Just Friends

by Robyn Sisman

  “Oh, right.” Brett nodded. “I’ll look out for it in the library.” That was number two.

  Freya moved the conversation on to the subject of Russia and Russians, though this led to another sticky moment when Jack and Brett locked horns over the Second World War.

  “But the Russians were our enemies,” Brett insisted.

  “They weren’t, you know,” Jack said mildly. “Think of Yalta.”

  Brett looked ruffled. “Well, in all the movies I’ve ever seen, the Russians were the baddies.”

  “Absolutely right, Brett.” Freya kicked Jack under the table. “The Cold War and all that.”

  Jack looked at Freya openmouthed. She gave him a quelling look. Brett might not be Einstein, but she would not have him squashed by Jack. She had not chosen Brett for his academic qualifications. Fortunately, at this moment Candace started to tell them all about a TV show she’d seen, featuring an unspeakably evil character with a Russian accent. Brett had seen it, too, and the two of them launched into an animated discussion. Freya hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. In the end she gave up and chatted amiably enough to Jack. The uneasy thought occurred to her that a stranger observing their table might pair off the four of them in a different way to the reality.

  Meanwhile, the noise level rose implacably. Around midnight the singing started—jolly, rhythmic songs involving repetitive choruses and clapping. Then dancing broke out, amid flashing lights and twirling girls in nylon disco-dresses, and spilled outside, sweeping all four of them into a ragged line that hopped, bopped, kicked, and sang its way around the tables. Freya held on to Brett’s waist. His shirt hung loose; her thumbs grazed his warm, smooth skin. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his bouncing back. Her head spun. It was time to go home.

  Not for nothing was the train back into the city known as the Trans-Siberian Express. The view was monotonous, the journey interminable, and the other passengers as cheerful as transported prisoners—apart from Candace, still firing on all cylinders, who swung herself around and around one of the metal poles, singing “I’m as horny as Kansas in August” and waggling her tongue stud at Jack. Thank goodness we’re not so blatant, thought Freya, sitting with her arm linked in Brett’s, his baseball cap on her head. She had started calling him Brettski.

  “You don’t mind if Brett stays over?” she had asked Jack in a private moment during dinner.

  “Does he want to?”

  Freya glared. Well, of course he’d want to! Jack acted as if he were the only person in the universe entitled to sex. “His bicycle’s at the apartment,” she’d answered evasively. “With all this vodka, I’m not sure he could make it back to his place anyway.”

  “Bet you wouldn’t care if I had to cycle across town.”

  “You? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Candace is coming home, too, you know. There won’t be much privacy.”

  “Honestly, Jack, don’t be a prude.”

  But when they finally tumbled into the apartment, Freya felt the awkwardness of their situation as the four of them stood blinking at each other in the overbright living room. It was two in the morning. Too much alcohol and the long journey home had taken the gloss off the evening. As Jack had hinted, the geography of the apartment was not conducive to intimacy. Both bedrooms gave onto the living room, and shared one wall that was only partially soundproofed by closets. To reach the bathroom from either, one had to traverse the open arena of the living room.

  “Who needs a drink?” demanded Freya, wanting the party mood to continue—to carry her into romantic oblivion.

  But Candace had already grasped Jack by the waistband of his trousers, and was pulling him backwards toward his bedroom. “You’re coming with me, loverboy.”

  Jack spread his hands helplessly. “When you gotta go, you gotta go.” His smug expression seemed to linger, Cheshire Cat–like, even after the bedroom door had closed behind the pair of them. Freya took it as a challenge.

  She fixed a couple of drinks in the kitchen and carried them over to Brett, who was sitting on the squashy arm of a chair, jiggling one leg. She’d forgotten that about young men; it must be all the testosterone. From Jack’s room came a high-pitched giggle and the squeak of bedsprings.

  “So, Brettskowich.” She ruffled his hair. “Alone at last.”

  The door of Jack’s bedroom opened, and he emerged, loosely wrapped in his dressing gown, long belt trailing. “Still here, Brett?” he said, and headed for the bathroom.

  Brett stood up. “I think—”

  “So do I.” Freya seized Brett’s hand and led the way to her bedroom. “Let’s go in here. Then we won’t be bothered.”

  She flicked the door shut behind them and leaned her weight against it. Light slanted in from the street, throwing Brett’s face into shadow. His eyes glittered as he turned to look at her.

  “Did you have a good time tonight?” she asked.

  “Sure. It was great.”

  He stepped toward her with a smile. His hand reached toward her face. At last! “You’ve got my baseball cap,” he said, removing it.

  It seemed to Freya that her heart was audibly knocking against her spine; then she realized that someone was tapping on the door at her back. She opened it a couple of inches. Candace pushed her way into the room, rosy and voluptuous, half-wrapped in a sheet.

  “Oh, good, you’re still dressed. I know this is really embarrassing, but does either of you have any ... protection? Jack and I have gone lickety-split through our entire supply.” She looked from one to the other, smiling her pert smile, as unembarrassed as anyone Freya had ever seen. “This is, like, a major major emergency.”

