“What most middle class people don’t realise is that homeless people aren’t any more or less untrustworthy than they are. They’ve just had worse luck.”
“I don’t disagree with you, but …”
“Oh, don’t do that trick on me!”
“What trick?”
“The double negatives trick. ‘I don’t disagree with you there,’” I drawled, mimicking him. “I can tell the difference between ‘agreeing’ and ‘not disagreeing’.”
“I’m not sure that …”
“Don’t you feel that the most fortunate should help the most vulnerable?”
“Yes, of course I feel that, but objectively I can see that the solutions are more complex …”
“Why don’t you get these clients of yours to recognise their moral duty to look after those worse off than themselves?”
“Well, where are they then?” he demanded, looking around.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“These homeless people that you feel so morally obliged to look after. Is there one under the table? Have you got one in your wardrobe perhaps? Are you keeping one warm in the oven?”
“You’re taking my argument to absurdity,” I snapped.
“I’m not, am I?” asked Simon, turning to Dave.
“I’m lost mate. I thought you were doing that run for Joe.”
“Who’s Joe?” I asked.
“Well, he was my best friend,” he explained.
“What happened?” I snarled. “Did you alienate him by being a middle class jerk?”
The room went quiet. Cutlery froze in the air. Nicky and Dave stared at me. Simon looked down at the tablecloth. I could hear the sound of a car engine starting up outside, and the hum of the refrigerator.
Nicky broke the silence. “Who wants pudding?”
“Who’s Joe?” I repeated.
“I’d love some pudding, thanks Nicky,” Dave replied.
“Seriously?” I interjected.
Nicky mouthed, “Drop it,” and started a conversation about whether candyfloss could be frozen (it can).
For at least seven minutes, we had conflict-free pudding time. The baked Alaska was delicious and it is always difficult to be annoyed when meringue is melting on the tongue. Nicky had done a wonderful job of baking the outside and keeping the ice cream inside cool. All we could talk about was the wonder of the pudding. I washed it down with another glass of wine.
“I suppose there are many situations where you can feel one thing but think something quite different,” mused Simon.
“Are we back on housing again?” asked Dave, looking concerned.
“Well, I was thinking about housing, but it’s not just housing. For example, the other day they were talking about abortion on the news …”
Knowing how badly Nicky and Dave wanted a baby, I felt the need to steer away from the conversation as quickly as possible. They were currently saving money for their second round of fertility treatment. “Um …” I mumbled.
“… And I came to realise that, even though I consider myself pro-choice, abortion makes me feel uncomfortable, especially after twelve weeks. It just feels … wrong …”
“What?” I gasped.
“Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not anti-abortion …” he continued.
“Well it sounds like it to me!” I sneered.
“It’s a tricky grey area and I think the law is right to give women the choice …”
“You think?” I exclaimed, with sarcasm mode in turbo drive.
Simon studied me for a few moments. “Don’t misunderstand me, please. I’m not saying that abortion is wrong, I’m just trying to explain that it makes me feel uncomfortable.”
“Surely you can see that women should be allowed to choose what happens to our bodies!” I cried. “Surely you can think this through with your brain!”
“Yes, that’s my point. You can change the way you think, but, even with the best will in the world, you can’t change the way you feel.”
“I’ve had enough of this,” I shouted, springing up from my chair and knocking my bowl across the table. It wobbled and fell onto Simon’s lap. He stood up, with melted ice cream dripping down the front of his expensive jeans, and gently put the bowl back on the table.
“Emma!” cried Nicky.
“Don’t shout at me, shout at him! And I do not want another pep talk in the kitchen. I don’t like him. How could you think I would have anything in common with that jerk?” Then, I turned back to Simon. “And by the way, I am not ‘hot stuff’, I am ‘hot’, end of sentence.” Then, I stormed off into my bedroom fighting back tears.
I remember lying on my bed for ages, not getting changed, not taking off my makeup, but thinking. Was this idiot right? I mean sure, the way he felt was unacceptable to me, but was it true that you can choose how you think but not how you feel? Are feelings something you have regardless of your conscious appreciation of an issue? I’d never pulled the two things apart before. Thinking about it, I realised often I felt particular moods that didn’t correspond with my thoughts.
