by Mina Ford
‘Nah,’ he says. ‘I did wanner. I ‘ad a bloody good go attit, as it goes. But, like I say, I just couldn’t seem to get it. The first wall I done collapsed.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Onto a coupla teenagers.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah. They got out all right, but me ’eart weren’t in it after that.’
‘I see.’ I lean against him for a second. He looks so sweet when he frowns. Like a little lost child. ‘Were you very upset?’ I lean on him some more, just to get the ball rolling, and he turns quickly away.
‘Sorry.’ I feel foolish.
‘S’ orwight. You was kind of squashing me though.’
God. Great big lummox crushes sylph boy to death on common. I can just see the headline.
But I needn’t have worried. As I move quickly away, Nick pulls me back towards him, turning his face to mine and putting his first two fingers under my chin, tilting my face towards his until his gorgeous, sultry, pouty lips are about half an inch away from mine. And now, I decide, I really, really fancy him. And, as his lips brush mine, a tingle of electricity shoots down my spine and the tops of my bum cheeks fizz in anticipation.
‘There’s something else I gotta tell ya,’ he says, his tongue slowly teasing its way along my bottom lip until I think I might actually be going to scream with lust.
‘What?’ I almost snap. At this precise moment, he could tell me he’s the love child of Fred West and Myra Hindley and I really wouldn’t give a flying fuck. The only information I require at the moment is re the size of his…
Unless, of course, what he’s going to tell me is that he hasn’t got one. Which would be a bit of a setback, I have to admit.
Other than that, he could tell me anything he wants and I’d still happily grab the back of his head, pull his face onto mine and snog the life out of him.
‘You’re not gay, are you?’
‘Oh no.’ He squeezes the top of my thigh. ‘It’s just…my name’s not really Nick.’
Oh God. He really is the love child of Fred West.
‘You’re not the Mardi Gras bomber, are you?’ I joke lamely.
‘It’s Dudley.’
‘Dudley?’ I can’t help giggling. ‘Isn’t that in the West Midlands?’
‘S’ after Dudley Moore. I was conceived in the back of a cinema,’ he explains, his breath coming in shallow gasps as I run my finger up the back of his neck. ‘Me parents went to see Arthur.’
‘Oh.’
‘You don’t wanna snog me now, do you?’
‘On the contrary.’ I grin, grabbing a handful of his hair and lowering his mouth onto mine. The fact that we’re doing this outside makes me feel totally wanton and vampish. And, as kissers go, Nick—or Dudley—is a pretty good one. I can’t exactly run my fingers lustfully and dreamily through his hair, like he’s doing to mine, because it’s all matted. But I do clasp my hands round his neck and go at it hell for leather until he finally pulls away.
‘Can’t breathe.’ ‘Sorry.’
We jump into a taxi back to his, snogging like teenagers on the back seat as the driver stares at the road and pretends not to notice. ‘You’re fuckin’ beautiful,’ Nick tells me. ‘I mean, I know I dropped an E and that before I come out…’
‘You did?’ That would account for the frantic thigh touching then. Perhaps he doesn’t fancy me as much as I thought. Bloody great. I could be just anyone. In fact he probably only called me in the first place because he was feeling all touchy-feely.
‘Yeah. But you are bloody lovely.’
Oh sod it. He’s male, isn’t he? And he’s here.
‘You are weird-lookin’ mind,’ he adds.
‘I am?’ I catch sight of the driver’s expression in the mirror. His lips are wobbling at the corners, as though he’s trying not to laugh.
‘But fuckin’ lovely.’ Nick/Dudley finishes his monologue. ‘Like that Karen Elson.’
‘Who?’
‘Tall ginger supermodel. Looks kinda other worldly.’
‘Thanks.’
‘A total space babe. You remind me of ’er.’
I’m still confused as to whether or not this is a compliment when the taxi draws to a halt outside a tall town house in Notting Hill. After forking out six pounds twenty for our fish, chips and Stella, Nick hasn’t got any money left so, telling myself I don’t really mind, I get out my glittery purse and pay the driver while Nick goes to unlock the door.
