Devil You Know

by Bagshawe, Louise

  “Sounds good. What would you play?”

  “Stuff like you,” Poppy said adoringly.

  He reached out and traced a callused fingertip under her chin. “You’re cute.”

  The van slowed and he turned the Metallica off. Poppy glanced outside, and saw they were pulling into a motel. Cars were parked in the forecourt, and it was painted Pepto-Bismol pink.

  “You stay here, OK? I’ll get us a room,” Perez said. He got out of the van and walked toward the main door.

  Poppy’s heart thudded. He wanted to have sex with her.

  She felt confused and naïve. What should she do? Get out and run? Wasn’t that childish, though? He thought she was hot and sixteen … was she acting like a teenager? She wanted him to be her boyfriend.

  Guys like that don’t go out with girls that don’t put out.

  Oh yeah, she was a wild rebellious rock ’n’ roller—who wanted to run for the hills. Don’t be pathetic, Poppy! she screamed at herself. All those girls shooting you the dirty looks, they’d give their eye teeth for this!

  If she wanted to go out with Rick she’d definitely need to give him a reason; after all, he had women throwing themselves at him all the time …

  He was coming back. Poppy took deep breaths, composing herself. OK. OK. Everything was going to be fine.

  “Ready, sugar?” He dangled the keys in front of her.

  “Got any liquor?” Poppy managed.

  He looked impressed. “Good thinking. I got some in the back.” He walked around the back of the van and rummaged around, emerging triumphantly with a bottle of cheap vodka. “We can make our own Martinis. Without the olive.”

  Poppy clambered out of the van. Perez locked it—“Who’d want to steal this piece of shit anyway?” he said—and took her hand. That same squirmy feeling returned to her belly, but she was scared, too. She wasn’t gonna show it, though. He led her along the ground floor to a wooden door, 5E, and unlocked it with the key, flicking the light on. Poppy stood awkwardly in the room, glancing about; there was a twin bed with a brown coverlet, ugly, but clean; linoleum on the floor; a small TV wall-mounted, screwed into the wall, with a remote on a chain; a phone; and a tiny bathroom with a shower and washbasin. The tiles in the bathroom had grout that needed attention for mildew, but apart from that, the place didn’t look dirty. Small and bare, but not dirty. There was no kettle, nothing like that. There wasn’t even a glass by the sink for toothbrushes. Too easy to steal, she realized. In this place, even the bedside lamp was screwed down.

  Perez noticed her shrinking. “Relax, babe—this might be the one roach-free motel in L.A. It cost me forty bucks but that’s for the whole day, and this place never has bedbugs.”

  She realized he was speaking like an expert, but told herself that he used it for previous girlfriends.

  “There’s nothing to pour the drinks into,” she said.

  “Who needs it?” Perez turned the radio on again, found the rock station.

  “And now—a little Queen for ya. Here’s ‘Under Pressure,’” the DJ said.

  Poppy smothered a laugh. This whole thing was crazy. The bass player tossed her the bottle. “Go ahead. Internal heating.”

  She didn’t want to look like a putz. She took a long swallow of the fiery liquid, gulping it down. It seared her throat, and she broke off, spluttering.

  “Hey! Hey,” Perez said, laughing. “You’re wild. Easy there, slugger. I don’t want to carry you out of here.”

  Poppy felt an instant head rush. She flopped down on the bed and twisted up the radio volume. He was standing over her, tall and gorgeous. His smile made her feel almost as dizzy as the alcohol. She tried to relax; the booze helped.

  “You know, you’re really beautiful,” he said, sitting beside her. “Your face is one you remember out of a crowd.”

  Then he pressed his mouth to hers and kissed her. His tongue curled into her mouth, tracing a line on her upper lip. Poppy had never French-kissed anyone before. She tried to reciprocate. His hand came up and cupped her left breast, kneading it lightly. Poppy suppressed a rising feeling of panic.

  “I’m just gonna wash up, put a rubber on. Make yourself comfortable,” he said. He got up and went into the bathroom with the dirty tiles, shutting the door.

