by Claire Peate
There was another smell too, mixed in with the smoke. I sniffed, tentatively. It was the sour alcohol smell that hung on the breath of very drunk people. The place smelt like a seedy pub from my university days.
Both Gwyn and I were so numb from our evening that we walked like the dead down the hallway. There was no loud music now, just the noise of the TV.
We walked in to the sitting room, crisps and nuts and broken glass crunching under our feet. Bottles and cans were scattered on the trestle table, leaking their contents onto the wooden floor where it seeped down the cracks in the old boards. There were two unknown men either sleeping or passed out on the sofa, with another slumped on an enormous suede bean bag watching American football on the TV, crumpled can of Stella in one hand and the most enormous joint in the other.
Where was everyone? Where had the girls gone? I struggled to find some evidence of the room I’d left when I’d set out to find Gwyn earlier that evening. Where had our party gone?
The man watching the TV turned round slowly to look at us.
“Hello?” I said.
He looked fuzzily at me through the haze of his spliff. “Yeah.” He raised a hand half-heartedly and turned back to the TV.
“Er, who are you?” I asked.
“Howie,” he said, not turning from watching the game. The name was familiar but I couldn’t work out why.
“Howie. Right. Why are you here?” I could feel Gwyn bristling with anger beside me. The place was trashed. One of the curtains had been pulled from the window and lay crumpled in a corner covered in cans of cider and upturned bowls of crisps. Where was Laura? She would be doing her nut.
“Fuckin’ chucked us out, didn’t he?”
“Who?”
“Fuckin’ tight-arse landlord.” Howie turned round to me, clearly pissed off at having the game interrupted. “Didn’t like the drink and fags.” He waved his can and his joint at me, to demonstrate what a drink and a fag looked like. He turned back to the football.
“Look, Howie, sorry, but I’m just not getting it.” I’d had to deal with a puma, for God’s sake. No junked-up stranger was going to get the better of me. I went up to him and stood in front of the TV blocking his view, which was something Marcia would not have been able to have done, given her skinniness. “Why are you staying here? This is a hen do. You can’t stay over here.”
“We’re the stag do, aren’t we?” As soon as he said the words my heart sank. I knew why I recognised his name now. The worst had happened. “James said we should all come and join you lot rather than try to book ourselves into some other bleedin’ hotel. Anyway, there aren’t any hotels round here in this wasteland. It’s a fuckin’ dump, this area. At least you have a pub near you. There was nothing near us.”
“Where are all the girls?”
“Went to bed, I s’pose. Dunno.” And he was lost to the TV again.
Where was Laura? Surely she wouldn’t have stood for any of this?
I backed off and ran upstairs. Gwyn followed close behind.
I opened my bedroom door, dreading what I’d see.
From the hall light I could make out Henna lying across my bed. Henna wound round one of the policemen, semi-clothed and definitely post-coital, fast asleep.
“Oh my God,” I hissed quietly.
“Your room?” Gwyn whispered.
“Yes. Oh, this is awful!”
I opened the door wider and surveyed the scene. Beer cans, underwear, crushed crisps. I could feel myself trembling with anger and utter despair. I was exhausted. This was the last thing I wanted. Why couldn’t I just go to sleep on my own bed? I was frozen to the spot, shaking and staring at the figures on the bed. Who or what was in her room if she was in mine?
“Look,” Gwyn said softly, holding my arms and standing before me, “come back and stay with me. I’ve got a sofa you could sleep on. You can’t stay here tonight.”
My lovely comfy king-sized bed was just there. It was so unfair after all I’d been through in the last few hours. I felt cheated. I could feel the tears coming down my cheeks for the second time that night, this time out of self-pity.
“Come on.” Gwyn pulled me to him and I fell into his arms and against his chest, which was deliciously broad and warm. We stood there for a few wonderful seconds and I melted into him, listening to his heart beating, closing my eyes. I could sleep just here, standing up next to him. He pulled back gently. “Come on, we really can’t stay here. Have you got a bag or something you want to bring with you?”
