The Stand In

by Alam, Donna

  ‘It’s a bit late for modesty, babe. I’ve seen all of you now. And. It. Was. Glorious.’ He draws out the final word over many, many syllables. So many, in fact, I have to slap his chest to get him to stop.

  ‘I can’t help I’m modest and not very sex positive.’ I tug at the sheet, getting it as far as my chest when Archer pulls it the other way.

  ‘Sex positive,’ he repeats. Ah, so he does own a what the fuck face. I had wondered. ‘Forgive me, but you sounded pretty positive earlier on.’

  ‘I mean, someone comfortable enough in their own skin to do all the, you know, sex things.’

  ‘Heather, I’ve had my mouth on you, my fingers in you, and my cock in a couple of—’

  ‘All right, I get the picture!’ I sort of squeak. Then I realise he’s making the sheet creep down my body again. ‘Stop that!’ I slap his hand away.

  ‘Plus,’ he says, completely ignoring me by wrapping it in his fist, ‘you gave me the blowjob of the millennium not half an hour ago. If that doesn’t tell you that your body was made for sex, I don’t know what does.’

  ‘It just never has felt like this before.’

  ‘No?’ Archer wriggles down in the bed, his head now level with mine as he rests his cheek on his fist. ‘Maybe you’re a late bloomer.’

  ‘Or maybe I’m like one of those flowers that blooms only one night before dying. That’s an actual thing, you know. And I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn the thing, I mean flower, is a cactus.’

  ‘One night,’ he scoffs, pulling on a wisp of my hair. ‘You’re so ridiculous, it’s cute.’

  ‘You can say that—you might’ve gotten my one night of sex!’

  ‘I hate to tell you, but it’s Sunday already. And’—he lifts the sheet from where I’ve pulled it up to my chest—‘there appears to have been no spoilage. Unless I’ve spoiled you for other men.’

  ‘Maybe I’ve spoiled myself.’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous,’ he says, abandoning our sheet wrangling and rolling away.

  Before I have time to worry, he’s back brandishing the tiny bottle of bubbly snagged earlier from the minibar I hadn’t realised was there. I’m going to have one hell of a bill in the morning.

  ‘Here, wash your mouth out.’ He appears to be about to pass me the bottle, making it clear at the last minute that he’ll do the honours.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s much of a punishment, washing your mouth out with champagne.’

  ‘If I wanted to punish you, I’d pull you over my knee.’ The threat pulses inside me emptily.

  ‘Look at that,’ he purrs, trailing a finger down my cheek, dropping to my chest. ‘I wondered how far your blush ran, and now I know.’

  ‘Why would you wonder that?’ I ask a little dubiously. ‘I really don’t get the fascination. I get embarrassed, I go red. I’m in an awkward situation, I go red. I misstep socially, and guess what? I go red!’

  ‘It’s cute, and I have to tell you, kind of sexy.’

  And . . . I’m pulling my what the fuck face.

  ‘It’s true,’ he protests with a puff of laughter. ‘Did you never hear of blushing brides?’

  ‘Oh, so it’s the virgin angle?’

  ‘No, it’s not even that. I can’t vouch for other men, but I can tell you I love to see you blush. And you should know, from now on, I’m going to try to make you blush more. Because you go the same colour during sex. And every time you turn pink, I’m going to think of you on your back.’

  ‘Urgh!’

  ‘Or your knees.’

  ‘Stop it.’ I swipe him again, when he begins to recite a silly ditty.

  ‘I cannot check my girlish blush,

  My colour comes and goes;

  I redden to my fingertips,

  And sometimes to my nose.’

  And, of course, he then bops his finger against my nose.

  ‘I hate that I blush,’ I grumble, knocking away his hand. ‘And I doubt anyone before you would’ve thought, “Aha! So that’s what Heather looks like when she has sex!” Although, if they had, they would’ve been right because, up until today, sex has been an embarrassing, awkward, social misstep from start to not quite ever finishing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. And yes, that’s what I mean.’ I, Heather Whittington, have, until today, never orgasmed at the hand of a man. Or even thanks to any other bit of one of them. ‘I just thought of sex as a learned behaviour. It just hasn’t worked for me. I thought I’d get it eventually, and then I didn’t. So, then I thought maybe my mind had tied sex to love, sort of like what my parents have. Urgh, make me stop!’ My hands slap the mattress by my sides. ‘I’m lying in bed naked and contemplating my parents. That’s a little sick, right?’ Also, come to think of it, if sex was a learned behaviour, I’d have learned it a long time ago the amount of times I’ve walked in on them at it.’

