Beautiful Mess

by Lucy V. Morgan

  Yeah, because this was totally building my confidence.

  Tom tittered again. “You know what you need, Bailey?”

  “Go on.”

  “A montage.”

  All three boys collapsed in crooning laughter then, and I couldn’t help it; I started giggling with them. Fuck the sisterhood. I liked my cozy brotherhood, even if they did get me drunk and force out embarrassing confessions.

  “You should have another drink, Bails,” said Olly. “If you’re finding us amusing, then it’s obviously wearing off.”

  “No, I just…if I don’t laugh, I might cry again. I feel like such a sad case.”

  “You’re not sad. You got dumped, and it turns out your sex life is sorely lacking. But you’ve still got all your awesome cakes.” Olly gave me a valiant wink.

  “And a great rack,” Tom added.

  “And nice legs.” Linc looked almost as embarrassed saying that as I did hearing it.

  I pulled my knees up to my chin and buried my face. You might think that in the five odd years I’d been close to these guys, something sexual would have happened. It’d be logical since they all had penises and I had girl parts. But it just…no. It was never that way. Not that they treated me like a fellow pork sword chevalier; they referred to my feeble female status at least twice a day. But that sort of thing never really came up, for whatever reason. And I was so not in the right head space to take a compliment.

  Stupid, donkey-raping, substituting-a-diamond-for-Pooh Craig.

  “So what do you suggest I do, then?” I said finally. “Go out and molest men until I find one with your sexual prowess, Ol?”

  “Oh God, I don’t know.” He rolled his eyes at me. “I mean, you might do all sorts of weird things like not let them go down on you, or you might not actually know where your clit is.”

  “Or sometimes it’s just too hairy and you wish that she’d wouldn’t let you,” Tom said glumly.

  “I’m not a freak,” I muttered. “And I’m not that hairy either.”

  “Not that hair is bad,” said Olly quickly, “just that nobody wants friction burns. Or to suddenly be transported to the Mongolian wilderness when she takes her knickers off.”

  “You know, I think I’m going to go to bed before you depress me any further.”

  Tom jumped up in front of me. “Hold on to my arm,” he said. “You don’t want a twisted ankle to add to your list of girly whinges.”

  “I can walk, you moron.”

  I gave all the boys a rather woozy hug goodnight and stopped off in the hall to feed the rats. Bruce, the fat, fluffy brown one, sidled up my arm and sat on my shoulder.

  “You need to go on a diet,” I told him sagely. “No more fromage pour Bruce.”

  Tarquin, the skinny white one, looked up from his crossed paws and then pretended he wasn’t excited while I refilled their bowl. He always had this sniffy nonchalance about him; I knew he’d be cartwheeling with joy when I left the room and he found the dog biscuits.

  “See, Bruce,” I said, “I’m not going to be the lonely cat lady on the veranda with her shotgun. I’ll be half covered in royal icing and sawdust, instead.”

  He chattered his teeth into my ear and I nudged him with my nose. Then I lowered him into the cage, slid it shut, and wandered off to bed.

  I put Pooh--and the box of stupid Craig--outside my door before I closed it.

  Tomorrow, I’m going to work on being Angry with a capital A.

  Chapter Two

  My Tuesday of Fury started well.

  I made healthy porridge with fruit for breakfast. Screw you, Craig, I’m going to be thin and amazing! I finally took off the anklet he bought me in France. Screw you, Craig, it looked cheap anyway! I put on the sparkly eye shadow that he always complained made me look like a twelve-year-old. Screw you, Craig, I’m going to…look like a twelve-year-old.

  I was doing quite well until I arrived at work. Since I’d been ditched, working in a wedding cake shop royally sucked.

  I flicked through the consultation book and prayed for an empty day, or at least, a birthday or baptism job. Gah. Two tastings were scheduled for sappy, happy couples.

  “Do I have to handle these?” I groaned to Mila, my boss.

  She pushed her wire glasses up her nose and adjusted her apron. “Yes.”

  “No sympathy vote?”

  “You’ve had enough sympathy to redeem third world debt. You work in weddings--get over it.”

