Getting Over It

by Anna Maxted

  I reply – and I swear I wouldn’t have said this had I been conscious – ‘Yeah.’ Which is how I wake up on Sunday morning at 10.22 starkers and squashed right up against Tom’s naked – I’ll say that again – n-a-k-e-d – chest.

  My eyes ping open and I marvel at him sleeping. His hair is even more tousled than normal and his cheeks are flushed and he is breathing deeply. Broad shoulders. I lift the duvet a little to inspect his chest and whew, I’ve seen worse. Not too muscled but defined, solid. Nice nips. And not scarily hairy like Marcus. I wonder if he’s naked all the way down. I also wonder if it would be possible to sneak into the bathroom – which would entail clambering over him knickered but otherwise nude – and brush my teeth. I run my tongue over them. They feel like suede. Should I chance it?

  I glance at Tom to check he’s still asleep and he snorts gently through his nose so I reckon it’s safe and I am lifting the duvet higher so I can peer lower when a hand shoots out and grabs mine and he shouts ‘gotcha!’ and I scream. He grabs my other hand and rolls on top of me – at this point I realise he’s wearing boxer shorts – and pinions me to the bed. ‘So!’ he says, blue eyes boring into mine. ‘Thought you’d sneak a preview!’

  I am writhing and squealing – part shock part horror – not least because my own chest is on full wobbly view and we haven’t even slept together yet. In the rude sense, I mean. This is wrong! I envisaged a slow, tantalising striptease, my prize lace Wonderbra teasingly unpeeled, his trembling hands caressing my skin, me unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his beautifully toned torso, his taut sinewy biceps, slowly undoing his belt buckle, feeling his, ah, arousal bulging beneath his Calvin Kleins (pref, grey cotton, unfussy). Damn and damn again.

  ‘Do you mind!’ I shout primly, trying to obscure my breasts with my shoulders (don’t bother trying – it’s physically impossible). ‘I need to brush my teeth. They’re filthy!’

  Tom laughs and murmurs, ‘But I like filthy,’ and he bends and brushes his lips on my left nipple and a great whopping thud of desire whips through me and I arch against him and we’re kissing and I say ‘woof!’ to excuse my dog breath and he says, ‘Helen, you’re fucking gorgeous, God you’re sexy’ and I think, me. Are you talking to me? I don’t see anybody else around here . . .

  And you know what, I do feel sexy, very sexy, the sexiest woman in the room, and suddenly I’m grabbing at him and kissing and sucking and licking and he’s kissing and sucking and licking – I haven’t been so delirious since I discovered that Dime bars occur in mini form and I’m attacking Tom in the same greedy passionate must-have way and he’s grabby and ravenous and all over me too and when I pull at his hair and nibble at his neck he groans and runs his fingers down my back and over my stomach and down, and oh God that feels promising, ‘get these off!’ I hear myself saying – and he’s yanking off my black knickers and I’m pulling at his boxers – navy but would I care if they were orange pantaloons, well maybe for a second but not – woho!

  And I make no apology for our appalling lack of originality, I say ‘oh God that’s big!’ and he gasps and says ‘oh Helen! you feel so good!’ and it’s wonderful and I hope my father isn’t listening in and Tom and I are so desperate to – as I think I say – ‘get it in!’ his penis boinks against my inner thigh and we snigger and he says ‘ow!’ and I giggle ‘nearly snapped!’ and then, oh. my. God. it tastes it feels indescribably delicious and I’m oohing and ahing fit to burst and we’re kissing and moving together and we’re so together I don’t want it to end and even when I do a loud fanny fart and squirm with embarrassment he grins and says ‘wahey!’ and kisses me harder and I think in all my slapping around and in all my practising alone (and until Dad died may I say I was fairly studious) – I never thought it could be like this.

  So of course I have to ruin it.

  I come first (‘ladies first!’) jokes Tom before joining me five seconds later and the soaring rapture drowns in a fierce, inexplicable wave of sorrow. I bite my lip to stop the sobs. Tom flops out like a starfish, one arm flung warmly over my stomach, and says plaintively, ‘Can we do it again?’ – and I start laughing and say, ‘It’s like all my bones have been removed!’ and he grins and rolls over and kisses the nearest bit of me – my chin – and says, ‘Gorgeous Helen.’

