by Lindsey Kelk
‘I thought, we should get something very deep and meaningful,’ Matthew started. ‘Like James Franco’s face. But then my artistic talents didn’t extend beyond this.’
He held out a piece of paper showing three five pointed stars intertwined with delicate twirly bits. There really wasn’t a word for twirly bits but it was gorgeous.
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘Chest.’ Matthew tapped just above his heart.
‘Shoulder,’ Em sighed. ‘I suppose.’
‘Really?’ I tried to imagine the design on my bare skin. Shoulder didn’t seem right.
‘Not as tacky as a tramp stamp,’ Matthew said, pulling up Emelie’s T-shirt to reveal an elaborate scroll design at the base of her back. ‘See?’
‘Piss off.’ Em yanked her top back down until it reached her barely there denim shorts. ‘I was seventeen, everyone was doing it.’
‘That’s how the Nazis got into power, you know.’ Matthew looked away as he spoke. ‘Let’s do this.’
‘It hurts,’ Matthew wailed ten minutes later. ‘I can’t do it.’
Emelie was seated on a stool in the far corner of the room, in silence, burly tattoo man number one starting on her third star, while Matthew lay on a bed in the middle of the room and was far from silent. ‘It really, really hurts,’ he began whining again.
Burly tattoo man two sighed and pulled away the needle. ‘I did tell you this was a sensitive area. I’m almost bloody done. So either shut up and let me get on with it or I write pussy across your forehead.’
Matthew gritted his teeth and nodded for him to continue, the self-sacrificing trooper that he was. I sat quietly beside the bed, letting him try and break my hand while I waited for one of the artists to finish up. Did all tattoo parlours have to be painted red? And did all tattoo artists have to have aggressive haircuts? The walls were covered in the artists’ previous works: seemingly there was a huge preference for crosses, roses and boobs amongst London’s tattooed community. Where were the pretty tattoos you saw on celebrities? Was the wall art some sort of test for the people who just wandered in for a Tweetie Pie on the ankle?
‘Right, I’m done,’ burly tattoo man number one announced over by Emelie’s stool. ‘Let’s have you over here.’
‘Let go,’ I hissed, wriggling my hand out of Matthew’s grip and walking bravely over to the stool. Em shuffled across to an empty seat, a little pale but at least she wasn’t screaming in agony. Unlike some people.
‘It was fine,’ she said, wincing as the tattoo artist laid the dressing over her fresh ink. ‘Not nearly as bad as I thought.’
I explained to the artist what I wanted – the same design as Emelie and Matthew, on the inside of my left wrist – and closed my eyes as he took a disposable razor to the area. Then he wiped it down with antiseptic and laid out his tools. Fresh needles. Fresh ink. Bloody great big buzzing power tool that was about to scar me for life.
‘Just breathe; it’ll only take a minute,’ he reassured me with a smile. Underneath his lack of hair and assorted skull and naked woman tattoos, he actually seemed quite lovely. ‘Really, it’s not that bad, just a scratch.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, trying to ignore my increasing heart rate and squeezing my eyes shut. To be honest, the razor bothered me more than the needle. At least it did until I heard the needle power up. It was like a dentist drill. A dentist drill was about to be applied to the delicate skin of my inner wrist. ‘I’ll be fine.’
And I was for the first couple of seconds. Then the stinging started. Followed by the undeniable sensation of a needle cutting into my skin. So it was true. Tattoos were not pricked on by unicorn horns. Damn it.
‘Are you all right?’ I heard Matthew ask. The lack of sobbing coming from his general direction suggested he was finished.
I nodded in response but couldn’t quite make words. This really wasn’t as pleasant as sitting in a salon and having someone fuss all over me for an afternoon. But I was getting a tattoo. Me, a tattoo. Next up, swearing at the teacher and smoking behind the bike sheds.
‘Well, while you’re incapacitated, I have some exciting news.’
Oh god. What could it be? He was moving to Mexico with José. He was going on Britain’s Got Talent. He was pregnant.
‘So, you know how me and Emelie both know your Facebook password?’
‘Leave me out of it,’ she shouted across the room. Burly tattoo artist number one frowned at the raised voices. He was obviously a delicate thing.
‘I did not know this Matthew, no.’ I gritted my teeth and prepared myself for the worse. I had a horrible feeling – a feeling that had nothing to do with the needle being dragged through my skin – that I knew what he was about to say.