“Yes.” I reluctantly left him and hunted round and found my holdall in the dark. My pyjamas were on the floor beside the wardrobe so I threw them in, shaking the crisps off first. I tiptoed around the room as softly as I could so as not to wake the sleeping bed-thieves.
We headed down the corridor towards the staircase. I paused.
“You go to the Land Rover,” I said. “I just want to make sure Laura’s OK. She’s the one who organised the weekend and I absolutely cannot believe she would have let this happen to the house.”
“All right then.” Gwyn crept down the stairs. I lightly knocked at Laura’s door. Nothing. What had happened to her? Was she even in the Hen House or had most of the girls left? But then their cars were still outside. Cautiously, I pushed open the heavy oak door and went in. There on the bed was Laura, Joe the policeman curled up beside her and – Josh! All naked! All three sprawled drunkenly, barely covered by duvet or sheets. I grimaced, feeling sick now, and hastily beat a retreat.
Fair enough – that was why things had got so out of hand with the stag weekend boys. Laura had been otherwise engaged. With Joe and Josh! What kind of a party had it turned into? And there was me sitting in a lonely cold Land Rover further down the valley covered in a filthy old blanket and worrying whether they would have missed me at the party. What was I thinking?
Still, I reasoned as I retraced my steps along the hall and down the staircase, at least I wasn’t about to get hung up on having missed all the action and living a Dull Life. I’d much prefer to have had the evening I’d had, although I would have loved to have witnessed what went off in the Hen House. What had happened to Louisa, who was presumably now somewhere with her fiancé James? What had their reunion been like? What had happened to the other policemen? Where were the other stag weekenders? I was intrigued – but only slightly. More than that, I was exhausted and ached for bed.
Dodging the passed-out puker by the front door, I climbed back into Gwyn’s battered Land Rover.
“Everything OK?” he asked.
“No. It’s an absolute disaster. Boys and girls everywhere.” Gwyn raised his eyebrows but I didn’t elaborate. It was just too seedy to share with him right now, especially as I was on the brink of staying with him. He might think that I was that sort of girl, and he’d get completely the wrong end of the stick. Promiscuity for me these days was falling asleep clutching two remote controls, rather than being faithful to just the one.
I yawned uncontrollably loudly. “Thank you so much for putting me up tonight. There’s no way I can stay there.” I fumbled around with the seatbelt, too tired to know how to work it. Gwyn took it off me and clicked it into place.
“No problem,” he said and we drove off.
Within a few minutes we were outside Gwyn’s house. It felt like years since I’d been at his front door hammering it with a rolling-pin and screaming. Not my finest moment perhaps.
What a very, very strange night. Now that exhaustion had set in it all seemed a bit unreal. Did I really see a puma? Twice? And had we really caught it to take it to mid Wales tomorrow?
Gwyn turned the engine off and I sat in my seat, staring out in front of me in a daze. I closed my eyes for a moment, nestling in to the now familiar seat. I could happily sleep here, right now.
“Come on, Rachel.” He unclipped my seat belt and helped me out. He held my hand and led me inside to his cosy lounge with an enormous sofa that looked almost as inviting as my hijacked double bed back at the He
n House.
“Here,” he said. “It’s not much, I’m afraid, but it’ll take ages to change my bed so it’s probably best if you have this. And it’s very comfy. I fall asleep on it all the time.”
I sank down onto the thick cushions that moulded around me. It felt wonderful. “I can’t thank you enough,” I said, running my hands through my hair and holding my head which felt like it weighed a ton. “Really. I’m so grateful.” I tried to stifle another yawn, but it was so enormous it wouldn’t be stopped.
“I’ll leave you to it then,” he said. “Bathroom’s at the top of the stairs on the right. Goodnight.”
“G’night” I said, yawning again. I ought to find my pyjamas and my toothbrush. Surely I could have a bit of Gwyn’s toothpaste. Couldn’t I? But it was all too much. I was beyond all that. I pushed the holdall onto the floor and sank down onto the sofa, kicking off my kitten heels. The sofa smelt of him and I buried myself deep into it, almost as if I was enveloped by him. Within a few seconds I must have fallen asleep.