  Poppy blinked. She was gonna go through with it. She reached for the bottle and took another large swallow, then another. She started to feel light-headed. She peeled off her clothes and put them neatly on top of the dresser and breathed in through her nose to relax.

  Perez came out of the bathroom nude. Poppy swallowed a nervous giggle. He was hard, and she’d never seen a man naked before. It was different from the still photos they showed you in class.

  The lust in his eyes took her aback. He was gazing at her like a dog looks at a steak, she thought. Perez rushed over to the bed, took her into his arms, and started to kiss her nipples. Poppy lay back unresisting, looking at the textured white paint on the ceiling.

  “Ah!” she said. There was a stabbing pain, and she felt pierced. She froze. So did he.

  “Oh shit,” Perez said, “you’re a virgin?”

  *

  It was about the worst afternoon of her life.

  After he was done, Poppy stumbled into the bathroom and puked her guts out. At last she retched herself dry, washed her face, sluiced out her mouth with tap water, and found a sullen Rick waiting.

  “Let’s go, OK?” he said.

  Miserably she clambered into the van. Her head ached, her eyes were throbbing, and he was avoiding looking at her. At least the pain between her legs had gone away. Poppy could still see him, frozen above her. She had said, “Well go on—don’t stop now,” and had been relieved when it was over. Except that he’d said, “So, how do you feel?” with that expectant look, as if he was about to get a gold star, and her answer had been to rush to the tiny windowless bathroom and start chucking her guts out.

  Washing that stain from her inner thigh had been almost as bad. She wasn’t a virgin anymore. It was supposed to have been magical and sexy and to have lived up to that hot feeling in her belly, but it hadn’t been anything like that. The best Poppy could say was that it hadn’t taken long.

  She hoped that next time it would be a lot better. Rick Perez would be a great boyfriend. Look at him, with that long black hair, tousled from the bed, and that stubble, and the skull rings. Poppy comforted herself that it was definitely worth it to have him as a boyfriend.

  “When will I see you again? You have to give me a number,” she croaked, as he made the turn toward Beverly Hills.

  “Uh.” Unlike before, Perez was the model driver, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the road. “I dunno. We’re on the road. I don’t have a number, we travel.”

  “But you’ll call me?”

  “Sure,” he said, unconvincingly.

  Poppy rested her head against the window and tried to concentrate on not crying and not throwing up. She had definitely screwed up. Maybe she hadn’t been sexy enough. It was a dumb move to have drunk all that vodka. Nobody wanted a chick that threw up.

  “Turn left here,” she said when they got near the school. “Drop me over there.”

  “OK.” He pulled up to the curb with an obvious expression of relief.

  Poppy got out, searching for something, anything, in his face that would let her hope that he still cared about her. She knew she should be sophisticated and act like she didn’t care; all the girls said you should never sound desperate. But she really couldn’t help herself.

  “Make sure and call me, OK?” she said, and it came out in a definite pleading whine.

  Perez looked her over, the white, sickened face, her beautiful cheeks gone colorless and pasty, her eyes bloodshot, her hair messed up. In the schoolgirl’s uniform she was vulnerable and needy and she couldn’t handle her drink. She had a hot body, but she wasn’t a rock chick, just a kid living with her parents. No doubt she’d lied about her age, too. He preferred his girls willing and slutty. No guilt tri
ps. Besides, he wanted to gun the van right out of there, before some state trooper came along with an arrest warrant for statutory rape.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “See ya, Polly.”

  Then he drove off without looking back at the little forlorn figure standing by the roadside.

  *

  She somehow got through the rest of the day. Nobody had missed her in school, and when Conchita arrived to pick her up, Poppy buried her face under a pile of books. She told her mom she had to study, went up to her bedroom, and flung herself on her bed amid the dolls and teddy bears, and started to cry.

  At least she had an en suite bathroom. Poppy crawled into it, grateful for the spaciousness, the stand-alone shower, the bottles of expensive Floris bath oils, and her antique-style tub. She ran the water as hot as she could stand and poured in half a bottle of gardenia oil, so the entire room was filled with the scent of flowers. Anything to make herself feel less dirty. While the bath was running, she grabbed her toothbrush and scrubbed away the feeling of sick on her teeth, rinsing over and over with Listerine. Then she clambered into the bath and submerged herself, her hair, her entire body, washing her thighs, getting the dust and the smell off her.