Supposing that he might be right made me more annoyed than ever. If so, then my outburst could be considered over the top or perhaps even … rude. There was a distinct chance that I had been in the wrong – how could I ever forgive him for that?
Chapter 2
I awoke at two in the morning, parched. Then I remembered the bottle of wine I’d drunk over dinner. In the interest of hangover prevention, I dragged myself out of bed and kicked on my fluffy mauve slipper boots, ready to brave the cruel and draughty journey to the kitchen.
My eyes stung with the combination of too much booze, not enough sleep and far too much mascara. Hadn’t I washed my face before going to bed? It all seemed like a blur now.
I stumbled into the living room – a zombie in slippers. My pillow had backcombed my hair into a ginger fuzz, my night-time drool had left salty tracks on my chin, and my breath was ripe to kill vampires. Fortunately, I didn’t imagine I’d meet many vampires on the way to the kitchen.
Something struck me as odd. The kitchen light was on. Both Nicky and Dave were heavy sleepers. Perhaps the wine had gotten to Nicky too …
However, when I opened the kitchen door it all came flooding back – well, most of it, anyway. There was Simon, my exceptionally handsome but equally infuriating sparring partner, helping himself to a biscuit. The unlikely duck crush, the empty homes and the argument about abortion came flooding back. He was insufferable. There was more to it, though, wasn’t there? What was it? Oh, I was too tired to care.
He was wearing only boxers. In this state of undress, his looks were even more arrogantly striking – broad shoulders, a fine covering of hair on his chest with an enticing treasure trail, a stomach you could iron shirts on. Fancy, swanky idiot.
I suddenly felt self-conscious in my nightie and slippers. How thick was this white fabric?
“What are you doing here?” I groaned.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“So you came back?”
“What? No, I never left. Dave said I could kip on the sofa. It’s not a problem is it?”
I was beginning to wake up. The fluorescent light peeled back my reluctant eyelids. I remembered not just the arguments, but also my subsequent reflection on the matters. I remembered realising that I’d been a little harsh and vowing to apologise. Thinking about it now, it was silly to get wound up about a cartoon duck, his hands almost certainly were tied when it came to letting out empty property, and perhaps you could separate thoughts from feelings. I should apologise. Now would be the perfect time to apologise.
Then, the full horror of the situation struck – those were my biscuits. There’s something about seeing a man that you hate eat your last jammy dodger that can really nark the core of a woman. The cheek of it! I was reminded of my former fury.
“Where did you get that from?” I demanded.
“The cupboard,” he said, casually.
“You can’t
just go into somebody else’s kitchen and open a cupboard!”
“Oh, put a sock in it.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“You’ve been picking fights with me all night.”
“Oh, you think those were fights?” I cried. Then I stepped towards him and yelled, “I’ll show you a fight.”
He hopped down off the worktop and faced me. I was surprised to note that he was only two inches taller than I was. He certainly had a taller presence. His eyes glowered back at me with such wrath that, for a moment, I feared he might hit me.
I wondered where I was going with this. I wasn’t actually going to physically fight him – that would be ludicrous even if I weren’t a pacifist. Instead, I just stared at him, eyebrows poised for combat. We were in gridlock, standing scowling at each other, both suffering from early-morning-induced dumbness.
Then somehow, we spontaneously started kissing. No, not kissing – attacking each other with our tongues. There was no tenderness to it. He tasted like jammy dodgers – my jammy dodgers.
I was annoyed to feel a firm hand on my ass, but then I realised that my own hands were all over him. They roamed around, investigating – just as puzzled as my head. He was much firmer than anybody I’d ever touched before and he smelt the way a pretentious fragrance designer might interpret a glacier.
Before I knew it, he was tugging my white slip up over my head. He roughly discarded it, leaving me standing there naked – but for my fluffy mauve slippers.