  He looks into my eyes and it’s not the sweep of desire that’s killing me, it’s the ugh ugh I hate this word – tenderness of our connection – it’s new and stupefying, it makes me recoil, so raw and exposed like an open wound. Then the weepiness is back with a vengeance and the tears start falling until they fall out of control and, stupid stupid girl, I’m blubbing and whimpering and wailing like a great big baby and Tom looks horrified and says, ‘It wasn’t that bad, was it?’ and I laugh but I’m still crying. I’m crying so hard my teeth are chattering. He hugs me and rocks me and says, ‘Tell me, Helen, please tell me what it is.’

  Tom shouldn’t have asked, he really shouldn’t. It’s nothing to do with him. But he does and it all pours out. Stuff I didn’t even know was in there. It gushes madly out like sewage out of a burst pipe. And he lets it happen. He just listens while I rant.

  ‘Hes gone hes not coming back, oh god i cant believe it and no one understands im so alone i don’t know who i am any more who am i in the world and why is it like this we werent even close i never understood him he hardly knew me who i was and now its too late too late to make it right and we never talked and i never asked why didnt you care i just couldnt and i don’t know why i feel like this and no one understands its all her its all about her and how she is and she never thinks about me and i thought i was over it i didnt cry at the funeral i was numb i felt nothing so out of place and even lizzy cried and i couldnt cry i didnt deserve to cry and i failed him and i wasnt good enough and he died and i never said i loved him and he never said he loved me he said i was a grinch oh god i cant bear it i need him back and why wont he come back i want to see him again i hate him i hate how he makes me feel i feel so bad adrift its the worst its worse than i ever imagined im a fraud im so angry the anger wont go how can i feel like this i dont even know what i should feel and i feel scared im so scared what if mummy dies too and nana shes on the way out and tina and lizzy and luke and fatboy and now you and im so scared they will and i cant say because they wont understand and oh god i cant believe it hes my dad its so not fair im so tired i cant even dream about him other people dream about dead people and they come back and hug them and smile and say its okay and be happy and they love them and theyre in a fucking white room and i cant even do that he wont appear in a single dream he wont even tell me how hes doing its all too late its so fucking typical hes never there for me hes never been there so why do i miss him oh god help me its all my fault . . .’

  Beat that for embarrassing.

  Chapter 28

  I’M SO MAD and distraught the horror of it doesn’t dawn on me till later. When the words run out Tom rocks me and hugs me. He doesn’t tell me to shush, he rubs my back and he listens. All he says is, ‘Helen, don’t you think, you’ve got um, stuff that needs sorting?’

  I shake my head because I don’t know. I feel ashamed. ‘Please pass me my clothes,’ I say stiffly. Tom leans down, grabs a baggy shirt lying on the floor, and helps me into it. I am sapped. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble, ‘I don’t know what happened.’

  He replies, ‘Doesn’t matter. But Helen, I just, maybe, Lizzy, Tina, me, we’re not going anywhere. And you mustn’t think you’re not good enough. I don’t know what to say – you’re great and’ – at this point Tom’s voice becomes fierce – ‘and your dad should have let you know that.’

  This is kind of him. Although I’m not sure I appreciate him slagging off my father. I feel tired and teary again and I say, ‘Do you mind if I have a quick nap?’ Tom kisses me and then I curl up. Every time I think of what I said my heart bobs in my chest like a gull on a rough sea. I was nothing with my father and I am nothing without him. What is the point of me? I am not a positive force. What is the poi
nt of anything? I want to shrivel up and cease existing. I could cry but there aren’t enough tears in the world to extinguish this pain. I shrink into the smallest ball that I can and sink into a deadening sleep.

  When I wake up it’s twenty past two and I’m starving. I’ve also got a cracking headache. The craziness of the day seeps back into my consciousness and I cringe. I can’t begin to think about the sex because I can’t stop thinking about the blathering. I prefer to keep my basest instincts to myself. Deep dark Daddy emotions included. They are personal, too intimate, too infernal to share. How could I let Tom tease them from me? I feel like I’ve vomited up my soul.

  I lie still for a long time. The room is empty except for Fatboy who’s perched on the windowsill. He hears me rustling, says ‘prrt!’ and trots over. Must want something. I lie flat on my back and stroke Fatboy and think oh Jesus what did I say? I feel woozy as if I’ve drunk too much wine and oddly flat. I wonder if Tom has gone, and I half hope he has. But no. I can hear a bark of laughter in the lounge. I tiptoe to the door, open it a crack, and realise he’s talking to Luke. The conversation appears to be about the longest they’ve ever driven their cars with their eyes shut.

