The Kiss

by Lucy Courtenay

  When I have brought her up to speed on generalities, we move on to my present situation. I leave out certain details, like my real reason for resurrecting the show à la zombie and the bit about the swipe machine. The memory still makes me flush with shame from my head to my toes. I also fail to mention the Gaslight by name, and leave out precisely how hot Jem is. I’m not about to give Fatima Ammour ideas.

  ‘So you like him, and you kiss him, and now he don’t like you?’ she summarizes, twirling her bottle of cider.

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  She clicks her tongue. ‘With men, it is always simple. With Laurent, it was simple. With Dave le bâtard it was simple.’

  There is nothing simple about my feelings for Jem.

  ‘I can’t work at the bar any more,’ I groan. ‘I can barely walk around my own town without knowing that I’ll see him somewhere.’

  ‘All of this searching in the soul,’ Fatima grumbles. ‘All you do is to have sex in the wardrobe.’

  ‘We didn’t have sex,’ I say. ‘And you make it sound like we were crashing around among coat hangers and lavender-scented drawer liners.’

  Niko is hovering. Fatima gives him a devastating smile, and dazzles him into handing over two more bottles of cider and a free bag of peanuts.

  ‘Niko never gives away free stuff,’ I marvel.

  ‘I think he is in love with me,’ she says with satisfaction. ‘But he is very old. Salut, Delilah.’ She raises her bottle at me. ‘I will tell you about the man in the airport today. He was very beautiful but his nose was too small. They say the nose is very important when you judge a man.’

  She looks meaningfully at me over the top of her drink, then checks out the rest of the bar. ‘This is the best you can show me in this town?’ she inquires, looking disappointed.

  ‘It’s only Tuesday,’ I bleat.

  ‘Tuesday is the best night in Argole-sur-Mer,’ says Fatima, unimpressed.

  I check my watch. Nine-thirty. Rock on. I feel panicky. Pubs aren’t really my thing. Nightclubs in this bit of Surrey are thin on the ground, and non-existent on Tuesdays. Fatima will be on the next plane home if I don’t rustle up something better than this faded joint.

  ‘I’ll text Oz,’ I say, fumbling for my phone. ‘If anywhere’s rocking tonight, he’ll know about it.’

  HELP.

  French friend arrived tonight.

  What’s going down?

  Gaslight’s banging. Totally the

  venue for Halloween. Get ur butt

  over here.

  Zombie on.

  ‘What is Gaslight?’ Fatima reads over my shoulder. ‘Pub? Nightclub?’

  ‘We’re not going to the Gaslight,’ I squeak in a state of panic.

  ‘Pah,’ says Fatima for the second time that night.

  I’ve forgotten how single-minded Fatima can be when in search of entertainment. I stutter at her as we wheel the bikes out of Aphrodite’s Moon, deeply regretting how I failed to mention the Gaslight by name when I had the chance. We roll down the High Street and swing past the river towards the mouth of Hell with me hissing like an enraged goose all the way.

  ‘Don’t make me go in there,’ I implore as we come to a breathless halt at the foot of the Gaslight steps.

  Music pumps into the street from the bar, enticing as a siren on a rock in the middle of a stormy sea. Fatima looks up at the pink-lit basking-shark windows approvingly and starts up the steps, where the glass doors swing shut behind her and Mr Djembe’s best bicycle. I sigh and plod up the steps after her, heaving my wheels behind me.

  The place is swamped. A younger crowd than normal swarms the bar alongside the post-rehearsal cast of What an Ado About Zombies! and there is a buzz about the place that takes me back to the start-of-term party. I can’t believe my eyes. College kids, here? Mid-week?

  Fatima slings her bike behind the sofa by the double doors and absorbs the shoving throng, assessing, dismissing, noting the talent with lethal precision.

  ‘I am glad we come,’ she pronounces.

  Towering over the top of stretching arms and heads at the bar I make out Jem’s hair, glossy and gorgeous as ever. I stuff my bike behind the sofa alongside Fatima’s and wonder if I’ll fit back there as well.