  I wanted to direct some of my Fury at Mila, but truth be told, she was a lovely boss. And she let me hide in the back for the first two days--mainly because the mere mention of love made me dissolve into a tearful mess, but still.

  It wasn’t her fault I couldn’t face the froufrou lacy icing or the pink sugar roses. It wasn’t her fault I met Craig while I was working in the shop.

  He came in with his sister on a Wednesday lunchtime to book a cake for their parents’ anniversary. I remember how stocky and smart he looked in his shirt; he’d obviously popped out of work and it seemed like such a nice, organized thing to do. He kept complimenting my portfolio, asking how things were done--he seemed genuinely interested. I gave him a business card with my mobile number on it and when he sent me a text the next day, I actually did a little dance around my bedroom, complete with shimmy. He was very sorry if it was presumptuous and rude, but he couldn’t stop thinking about me. Would I like to go for a drink?

  Yes, yes, YES.

  We met in a wine bar the next evening. He took advantage of my inability to hold my drink, and it took off from there.

  Even after we’d dated for a month, for a year, I still looked forward to him surprising me on my lunch break with the little packs of sushi he knew I liked so much. We’d wander around to the park and eat them by the river, even if the air was raw with cold, and those memories still make me go all toasty before the waterworks start. All this stuff the lads were talking about last night, did it really matter?

  I mean, don’t get me wrong--it wasn’t that I didn’t like sex. I liked it a lot, and I liked it especially with Craig. Sure, I’d become frustrated with him on occasion. I might have even touched myself a couple of times after he fell asleep. Ahem. But maybe I stopped expecting anything more, and so I stopped--

  “Bailey? Keith and Elizabeth are here.” Mila tapped me on the shoulder.

  Okay, okay. Time for the game face. I am not a gnome of self pity.

  I’m an imp of pure ass-kickery. A fuck-yeah fairy. Right?

  I straightened my shirt, tucked up a few curls that had escaped my clip and walked through to the display room where we held our consultations. It was full of iced polystyrene “cakes” in glass cases, framed photos, and a little fridge full of samples that Mila stocked in advance.

  I had raided that fridge on more occasions than was advisable for an ever-so-slightly-chubby girl.

  “Hello.” I smiled brightly for the smart-looking couple. Elizabeth was blond and petite, with something of the fey about her. Keith was a bit broad around the middle but his eyes went gooey as soon as he cast them on to his fiancée. Bleugh. “I’m Bailey Frost. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

  We shook hands, they took a seat, I poured glasses of elderflower Champagne. Then I took the samples tray from the fridge and teased off the cover.

  “I understand that you want something chocolaty? These would be my recommendations.” I sat opposite them and pointed to each of the flavors. “This one is butterscotch. It’s very dense, fudgy. The caramel beside it is a little lighter. White chocolate is really sweet and I’d advise that you only pick that if you’re going with some tart fruits on your design, such as redcurrants or strawberries.”

  I watched as they fed each other little morsels, locked eyes, giggled. Shared private jokes.

  I always thought Craig would propose to me. When he took me to Euro Disney for my birthday two months ago, I’d been so sure. So what if we were young? We’d named our kids Francis and Libby. Planned our honeymoon: Gibralta
r. Our song was the You and Me Song by the Wannadies, and he’d hinted we could play it as we walked back up the aisle.

  The dickhead.

  “What kind of icing would you pair with the butterscotch?” said Elizabeth.

  “It depends on the effect you’d like, but I’d go with a vanilla royal.”

  I hope you get divorced.

  Keith blotted blunt fingers on a napkin. “How about the dark chocolate--isn’t royal a little sweet for that?”

  “Not necessarily. We can use a rich, Peruvian cocoa.”

  I hope you get divorced and go bald.

  They both looked at each other and burst into identical, sickening smiles.

  “So, the butterscotch. Could we still have fruit?”

  “Absolutely. You can stick with the red fruits, though we do a delicious caramelized banana.”

  I hope you get divorced, go bald, and that she never orgasms. In fact I hope neither of them orgasm ever again. Take that! Bah.