  Tom managed three seconds before ‘bottling out’. Luke trumps him with seven. From what I can gather they were both teenagers at the time but even so! I pull on some tracksuit bottoms, tiptoe in, and say ‘How could you!’ They both jump and start bleating ‘it was the middle of the night’ and ‘there was no one on the road’ and ‘I was only doing twenty’ until I hold up a hand and say crossly, ‘I don’t want to know. You could have killed someone!’

  I can’t bear to look Tom in the eye. Not because of his irresponsible driving but because, as of this morning, he knows me stripped bare in every sense and it’s too awful to contemplate. So I focus on Luke instead. This is a mistake because he peers closely at me and says, ‘Why are your eyes so puffy?’

  I snap, ‘No reason!’ To deflect further interrogation I say, ‘Is there anything to eat?’

  Tom jumps up and says, ‘Let’s go out and get something!’

  I look withering and say, ‘What, with me like this?’

  He lifts a hand, tilts my chin, and says, ‘But Miss Bradshaw – you’re beeoootiful!’ And then, in a more serious tone, ‘You are though.’

  I wrinkle my nose and say, ‘Hang on while I get some shoes and sunglasses.’ Ten minutes later (after a detour to the bathroom to try and make myself look less like a gargoyle) I am ready.

  ‘Can I come?’ says Luke.

  ‘No,’ says Tom meanly, ‘it’s a boy girl thing.’

  Luke’s eyes saucer. ‘What!’ he says. ‘You and Helen!’

  I’m not sure if I should be impressed or insulted that Tom hasn’t told Luke about balling me. So I joke, ‘Why are you so surprised, Luke? Is Tom out of my league?’

  Luke shakes his head frantically and says, ‘No, mate – you’re out of his.’

  His delightful compliment is tempered by the appellation ‘mate’. I don’t wish to set feminism back but I’d rather be called ‘darlin’. But I say gallantly, ‘Luke, that is very sweet of you’, even though I’m tired and hungry and sick of banter.

  Tom repeats cheerily, ‘Luke, that is very sweet of you.’ Luke gives him the finger. It’s a relief when Tom says, ‘Ready?’

  It’s a freezing winter’s day but we speed to Golders Green, buy four cream cheese and smoked salmon bagels, and drive to the heath extension. I eat my first bagel in Tom’s rusty old Honda Civic EX. ‘You don’t have a name for it, do you?’ I say suspiciously.

  ‘No I do bloody well do not,’ he replies. ‘It would be like naming your willy!’

  I giggle. We discuss our ideal cars. ‘I’m not really a car person,’ I say, ‘but if I had the money I think I’d have an S-type Jag. A car with cheekbones. The only thing is, they look a bit claustrophobic.’

  Tom says, ‘So you’re not hard to please or anything?’ Tom is fond of Jags too but was put off them when his thirty-two-year-old cousin got an XJ8.

  ‘What’s that?’ I say.

  He says, ‘You know, the big luxury wood interior sort. He was boasting about the “front suspension” and my sister suddenly said dreamily, “faaa-ther drives a Jaaguarr”! She’s hilarious like that! She just says things! I love it! My cousin went quiet. I think she ruined the moment for him.’

  I giggle and say, ‘Well, the big sort is for fifty-year-olds really, isn’t it?’

  Tom hum-hahs: ‘Yeah, but it’s still class.’ We fall silent in brief contemplation of the unobtainable.

  ‘Which do you think is worse,’ I say, ‘a Honda Civic or a Toyota Corolla?’

  Tom shrugs and says, ‘They’re two rats eating out the same chip bag!’ We are snorting with laughter (even though I pat the Honda’s dashboard and say ‘poor car!’) as Tom pulls up.

  The heath extension is a higgledy assortment of green fields plonk in the middle of smart north-west London. I love it because it’s mostly scruffy and overgrown and has a less commercial feel than Hampstead Heath. We walk to a wooden bench, clutching our bagels and discussing our ideal cars. The sky is pale blue with skeins of cloud and our breath fogs in the dry air. There are frozen puddles along the path and I dig my heels into them to crack the ice. We sit on our bench and eat our bagels and watch people walking their dogs – one brown dog makes us laugh by dragging his bottom along the grass while his owner shouts ‘Brandy!’ and pretends not to know him.