I half woke up when I felt him laying a duvet over me and I think, although I can’t be sure, that he kissed the top of my head.
I drifted off.
29
That night I had the strangest dream. I don’t know what it was that put it into my head – maybe having gone through such extremes of terror yesterday, my brain had been temporarily rewired or something, trying to make sense of what had happened.
I dreamt I was back in the office, working away on a report. It was all pretty normal. Except that all my colleagues were pumas. They were dressed in puma-shaped suits with shirts and ties, all busy working away at computers and printers, typing up memos with their great sharp claws tap-tapping on the keys. I’d been so engrossed in my report that I hadn’t noticed I was surrounded by them straight away, but when I did notice, and screamed, they didn’t react to me at all. They just carried on stapling their bits of paper and chatting on the phone, hind legs crossed and up on their desks, twirling the phone cord through their paws.
And then the office doors opened and Gwyn strode in to the department, except Gwyn wasn’t a farmer any more he was dressed just like Peter The Sandwich Man who always sold me my lunch. In his enormous wicker sandwich basket, there weren’t the usual egg and cress sandwiches and tuna mayonnaise wraps; instead there were hundreds of tiny multi-coloured rolling-pins. I peered in and stepped back in horror – each of the little rolling-pins had faces and they were laughing and talking with each other while they were being jostled about. In Welsh.
I woke up with a start.
It was already light. For a split second, I wondered where on earth I was, but then I remembered. Urgh. I buried my head underneath the thick duvet and scrunched my eyes closed – however late it was, I still hadn’t had enough sleep.
And what the hell was that smell? Was that smell coming from me?
Memories of last night came back to me: the puma with the big round eyes, hammering the rolling-pin on Gwyn’s door, and confronting Tomos in the pub. Then the long cold vigil in the Land Rover with the mangy blanket.
Ah! The blanket – that would explain the smell on my clothes.
No wonder I felt so awful. Last night I must have lived three years worth of excitement in one evening. Maybe four years, given the whole Dull Life Crisis thing.
Perhaps I could go back off to sleep again and wake up much, much later. Maybe September. From the very small movements I’d just made, I could tell that things hurt; my legs and my arms had pulled muscles which ached as I shifted around, presumably from being so tensed up around the puma yesterday evening. But really, I thought as I lay buried beneath the duvet trying not to smell the mangy blanket smell, I ought to be getting up. Gwyn would no doubt be awake now, and if not now then soon, and it wouldn’t look very good lazing around on his sofa for hours. And as for the smell, I definitely needed to have a wash and get changed into something that hadn’t come into contact with whatever I’d put around my shoulders last night.
But even though I knew I had to get up, I stayed exactly where I was, under the duvet snuggled up on the sofa and thinking of all the things that needed to be done today.
One thing was for certain: the hen weekend hike was going to be called off. Not just because the girls were going to be too hungover to hike as far as the kitchen in search of a bucket, but also because the state the house was in after the party meant it would be an enormous job just to get it remotely presentable. I’d already mentally said goodbye to my deposit when I’d got as far as the hallway last night. And then, of course, there was the puma. She needed to be taken away to safety; deposited somewhere in mid Wales.
So much to do – but actually all I really wanted to do was stay under the duvet for a while, even though I smelt so bad, and then maybe lounge around with a cup of tea for a while. With Gwyn.
Maybe have another manicure.
That would be nice.
I must look a real state. I peered down under the duvet to see. I was still wearing my party dress, which, thankfully, being velour was relatively uncrumpled. What an absolute brilliant buy it had been. Who would have thought it could be used as sleeping attire? How versatile – I was a bit like Day to Night Barbie where you flip her skirt round and she transforms from pinstripe office-chick to pink tulle party girl. Here was I without the need to turn anything inside out going from party girl to Wee Willie Winkie in one easy step.
But it was my make-up that I knew I really ought to check. I hadn’t taken it off last night when I’d flopped onto the sofa, so now I probably had panda eyes at the very least. I should hunt round in my holdall and find a mirror.