  Oh God, I almost said that out loud.

  I poured Keith and Elizabeth some more Champagne, and got out my sketchbook.

  ***

  When I got in that evening, there was an almost melodic riff booming from Olly and Linc’s studio. I hauled my shopping into the kitchen and checked on the rats, who were smooching in their hammock, before starting a huge pasta bake. It was my night to cook.

  I liked our little flat. Well, I said little--we were at the top of an old water mill, and the high ceilings made it feel huge. The kitchen had swayed it for me: polished wooden units and an oven big enough for the most manic of baking days. When we decked the windowsill with basil and chives, it smelled like home.

  It wasn’t your average bachelor pad; I hadn’t filled it with pink satin cushions, but I liked things to be comfortable. I also vetoed a turd board, like we had at uni: Olly and Tom would take photographs of their most impressive poos and pin them up in the hall. Classy, huh?

  Once the hiss of boiling water died, I heard Olly singing to a synthy keyboard track.

  “Werewolves…very slutty werewolves…put yo’ fangs in my ass…”

  I couldn’t help it. I started giggling to myself as I chopped the red onions.

  “I’m a very slutty werewolf

  With a furry, faggy cock

  You think I’m howling at the moon

  I’m wanking myself off…”

  I sniggered like a child.

  “I’m a very slutty werewolf

  With a deep and primal ache

  To chug your slimy were-manfat

  My name is Hairy Craig!”

  Whaaaaa--?

  “I’m a very slutty werewolf

  You know why I switched to dick?

  I couldn’t please my were-girlfriend

  ‘Cause I’m a selfish prick…”

  I nearly sliced half my finger off. Olly had launched into an impressive soprano for “were-boys are easy!” when I burst in. I gripped the door handle so tight my knuckles were white as paper.

  “You can’t sing that!” I shrieked.

  The synth and drums ground to a static crunch of a halt. Linc blushed riotously when he clapped eyes on me.

  “You heard me,” I croaked. “Right?”

  “Aww, come on, Bails. He’ll never know that it’s about him.” Olly tried smiling but I glared in return.

  “Of course he’ll bloody know! You can’t call somebody gay just because they suck in bed--”

  “Ooh. She admits it!”

  “Sod off.” I rubbed my temples. “Why would you even write something like that?”

  “I wrote it.” Linc swung in his chair, biting the nail on his index finger.

  I blinked at him. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “Sorry. We thought it’d cheer you up.”

  “You thought that splashing my inadequate sex life all over YouTube would make me feel better?”

  He added a second finger for the chomping. “It‘s not for YouTube. It‘s just for you…and I didn‘t see it that way.” He pressed his lips together. “You being inadequate, I mean.”

  I wasn’t sure how a song about my ex being a sperm-hungry werewolf could be called sweet, but it kind of was. In an abstract way, obviously.

  “I wish I’d never told you about that.” Now I was the one blushing like an idiot. “Stupid Jäger. I should never have said anything.”

  “It’s okay. Why would it not be?” Olly cocked an eyebrow. “Now, you already ruined that take. Want to stay and do some back-up vocals? Could use somebody for the camp growling on the bridge.”

  “I’m not much for the, uh, growling.” I jabbed a thumb behind me. “I’m cooking anyways.”

  “Sweet. I’m starving.”

  “I’m glad somebody is.”

  I wasn’t.

  Chapter Three

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the orgasm thing. When I’d fed both sets of boys (rats and humans) that night, I locked myself away and just lay there, thinking. My own little catalog of anti-climaxes.

  There was Jamie, the boy I’d lost my virginity to. I came pretty close a few times with him, especially in the early days when we were just fumbling. I still got wet thinking about the way he would draw my nipples into his mouth while he stroked me. It wasn’t like he never made the effort, I just didn’t know. I would go all tight, the way I did when I climaxed alone. I’d get breathless, I’d even get that rosy flush across my collar bone, but I never quite tipped over the edge. Half the time, I did hurry him because I wanted to be fucked. Other times, if he asked me whether I’d orgasmed, I’d just say yes.

