. I exhaled a long, slow breath, searching for calm. “I don’t have a criminal record. I only got a verbal warning. And I wouldn’t even have that if it hadn’t been for you trying to pimp me out.”

  “Only? Only?” Mum’s voice rose, edging towards hysteria, and she clutched at her chest again. “I don’t know what I’d have done if Mark hadn’t been here when I heard about your arrest. I’ve tried my best to raise you all by myself, and now you’re in trouble with the police and swearing at me.” Her voice wobbled. Her emotional swings were exhausting, but her heart was in the right place. Yes, she was controlling, but she was also fragile and scared I’d just disappear, leaving her alone. She’d never recovered from her breakdown after the double betrayal of abandonment by her husband and best friend.

  In keeping with the shitty way my life was going today, she lurched back to the loss of my virginity just as Mark returned with a couple of steaming cups, handing one to my mother before crossing back to hand the other to me and sink down onto the sofa, far too close to me. The sofa tipped, tilting me into his warm, hard side, his thigh pressed against the side of mine. I wriggled, trying and failing to put space between us.

  “I wish you could’ve seen him, Mark,” Mum said.

  “Maybe this isn’t a story to share, Muriel.” He no longer looked quite so amused, which made two of us.

  “Nonsense. You’re practically family,” Mum responded. “His name was Donald, or Ronald. No, that’s not right… It was George, or Geoffrey…?”

  If I had the good fortune to die in the next five minutes, I’d be sainted: Saint Kate, Patron of Put-Upon Daughters.

  “Graham. That’s it! Graham. An ugly, scrawny boy with lank, greasy hair and awful skin; spots on his spots. Graham. He was one of those kids that looked like he should end up making a million on dotcoms, big hair, buck teeth, and glasses, and that nose, a massive, great hook of a thing. I never could understand what she saw in him. He didn’t even live up to the geeky looks. The last I heard, he was working a cash register at Super Save.”

  “He works at Sainsbury’s!” My teeth were gritted so tightly that they were going to get impacted.

  “It’s all minimum wage and scanning people’s vegetables.”

  “He’s a manager.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  Mark had clearly had enough of hearing about my teenage boyfriend. “You know, Muriel, the internet is a great idea, but have you thought about video, instead of the still picture? I always think that moving images show everything to its best advantage.”

  I glared at him, horrified. What had I ever done to him? We’d never really gotten along when we were kids; I was shy, he was an older geek, and then
he was studious and I started to act out, but there was no justification for this level of cruelty. I struggled to draw a breath into my constricted chest. Mark continued talking like he hadn’t just made things exponentially worse. “Or there’s YouTube–”

  “Shut up, you bastard!” The words exploded out of me in a venomous hiss.

  “Kate!” Mum snapped. “Mark’s my guest and he’s only trying to help you.” I glared at the traitorous bastard. DNA aside, he’d always been my mother’s favourite child. “I did think about it.” My mother leant forward, patting his denim-covered knee companionably. “But it’s very expensive.”

  “I don’t mind helping out. What’s a little money, after all – as close as you and my mother are, we’re practically family.” He smiled, dimples flashing, blue eyes shining. He was a baseball bat to the face shy of perfect; his previously blade-straight nose was off centre and a little lumpy. Every time I saw him, he gave me reason to draw comfort from the fact I’d been the one wielding the baseball bat. I’d been eight years old; he’d been fourteen. The last summer before everything turned to shit. It was an accident he brought on himself by insisting he knew better than I did.

  Nothing had changed.

  “It’s for a good cause. It might even be tax deductible under charity,” he added. If I had that bat now, we’d see who was smiling.

  “Well, when you put it like that…” Mum beamed at him.

  “This is child abuse,” I said.

  “Such a drama queen still.” He smiled softly, his arm snaking around me to give me a squeeze. I glared and shrugged him off. “I’m happy to edit together a few home videos, Muriel. Something that will show what our lovely KT’s really like.”

  “Hmm.” Mum considered his comments whilst I… I sat gaping at the pair of them like a fool.

  Why was this happening to me? This morning I’d had nothing more important than the hunt for the perfect pair of shoes on my mind. Now my life was in tatters. I wanted to run away and hide. I was past staying to avoid my mother’s emotional meltdown – the only thing keeping me in the room now was self-preservation. Mum had already shown she was willing to publicly pimp me out, and Mark had the know-how and malicious intent to take this shit global. The only way to minimise the destruction of my pride, reputation, and future dating potential was to stick it out and fight my corner.

  “You know,” he said, “my mother has that film of us all in Lanzarote when you were about fourteen, KT. Wasn’t that your first bikini? A tiny black number with a cute little ruffle thing on the front of the top? You know, the one with growing room?” So, I was a late developer. Now I have the opposite problem: it’s next to impossible to keep everything contained.

  “Wasn’t that the holiday just after your first real girlfriend dumped you for your rich, super-hot roommate?” I countered.

  He scowled. “You know, maybe if you made a bit of an effort, took advantage of this wonderful opportunity, and went on a couple of dates, Muriel would hold off on the moving adverts or the webpage, just until we see how things pan out.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I said.

  He laughed. “More than I can say.”

  “Fine, I’ll go on a couple of dates, so long as you promise not to put any more advertising up.” I gave in gracelessly. Not that I had any intention of following through.