  I turn my head, maybe expecting Archer to be blushing on my behalf. But nope.

  ‘I don’t think so. Not in this context, but I do think you’re deflecting. As well as doing the whole self-deprecating thing, my little one-time night blooming cactus. It doesn’t have much of a ring to it, does it?’

  I sigh so deeply, it’s like air is dragged from the depths of my soul. ‘Anyway, whatever the reason, I’m glad you proved all my theories wrong.’

  ‘You mean, we did. Together, my little sex bomb. How does that suit you as a term of endearment?’

  ‘It’s about as endearing as Ebola, frankly. So probably quite well.’

  ‘Heather.’ He fills my name with such warning. ‘If you belittle yourself once more, I’m going to carry you to the shower and chuck you under the cold. Because whatever the reason, I’m glad it was now. That it was tonight. And yeah, I’m glad it was me.’

  I turn my head to face him, reaching to push a dark forelock from his brow.

  ‘Me, too.’ And then, ‘Can I tell you something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What you said to me earlier, about your life? Your childhood? Hearing it was like a relief. I don’t mean what happened to you because that’s . . . well, I have no words.’ Just like before, Archer’s face closes, his expression neither happy nor sad, but as blank as a beautiful mask. ‘Your life’s experiences are beyond my comprehension, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling sad.’ I feel more than see his tension, and I get that he doesn’t want to talk about any of this, and I know that I’m probably being unfair to unburden myself like this, but it’s like a compulsion, the words spewing forth like a tap I can’t turn off. ‘But what I wanted to say was that I’m glad you told me because, well, I know what it’s like to have to hide horror from people, too.’

  ‘Heather?’ Archer pushes up onto his elbow, almost looming over me, like he could protect me from what I’m about to say. I don’t look at him for more than a second, instead moving my gaze to stare at the ceiling, studying the swirl of pattern in the lightshade. Are they birds or begonias? The ceiling’s so high, it’s hard to tell.

  ‘I’m okay.’ I swipe at the sudden wash of tears escaping from the outer corners of my eyes, pooling uncomfortably around my ears. ‘I really am okay. But there’s a reason sex hasn’t worked for me, and that’s because my experiences have always tied to my first time. It wasn’t very pleasant, you see.’ My gaze slides unconsciously to him, darting away instantly. He looks troubled, and I don’t want him to be, because this isn’t a horror story like he told me. This is just a story of a silly girl who didn’t realise what she was doing back then.

  ‘Heather, sweetheart, speak to me. Is there anything I can do? Can I punch the living daylights out of the person who hurt you?’

  ‘No.’ I try to smile, but it doesn’t feel right, and end up biting my bottom lip to stop it from wobbling. ‘I wasn’t meant to like you as I do. I was determined not to.’ The words fall in a rush, jumbled and jagged. ‘And I’m sorry I judged you. I shoved you onto the list of men I’d met since then. Men like him. Men who are good with wo
men. Men who manipulate and flatter to get what they want. But I realise that’s not fair. That’s not who you are. You’re nothing like him.’

  ‘Who? Tell me who you mean.’ Archer’s question is low and grave.

  ‘Just a boy. Not much older than me at the time. A boy who liked recreational cannabis, beer, and playing on his PlayStation. I was nineteen. A late bloomer,’ I add with an unhappy little huff. Story of my life. ‘His name was Brent, and I seemed to think that, because he’d slept with most of the girls in my English class, he was the prime candidate to relieve me of my virginity. Ridiculous, right?’

  ‘We all do stupid stuff when we’re young.’

  ‘Well, I was ridiculously stupid. I called him after a night out with my cousin, full of bravado and Long Island Iced Tea. I told her I was meeting him.’