  That probably didn’t help.

  It was the beginning of a vicious little circle. When I thought about it, though, Craig didn’t try as hard as some of my other partners. He never asked if I liked anything, or wanted to do something new. Once, I got drunk and asked him to spank me. There was suddenly this disgusted twist to his brow as he said, what, like I’m your dad or something? But Craig was so broody and gorgeous that looking at him did half the job anyway. Gah. Maybe I was just shallow and this was my punishment.

  I could orgasm perfectly well by myself, though. My flesh got all sticky and swollen at the thought of it. So why didn’t it happen with a guy?

  ***

  “Bailey?”

  The pillow was so warm and soft against my face. Ugh. Who wanted me at this hour?

  Another door knock.

  “Bailey, it’s Chan.”

  Chan was Olly’s girlfriend. He called her his Hentai princess after some weirdo Japanese porn. Tentacles were involved. Never Google it.

  I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and staggered to the door. “Everything okay?”

  “Um.” She drummed painted nails on her arm. “I don’t really know how to tell you this.”

  “Go on,” I said, roused by suspicion.

  She cocked her head towards the end of the hall. “I think one of your rats might be dead.”

  I’m ashamed to say that I pushed past her--which wasn’t hard, since she was teeny--and almost fell over my too-long pajamas. When I reached the cage, Bruce looked decidedly stiff and lifeless beside the water bottle.

  “I’m really fucking sorry,” said Chan. “I normally say hi to them before I go out to work and he was just all...” She sniffled. “Look at him.”

  I unhooked the cage door and Tarquin stirred in the hammock; Bruce couldn’t have been out for long because his brother hadn’t even noticed. When I brushed Bruce’s belly with my fingers, though, it was cold.

  “Oh crap. Chan. Um. Could you grab one of the Tupperware boxes from the cupboard by the fridge?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Of course.”

  She shuffled off to the kitchen and I lifted Bruce out gently. I wanted to get him out before Tarquin realized that he was dead; he’d pine badly as it was. Cross-legged on the carpet, I cradled him in my palms. I’d always thought Bruce would go first because he was so rotund, but still, looking at him like this was horrible, and familiar tear
s fizzed in the corners of my eyes.

  “Here you go. I put some tissue in.” Chan knelt beside me, bangs of pink hair obscuring her face. “Poor little fucker.”

  I laid Bruce in the box and quickly pressed the lid on. A mental note was made to buy kitten milk, Tarquin’s favorite food. I would need to tempt him into eating.

  Goodbye, little buddy. I know I’m not supposed to say so, but you were my favorite.

  So, no boyfriend. No orgasms. Dead rat.

  It sucked to be me, huh?

  ***

  A day later, we buried Bruce in my mum’s back garden and headed to the pub for a ratty wake.

  The Bridge and Staff was a little place on the riverside that we’d frequented for years. We used to do the quiz on a Tuesday, but they stopped it when people kept cheating on their mobiles--not that we ever did it. Oh no.

  Olly, Tom, Linc and I huddled in our favorite booth with its cracked leather seats. They nursed pints of cider, and I went for a small glass of wine since I intended to walk home sober. Ish.

  “To Bruce,” said Tom, holding his glass aloft. “He was a noisy little bugger who kept me awake when I had exams, but if you’re going to be kept awake, I choose rats dry-humping plant pots.”

  “As opposed to what?” I said.

  “As opposed to Olly and Chan, or you and arseface.”

  “You can say his name.” I took a long sip of wine. “Craig, Craig, Craig. There. I said it.”

  “Don’t do that again.” Linc tutted. “He might be like Beetle Juice--say it three times and he’ll appear.”

  “He’s not going to come back in here. This is my territory.”

  “What’s wrong with listening to me send Chan to the moon?” Olly pouted. “You can’t tell me she doesn’t sound hot, Tom.”

  “Your girlfriend sounds like expensive porn. There. Are you happy?”

  “Oh, I will be.” Olly grinned like the Cheshire cat. “For Valentine’s on Saturday, she’s going to let me pretend to rape her.”