The subsequent conversation, after Ben had gathered himself together and made his way downstairs on legs that felt like jelly, had been excruciating, not least because his dad had chosen to open it with, ‘Look, son, men like looking at tits. It doesn’t matter how old they are. I still like looking at them and I’m three times your age.’ His follow-up line, in which he informed his son that every woman in the world had them, including his mother and his sister, had sounded to Ben like some terrible threat, rather than the casual demystification that was intended, and the exchange had rapidly devolved into a seemingly infinite purgatory of burning red faces and mortified stuttering.
The Playboy Incident had been the devastating end of a long-running series of attempts to familiarise himself more thoroughly with the subject of the quest that he and Sean had embarked upon: the Orbs of Power themselves.
He had stared in open-mouthed awe at naked women in softcore thrillers on cable movie channels late at night, sitting inches away from his small television in the dark, his ears plugged with headphones: tanned, bottle-blonde Americans with perfectly spherical breasts who bounced enthusiastically on top of men with side-parted hair, throwing their hair from side to side, screeching like banshees.
He had accompanied Sean to his friend’s cousin’s house one lunchtime, where the three of them had silently watched the porn video that Sean’s cousin kept inside a box labelled Match of the Day, which was perhaps twenty years old, and at least a fifteenth- or sixteenth-generation copy. It contained the first penis Ben had ever seen apart from his own, and there were unquestionably real people actually having real sex in front of the camera, but it was a monotonous blur, and he found himself increasingly focusing on the sets and the costumes; the lead actress was dressed, when she was wearing clothes, as Cleopatra, a character in one of the plays they were studying in English.
He had also investigated the supposed orgy of imagery that was becoming available on something new called the internet. A couple of kids from school had it, and one of them, Matthew Hetherington, had held forth on the subject at great length during form a week or two earlier.
‘Mate, you can see whatever you want. It’s incredible.’
‘How come?’ Ben had asked.
‘You just search for stuff. There’s this thing, it’s called AltaVista. You type in, like, porn or whatever. Or big tits. Then you press SEARCH and it finds pictures of them for you.’
Ben frowned. ‘Where from?’
‘What?’
‘Where does it find them from?’
‘How am I supposed to know that? It just does. You need to tell your mum to get it, mate, seriously.’
Ben had duly asked his mother about the possibility of their getting the internet, but had been unable to provide an answer when she asked him why he wanted it. He was sure that ‘So I can look at porn without having to creep around in disused gardens’ would not be what his mother wanted to hear. So instead, he had made an effort to befriend Matthew Hetherington, in the hope of getting access to the portal of sexual delight that apparently sat innocuously on his dad’s desk in the upstairs office. But after several interminable lunch breaks spent listening to the intricacies of rugby union, a sport that left Ben scratching his head in confusion but seemed to be the central axis of Matthew’s life around which everything else revolved, he had given up on the idea. Nothing was worth another lecture on the correct strategy to deploy when defending a line-out.
Not even the Orbs of Power.
‘This is bollocks, mate,’ said Ben, throwing aside the scrap of soiled porn. ‘We’re getting nowhere.’
‘What are you on about?’ asked Sean, from within the hedge.
‘This,’ said Ben. ‘The quest. All of it. Nothing’s happening, mate. Just because we decided to be on a quest and you wrote it down in Indiana Jones lettering doesn’t mean anything’s changed.’
‘Stop whining, for Christ’s sake,’ said Sean. ‘You didn’t have a girl threatening to have some prison nutcase cut your balls off unless you apologised to them. Could be worse.’
‘There you go though,’ said Ben. ‘Tom Richards is the same year as us and he looks like he’s been smashed in the face with a hammer. But he’s having it away with Amy Dillon now, and she used to fancy you. Kev Simmons told me Olivia Bell let him put his hand up her skirt last week after Drama Club. Kev. Simmons. Yet neither of us can manage to touch a girl’s tits. I mean, seriously, what the hell is wrong with us? Is that so much to ask from the universe?’
