The Kiss

by Lucy Courtenay

  ‘It’s like this,’ I say.

  I tell the Dave story from start to finish. I probably add more detail than strictly necessary, but it is suddenly important that Tabby should know everything. How he picked me up outside school at the end of the Christmas term by leaning on the horn of his car until I looked at him. How he tried to take my virginity in the back of the same vehicle and how I almost impaled myself on the gear lever by mistake. And finally, the dreadful day of reckoning, when I learned in the most humiliating way that I wasn’t the only decent fibber on the block.

  ‘Whoa,’ says Tab, into the silence which follows my extensive speech. ‘Did the gear lever, you know . . .?’

  ‘That’s it?’ I demand, blushing furiously. ‘I tell you I’ve been lying to you all this time and Dave was stringing me along and you want to know if my first attempt at sex was with a gear lever?’

  Tab starts laughing. She claps her hand across her mouth and snorts through her fingers. Then she gives up, puts both hands on the bench, grips on tight and roars.

  ‘You’ll never want my so-called expert opinion on anything ever again,’ I mutter.

  Tabby pulls herself together. ‘Of course I will. You’re still way more experienced than me, even if your first time . . .’

  She is off again.

  ‘It didn’t happen,’ I say quietly. ‘After the gear lever I sort of lost the will. Dave lost interest in me pretty quickly after that.’

  This makes Tabby worse. ‘Oh, ow,’ she gasps, clutching her sides. ‘Good job you were in a sand dune with Laurent, I hear French cars have . . . gear levers that . . . that stick out fro . . . fro . . . frontways.’

  Truth or bust. ‘I didn’t do it with Dave but I nearly did it with Jem,’ I say in a rush. ‘Last night. In the wardrobe. At the theatre.’

  Tabby stops laughing. She boggles at me. ‘Tell me you’re not serious.’

  ‘I don’t want to lie to you any more, Tabs,’ I say helplessly. ‘It’s totally true. And I am having a huge freak-out about it.’

  ‘You had sex?’ Tab gasps. ‘In the theatre?’

  ‘I said nearly,’ I point out. ‘I didn’t . . . We didn’t . . . but for the first time in my whole life I think I actually . . . wanted to. I think maybe I would have but he said we’d have plenty of time for that and so . . . we didn’t.’

  ‘OMG,’ Tabby says faintly. ‘What was it like?’

  There is so much to say and I can’t say any of it. It’s too private and too strange. Nothing prepares you for the intimacy of it: not books, not films, not conversations with your girlfriends and most definitely not the bananas in

  Sex-Ed. And I’m not just talking about the physical stuff. It turns out that your soul gets as vulnerable as the rest of you, and there’s nowhere to hide.

  ‘I’ve known him for barely a week,’ I say, swerving Tabby’s question. ‘I’ve made a total mess of things.’

  ‘Don’t go all twentieth-century on me, babe. You nearly had sex.’ Tab looks at me with awe. ‘You’re a nearly-had-sex goddess.’

  This isn’t going the way I had imagined at all. ‘Aren’t you mad at me?’

  ‘Why would I be mad?’

  ‘I kissed him,’ I say patiently. ‘With a capital K for Aphrodite.’

  Her hand flies to her mouth. ‘Wow! I forgot about that.’

  I am incredulous. ‘This Kiss thing is your total reason for existence right now. The show, the hair. And you forgot?’

  ‘I’m so busy learning my words and songs for the show that I don’t think about it all the time. A lot of the time, yes. But not all of the time. And I guess . . .’ She checks her watch . . . ‘not at four forty-three this afternoon.’ She looks at me with compassion. ‘Are you now totally mindless with love?’

  Yes, I think hopelessly. I am flayed like a Victorian tiger skin. Gutted like a fish dinner. ‘Of course not,’ I say out loud. ‘All feelings can be controlled, with or without imaginary goddesses. Our own brains manufacture them after all. You get through these things. I got past Mum. I’m getting past Dave. I’ll get past Jem.’

  ‘That is actually quite good,’ says Tabby slowly.

  I feel pleased. ‘I thought so too.’

  ‘Not your speech. The fact that you have the Kiss.’

  ‘Wait, what?’ I say, caution in my voice. ‘Why?’