  ‘It’s so peaceful,’ I sigh.

  ‘Mm,’ says Tom with his mouth full of bagel. ‘Gissa kiss.’ I kiss him chastely on the cheek.

  ‘Your nose has gone pink,’ I say.

  ‘It’s so cold I can’t feel it,’ he replies.

  I finish my bagel and he hugs me to him. We look at the view. Pale sky, bare trees, frosty ground, silence. Stillness. I sigh. A boxable moment of happiness. I begin to think that maybe I did need to tell someone about my dad and I am marvelling at how easy it is to be with Tom, how undemanding, how effortless, and what a bloody miracle he is in bed, when he spoils it by saying, ‘Helen, about what you told me about your dad. I know it’s hard for you to talk about your grief but you were, are, were so sad and I thought that maybe you were punishing yourself – for something that wasn’t your fault and maybe it would help to—’

  No no no no no no no. ‘No, don’t,’ I snap, more sharply than I mean to. Tom stops. I hesitate. Then I say, ‘It’s kind of you but—’

  This time Tom interrupts me. His tone is annoyed: ‘Helen, this isn’t me being charitable, this isn’t some holy, po-faced exercise in making myself feel good – it may sound stupid and incredible to you but I like you and I’d like you to be okay but I don’t think you’ll ever be anything but miserable if you keep on denying what you feel about your father and how he was, and keep pissing around with wankers like Marcus, it’s pointless, why be a martyr, wh—’

  I jump up from the bench and shout, ‘Stop it! Stop it! You don’t know!’

  And how the hell does he know about Marcus? Tom shuts up. He looks thunderous. I take a deep breath, sit down again, and pat his leg. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. Then I say grumpily, ‘How did you know about Marcus?’

  Tom snaps, ‘You’d have to be stupid not to.’ I chew my lip.

  Then I say, ‘It was ages ago and just once. A mistake. I’m sorry I shouted. Forgive me. I’m fine, I don’t know what got into me – hah! – I mean, I don’t know why I got so upset this morning, or rather, I do know’ – and here I whip out my heart for a second and shove it on my sleeve to show the extent of my sincerity – ‘I got upset because my father died and it’s weird, but it was mainly because, in fact, I’m sure it was because, well, I’m being turfed out and I’ve got nowhere to go. And it’s just another stress on top of everything.’

  This, I admit, is a bad habit of mine. I don’t state what I want, bluntly, like Laetitia. I hint. Hinting is not, I know, the bravest way of asking. But at least if you hint and are rejected the
rejection is blurable rather than blistering. Whereas if you ask outright and are refused, the humiliation is as stark as a streaker on a football pitch. Anyhow, unless Tom is an imbecile he surely will take the hint and if he likes me as much as he claims, he will sweep to my assistance like a guardian angel and ask me and Fatboy to come and live in his flat. I pause. Tom says nothing. What is he, dumb? Then he says – and do I detect a hint of coldness – ‘Didn’t your mum say you could live with her until you found somewhere?’

  I reply crossly, ‘Yeah, but you’ve met her – she’s a nightmare! And I’m twenty-six! I can’t live with my mum and my gran for chrissake!’

  I expect Tom to understand but he plays obtuse. He snaps, ‘It’s better than being homeless. Can’t you look for another place to rent?’

  When he says this I lose my temper. ‘Take me back to the flat!’ I shout.

  ‘Fine, if that’s how it’s going to be,’ he growls. We stomp back to the car in silence. All that blarney and he can’t even bail me out when I need him. He knew what I meant. We don’t talk apart from once when Tom blurts out, ‘If you ask me it’d do you good to shack up with your mother – you could tell her some of what you told me.’

  I roar, ‘I did not ask you!’ He screeches to a halt outside Marcus’s flat. I jump out, spit ‘Bye!’ and slam the door. Tom clenches his jaw and roars off with as much haughtiness and speed as a Honda Civic EX F-reg can muster. Which, I am spitefully thrilled to note, isn’t much.

  I get in, shut the door, shout ‘bugger!’ and see Marcus storming towards me. He roars ‘That’s it! That’s it that’s it that’s it!’

  I watch his tempestuous approach with detachment. This, I think to myself, is a truly remarkable day. I feel no emotion at all. I scream at the top of my voice (and in this respect I’m my mother’s daughter) ‘What’s it, you great big twittering ninny?’