‘Never mind the universe. Have you asked any girls?’
‘Asked them to let me touch their tits?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Of course not,’ said Ben. ‘I saw what happened to you with Laura Kelly.’
‘That’s different though,’ said Sean. ‘I never asked her, did I? That’s why she got all uptight about it.’
Right, thought Ben. I’m sure that’s why.
‘So what are you suggesting?’ he asked.
‘Jesus mate, I don’t know,’ said Sean, ceasing his digging and turning to face his friend. ‘Do I have to think of everything? What about that girl in the year above?’
‘What girl in the year above?’
‘You know. Grace something.’
Ben froze. ‘Grace Matthews?’
‘That’s her. You haven’t done anything about that, have you? So you can’t be that arsed.’
‘About. What?’
Sean frowned. ‘Did I not tell you she likes you?’
‘Were you supposed to tell me she likes me?’
‘Yeah. Her mate Bonnie whatserface told me to tell you.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘Christ, I don’t know. I’ve been a bit busy, mate, with this quest we’re both supposed to be on.’
‘You’re a complete twat. Do you know that?’
Sean’s frown deepened. ‘What’s the big deal, mate? Did you fancy her or something? I’ve never heard you mention her.’
Ben considered this. He had never really thought about Grace Matthews in those terms, or any of the Year Eleven girls for that matter. They were invariably seen in the company of boys from the Sixth Form College, boys with cars and motorbikes and unconvincing facial stubble who could successfully get served in pubs.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But that’s not the point. You should have told me, mate. We’re supposed to be in this together.’
‘Jesus, don’t cry about it. Bonnie only told me last week. I’m sure Grace is still interested.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Well, no. I mean, to be honest, she’s probably thinks you bottled sending her a message back. But there could still be a chance. Like, a really small one. So that’s something, eh?’
The next morning Ben walked to school with his heart pounding against his ribs, his palms clammy, and his legs feeling like they were made of jelly. His plan was simple; get through maths and English, track down Bonnie Dean during first break, send a message via her to Grace Matthews, meet up with Grace at lunchtime, and be well on the way to completing his quest by the end of school.
The first part of the plan went perfectly. Ben safely negotiated an hour of sines and cosines, along with one of Mr Barrington’s characteristic tangents into how best to survive a nuclear apocalypse, including a basic rations list and the best places to buy a home Geiger counter. English too appeared to be passing without incident, as Ben answered a couple of early questions regarding the setting and atmosphere of Charles Dickens’ Hard Times and then settled down for what should have been forty minutes of blissful, relaxing obscurity.
Then, with barely five minutes to go until the bell would have rung for morning break, Mrs James caught him doodling breasts of all shapes and sizes in the margins of his exercise book. This in itself was not disastrous, worthy of no more than a sharp telling-off after the bell, and the loss of a minute or two of his break time. Unfortunately for Ben, his mind was already rehearsing what he was going to say to Bonnie Dean when he tr
acked her down, and he responded to his English teacher with two words that would haunt his nightmares for months to come.
‘Sorry, Mum.’
There was a moment of incredulous silence, then the rest of the class burst into laughter of a volume and ferocity that Ben had never before encountered. At that moment, the trail that led towards the Orbs of Power, the trail which had seemed on the verge of bursting thrillingly, brilliantly into life in the Year Eleven shape of Grace Matthews, disappeared along with his social life and, or so it seemed to Ben, any possibility of his life ever again being anything other than cold and miserable.
‘So how come you never asked me out?’
Ben considered this, trying to keep this attention on Grace’s pale, lovely face and not on the black bra that was hovering at the lower edge of his vision, taunting him. ‘I was going to,’ he said, eventually. ‘But Sean didn’t give me your message for about a week and he didn’t think you would still be interested, and then the thing in Mrs James’ class happened, and after that I was sure you wouldn’t be.’
‘Your mate Sean’s a moron. You know that, right?’