‘It’s nothing really. Nothing that wasn’t going to happen anyway, I’ve just sped things along a little bit. I might have messaged Ethan,’ he backed away until he was out of kicking range, ‘as you.’
‘As me?’ My voice was unnaturally squeaky. But then, there wasn’t anything natural about having needles dragged through your skin, was there? ‘What have you done?’
‘Nothing, I just sent him a message asking if he was the Ethan Harrison you used to go to orchestra with and, you know, hello. That’s all.’
I didn’t need to see his face to know he was lying.
‘And what else?’
‘Nothing! Really.’
‘Matthew?’
‘Nothing. But, well, he replied.’
Burly Tattoo Man Number One finished up with a smile.
‘All done,’ he said, wiping off the tiny drop of blood and excess ink. ‘Keep it clean, put a dab of antiseptic cream on it a couple of times a day and you’re golden. Then kick him in the balls, that’s a proper shit thing to do.’
I thanked him with a hug, which admittedly might have been a bit much, but the post-tattoo endorphins were starting to buzz around my body. If I felt good for getting a haircut, I felt amazing for getting a tattoo. It was suddenly very clear to me how people got addicted to this.
Once we were all done, I couldn’t stop looking at the white bandage on my wrist. Matthew was looking very pleased with himself. Emelie just looked as though she was going to throw up.
‘Let’s get you outside.’ I put my arm around her waist and walked her towards the door.
‘I’ll pay, don’t worry,’ Matthew called after us.
‘Oh, you’ll pay,’ I promised. ‘Don’t you worry.’
After Matthew had settled up, we headed out for the freshest air we could find to revive Em. I led the wounded soldiers to a couple of empty benches outside the Tate Modern in complete silence. I had no idea what I wanted to say to Matthew. I knew exactly what I wanted to do, but say? Nuh-uh. It had taken a little over an hour to do all three tattoos and by the time we made it over to South Bank, the sun was high in the sky, behind London’s landmarks.
‘I cannot believe you did this.’ I clutched at my dressing, focusing on that fresh tattoo buzz and not the rising homicidal tendencies I was experiencing. ‘What were you thinking?’
‘You know I try not to think where men are involved,’ he shrugged, sitting down beside me while Em took the neighbouring bench alone. She looked as if she needed a minute. ‘I thought it would be good for you. He’s cute, you already know him, he’s in another country. It’s totally safe flirtation.’
‘Just tell me exactly what you said,’ I sighed.
‘Not a lot.’ Matthew flung his leg over the bench, narrowly missing clubbing Em in the face. ‘Just the usual, good to hear from you, what are you up to, I’m doing this, blah, blah, blah.’ He passed out cans of Diet Pepsi he’d picked up en route.
‘You don’t get to blah-blah over the details when you hack into my Facebook page and email boys,’ I said, holding the cold can of cola to my bandage. ‘What exactly did you say? Word for word.’
‘Wouldn’t it just be easier for you to read it?’ Matthew suggested. ‘I can’t remember what I said, you’ve got an iPhone.’
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‘No, you need to read it out loud so I’ve got my hands free to punch you at the pertinent parts. I can’t do that if I’m holding a phone and a drink.’ I huddled up next to Emelie, who was still sitting quietly, can unopened in her lap. ‘And be quick about it, it’s not warm.’
‘Fine.’ He pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket. ‘Just remember before you start getting shitty, I did this for you.’
‘Whatever, just read it.’ I hugged Em a little closer and stared across the water, watching buses run up and down the roads, St Paul’s peeping out above them. Pretty.
‘Hi there, I’m not totally sure if you’re the right Ethan Harrison, it’s been so long! But if you are, I’m Rachel Summers and we were in an orchestra together when we were younger. I was just messing around on Facebook and thought I’d look you up. Give me a shout if this is you! Would be great to be back in touch. Rachel, kiss kiss kiss,’ Matthew took it upon himself to read the message out in a hilarious girl voice. Which was, of course, hilarious.
‘And he replied?’
‘He did, right away.’ He traded his girly voice for a terrible Canadian accent despite a) being seated next to a native Canadian, and b) that he was well aware that Ethan had grown up in bloody Surrey. ‘Hi Rachel! Yes it’s me! It’s so great to hear from you!’