  Freya waited in vain for Brett to say something. Why did men always assume that this kind of thing was a woman’s responsibility? Abruptly she crossed to the suitcase that doubled as her bedside table and pulled out a packet of condoms. She tried to hide it in her hand, furious to be forced to reveal that it was a brand-new package, as if she had bought it especially for tonight. Which she had.

  “Here.” She thrust the condoms into Candace’s hands.

  “Thanks,” gasped Candace. “You saved my life. Literally.” She waggled her fingers at Brett and Freya—“Have fun, you two!”—and hurried away, the sheet trailing behind her.

  “Wait, Candace!” Freya sprinted out of the room and managed to catch her outside Jack’s door. “I need some, too, you know,” she whispered furiously.

  “Oh, sorry.” Candace began picking at the cellophane wrapper with her scarlet nails. “How many do you need?”

  “For God’s sake! How many do you need?”

  There was the sound of a toilet flushing, and Jack loomed out of the half-dark. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” snapped Freya.

  A smug expression crept over his face as he noticed that Freya was still fully dressed. “Brett gone home?”

  “One, two, three, four, five, six condoms.” Freya counted them into her hand. “That ought to last us till tomorrow morning. Thanks, Candace. Sweet dreams, Jack.”

  “Oof! ... aah ... mmm ...” Jack lay back on the bed, not altogether comfortably, while Candace snuffled and bounced around on top of him. Ouch—that was his stomach! He shouldn’t have eaten so much.

  Six condoms. Six! Was she showing off, or was he getting old? Or had he never been that good? For the record, he’d never received any complaints in that particular department—at least, not of the “not enough” variety. The more usual female accusation was “too much sex”—though what an oxymoron that was, like a trustworthy politician, or a cute Doberman!

  That should last us until tomorrow morning. Assuming “tomorrow morning” counted as, say, ten o’clock, that meant six times in under eight hours, which was once every hour and twenty minutes. Or, if you assumed four hours’ sleep, once every forty minutes—six times in a row. Shit.

  Jack held his breath for a few seconds, straining to hear any sounds coming from next door, but Candace was
making too much noise. Normally he rather enjoyed her running commentaries, but tonight he didn’t seem able to focus properly. He wondered if Brett and Freya could hear her—or were they too busy? Busy doing what? Not talking about Plato, he bet. Freya was usually so dismissive of people who weren’t as intelligent and quick-witted as herself, as Jack knew to his cost. She’d never behaved with him in the girlish, simpering way she had tonight; or flaunted herself in a skimpy dress like that. He scowled. What exactly did she see in this six-times-a-night Brett character?

  Maybe he’d sneak out in a minute and see what was going on. It was his apartment, after all. And he was getting awfully hot for some reason. He needed a drink of water.

  But just then Candace did something really rather amazing. Instantly Jack’s conscious mind short-circuited into oblivion as his brain prioritized a quite different part of his anatomy.

  “I mean, Arthur Miller’s a good playwright, but so is Andrew Lloyd-Webber. My agent says I’m perfect for the juvenile lead in musicals, but I don’t want to get typecast. What do you think?”

  “I think you’d be wonderful in both.” Freya wriggled downward on the bed, and stretched out one long leg to touch Brett’s thigh encouragingly with her bare foot. Hmm. Solid muscle. Pity he still had his trousers on. “Someone with your looks—and your talent—is bound to be successful.”

  “You’re just saying that.” He gave her foot a playful caress, sending desire shooting up her body.

  A throaty cooing was coming from Jack’s bedroom next door, which Freya took to be Candace in the throes of passion. Initially, Freya had found this irritating; now she was beginning to hope that Brett would take the hint. So far, he’d seemed quite content to sit cross-legged at the end of her bed while she leaned against a pillow at the top end—for all the world like two fifth-formers in the dorm. She’d heard of foreplay, but this was ridiculous. Still, he was only twenty-six, poor boy. Naturally he would be in awe of her greater experience and, let’s face it, her superior intellect. All this talk was a cover for perfectly understandable shyness. Somehow she must signal her availability.

  She stretched her arms languorously above her head and gave deep, sensuous sigh. Brett looked up. She smiled.

  “Ready for bed?” he inquired.

  Eureka!

  “Aren’t you?” Her body was turning to soup in anticipation. “Why don’t you come up here so I can examine you properly.”

  Brett laughed uncertainly, as if she had cracked an obscure joke.

  If the mountain would not come to Muhammad ... Freya curled herself slowly onto all fours and crept pantherlike down the bed. When she reached Brett she gave a soft growl, sat back on her haunches and slid one hand between the buttons of his shirt and onto the flat, hard plain of his stomach. Brett tensed.

  “Relax ...” she told him.

  Her fingertips traced the silky arrow of hair leading downward. She found the dip of his belly button and stroked it gently. Next door, the coos were turning into deeper moans, interspersed with excited yelps. She thought she caught the word stallion.