  ‘Delilah!’ Val shouts, fighting her way towards us with glasses held high above her head. ‘This place has turned into a lunatic asylum. Did you know the show’s back on? They’re rehearsing every night this week, and bringing the world with them. You want your job back? You can get behind the bar right now before Jem collapses under the strain!’

  ‘This is the place with the man and the wardrobe?’ Fatima says in surprise, turning to me.

  ‘And it’s too late to leave now,’ I mutter. ‘She just offered my job back.’

  ‘That is good! You always say you are broken.’

  She drives me mad. ‘Didn’t you listen to anything I told you? I can’t work here because he works here!’

  Fatima strafes the bar. Her gaze slows at the sight of Jem’s long, muscular arms reaching up to the optics. ‘Oof,’ she says with a deep, sucking intake of breath.

  Jealousy bites down hard with sharp green teeth. ‘Don’t,’ I say.

  Her gaze is now sliding along Jem’s jawline and down into the neck of his black T-shirt until she is practically licking the shadowed dimple of his collarbone with her eyeballs. Fear grips me by the throat.

  ‘Promise me,’ I almost shout.

  ‘OK, OK,’ Fatima grumbles. ‘I don’t go near him except for a little drinking. And maybe sexy talk?’

  ‘No sexy talk!’

  ‘You want the job or not?’ Val shouts at me over the hubbub.

  ‘I will work tonight,’ Fatima announces.

  It’s a solution, I realize, once I’ve got over the surprise. With any luck I’ll have sorted the Jem situation by the time Fatima leaves, and my job will still be waiting for me on her departure. Theoretically.

  ‘I will keep Jem warm for you, cherie,’ says Fatima, fluffing her hair as Val nods and mows on through the crowd. ‘Like a chicken with an egg.’

  More like a lioness with a wildebeest, I think.

  ‘Delilah!’

  Oz stops dead at the sight of Fatima clearing a path towards the bar. Even from behind, she is magnificent.

  ‘I thought you said your French friend was brainy,’ he accuses, his eyes like saucers.

  ‘Sexy and brainy aren’t mutually exclusive, Oz.’ If Fatima gets off with Jem, I’ll kill her. ‘What’s going on? The Gaslight’s never full like this.’

  Oz is still watching Fatima recede. ‘I . . . what?’

  ‘She affects everyone within a two-hundred-metre radius. Like plutonium,’ I say kindly. ‘The bar? The action?’

  ‘It started with your posters,’ says Oz when he gets his focus back. ‘Those grannies you armed with spray cans have done a fantastic job. Apparently they got stopped by the police on the High Street, and had a time explaining themselves. Meanwhile I’ve been putting out the word that this is the place to be seen. I’m combining tickets for the fancy-dress party on Saturday with tickets for the show. Take-up’s already looking good.’ He looks in Fatima’s direction again. ‘Where’s she going?’

  ‘To serve a lot of beer,’ I say.

  ‘Mine not to question why, mine just to get the beverages. What are you drinking?’ He looks me up and down. ‘You’re looking good tonight, by the way. Liking the boxer eyes.’

  ‘Lilah!’ says Tab joyfully, leaping to her feet as I make my way to where half the cast are sitting at a table. ‘I thought you were never setting foot in this place again?’

  ‘Never say never,’ I mutter. ‘Fatima rocked up on my doorstep a couple of hours ago and now she’s behind the bar. Say what you like about that girl, s
he’s a fast worker.’

  Word on the new barmaid is out. Half the room – the male half, by and large – has surged towards the bar for sudden refills. Oz finds our table and plonks several bottles down, a far-away look in his eyes.

  ‘I’m in love,’ he says. ‘She’s bringing the rest of the order in a moment.’

  ‘Her surname’s not “Ammour” for nothing,’ I say.

  Tabby cranes her neck towards the bar, eager for a glimpse of the legend that is Fatima Ammour, but is foiled by a sea of boys’ backs.

  ‘Musical in a Month should officially be renamed Miracle in a Month,’ Patricia enthuses to me. ‘I can’t believe this zombie business hasn’t been tried before. The songs fit perfectly and Sam and Tabitha’s new lyrics are terrific. I can honestly say that I haven’t laughed this much since Alan died under that tree.’