  Given the horrendous picture on the poster, I shuddered to imagine the kind of weirdos who’d be calling the message service my mum had had set up. Why couldn’t she have used a nice picture? Yes, it would still be humiliating, but at least there would be the potential for me to get a decent date out of it. That said, by agreeing, I could distract her for long enough that she’d forget about videos and websites. I’d have to leave London, but my embarrassment would be contained to one location. It wouldn’t be global.

  “Excellent,” Mark said. “It sounds like we’ve reached the beginning of an agreement here, ladies.”

  “What about–”

  “No.” I cut Mum off, not caring what she was going to say. I’d reached my absolute limit.

  “Okay then, so long as you have a boyfriend–”

  Hang on a second. “Or am dating!” Was I actually bargaining for control over my own sex life? Yes. Yes, I was. “I might not find a boyfriend overnight.”

  “Hmm, I know you think you’re going to trick me…” She knew me too well. “I’ll hold off on the other adverts for a month–”

  “Three.” In three months, I could get one of my friends to stand in as a boyfriend to put her off the scent, hand in my notice at work, organise a work travel visa for Australia, and emigrate without leaving a forwarding address.

  “Two months.” Mark stepped in to control the negotiations. He smiled from his seat beside me, relaxed and in charge, denim-clad legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Jerk! “So long as KT’s putting some real effort into dating, or has a lasting boyfriend within the next two months – no getting a friend to pretend.”

  “Oh! I didn’t think of that.” Mum beamed at the traitorous bastard.

  He smiled back, leaning forward to pat her knee affectionately. Creep. “That’s because you’re not as devious as your daughter.”

  “Have you forgotten about the digital posters?” I asked. “The pair of you are practically prostituting me, and you say I’m devious.”

  “Stop exaggerating, Kate,” Mum said.

  “The point is, if you fake this dating thing, or fail to take it seriously, Muriel can try online videos.” He waited for Mum’s nod of agreement. “So, it’ll benefit everyone if you put some real effort into finding a boyfriend.”

  Shit. This was it. I was out of options. “Fine, but if I get raped and murdered, I know who to blame.”

  “Kate!” my mum snapped, chastising me like I was a thirteen-year-old.

  “It’s okay.” Mark stepped in quickly, before I could say something for her to really chastise me over. “Now I’ve moved back to London for good, I’m more than happy to tag along on her dates to keep an eye on her.”

  “No!” I shrieked.

  “Really. It’s no trouble. After all, neither Muriel nor I could sleep a wink knowing you might be getting raped and murdered.”

  Chapter 2

  I may not be the best-looking person here, but I’m the only one talking to you.

  “Mark, go away. I’m not in the mood for company.” I was lying on the sofa in my basement flat, underneath my mother’s house, trying to work up the energy to get up and crawl into bed. If I buried myself deep enough under the duvet, maybe I wouldn’t be found for a couple of months. By then, hopefully, this portion of my life would prove to be some horrible hallucination and in my real life I’d be a lottery winner.

  “It’s good that I’m not here to keep you company, then,” he responded.

  Sighing, I leant back against the sofa, looped a strand of hair behind my ear, and watched him cautiously. I’d come down to my flat to get away from him and my mother. Being pimped out then getting arrested was draining. “Fine, if it’ll make you go away quicker, I’ll ask. Why are you here?”

  “I decided it was time spend some quality time with my favourite girl.”

  “Why aren’t you upstairs bothering my mother, then?”

  He ignored my taunt, and his eyes darkened to an impenetrable navy, searching my face for a long, silent stretch. If it wasn’t Mark, I’d have thought he was looking at my mouth with kissing intent, but no, it was Mark. “What makes you think I’m talking about your mother?”

  Who else? “Go away. I’m too tired and pissed off for another one of your games.”

  “There’s no game playing involved. Your mother asked me to do some maintenance, a little DIY.” He dangled Mum’s key to my flat from his index finger. That explained how he got in uninvited. Mum owned the whole building, including my flat. She’d given me the basement a few years ago, and I was slowly converting it into a self-contained flat. Once it was complete, she’d sign it over to
me. There was no way someone my age, single, who loved designer shoes and worked in the public sector (even though I’m an accountant) would be able to live in zone one, the centre of London, in a two-bed flat otherwise.

  “She says you’re renovating and we’ve already established that you don’t have a man around to give you a hand,” he continued. “So, here I am: handyman extraordinaire.”

  I blinked slowly, trying to comprehend. “I thought you were a bank teller or cashier or something?”

  “I was a banker.”

  “With a W.” As in a wanker. It was childish, but I was still sulking over him helping Mum blackmail me. It would never have gone so far if he hadn’t stuck his nose in.

  “You never could spell.”

  “I don’t need to be able to spell to know that you’re an arse.” Perhaps the shock had thrown me into a permanent mental regression. I was certainly acting like a fourteen-year-old.

  “I love the way you say ‘ass’.”

  “It’s arse, Mark. I called you an arse. An ass is a donkey. An arse is something that’s full of shi–”

  “I don’t need to hear the rest of that.” He took a step closer to the couch. I shrank back against the cushions, as he bent over, bracing one hand on the back of the couch, the other on the green suede sofa arm, caging me in.

  “Yeah, well I think you–”

  “Hush.” His firm lips swooped down on mine, cutting off my retort and stalling all rational thought. Then it was over. Almost as soon as I realised what he was doing, he was halfway across the room, watching me with that damn raised eyebrow, daring me to comment.

  I stared at him, heart pounding, eyes wide with shock. What was that? I licked my lips, tasting hot male. Holy hell, had Mark just kissed me? No, it must be something else… some sort of seizure, or PTSD from my time in prison.