  Poppy dumped her school uniform in the laundry basket and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. She looked in the mirror. With her hair freshly dried, and the smell of sweat and old smoke particles from the motel no longer clinging to her, she felt like a different person. Her innate optimism reared its head. Maybe it hadn’t been all that bad. The drink had been a mistake, for sure, but maybe all chicks did that, maybe everyone needed help with their first time …

  Maybe he’d call her?

  It wasn’t working. He would not call. She remembered with a wince that at the end he’d called her “Polly.”

  She’d just lost her virginity in a seedy motel to some impoverished rocker who didn’t give a fuck about her. Then she’d crowned the experience by vomiting and pleading.

  Poppy thought bitterly that her parents would be pleased. Not at what had happened—yeah, like she’d tell them—but at the fact that she wouldn’t be running off to rock gigs anymore. She felt another one of her trademark blushes creep up her neck. Everyone would know. She pictured a scene of those girls in the stockings and garter-belts and fingerless lace gloves whispering that she was the girl who puked up with the bassist of Dark Angel …

  She could never show her face at a club again. Poppy looked wistfully at her pile of hard-rock CDs. Well, obviously she’d never listen to them anymore. Too painful.

  She tossed back her luxuriant blond hair and the fifteen-year-old face in the mirror sighed back, wisely, at her.

  That part of my life is over, Poppy thought.

  *

  “I guess we can think about it.” Marcia Allen looked at her husband. “She has been pretty well behaved.”

  “What kind of bass?” Jerry Allen said suspiciously.

  “Both kinds,” Poppy said innocently.

  It had been a month since the motel episode. She hadn’t been out to a club even one time. But Poppy hadn’t been able to stop thinking about rock ’n’ roll. She listened to Ozzy and Metallica on her headphones, and even the sordid sex had acquired a patina of rebellious adventure now she’d gained some distance from it. Her period had come, thank God, so she knew there would be no permanent consequences.

  Poppy wanted some of the magic she’d had that night at the club. The crackling excitement, the roar of the crowd … lights sweeping the packed bodies, teenagers and college students all packed together like sardines, hands thrust into the air, fighting for a place in the front row. She wanted it so bad it nagged at her like toothache. But she’d learned her lesson. She didn’t want to be one of the girls at the backstage door anymore. Even if it felt good to be the girl that was picked. Poppy wanted to be onstage, and have all the kids screaming at her.

  Like Nancy Wilson from Heart or Lita Ford or something. “Kiss Me Deadly” … yeah! She could totally do that.

  And then, as she didn’t acknowledge even to herself, she could date rock stars. It was OK for girl rock stars to date their male peers. That was the stuff in X magazine. If non-musician girls did it then they were groupies. Look at Patti Smith. In her day she’d dated everyone. Chrissie Hynde, too. Even Heather Locklear. She’d gone out with a bunch of rock stars, now that dude from Mötley Crüe, and nobody called her a groupie because she was in Dynasty …

  Girl rock stars had all the perks. Poppy wanted to be one. True, she couldn’t sing and she also couldn’t play. But she could definitely learn to play, if Mommy and Daddy would just stump up.

  “Both? Why do you need to know the electric bass?” Jerry said.

  “Daddy, you’re such a lawyer. Always with the interrogation,” Poppy pouted.

  Her father grinned. She knew he was melting. Poppy zoomed in for the kill.

  “I want to learn some flamenco and some folk tunes, maybe even a little classical, but I’d also like to play Country and Western and you know, some Everly Brothers and Buddy Holly.”

  Her mother smiled proudly. Marcia Allen was a huge Everly Brothers fan.

  “Bye, Bye, Love,” Poppy started to hum.

  Jerry’s eyes crinkled. “So no heavy metal then?”