Ben frowned. ‘He’s all right.’
‘No,’ said Grace. ‘He’s not. He’s a moron.’
‘I know,’ said Ben, loyalty twisting in his gut. ‘I mean, I get why you would think so. But when you get to know him … ’
‘I would never want to,’ said Grace. ‘And you’d be better off without him. I think you know it, too.’
‘Maybe,’ allowed Ben. ‘But then, I’ve known him since I was six.’
‘I’ve known the kid next door to me who eats his own snot since I was three. Doesn’t mean I have to be friends with him.’
Ben grinned. ‘Fair enough.’
‘None of my business, like. Do whatever you want. But I reckon you’ll see I’m right, eventually.’
Ben struck out for safer ground. ‘Who’s your best mate? Bonnie?’
Grace appeared to consider this. ‘I suppose so.’
‘You aren’t sure?’
‘Not really. I mean, I am sure that she’s my best friend now. But I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in this crappy little town, so I like to think that I haven’t met whoever my real best friend is going to be yet.’
‘What if you don’t meet anyone you like more than Bonnie?’
Grace laughed. ‘That would be very disappointing. But maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll be a friendless loser for the rest of my life. Or maybe I’ll meet the coolest people in the world and go on adventures with them. Who knows? That’s what makes it all so exciting.’
‘What?’
‘Life, silly.’
Ben blushed. ‘Right,’ he muttered. ‘Of course. Sorry.’
There was silence in the bedroom, a long moment of it that wasn’t remotely uncomfortable; to Ben it felt warm and fuzzy, like he was surrounded by invisible cotton wool. He was trying to focus on his quest, on the goal that, as he stole a glance at the raised pattern on the edges of the black bra, he realised was literally within his reach, but Grace Matthews kept distracting him, kept disarming him with her easy confidence, her way of making things seem clear and simple, her straightforward honesty and her obvious disinterest in games or bullshit.
‘Ben,’ she said, after an unknown amount of time had passed.
‘What?’
‘Look at me, Ben.’
He raised his gaze from where he had been studying the pattern of stripes and squares on the duvet cover. Grace was sat with her legs crossed and her elbows resting on her knees, her body leant slightly towards him, an unreadable expression on her face.
‘Why are you so nervous?’ she asked.
Ben suddenly realised two things. Firstly, that he was about to break the solemn promise he had made to Sean. Secondly, that there was a good chance he was about to say one of the stupidest things that a teenage boy had ever said to a partially undressed teenage girl. He drew a deep breath, and took the plunge.
‘I’m on a quest.’
The winter months were cold, and hard.
Children have long memories, teenagers especially, and Ben’s hope that referring to Mrs James as ‘Mum’ would soon be forgotten proved hopelessly naïve. The outright insults and mocking died down, as new embarrassments presented themselves, but the incident remained lurking just below the surface, ready to be brought back up whenever he did anything even remotely worthy of derision. Even Sean had taken to keeping his distance, not wanting to be tainted with his best friend’s sudden, catastrophic fall from grace, and appeared to have lost all interest in their quest. He was now spending most evenings at Matthew Hetherington’s house playing something called DOOM and showing worrying signs of a burgeoning interest in rugby.
Ben kept his head down, let his contribution to the success of the school football team prevent his stock from ever bottoming out completely, and devoted himself to the quest for the Orbs of Power, which was now approaching the status of an obsession. He blamed the quest for what had happened in Mrs James’s class, had started, in all honesty, to believe that the trajectory of his life had somehow become bound up with it, that things would not improve until he completed it.
Cursed, he thought to himself one evening, as his father snored through Match of the Day and his mother chatted happily away on the phone to her sister. It’s like the quest has put a curse on me.
* * *
As is so often the case where quests are concerned, it was when things seemed at their bleakest, when the path seemed blocked at every turn, that a chink of light shone through the clouds, illuminating a possible way ahead.