As the taxi speeds away from the kerb, I take a step back and look at the house. It’s enormous. Presumably, a guy like him doesn’t live in the whole pile. I expect I’ll get inside to discover that he’s dragged me to some grotty bedsit with a fan heater and cold spaghetti hoops burnt onto the stove. And he’ll have a bed that’s supposed to turn into a sofa during the day but which, like a typical bloke, he won’t have bothered to fold away, so it’ll still be covered with a rucked-up sheet—just why is it that single blokes always have navy or bottle green sheets that so readily show up bodily fluids?—and a duvet with no cover.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Nick lives in the whole house. Which is as immense as I thought. And it’s beautifully decorated. The hall alone is the size of my old Balham flat. The floor is carpeted in silky buttermilk and every room is stuffed full of objects that look as though they’ve been lovingly collected over years of travelling. Indian rugs and saris are draped in a stunning jewel-pink sitting room just off the kitchen. African wood carvings fill the study. In the downstairs loo are several large Chinese papier-mâché heads and a Nepalese prayer flag. And there are photos in silver frames everywhere. A couple I assume to be his parents. And several endearing kids, one of which has to be him. Licking an ice lolly, petting sheep at the children’s zoo, riding a tractor. In all of them, he’s got the same coffee-coloured eyes and cheeky, lopsided grin.
‘Ahh.’ I pick up one of him on a beach. He must be about seven in this one. His smile is all gappy and he’s sat on a fat, black donkey, eating an ice cream with a flake stuck in the top. ‘Little Dudley at the seaside.’
‘Stop it,’ he begs, laughing and grabbing me by the wrist. ‘Come upstairs. There ain’t no embarrassin’ piccies up there.’
‘Now hold one just one minute.’ I spin round, catching him unawares as I slap the photo back on the silver leaf fireplace. ‘What do you think I am? Some easy lay?’
Nick/Dudley looks horrified.
‘I’m sorry,’ he stutters. ‘I didn’t mean. We don’t ’ave to…you know. I just fort…’
‘I’m joking, you daft sod.’ I giggle, pulling him in the direction of the stairs and allowing him to lead me up them. ‘In fact I thought you’d never bloody ask.’
This is excellent. OK, so we have nothing in common, apart from drinking and shagging, but we don’t have to talk, do we? Anyway, he’s gagging for it and I’m stone cold sober. I’m going to have a completely meaningless shag and I’m not even shiftfaced.
I don’t even feel guilty.
Nick’s bedroom is as stunning as the rest of the house. A huge French sleigh bed dominates the middle of the room. Crisp, white sheets, covered with a soft grape-coloured throw. Not very bachelor-like. Something’s not really right here. I can’t help hearing the faintest ding-a-ling of alarm bells somewhere at the back of my mind. He’s a bike courier, for flip’s sake. And not a very bright one at that. You’d expect someone like him to live in a right bugger’s muddle. Not this vast showpiece.
I think back to when the taxi drew up outside. He did have a key, didn’t he?
I mean we haven’t just broken into a total stranger’s home…
Have we?
Buggery fuck. I’ve had an entirely different sort of break and enter situation in mind all evening.
I decide to test him.
‘Where’s the bathroom?’
He jerks his head towards a door which opens straight off the bedroom. Of course. An en-suite. Well, that doesn’t mean he lives here. Anyone—well, anyone apart f
rom me, obviously—might reasonably have expected a house like this to have such a luxury. And this bathroom is luxurious. Everything is polished, expensive and has something of the feminine touch about it. Bottles of Ralph Lauren Romance products line the sink. There’s even a tube of Immac in the bathroom cabinet. This last, of course, can mean one of only two things.
Hairy Back.
Or Live-In Girlfriend.
I sincerely hope it’s the latter.
Nick insists on showering before coming to bed, thus allaying any fears I might have had personal hygiene-wise. I notice he doesn’t use the en-suite. Which is weird. As if from habit, he goes into another bathroom just off the landing. Which seems really odd. When he comes back, scrubbed clean and smelling, not of expensive French cologne, as you’d have expected of the owner of this stylish palace, but of Pine Fresh Flash—or perhaps it’s Toilet Duck— I’m relieved to notice his back is rug-free.