  ‘How’s Desmond?’ I ask.

  ‘A little better I believe.’ Eunice tugs her cashmere cardie around her body. ‘Mortality is such a ghastly thing.’

  ‘Mortality’s a hard topic to avoid when you’re playing a zombie,’ Patricia says. ‘I can’t decide if telling Desmond about our new approach will push him through the Pearly Gates or shock him back to this life, so for Eunice’s sake we’re holding fire.’

  ‘Patricia,’ Eunice protests, blushing.

  Sam and Maria are sitting together at a table across the room. I want to hurl my cider bottle at the girl, chase her off Tabby’s property like an aggressive guppy.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Tab says, doing her best to sound serene. ‘He told me a few times on the way home on Saturday night how crazy he is about her.’

  ‘Are you sure he wasn’t just saying that to keep himself on the straight and narrow with you?’ I check.

  A glimmer of hope wanders across her face, a lost duck in search of a pond. ‘I wish.’

  ‘Drinks, mes biches.’

  Fatima leans in at Oz’s eye-level, placing bottles and glasses in front of everyone. Our table is suddenly swamped by boys sticking out their chests and doing little chicken struts to get her attention. It’s hard to introduce her amid the madness, but I do my best. She does the two-kiss thing to everyone around the table, even Warren.

  ‘I have already twenty pounds in the tips,’ she confides, patting her bosoms.

  ‘How’s Jem?’ I ask casually.

  ‘I don’t talk so much with him yet. We have no time. We already change two beer barrels. I must go back. Laters, alligators.’

  She runs a finger thoughtfully down Warren’s nose and chucks him under the chin before the crowd swallows her up again. Warren touches his nose in wonder.

  ‘I love her.’ Oz props one elbow dreamily on the table and rests his chin in his hand. ‘Did I already say that?’

  ‘Even I fancy her,’ says Rich.

  Henry frowns. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘I do. But I fancy you more.’

  ‘She reminds me of myself at that age,’ says Patricia as Rich and Henry beam at each other. ‘Fatima Ammour. Are we sure that’s not a stage name?’

  ‘She’s Algerian,’ I say. ‘Descended from bandits.’

  ‘She can rob me anytime,’ Warren mumbles.

  ‘There’s more chance of our little zombie hell freezing over, I fear,’ Patricia says to me, in a low voice for once.

  I consider Warren’s nose. It’s actually kind of enormous.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ I say doubtfully.

  My stomach folds in half at the sound of Jem’s voice calling last orders at eleven. I’ve been sitting with my

  back to the bar for maximum avoidance of eye contact, and have been relatively successful. The only time he looks

  at me is when I weave my way a little unsteadily to the bathroom, eye make-up probably running down my face like Usain Bolt in sooty shoes. His gaze is dark, his face set in a frown.

  By midnight the bar has cleared. Tabby has left with stoic kisses, Rich and Henry with high-fives, Eunice with a delicate wave and Patricia a less delicate one. It’s strange, watching the evening’s action wind down from a punter’s viewpoint instead of with my head dipping in and out of the dishwasher.

  ‘You waiting for Fatima?’

  I leap out of the sofa like I’m wearing a pair of jumping stilts. He’s approached as quietly as a ghost.

  ‘I – what?’ I say. Slick, I think.

  ‘She’s disappeared somewhere. Probably the bathroom.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  There is an awkward silence. What is a girl supposed to say to a guy who thinks she is a waste of space?

  ‘Fatima’s . . .’ I watch him hunt down a suitable adjective. ‘Something,’ he concludes.

  ‘Mmm.’ Oh crusty carpet, swallow me now.

  ‘Not really my type though.’

  I decide to take refuge in attack. ‘Why? You catch her with her fingers in the till?’

  He doesn’t answer that. ‘How are you?’ he asks instead.

  Drunk, I realize. ‘Me?’ I say out loud. ‘Oh, I’m brilliant. Fantastic. Like one of those swans.’ He looks puzzled. I paddle with my hands. ‘All elegance and refinement on top but swimming for my life below.’