  Brett gave a nervous laugh and sat up. “I’m not sure—”

  “Forget about them.” Freya’s voice was soothing. “They don’t matter.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” Freya reached for him again. He was so warm, so smooth, so firm, so—

  With a suddenness that shocked her, Brett broke away and stood up. “Guess I’ll go home now.”

  “What?” Freya blinked at him from the bed.

  “It’s late. I should get back.” Brett started to tuck in his shirt.

  “But—why?”

  “I feel ... uncomfortable.”

  Freya knelt on the bed, her arms wrapped tight around her stomach, pressing against the pain of her desire and her disappointment. “Why?” she asked again.

  Brett ducked his head in a way that was now sweetly familiar. “I don’t fit in here. Weird vibes and stuff. I don’t want to get into anything heavy, you know?”

  Freya struggled to decode this. Had she somehow offended him? Did he feel snubbed by Jack? Was he put off by the activities next door? Didn’t he like sex?

  “You’re not gay, are you?”

  “No!” His chin came up. “And I’m not a boy-toy either.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, you were the one who decided where to go tonight, like you’re in charge or something. You talk about stuff I don’t know about and pat me on the head like I’m six years old, and now you want—” He broke off, shifting his shoulders in embarrassment.

  Freya stared at him, aghast. She could decode this, all right. He was telling her she was too old. She became aware of a rhythmic banging from Jack’s room, as if someone were hammering a nail into the wall.

  “Right.” She stood up in one swift, smooth gesture and looked Brett in the eye. “That’s pretty clear.”

  “Wait.” He put a hand on her arm. “What I mean to say is, I like you. I like talking to you. And you’re very attractive. But maybe we can be, you know, just friends.”

  “Sure.” Freya managed a shrug. “I’m going on holiday next week anyway. I might give you a call when I get back.”

  “Great.”

  She opened the door of her room and led the way across the living room to the hall, where Brett had left his bike. She could read his hurry and his relief in the way he unslung his helmet from the handlebar and laid his hands on his beloved machine. She prickled and stung and smarted with humiliation. Unlocking the front door, she held it open for him.

  “Well, good-bye,” he said awkwardly, as he pushed the bike past her. She could see him wondering if he should give her a peck on the cheek. This was excruciating.

  “Wait. Don’t forget your baseball cap.” She fetched it from the bedroom, plonked it on his head—the right way—and gave the peak a playful downward tug, like she was someone’s really fun aunt. Then she folded her arms across her chest and stood back.

  “See you, Brettski.”

  “Bye.” He scooted down the path and disappeared into the night.

  For several moments Freya stood on the threshold, breathing hard through her nose. She wanted to shout after him, “It’s only sex, you know. I wasn’t planning on marrying you.”

  But she burned with shame and self-disgust. How could she have put herself through such indignities? She stomped around the front yard, torturing herself with the scenes of her humiliation. Even sprawled across the bed in the semidarkness with her skirt rucked up, she had not been desirable. Even though Brett was drunk and tired, he had preferred to go home. Then there was that telltale but. You’re terrific BUT ... I really like you BUT ... You’re very attractive BUT ... It had been exactly the same with Michael. Why did men always want to be “just friends” with her? She gave the rubbish bin a kick. Even her friends didn’t want to be friends with her anymore! Look at Cat, who had fobbed her off with the feeblest excuse in history and wasn’t returning her phone calls. As for Jack...

  A drunk was cursing his way down the street toward her. It was time to go back inside. Freya closed the front door quietly and stood in the living room, listening. All was quiet. She pictured Jack and Candace drifting off into satisfied sleep, and stamped her foot. She felt scorned, rejected, crushed, and—dammit!—frustrated. But worse than everything would be Jack’s triumph when he discovered that Brett had fled. How he would swagger. How he would chortle with Candace, sexpot of the universe.

  Unless ... Freya prowled around the living room, trying to psyche herself up. “Mmm,” she began tentatively. “Aah ... ooh ...” She leaped onto the couch and padded squashily up and down. “Oh, Brett,” she projected throatily in the direction of Jack’s bedroom. “That’s so gooood.”

  She located a broken spring in the couch, which twanged in a deeply satisfying manner. Freya began to bounce up and down on it, flinging her arms about for good measure. “Ah ... ah ... aaah!” She teetered across the couch’s fat ar
ms and along its back, occasionally hurling herself onto the seat with an uninhibited cry. “Oh yes! ... oh, Brett ... oh—”

  A shadow moved at the periphery of her vision. She froze. It was a person, carrying a glass of water in one hand.

  “Having a good time?” inquired Jack.

  CHAPTER 20

  Jack’s father had always been a stickler for the outward forms of social behavior. A true Southern gentleman, he liked to claim, was invariably punctual, courteous to the ladies, and mindful of “dressing nice”—by which he meant a jacket, tie, and real leather shoes with laces. (Slip-ons were for women, foreigners, and Yankees.) It was therefore a well-judged twenty minutes late, wearing an open-necked shirt and sneakers, with Candace scurrying disregarded behind him, that Jack timed his appearance in the King Cole Bar of the St. Regis Hotel.