  Poppy rolled her eyes. “Daddy! That stuff is so over. Come on, now all the kids are learning an instrument. Josh Cohen even started a rockabilly band.”

  “All right, honey.” Her father gave in. “Sign up, if you want to.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  Fourteen

  Daisy opened the door to her tiny flat and sighed with satisfaction.

  It was located down St. Aldate’s, in a modern building. She hated everything modern, being strictly a country girl whose idea of perfection was anything which looked like it belonged in a Beatrix Potter book. But once you rode up in the lift—her flat was on the sixth floor—there was an incredible view. She had windows on two sides, flooding the place with light and looking over Tom Tower in Christ Church in one direction, and the green meadows leading down to the Isis in the other. It was autumn, and there was a pleasant crispness in the air, with the trees turning gold and red, and white mist creeping up over the fields in the morning.

  Daisy adored her place. It even had a tiny balcony with a wrought-iron chair and table, so she could take her morning cup of real coffee, brewed up in a Bodum’s pot, and sit out there in her white toweling bathrobe and just watch the beauty of Oxford. From a height, even traffic was romantic. She loved watching the students zip around on their bicycles, like so many ants, in jeans and sweaters, occasionally wearing some delightfully clichéd college scarf. It was the start of the academic year, and that meant the new crop of Britain’s brightest, attending the University, were going through a bunch of ceremonies. They whirred past her in tasseled black caps and all sorts of gowns, like something out of an Anthony Trollope novel. Even her envy couldn’t dampen her delight.

  Daisy was only cynical about herself. This might have an air of Disneyland-England about it if you were a Guardian reader, she conceded. But not to her. To her it was pageantry, and she loved it.

  This was her first week up and she still wasn’t used to anything. Not the city, with its glorious old piles of Elizabethan beauty around every corner, not her own little college with its lectures and classes, and not this flat. Mummy and Daddy had rented it for her fully furnished. It was by far the most luxurious place she’d ever lived in. Almost all Rackham students were crammed into dingy flat-shares on the Woodstock road, or thereabouts.

  “We don’t have to pay those school fees anymore,” Quentin Markham told his daughter, solemnly. “Budgeting is very important. You realize that, Daisy.”

  “Of course I do, Dad.”

  When had it ever not been important in their house? Daisy sometimes felt guilty about her hatred for school, knowing what a stretch it was for her parents to afford it. They went without holidays and her mother often secretly bought clothes at the Oxfam shop. But
her mother was a clever cook and decorator and gardener, and kept an attractive house on a minute budget.

  Being a teacher just did not pay well, and her father’s job, editing a line of translations of the classics, brought in even less. Academia may have been fascinating, Daisy thought, but it certainly wasn’t lucrative. And yet, having adopted her as a child—endometriosis having left Sally Markham infertile—her parents had been determined to bring her up as a lady, as a member of the upper classes. And that meant public school.

  If only she’d been scholarship material! They barely made it even with the shameful bursary Daisy received for being her mother’s daughter.

  But now the school fees monkey was off the Markhams’ back, and Quentin Markham wanted his daughter to have the best possible time at university. He sometimes wondered if Daisy had really enjoyed her schooldays as much as she protested she did. He himself was lanky and small-boned and had been beaten up as a boy. But Quentin Markham did not allow himself to think like that. Daisy had survived, and even made her way to university. He wanted her to have the best. Or something like it.

  So no faded wallpaper or shares with drunken freshmen for Daisy Markham. He rented this tiny jewel of a studio flat, with the view and the gated development, nice and safe, at five hundred pounds a month. And if Quentin Markham had seen how happy his daughter was to be there, he’d have thought it money well spent.

  Daisy loved all the furniture. Everything was from IKEA, clean Swedish lines, lots of stripped pine. She had a sofa bed, which saved space, and which she pulled out at night, shoved a fitted sheet and a duvet on to it, and then was able to sleep like a queen. There was a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a real sheepskin rug in which she loved to rub her toes. The bathroom had brand-new tiling and shiny fixtures with a stand-alone shower as well as a bath, and the kitchenette even had a microwave. Perfect for baked potatoes.