It must be Live-In Girlfriend then. Unless the Immac has worked wonders. After all, this is the house of one, or even two, very wealthy professionals. Nick can’t possibly live here by himself. He’s quite clearly a Kept Man. This is very obviously a case of Absent Girlfriend Syndrome.
Well, I certainly don’t have a problem with that. In fact, if I’m brutally honest, it only adds to the thrill. I’m about to have sex in a strange girl’s bed. Hope she doesn’t mind me rumpling her sheets, I think, giggling as Nick undoes the zip on my jeans, pulls off my vest in one swift movement and pushes me down on the bed, covering me with kisses and running his hands under my buttocks. His movements are urgent, almost like those of a teenager having sex for the first time. Which makes me laugh. I wonder if he’s like this with his girlfriend, the rich cow.
Still, the fact that he has a girlfriend already certainly makes life a lot easier for me. It reduces any chances of him wanting a repeat performance to virtually zero. So the chances of him phone-stalking me like that bloody drip Max are also pretty much nil.
I’ve only gone and done it.
I’ve achieved the perfect String-Free Shag. I’ll be able to creep off before he wakes up and he won’t even care. He’ll probably be pleased, because it’ll give him time to wash, dry and replace the sheets in time to avoid suspicion.
In the event, we don’t actually go to sleep because Nick (well, it’s a lot sexier than ‘Dudley’ isn’t it?) seems to be able to go like a train all night. We do it five times, to be exact. And, at seven o’clock, as he treats me to a third helping of Croissants for Breakfast, I decide it might be harder than I thought to sneak out because he’s still up for more and I don’t actually think I’m going to be able to walk, when a car pulls up outside and Nick jumps as though he’s been shot in the gonads.
‘Shhhhh.’
Bugger. Not his girlfriend already? And just when I was about to have the kind of orgasm that makes your ears ring too. How selfish can you get? Resignedly—even though I’m shitting myself at the thought of a showdown— I take out both earrings. There’s nothing less attractive than an earlobe torn in two and I’d better prepare for the worst.
Seconds later, the inevitable key rattles in the door and Nick is racing round the room like a headless chicken, still with an erection you could hang a coat on, but picking up my knickers, jeans and vest and chucking them all at me.
‘Quick,’ he yelps, wincing in agony as he catches the end of his willy on the open wardrobe door. I silently convulse with laughter. His girlfriend might have put the kibosh on my chances of one last orgasm but she can damn well forget any thoughts she might have had on the subject of Hide the Sausage for a while yet. Nick’s dick will be more like a black pudding by teatime.
‘Quick,’ he hisses again. ‘Go and hide in my bedroom.’
Pardon me?
‘Your bedroom?’ I gulp. ‘But isn’t this…?’
Without explanation, he opens the bedroom door, shoves me—still completely starkers, mind—across the landing and into a single bedroom, plastered with Baywatch, Jordan and Man. United posters. Slamming the door behind us, he breathes a sigh of relief as, dazed, confused, and ever so slightly pee’d off, I sink onto a Star Trek Next Generation duvet and await further instructions, torn between feeling annoyed and wishing he’d damn well stick his head between my legs and stay there until I’m done.
‘In the wardrobe,’ he hisses quickly as we hear the pad of footsteps on the stairs and a woman’s voice calls his name.
I crunch up like a dead spider, cursing him as a baseball glove digs into my bare bum. I’m busting for a wee and I have no idea how long I’m expected to stay here. After what seems like half an hour, I dare to emerge. The room is empty so, with the idea of having a quick widdle before looking for my clothes and making a dash for it, I tiptoe across to the door and open it.
The coast is clear. I can go for a wazz in complete safety. But hang on a mo. This is an old house. The floorboards are pretty creaky up here. One false step and I’m a prime candidate for a bitch slap across the chops and no mistake. And I’m not much of a fighter. In fact, when it comes to violence, I’m a bit of a weed. I make a split second evaluation of the situation. And, in a flash of pure genius, I know exactly what to do.
I roll.
Yep, you got it. I lie down on the floor and I roll like a suet pudding towards the bathroom. And I’m almost there when my right boob hits something.
A polished court shoe.
And in the court shoe is a foot.
Shit.
Ever so slowly, I roll onto my back, open my eyes and look, cold with dread, into the twinkling eyes of a middle-aged woman, who has just been rummaging in the airing cupboard.