  She beams. ‘You just took out the middle man! Now I don’t have to glam up for the Gaslight. I don’t have to queue with the other girls at the bar and make you miserable because you like the guy I’m trying to get with. I don’t have to live in fear of the Kiss going somewhere else because it’s right here in front of me. Everything just got very simple.’

  She looks expectantly at me.

  ‘No WAY,’ I say.

  ‘Kiss me,’ she orders.

  ‘Be serious.’ I look around. ‘We’re in a public place.’

  Tab has already taken off her glasses and is looming in, eyes closed.

  I scoot back on the bench. ‘Have you gone completely insane? You’re prepared to kiss me in broad daylight for the sake of a legend?’

  ‘You’re the one who had to bring me up to the Hangers to tell me how you got this so-called legend back.’ She puts her hands on my shoulders. ‘If you didn’t believe there was something in it, you wouldn’t have bothered. You would have let me think everything was going to plan. You could have let me kiss Jem and move on to Sam. You could have consoled me when Sam rejected me with some “It was never real anyway” advice. But you didn’t. Explain that.’

  I can’t.

  ‘See?’ Tabby says with satisfaction. ‘Now, I’m guessing it has to be a proper kiss, not just a peck.’ She breathes on her hand, sniffs. ‘Breath, check. Lesbian chic . . .’ She pats her new hair – ‘. . . check.’

  All my powers of reasoning fall away before a true, honest-to-goodness fear. ‘What if you fall in love with me?’ I squeak. ‘What then?’

  Tabby pauses, inches from my mouth. ‘I won’t,’ she says uncertainly.

  ‘This is Aphrodite we’re talking about!’ Somehow I have forgotten that I don’t believe in any of this.

  ‘It’s a risk I’m prepared to take,’ Tabby says. ‘It’s only me that’s taking it, after all. The person who receives the Kiss is the one who deals with the fall-out. Now, do your best to fancy me.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I splutter.

  ‘Yes you can. Focus. I have nice new hair. I have lovely kissable lips.’

  I feel her kissable lips on mine. It isn’t too bad, although it’s all a bit . . . I can’t help remembering the feel of Jem’s rough chin, his stubbly cheeks between my palms, the hungry switching from side to side amid the sense of blood whooshing everywhere in a godlike tumble-dryer of nerve endings, and making unfavourable comparisons.

  Tabby pulls away with a loud kissy pop. Her fingers go to her lips. Her eyes have a major thousand-yard stare going on. I feel sick as I wait for her verdict.

  She drops her fingers. ‘That was the most unsexy kiss I’ve ever had.’

  Wanting to whoop with relief, I whack my best friend in the shoulder. ‘I’ve never had any complaints before.’

  ‘You were just too . . .’

  ‘Smooth?’ I supply, grinning.

  ‘Smooth,’ she agrees gloomily. ‘Do you think Aphrodite’s homophobic?’

  I put my arm around her. ‘Maybe you caught it, but just didn’t feel it because it was girl-on-girl.’

  ‘So Aphrodite is a bigot!’

  ‘She’s hardly going to be that. The Greeks practically invented homosexuality.’

  ‘Have I got the Kiss or not?’ Tab demands.

  ‘All I know is that you haven’t fallen in love with me and that makes me happy because frankly, my life’s complicated enough,’ I reply, still smiling like a lo
on.

  ‘Maybe Jem kissed someone else before kissing you the second time.’ Tabby gets up from the bench and starts pacing. ‘Or maybe you’re right and I have got it but I just can’t feel it. I don’t KNOW.’ She looks tragic. ‘We’ve lost it, haven’t we?’

  ‘I think we lost it some time ago, if I’m honest,’ I say. ‘Around about the time we started believing Australian Classics professors.’

  Something moves behind us. I swing round.

  Warren is fussing with the collar on a small shivering white dog on the path. He gives an unconvincing start. ‘Oh! Hi Tabitha and er . . . Hi. Didn’t see you there. Just, you know, walking the dog.’ He waves at the scenery, which is starting to fade into evening gloom. ‘Nice up here, isn’t it? Very . . .’ He pauses. ‘Romantic.’

  I rise from the bench. ‘How long have you been there?’

  He looks vague. ‘Couldn’t fix Isambard’s collar on properly.’