‘You don’t need to exaggerate the exclamation points quite so much.’ I couldn’t deny it, my heart was pounding. Ethan bloody Harrison. Ethan Harrison thought it was great to hear from me. Or from a 29-year-old gay man masquerading as me.
‘Whatever, what straight man is so excited about life? “Hi Rachel, yes it’s me, it’s so great to hear from you. How’s it going? I tried to look for you on here once but I couldn’t find you. Seems like there are a lot of Rachel Summers in the UK. So what’s going on with you? Married? Kids? Still in Surrey? I moved to Toronto after A levels when my dad got a job out here. It’s pretty awesome. I’m a high school music teacher now – who’d believe it after how bad I sucked in orchestra, right? Lol!”’
‘Lol?’
‘Lol.’
Hmm. Wasn’t sure the father of my children would Lol.
‘And then just “Write me back, I’d love to hear from you.” Which is nice.’
‘I ought to throw your phone in the bloody river,’ I said. Ideally I wouldn’t have been grinning ear to ear as I spoke, but beggars can’t be choosers.
‘Do it, I need an upgrade.’ He gave me a nudge.
‘You ought to be shot.’ I picked at the edge of my bandage. ‘You reckon I can take it off yet?’
‘Yeah, it’s been ages.’
It hadn’t even been an hour.
Matthew pulled at the neck of his shirt, unfastening a couple of strategic buttons to peer at his own. ‘Ew, it’s been bleeding.’
‘You woman.’ I tried not to wince as I pulled away my own dressing. Three little black stars sat out in sharp contrast to my pale skin. ‘I can’t believe we got tattoos.’
‘I know,’ Matthew replied, sticking his bandage back down. ‘We should go and get some cider and drink it in the park while we smoke a pack of Lambert & Butler or something.’
‘Behold people, item number four. Bloody busy couple of days.’
‘A toast,’ Matthew raised his Diet Pepsi to mine. ‘Do you feel any different? Now that you’re a third of the way along the road to being a real singleton?’
‘I feel amazing actually,’ I said. ‘Like I could do anything.’
My wrist hurt. My head buzzed. I wanted to look at my tattoo. Because I had a tattoo.
‘You can,’ he replied, rubbing my back. ‘That’s the point of this list, isn’t it? To help you realize that.’
‘It is,’ I nodded slowly. ‘And I cannot tell you how pleased I am to have my OCD validated.’
‘I don’t think it would be that good an idea to try and bungee jump off Westminster Bridge. Two’s enough for one day, don’t you think?’ Matthew let his arm settle on my shoulders.
‘Simon hated tattoos,’ I said. ‘He would hate this.’
‘Well, you didn’t do it for him,’ he reminded me. ‘You did it for you. Because you wanted to do it. That’s how you’re making all your decisions from now on. Remember that every time you look at it.’
‘And I can totally cross it off the list.’ I was delighted. Being terribly careful about my wrist, I pulled out the scabby napkin, found my black pen and dutifully ticked off ‘Get a tattoo’.
‘And you’ve already got your crush, your makeover, and Emelie tells me you attempted to exercise,’ he said, ruffling my hair. ‘You’re doing so well.’
‘You as well.’ I gave him a nudge in the ribs. ‘Just exactly who were you entertaining last night?’
Since StephenGate, Matthew hadn’t actually allowed a man over his threshold. Not that he hadn’t been over theirs; he just couldn’t mentally deal with the idea of someone else in his and Stephen’s place. It was understandable, or at least it was now.
‘Just a friend.’ He dismissed my question out of hand. ‘We’ll do me when we’ve done you, don’t worry.’
‘Well, I’m thirty-three-and-a-third per cent more successfully single than I was on Saturday, so I’ve got thirty-three-and-a-third per cent more time to worry about you,’ I said with some pride. ‘We’re getting down to the tough ones though. Might have to wait until tomorrow. Apparently Em and I are going out tonight, some charity thing, and she says I have to dress up. Could take some time.’
‘Sounds tough,’ he replied. ‘Dress up like a girl?’
‘Like a girl. And not just put on a dress, the whole shebang,’ I confirmed, stashing the napkin carefully back inside my handbag. ‘Em, you ready to head home? I’m feeling a tub of Marks and Sparks Rocky Road bits coming on … oh shit, Matthew.’
On the opposite bench, Em was slumped forwards, her head tucked between her knees and a very attractive puddle of puke on the floor by her feet.