Sean’s parents had gone to their timeshare villa in Florida for two weeks, as they had been doing every Easter holiday for as long as anyone could remember, and his sister Cheryl, who was home from university, had announced that she was going to Edinburgh with her friends on Good Friday and would not be back until the afternoon of Easter Sunday. Which could only mean one thing.
House party.
Sean had persuaded Kev Simmons to push out all the stops, and had managed to acquire four crates of cheap French lager. Matthew Hetherington was going to DJ, having allegedly learnt how to do so in Ibiza the previous summer, and pretty much the entire year was invited, even Ben. He was more relieved than he would ever have admitted to anyone; he had been deeply unsure whether he would make the cut. And as the day approached, the gloom that had settled over him during the winter months was lifted even further by a message, this time delivered to him personally by Bonnie Dean, that Grace Matthews was looking forward to seeing him at the party. Why this would be so was unclear to him, such had been his recent status as a social pariah, but he didn’t question it; he merely added it to the ever-growing pile of evidence that reinforced his conviction that girls were simply impossible to understand.
When Good Friday finally arrived, Ben paired his best YSL shirt with black jeans and Reebok classics, applied a liberal amount of gel to his hair, and headed off to what he hoped would be a date with destiny, the completion of a quest that had threatened to take over his life, to drag him ever further downwards.
This is it, he thought, as he walked the short distance to Sean’s house. This is the night everything changes.
Two hours later, he was standing exactly where he always ended up at parties: with Sean and Kev in the kitchen, sipping lager he wasn’t enjoying and screaming silently at himself to go and talk to someone, to talk to a girl, any girl.
You play for the football team. You get good marks. You’re not that bad looking. Stop being so completely PATHETIC.
‘This party,’ announced Kev, ‘is really, really shit.’
‘Piss off,’ said Sean. ‘It’s not got going yet, that’s all.’
‘Oh, it’s going,’ said Kev, gesturing out towards the living room, which was full of boys and girls from their year and the one above dancing and laughing as Matthew poured tune after tune out of a pair of turntables he had brought with him. This had been greete
d with open astonishment by his friends, who had assumed Matthew had been lying about being able to mix. ‘We’re just not on board.’
Sean had no response, as what Kev was saying was demonstrably, painfully true. Instead, he opened another can of lager and took a long swig, trying not to grimace at the taste. Ben watched him, already weighing up which line he was going to use when he told his friends he was leaving; the party was already on the verge of becoming unbearable, and he had no appetite for masochism. Then Kev elbowed him hard in the ribs.
‘What the hell?’ he asked, glaring at his friend, who merely widened his eyes, as though he was trying to alert Ben to something.
A light cough sounded from behind him, and Ben turned towards the source of it. Grace Matthews was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a bottle of wine in her hand and smiling at him.
‘So,’ she said. ‘This is where all the cool people are.’
Sean and Kev erupted in fake laughter, but Ben didn’t join in; he was looking at Grace. Her blonde hair was tied back in a loose ponytail and she was wearing a blue top with white edging and a denim skirt that stopped halfway up her long, pale thighs. Her breasts were gentle swells beneath the blue material of her top, but it hadn’t even occurred to him to look at them; he was wondering why he had never noticed how pretty she was, how stop-the-clocks, pause-the-CD beautiful.
Focus! screamed the part of his brain in which the quest, and everything it had come to mean, resided. This is your chance! You can be done with this tonight! You can finally be free!
But Ben couldn’t focus; he stared at Grace Matthews without a thought in his head, and when she skipped lightly across the kitchen, took his hand and announced to Sean and Kev that she was stealing their friend for a while, he let himself be stolen without a single word of protest.
Grace led him up the stairs and into Sean’s sister’s room. One of Ben’s hands was enveloped inside one of hers, the other clutching desperately onto the can of lager he had been drinking before she appeared; at that precise moment, as she pushed him into the bedroom and closed the door, it seemed to be the only thing that made any sense to him.
The Booby Trap and Other Bits and Boobs Page 5