  ‘To lose your virginity?’

  ‘I didn’t tell her that. I said it was just a hookup. It’s not like she could’ve stopped me. She’s not my mum. So we parted ways and I got on the train, slightly tipsy. It’s funny, she kept me on the phone most of the way to Acton. Because she wanted me to be safe. And Brent met me at the station. We walked to his place, and he gave me a can of lager and we sat on beanbags.’ Oh, God, it was awkward.

  ‘I didn’t want to. He was unimpressed, like I’d reneged on part of a deal. And I suppose I had—after all, I’d invited myself to his. I cried at the critical moment. He hadn’t stopped to ask why. Then when it was over, he picked up his controller and fired up his game again.’

  I felt dirty. And used. And so bloody stupid. And I think feeling stupid was the worst thing about it all.

  ‘Heather.’ His hand cups my cheek, and I shake it away.

  ‘No, it’s okay. It probably wasn’t as bad as it sounds. It’s not like I was ra—’ I halt, unable to say the word. Because that’s what happens to other girls. Not to stupid nineteen-year-olds who set out half-drunk, planning to have sex. Those kinds of girls get what they deserve.

  ‘No, that’s not true.’ Archer’s face is so close to mine, his features are fuzzy and sort of indistinct. I suppose my tears don’t help. ‘You didn’t deserve to have that happen.’

  I realise I’d said that aloud. I’d uttered my worst secret, my deepest shame. Out of all the people to purge my sins to, I’d chosen him.

  ‘But I asked for it,’ I say, raising my watery gaze to him. ‘Literally—I called him. Alluded to it. What was he supposed to think?’

  ‘That you’d changed your mind. That you’re entitled to say no, like any decent man would.’

  ‘He was just a kid. We both were.’

  ‘His ears were old enough to hear no. That’s the bottom line. It’s not your fault this happened to you.’

  17

  Archer

  I spent much of the rest of the night watching her, rearranging all the puzzle pieces of a girl named Heather. The puzzle I thought I’d solved when, in reality, I’d been trying to force the pieces together without the benefit of the box. Without the context, I suppose.

  Life is unfair. We all know that, just as we all personally know someone who’s been dealt a shitty hand. I don’t want to feel sorry for her. I know she wouldn’t want me to feel any kind of pity. I understand that intrinsically. But I also know that we can’t always command our emotions. And I went through a range of them before the sun came up. I’m glad she slept on oblivious because many of my reactions weren’t very pretty.

  As the sky turned from indigo to grey, and the light began to creep across the floor like a thief, I realised it all made sense because Heather doesn’t truly self-deprecate; her comments about herself are not light-hearted or blithe. They’re not things she accepts about herself but deals with humorously. What she does is self-denigrate. She vilifies herself for her choices. Punishes herself for her past mistakes. From the choices others have taken away.

  She blames herself.

  And that I can’t take.

  It’s no fucking wonder I barely slept a wink.

  But she slept on soundly, the pillows on the other side of the room, and the red tones of her hair spread across the white sheets instead. Sheets strewn with breadcrumbs and smudged with cheese, harbouring a wine stain or two. And yes, other things. She finally came awake, she did so abruptly, with a snort, in fact, bolting upright like she’d forgotten something. Judging by the way she looked at me, things came back into focus pretty quick.

  And that’s when things began to disintegrate.

  18

  Heather

  ‘At least let me give you a lift home.’

  ‘That’s not necessary. I already have a train ticket.’ I wave my purse as though to prove it, and in doing so, I only manage to glance at him. I’m finding it so difficult to look at him, not because of what we did last night, though ohmygod, that should be reason enough. Because the places that man touched, the things he whispered in my ear, I’m not sure I’ll be able to look at myself in the mirror ever again, never mind look at him.

  But again, that isn’t the reason. And I think we both know that. Earlier, Archer had tried to bring the conversation back around to that night, but I’d pretended not to hear, bustling myself into the bathroom instead. I’d sat on the toilet with my hands over my eyes, and when I’d judged I’d been in there long enough for the thread of conversation to have been lost, I had a little freak when I realised I’d been in there so long he probably thought I was doing something else.