  The dog’s collar looks in perfect working order to me. Warren walks off, tugging poor Isambard along and casting veiled glances back over his shoulder at us.

  ‘That is SO embarrassing,’ Tabby says.

  I am still feeling too cheerful about Tabby’s lack of passion to care overly about Warren.

  ‘I have to do rehearsals with him!’ she wails. ‘He already told Patricia and Eunice, and that was just based on what you said at the first rehearsal. Now he’s actually seen us kissing. What if he tells the whole cast? What if he tells Sam?’

  I start laughing. I am feeling as light as a feather. I’ve told Tabby everything. There is nothing to hide any more, except for the way I feel about Jem.

  ‘First we lose the Kiss, now I’m officially gay,’ says Tab disconsolately. ‘How is any of this going to help me get Sam back?’

  ‘We’ll work it out,’ I say. ‘Just promise not to kiss me again.’

  My phone squeals a message at me. Still laughing, I pull it out.

  Did you say the bank was after you?

  ‘Jem?’ says Tab, catching my expression.

  I nod, wondering how text messages can effectively snip through a person’s vocal cords.

  ‘What does he say? Does he want to see you again?’

  I clear my throat. ‘He’s just checking my credit rating.’

  Tabby looks confused. ‘Is that code?’

  I show her the text. ‘Doesn’t bode well, does it?’ I say, trying to sound airy. ‘Not “Babe can’t stop thinking about you”. Just “Are you in trouble with the financial services?”’

  Tabby looks worried. ‘And are you?’

  I wave my hand impatiently. ‘They keep ringing me up. Haven’t they got anything better to do? I’m not using my account.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Try not to cry for starters, I think. My heart is thumping unpleasantly. I flattered myself that he thought me worth more than this. Then again, why would he? I ran away from him last night like my shoes were on fire.

  ‘I’m going to save up enough money to get me through till the end of term,’ I say. My voice feels thick. ‘Find another job so I don’t have to see him ever again. Change my name and emigrate to Mexico.’

  ‘Listen Lilah,’ Tab says in an anxious voice, ‘boys are terrible at communicating their feelings. Maybe this is his way of telling you he loves you.’

  ‘If that’s the case, Valentine’s Day will be a riot,’ I say.

  I start texting something witty and non-committal back, but remember just in time that I am supposed to be ill. Then I tap out something about puking, but can’t bring myself to send that because it’s a bit gross and I know he’ll see right through it. Sighing, I settle for the only thing I can think of, typing extra carefully to avoid auto-correct horrors.

  It’s a real wolf.

  ‘I won’t ask,’ says Tab, looking mystified as I hit send.

  ‘Probably best,’ I agree.

  By keeping my head down, working on my Economics presentation to the point where I can ace Mastermind on JM Keynes, and restricting myself to home-made sandwiches and water from the drinking fountain at lunchtime, I stretch my pathetic half-income all the way to Thursday night. I’ll have to scrounge lunch off someone tomorrow but I’ve done that before.

  ‘You do understand why I’m not coming tonight, don’t you?’ I say as Tab fixes her hair in the college toilets before her second Gaslight rehearsal.

  ‘He’s horrible for not texting you since that weird banky one at the weekend,’ she says, tweaking her fringe and playing with the bits around her ears. ‘I’d avoid him too.’

  ‘It’s not just that,’ I say. ‘There’s only so many drinks I can expect Patricia to buy.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I do honestly understand. I’ll be fine by myself,’ she assures me. ‘I’ve done one rehearsal with these guys now, so I kind of know who to avoid.’

  ‘Warren,’ we say together.

  ‘And Maria,’ Tabby adds. ‘Still the biggest cow in town. She’s so full of herself, she thinks the agents will be lining up on show night and begging her to join them so they can make her a West End superstar.’

  ‘What about Sam?’

  ‘If I’ve got the Kiss, I’m officially impossible to resist.’ Tabby gives her hair one last tweak and sighs. ‘But it’s a big if.’

  ‘You’re impossible to resist anyway,’ I tell her. ‘Just ask that girl you kissed last weekend.’

  Oz is outside the toilets by the main college pinboard, scrolling through a tablet. The phone in his top pocket is winking, heavy with messages.