I lay under the duvet still, enjoying the warmth. It was just so damn cosy.
I must have nodded off because the next thing I knew there was a low buzzing noise. I poked my head above the duvet and listened. It was a helicopter.
I really should get up.
I kicked off the covers and immediately regretted making a sudden movement. Everything hurt. How could I have forgotten the pain?
There was no sign of Gwyn and I couldn’t hear anything from upstairs so I gingerly padded over to the window, stretching my aching leg muscles as I went. I pulled aside the curtains. It was a beautiful, sunny day and I winced as I looked out.
When my eyes got accustomed to the light, I could make out two tiny helicopters circling over to the west. Were they up there hunting for the puma? They must be. I yawned and checked my watch which I hadn’t taken off my wrist last night. It was eight o’clock.
I put a hand up to my hair, tentatively. It felt as though a gaggle of small puppies had made a nest on top of my head, the hair was so knotted and fuzzy from sleeping on the sofa. My God, I must look like a complete freak with blackened panda eyes and ten-foot tall bouffant hair, still dressed up in my party gear. Who was it that my mother used to like – Dusty Springfield? Did I look like the trampy version of Dusty Springfield right now?
I really needed to find that mirror and make-up bag. And a bathroom.
“Morning!” Gwyn suddenly breezed in through the front door looking fresh as a daisy.
Hastily I turned back to the window so he couldn’t see my face, desperately trying to smooth down my hair so I didn’t look as unkempt as the slumped, begging vagrants that I used to skip over when I lived in London. At least, unlike them, I hadn’t wet myself. Although actually thanks to the Land Rover blanket it smelt as though I had. What a nice touch.
“Hello,” I said, wishing I were presenting a better image of myself than I currently must be. What on earth would he be thinking? “Thank goodness nothing happened last night – look at the state of her this morning.”
“Do you want breakfast?” Gwyn asked cheerily. How come he was so alert? It wasn’t fair.
“Erm, yes, is that OK?” I said, still avoiding looking at him by concentrating on the view from his window.
“Sure. But there’s only toast, I’m afraid. I never seem to have anything in. Sorry.”
“Toast is fine. Can I go and have a wash?”
I turned round cautiously and he pointed out the bathroom and I grabbed my holdall and ran up the stairs, two at a time, keen to be reunited with my long neglected friends Mr Soap and Mrs Water. Me! Me who every evening before turning in for bed had always stood dutifully in front of my well-ordered bathroom cabinet and carefully cleansed, toned and moisturised. Always so methodical and so in control of everything. To not even have brushed my teeth last night. Now that was really living! So even though I smelt bad, even though I did have panda eyes and it did indeed look like puppies had set up a home for themselves in my hair, I felt just a little bit pleased with myself. I felt a bit slutty. A bit decadent. Look at me – partying in the evening then gallivanting about at night with no time to cleanse, tone and moisturise.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Marcia.
I dug out some clothes and arranged them on the hooks behind me. Gwyn had definitely been cleaning the bathroom that morning, there was an overpowering smell of pine forests, and the basin and bath were gleaming with that just-cleaned look about them. Bless him. I wondered what time he got up? Farmers usually got up at four in the morning, didn’t they? Or was that dairy farmers because of the milking? Would a sheep farmer need to get up that early? Did he milk the sheep? No! Although goats were milked, weren’t they? Why was I even thinking about this? What did it matter? What mattered was the state of my face.
Stuffing my stinky gold dress as far down into the holdall as I could, I had a quick wash in the basin before putting on my jeans and a cherry coloured T-shirt. Then I washed my hair using a bottle of Fruits of the Forest shampoo I found on the side of the bath. (Really, Gwyn? Fruits of the Forest?) I towel-dried it and managed to drag a comb through it so I looked a whole lot more groomed. Lastly I delved into my make-up bag and put on some concealer, a stroke of mascara, a dab of blusher and I was ready to be seen.
Skipping down the stairs, I heard Gwyn clattering around in the kitchen. I dumped my bag and went to join him.