‘Hello, duck.’ She smiles, apparently unfazed by the fact that I’m completely starkers. ‘You must be a bit chilly.’
‘Erm. A bit,’ I admit.
‘Put these on,’ she says helpfully, chucking me a horrid floral blouse and a pair of what can only be described as slacks. And beige slacks to boot. I have no idea who this woman is but, if she lives here, her taste in clothes is nothing like her taste in interior decor. Reluctantly I stand up, pulling on the blouse to cover my boobs and hastily stepping into the nasty slacks. ‘That’s better.’ The woman smiles brightly. ‘And you are?’
‘Katie,’ I say, stupidly holding out my hand in introduction. ‘Katie Simpson.’
‘God, why don’t you give her your full address and phone number as well, you ludicrous bat?’ a voice inside my head mocks, as I take in the full idiocy of the situation.
‘Mrs Black,’ says the woman, shaking my hand in return.
‘Hi.’
Well, I’m still none the bloody wiser, am I? Who is this? The cleaner? And if so, is she a nice cleaner? Is she likely to tell Nick’s girlfriend that her bloke is a lying, cheating, adulterous bastard? Or have we got away with it?
‘I’m Dudley’s mum,’ says the woman helpfully, spotting my confusion.
I gape like a goldfish. His mum?
‘Now, duck, you must be hungry. Come downstairs. There’s plenty of fresh coffee and I can put some more bacon under if you’d fancy it.’
And without another word she bustles me downstairs and into the kitchen where Nick—sorry, Dudley—a little girl of about twelve and a burly middle-aged geezer in overalls are all having breakfast.
I stare at the manky turquoise polish on my tootsies. This is truly excruciating.
‘Well, come in, duck,’ booms the man in the overalls, who is obviously Nick’s dad. ‘Let’s ’ave a look at yer.’
I step inside, feeling ridiculous in my mumsy outfit. The whole ensemble would be bad enough in itself, but unfortunately I’m so damn lanky that the slacks barely reach mid-calf.
‘Well, she’s a girl all right, in’t she, Ma?’ He laughs, scooping up egg yolk and brown sauce with a hunk of white sliced. ‘You know, love, ’e’s ’ad us right worried. Thought ’e was a poofter, we did. ’E’s never ’ad a girl back ’ere as long as we can remember, ’as ’e, Ma?’
&nb
sp; ‘Nope.’ Nick’s mum shakes her head. ‘Eighteen ’e is now and not a single girlfriend to speak of.’
Pardon me?
Eighteen?
God. That practically makes me a pervert. A flipping kiddie fiddler.
I tussle with my conscience all the way home on the tube. After I’d rammed down my bacon and fled, Nick followed me to the door, an anxious expression on his face. And it was suddenly obvious how much younger he was. God, I can be dappy at times.
‘Can I see you again?’
Oh God. Not the lovesick pup act.
‘Fuck off,’ said my head.
‘OK,’ said my treacherous, humungously large gob. ‘Call me. Anytime.’
Now I’m actually on my way home, I curse myself for my complete inability to pull off a successful one-night stand.
Mind you, just because I’ve said he can call me, doesn’t mean he’s actually going to bother, does it? That’s blokes for you.
Completely unreliable. After all, isn’t that the whole point of my not wanting one?
I’m a bundled up bunch of frustration all the way home. The Croissantus Interruptus I experienced earlier means I feel all unfulfilled and weird. I try leaning against the metal pole in the middle of the carriage, remembering the time Janice gleefully informed me she got a surprise orgasm from the vibrations.
Nothing.
Not a sausage.
And people are staring at me, wondering why the hell I’m standing up when the train is half empty. I shrug and make my way to a seat. Perhaps Janice was on a different line when it happened to her.
Anyway, it’s nothing a couple of Jaffa Cakes and a minute or two with the shower head won’t sort out the minute I get home.
When I eventually shuffle through the front gate, I’m surprised to see a figure hunched on George and David’s front steps. I’m not quite sure who it is, but from the way George is standing at the top window, peering over the scarlet geraniums in their window box and chucking the odd missile, I assume it’s someone who isn’t very popular.
And then I recognise the T-shirt he’s wearing.