  ‘Right,’ he says.

  ‘What do you care anyway,’ I say morosely.

  He stares at me like he’s trying to peel back the layers and get to the nerve endings beneath my skin. Trying to burn through to the truth. ‘Just taking an interest.’

  ‘Didn’t think I was worth your interest.’

  He fiddles with his ear. ‘Delilah—’

  ‘I’m not up to a repeat of our last conversation, if that’s where you’re going.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he says. ‘Trust me.’

  Why should I trust you when you don’t trust me? I think.

  More silence.

  ‘What were you doing at the collective last week?’ he asks at last.

  ‘Ella asked me.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says. He pauses. ‘I didn’t think you knew her that well.’

  Ella hasn’t shopped me. Part of me is a little annoyed. I know I asked her to stay quiet, but having Jem know I am trying to put things right would be . . . comforting.

  That isn’t the point, of course.

  ‘Guess I know her better than you think,’ I say waspishly.

  ‘Guess you do.’

  This conversation is flowing as smoothly as molten fudge. It’s Willy Wonka’s chocolate river, warm and rich and fulfilling. I stare out of the double doors for a bit, at the dark brown night. Perhaps he’ll go away.

  ‘I keep seeing you in my head,’ he says eventually. ‘Laughing.’

  ‘Oh, I’m a laugh a minute,’ I agree. ‘Though of course, criminal intent runs through me like Brighton rock. Which is a flaw.’

  Where is Fatima? I am getting reckless with this strange grief I am feeling.

  ‘I hated it.’

  ‘What, Brighton rock?’

  ‘You, laughing. With him.’

  ‘You put me on trial,’ I say, angry suddenly. ‘You found me guilty. So what if I laugh with someone that isn’t you?’

  ‘What were you laughing about?’

  ‘I was laughing about my impending villainy,’ I say. ‘Wasn’t I?’

  We both hear a strange noise. It seems to be coming from the box office. Jem glances at the closed ticket window, then looks back at me.

  ‘All I know is that I hated it,’ he says.

  ‘What are you condemning me for here?’ I demand. ‘Having a laugh with the wrong person or planning

  my heist?’

  We are both angry now.

  ‘How can you joke about this?’

  ‘Best thing to do in desperate circumstances. If you’re so con
vinced that I’m a thief, why didn’t you tell Val?’

  ‘What makes you think I didn’t?’

  ‘She offered my job back.’

  Lightning flickers across his eyes. ‘So why didn’t you take it? Not many thieves get a second opportunity. Busy bar tonight. Plenty of profit.’

  ‘I thought I would find the working environment a little trying,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  The odd noise has started up again. It’s definitely coming from the ticket office.

  Jem swears loudly. ‘Got one of your pals in to clean out the safe?’ he inquires, striding towards the ticket office.

  ‘If that’s a thief,’ I roar after him, ‘they’re the noisiest . . .’

  I suddenly realize something with ghastly clarity. Jem does too.

  ‘Is it just me,’ he says, his footsteps slowing, ‘or does that sound like—’

  Warren’s head pops up over the ticket office desk. A long hand with dark red fingernails slaps across his mouth and pulls him back down.

  Fatima means ‘abstinence’ in Arabic. Talk about ironic.

  ‘Vive la France,’ Jem says in wonder.

  ‘I wish I could say she isn’t normally like this,’ I squeak through my fingers in an agony of embarrassment, ‘but we all know how you feel about lies.’

  Jem indicates the kitchen diplomatically. ‘Perhaps we should . . .’

  ‘Right behind you,’ I mumble.

  By the time we reach the kitchen and shut the door behind us, Jem is nearly paralyzed with laughter. ‘Know any good songs we could sing?’ he chokes out, leaning against the lockers for support. ‘You know – loudly?’

  The only one I can think of is ‘My Generation’ and look where that got me. ‘Nothing’s coming to mind,’ I say weakly. ‘You?’

  ‘People try to put us down,’ he sings close to my ear.

  My knees actually buckle. Fold sideways and lose anything approaching substance. His breath is warm.