‘Emelie, are you OK?’ I asked as I rushed over, crouching down at the side of her; being very, very careful not to get near the vom. New shoes. New suede shoes. ‘Em?’
‘I puked.’
‘You did,’ I pushed her hair back from her face. She had not puked in her hair. Result. ‘But it’s OK.’
‘’Bleurgh,’ she whispered. ‘Puke.’
‘Matthew!’ I called back to the bench but I’d been replaced by a tall, combat-short-wearing man who was preening himself and trying to give Matthew a piece of paper. Dear god. It would all have been terribly cute. If our friend hadn’t been throwing up in front of the Tate Modern. ‘MATTHEW.’
A little giggling, acceptance of the piece of paper, followed by an awkward handshake, followed by a face like thunder stomping over in my general direction.
‘What?’ he demanded, looking at Emelie unimpressed. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She’s sick,’ I said, stroking her hair. The universally approved action for consoling a pukey friend. ‘We need to take her home.’
‘Excellent timing.’ He bent down and scooped her up, tossing her over his shoulder. Which was when she threw up down his back. ‘Brilliant.’
I followed dutifully, trotting behind and knotting her hair into a bun on the back of her head. ‘And she’s not even drunk.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ I said, hobbling slightly in my high heels. ‘I look ridiculous.’
‘You look hot,’ Emelie replied. ‘Now just be quiet. Chin up, tits out and follow me. Let me show you how we do this.’
Following her public pukeathon, Emelie had spent two hours in my bathroom and emerged looking as if she’d had a full night’s sleep. It really was disgusting. Her hair was glossy and curled, her skin soft and scented and, once I’d been at her with my make-up kit, she looked like a goddess. I’d tried my best. My red hair was shiny and smooth, I’d gone all out with my make-up in that I was actually wearing some, and I’d added my new black platform heels to make me feel more lad
ylike. Somehow, it was sort of working. I had to admit, we looked good.
‘Bonsoir.’ She batted her eyelashes and laid the accent on thick for a group of very well-dressed smokers outside The Savoy. ‘Light?’
All three men began patting themselves down feverishly, staring at Emelie’s skintight red dress. Eventually one held up a lighter, triumphantly shoving the other two out of the way.
‘It’s crazy inside, right?’ She placed the cigarette between her lips and nodded for him to light it. The flame lit up her perfect make-up and he was done. Completely smitten. ‘We had to step outside for a break. It was just getting so … sweaty.’
I didn’t know where to look. She was shameless. But so, so effective. It was some sort of charity do, an auction of original artworks to raise money for, well, something depressing. Em had donated an original Kitty Kitty sketch. Not being eleven, I sometimes forgot about Kitty Kitty. To me it was that cat cartoon she used to do when she should have been studying, the one Matthew would inevitably redraw to make it obscene. To the tweens of Great Britain, the Netherlands, Brazil and Germany, it was the highest grossing non-media brand for girls under fourteen. Quite impressive really. And happily for me, that income kept her in designer outfits for me to borrow at times like this. Declaring the event a mission, she had pulled the two tightest dresses from her wardrobe and declared the evening on. We were going to find me a date to my dad’s wedding if it killed us. It was a charity do, after all: surely some well-meaning man with too much time and money would take pity on me?
‘I don’t think being outside has helped me at all,’ Em announced to the assembled gents. ‘Perhaps you would like to get me and my friend a drink?’
She ground her unsmoked cigarette into the ground and smiled brightly. Partly because she didn’t smoke and partly because, as she’d explained on the way, this was all part of her plan to teach me the art of flirting. Her role was to chat up likely suspects. Mine was to shut up, look pretty, and do as I was told. I believe it was Meatloaf who had said two out of three ain’t bad … The dress she had chosen for me was genuinely beautiful. I’d actually gasped when she held it out. Narrow black straps at my shoulders cut into a super low V neck that on Emelie must have been indecent. Given my comparative lack of charms, I had convinced myself I made it look elegant. At least, judicious use of double-sided sticky tape meant that I wasn’t going to make it look pornographic. The tightly fitted top half billowed into layers of ruffles that I could just about manage not to trip over if in the platforms. Of course, they provided their own problems. I was not going to be able to drink. Or I was going to have to drink a lot, I wasn’t sure which. I’d gone for neutral lipstick and my most carefully applied winged liquid eyeliner – maximum drama, minimal touch-ups. Definitely elegant.