  Yes, that.

  ‘It seems silly when we’re heading the same way. If nothing else, it’ll stop you from getting soaked.’

  I glance at the window and the torrent of rain that started half an hour ago. I didn’t bring an umbrella or my big coat. But those aren’t the bigger of my concerns. As I turn from the window, I’m already shaking my head.

  ‘No, really. It’s fine. I’d still have to get the tube from Shoreditch.’ Shoreditch, where he lives. Unless he’s suggesting—

  ‘I’m offering a door to door service. You can’t get better than that.’

  ‘But I can get a coffee on the train,’ I babble ridiculously.

  ‘Or, revolutionary idea here, we could stop at the services, and I could treat you to a god-awful Starbucks. Maybe even a spot of breakfast.’ We’d already decided to pass on a breakfast here at the hotel, mainly because it will probably be full of hungover E11even staff shovelling down restorative sausage, bacon, and eggs. Bleurgh.

  ‘Of course, you don’t like Starbucks.’ Why does this sound like an insult?

  ‘I think I like overpriced froth as much as the next man.’

  ‘Urgh.’ I find my nose scrunching. ‘A coffee snob.’ Another example of how this would never work between us—not that this is what he’s offering. It’s just a lift, stupid.

  ‘Oh, I forgot. You’re probably more a grande mocha-choca-caramel macchiato, hold the milk, right?’

  ‘No,’ I answer a little primly, managing to look at him now. Okay, glare. ‘I’m quite partial to a turmeric latte.’

  ‘A coffee curry?’

  ‘It’s very good for you, providing anti-inflammatory and antioxidant effects.’

  ‘But you get a choux bun or a donut with it, right?’

  The answer to that is yes, not that I’m telling him. Yes, Starbucks probably drives thousands of sole-trading coffee shops out of business all over the world annually, popping up on every street corner, as they seem to. And while that’s terrible, and I feel for the owners of those businesses, I can’t help that they offer the equivalent of a hug in a mug to me.

  ‘Also, I forgot to mention you get the benefit of my scintillating company.’

  Why was he doing this? He folds his arms over his chest in a very deliberate stance, like a dad waiting patiently for you to see sense. For you to come around to his way of thinking. He’d be a really hot dad. I purposely ignore the way his shirt stretches over his shoulders and arms, and how thin his worn jeans are. I also ignore the whole European no socks thing he has going on, like
nothing as pedestrian as having a hole in your sock would happen to him.

  I pick up my case because time is getting on, when he takes it from me. My skin feels like fire reacting to the small brush of his skin against mine as his wrist brushes mine. As he steps back, I curl my toes in my boots against the notion of reaching out and balling my fist in his shirt for the purposes of dragging him back to the bed.

  Because yes, while I’m ashamed, and while he still drives me crazy, I still want him.

  And that scares me.

  ‘Okay?’ His brows rise along with the enquiry.

  ‘Yes, okay, you’ve worn me down.’ He chuckles a little, and I get it. He’s doing me a favour, not the other way around. While not having to schlep home via public transport sounds fabulous, sitting ninety minutes next to the man who smells like my own brand of temptation will do me no good.

  ‘Ready?’ Archer pauses at the door, our bags in hand. I turn, doing a quick sweep of the room, though not because I think I’ve left anything. I’m just taking one last glance. Just because I can.

  ‘Yep.’ I turn back to face him with a tight smile. ‘Ready when you are.’

  ‘Then let’s hit the road.’

  ‘I’ll bring the car closer,’ Archer says, eyeing the rain lashing the tiny window. This part of the hotel is definitely one of the older bits. Some might say atmospheric, others dungeon-esque. ‘It looks like you’ll be a while, anyway.’

  There’s only one member of staff manning the reception desk and a whole lot of people checking out, and one or two waiting to check in.

  ‘But you’ll get soaked,’ I protest.

  ‘I’ll grab one of those.’ He points to a stand that looks like it predates the invention of the umbrellas standing in it. ‘Besides, there’s no point us both getting wet. Just promise me one thing; you’ll wait for me to check out.’