  ‘It’s rehearsal night, Oz,’ says Tabby when she sees him. ‘Fancy it? You did say last week how you wanted to see Patricia and Eunice’s legendary drinking abilities for yourself.’

  ‘Can’t,’ Oz says. ‘I’m organising a party at the Fire Station tonight. Tomorrow?’ His phone rings. He whips it out. ‘Yup? Yup. Yup. Yup.’

  Boys lumber past us in the corridor, high-fiving Oz as they go. He nods at them all, phone still clamped to his ear, palms ringing out time and again.

  ‘Who are they?’ I ask as Oz rings off with a final ‘Yup’ and slots the still-winking phone back into his pocket. ‘You and me do all the same classes and I’ve never seen them before.’

  ‘You don’t need to know the punters by name.’ Oz’s fingers are poised over his tablet again. ‘You need only know them by their ability to tell everyone about what’s going down courtesy of the Ozmeister at the Fire Station tonight.’

  ‘Why don’t you take Lilah?’ suggests Tabby. ‘She needs a party.’

  It’s tempting. I feel an urgent need to be somewhere that isn’t my room, and isn’t the Gaslight, and isn’t college. Somewhere to remind me that life ticks on no matter how hard I try standing still.

  ‘Can’t afford a ticket,’ I say.

  ‘Have one on me,’ says Oz generously.

  ‘You’ll have to buy me drinks all night,’ I point out. ‘Not that I’m trying to put you off or anything.’

  He pats his trouser pocket. It jingles. ‘I can stretch to something for my favourite girl.’

  ‘Go forth and enjoy,’ Tabby says. ‘I gotta go and sing songs.’

  My best friend is right. I need a party. I can do the whole going-to-a-party-alone thing, because I’ll be with Oz, and that isn’t alone, is it?

  ‘You’re on,’ I say. ‘The Fire Station? By the old Co-op?’

  ‘You can’t miss it,’ he promises. His phone starts ringing again. ‘There’s a real fire engine parked outside. I’ll see you on the door around nine.’

  Walking to and from home to save on bus fares may be tightening up a few of my looser muscles, but it badly eats into the evening. By the time I get to my front door, it’s almost seven o’clock. I have about an hour to have a shower, do something appro
aching party make-up and find something to wear for Oz’s gig that includes sensible walk-all-over-town shoes but doesn’t shout NERD.

  I come downstairs again just over an hour later, a little breathless, in my everyday Vans and a cute flippy yellow dress I bought back in June when I had money. The dress is a bit summery, but walking to the bar, dancing and walking home again will keep me warm enough.

  I have flushed cheeks and a faint line of perspiration around my hairline by the time I reach the Fire Station. A line of people snakes down the pavement past the old fire engine, tarted up to the skies for what is plainly the hottest ticket in town. How does Oz do it? I gaze down the line towards the doors, looking for his familiar pyramid of hair, hoping I won’t have to join the queue.

  I spot him by the doors, talking to the two bouncers. With a stab, I recognize one of them as Kev, the bullet man from the bodypainting collective. I wonder nervously if Kev being here means that Jem might be too. I wonder how I feel about that, and decide that I haven’t got a clue.

  ‘Delilah Jones, you look like an adorable omelette,’ Oz beams. ‘This is Kev.’

  Kev is quite handsome without the bullet wound painted on to his cheek. ‘We already met,’ I say. I wonder if he remembers me.

  ‘Jem’s girl?’ he says. ‘Never forget a face.’

  I am proud of myself for not flinching. ‘Not Jem’s girl, just his canvas. Not doing the collective tonight?’

  ‘This pays better.’ He jerks his head towards the doors. ‘Get in then, before I have to ask you how old you are. Gotta get this queue moving.’

  He shoots a beefy hand into the crowd clustered by the door, seizes a lad by the lapels and deftly chucks him out of the line. ‘I already kicked you out once, kid,’ he shouts. ‘Don’t make me do it again.’

  Oz shepherds me right through to the bar. ‘You going to be OK? I’d hang out only I need to be on the door and . . . you know. Around.’

  My eyes widen. Flying solo is one thing. Flying solo without a wing man is something else entirely. I’m not sure I’m up to it at all.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I squeak. ‘I’ll probably find someone to talk to. I really appreciate this, Oz, honestly. The ticket, the drinks.’