What the fuck? I was so cross. How could he just undress me without invitation or precedence? It was presumptuous, just like the biscuit.
Right, if you want it that way … I used all my weight to overpower him, sending him crashing to the floor. He looked up at me, stunned. I dropped down on top of him. As my crotch aligned with his, I saw his face begin to brighten. Er, I don’t think so, mate. I sidled up past his stomach, past his chest, and just past his chin. Then, I lowered myself onto his lips. If he wanted to play, we were doing it on my terms.
Actually, he didn’t seem too resistant to my terms and endured my ‘revenge’ rather willingly. This gave me a moment to reflect on how sudden and completely inappropriate this was. This was nothing like me, or anything I’d ever done before. You don’t deal with Tories by sitting on their faces. Yet somehow, I couldn’t find it in me to get off him. The insanely pleasant sensation of his tongue flicking my clit didn’t exactly help me reach the mannerly decision.
Eventually, he pushed me off him. I took umbrage at being pushed and shoved him back. We continued wrestling until I found myself face down on the kitchen tiles and unable to fight back. I could feel his breath on my neck; it was fragranced with the scent of my excitement. Moments later, I felt the tips of his teeth. I squirmed as he bit into me. I could feel his erection pressing against my bottom, and I was not having that!
I struggled to get out from underneath him. His broad shoulders and stupid, unnecessary arm lumps made him heavy. Eventually I jabbed him in the side with an elbow and he rolled off me, yelping. I wonder how he likes being pushed facedown into the floor …
I suddenly caught sight of one of the kitchen safari tiles – a lion. It reminded me of our earlier verbal combat. Quickly, I drew my finger down the crack of his tush, rapidly finding his hole and roughly shoved two fingers inside him.
“Fuck!” he cried. He violently sprung away from me. When he turned around, he looked furious. He grabbed me around the waist, lifted me up and plonked me roughly down on the worktop. I found myself jammed between the toaster and his crotch. He yanked down his boxers and before I could take a look, hurriedly forced his cock inside me.
You want to feel what it’s like to be inside me? I shoved my pelvis towards him. That’s what it feels like to be inside me. I knew this was a very bad idea, but it felt delicious.
He withdrew for a second and retaliated by forcing himself deep inside me once again, shoving me back against the toaster. My thighs smacked against his hips; his hips smacked against my thighs … Holy fuck – we were having sex.
I tried to muffle my cries with my hand. I breathed through my nose and caught the aroma of his fresh perspiration; I found that I preferred it to his swanky cologne.
I felt myself begin to tremble and resisted the urge to touch my clit. As much as I wanted to orgasm, I couldn’t let him know that he could make me cum. I disliked him too much for that. It was too late; I felt my muscles contract. I could no longer stifle my cries. I convulsed so violently that I pushed him out. I saw his eyes widen with surprise and I knew that he knew that he was making me orgasm. Dammit.
He put a hand on my neck and ran his fingers through my hair, which was moist with sweat. He pulled my torso towards him and held my chest against his as I felt the ripples of my orgasm spread.
But this tenderness did not last long. As soon as my shuddering began to ease, he climbed up onto the counter. Hungrily, he pushed himself inside me. I was too lost in the fuzzy aftermath of orgasm to object to anything. The low rumble of his vocal tones brought an animal quality to his growls. He could probably be heard next door but whatever, I was too gone to care.
Finally, he grunted loudly and pushed himself as far forward as he could, squashing me with the weight of his body. I knew what that meant – the score had been evened. He’d made me climax, but ha! I’d made him climax too. “So there!” I thought.
I lay there on the kitchen work surface with Simon Moran still inside me, with only one thought in my head, “What the hell just happened?”
* * *
I woke up and the clock beside my bed listed disappointingly few digits. I remembered Tina and I tried to sit up to call the office, but my head spun and I collapsed back into the pillows. At ten o’clock I awoke and remembered arguing with some guy about cartoons. I welcomed another bout of sleep. At eleven o’clock, I woke up and seemed to remember sitting on a man’s face in the kitchen. Obviously, I was still drunk. I let sleep engulf me once again.
Finally, I sat up at about one in the afternoon, painfully aware of everything that had happened the day before. Oh my God. I had to check the bed beside me to check that Simon wasn’t in it. Then I remembered that he’d slept on the sofa – who said romance was dead?
My shoulder stung. I stood up to look in the mirror, only to find that my right hip ached. To my horror, I saw that my shoulder was purple. So it really had been as rough as I remembered. Jesus Christ.
Was he still here? Would I have to face him over cornflakes? What the hell had I done? I’d never slept with a man I’d only just met before. He wasn’t even a nice man, was he? As I recalled, I’d thought him something of a twerp. There was the nagging sense that perhaps I’d been a little hard on him, both during the meal and, er … later.
Oh hell. This was the most mortifying moment of my life. Would they all be out there – Nicky, Dave and Simon (he was called Simon wasn’t he?)? Would they all be watching my door, knowing what had happened and wondering how I would play it? Had Simon told them about the … occurrence? Had they overheard it?
I stalled for as long as possible, taking ten minutes to get dressed, ten minutes to pin up my tangled hair, and a further twenty minutes to do my makeup. It wasn’t that I wanted to look pretty; I just wanted to put off emerging from my bedroom for as long as I possibly could.
Still, I couldn’t stay in here forever. I would have to go out there eventually. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and took a step toward my bedroom door. I stopped dead. I couldn’t do this. Oh come on Emma, what’s the worst that could happen? Bravely, I opened the door, preparing to face the music.
To my surprise, the living room was virtually empty. Nicky was casually strewn on the sofa, doing the crossword.
“Morning,” she said, without looking up. Why weren’t her brown eyes giving me the twinkle?
“Morning,” I said, looking around suspiciously.
“I’ve just boiled the kettle if you want one.”
“Um, thanks.” I ho
vered in the middle of the room, swaying on the spot.
“Where are the boys?” I asked. Then I remembered that, if it weren’t for our kitchen rendezvous, I wouldn’t have known Simon stayed and quickly added, “I assume Simon slept over?”
“Yes, he left about an hour ago. Dave’s popped into town to get his hair trimmed.”
I tried to picture Dave with tidy hair. It defied imagination. Uninvited thoughts of Simon’s thick, warm hair popped into my mind.
“Nicky, last night … was I … did I … was I a bit … harsh?”
My friend put the crossword down. She looked at me and smiled kindly. “You’d had a horrid day; I shouldn’t have pushed you into a blind date.”
“So I was harsh?”
“Not really. Well, maybe a bit, but I think Simon understood.”
“How do you know? Did he say anything?”
“He left his number.”
He did?
Wow.
Heck.
“It’s a shame you two didn’t get along. You seem quite well-suited to me.”
“We do?”
“I really don’t think he is a Tory …”
“He’s not?” I asked, with interest.
“But I guess if the chemistry’s not there, it’s not there.”
A memory of Simon smashing me against the toaster, while he plunged his cock deep inside me, popped into my head.
“Mmm,” I squeaked.
* * *
How could I call Simon? I’d argued with him for the entire course of dinner, about things that didn’t seem to matter now. Then, I’d demanded oral sex, stuck a couple of fingers up his bum, and shagged him with a degree of brutality usually reserved for getting lids off jars. I mean, admittedly, these indiscretions were retaliation, but they were pretty big indiscretions regardless of provocation. Not the sort of things a relationship could easily recover from.
Leaving his number would have been a courtesy, nothing more. He couldn’t genuinely want me to call. I’d been foul to him. Besides, if he’d really wanted to see me, he wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.
A part of me wanted to call him. That sex (if that’s what you could call it) had been something else. It was violent and lacking in any form of tenderness, yet at the same time, it had been one of the most moving experiences of my life. Perhaps it hadn’t been moving for the right reasons. Perhaps it didn’t move me to feel the emotions that you should feel when making love, but it had made me feel something. It was nothing if not passionate. Reflecting on what happened made me cringe, but it also made me damn horny.
The Ice Marathon Page 2