Noughties

by Ben Masters

  “I know. Yes, that’s good, isn’t it?” She swigged her drink. “Look, Eliot … can I tell you something?”

  “Of course!” We shifted about on the bed, preparing ourselves for candor. Once again, someone was beating me to disclosure. For a moment I entertained the impossibility that she was about to reveal the split condom to me, and apologize for keeping it quiet. (“You should’ve told me, Ella. I’m not mad, just disappointed.”) Or maybe it was too late: she’d already given birth … in a day! “Hang on. I’ve gotta piss.” I had been holding for so long, crooning and crumpling while I tried to extend the moment, but this latest turn of imagination pushed me over the edge.

  “Okay, Eliot,” Ella sighed and looked away.

  “Sorry! People from Wellingborough have tiny bladders,” I said, deferentially twisting my way from the room. “There have been scientific studies … something in the water. Honest.” I left Ella on the bed, biting her nails.

  In the midst of anonymous hairs, a sink caked in eclectic filth, a curling tube of Aquafresh, broken toilet seat, and screaming extractor fan, I released the fury. I was shaking, unsettled by the possibility of losing Ella to my dithering stupidity. I feared her anger, but worst of all I feared being relegated in her estimation. I had already lost Lucy; I couldn’t process the thought of kissing Ella good-bye too. Especially now that she might finally be interested in me! I was in no state for any of this, the Dirty Pint and whatever else taking hold. Opening the bathroom door from all that spinning grime, I was met by Abi, swaying and smiling.

  “Hey.”

  Placing a confident hand on my chest, she pushed me back into the bathroom, and with surprising dexterity turned and locked the door behind us. Even in my loose state I felt uncomfortable; vague allegiances bubbled in my bloodstream.

  “I saw you in the bedroom with Ella just now,” she said, impractically nuzzling my face.

  “Oh?”

  “You do realize that Jack likes Ella, don’t you?”

  “Errr, yeah, we all like her, don’t we?” I replied, arching backward.

  “No, as in he fancies her. Be careful is all I’m saying … things could get complicated.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, he told me earlier tonight. That doesn’t bother you though, does it, Eliot?”

  “Huh?”

  Yanking me forward by the belt buckle, fingertips grazing the underside at the top of my boxers, Abi’s lips confronted mine. These lips—thinner than Lucy’s, less understanding than Ella’s—contracted my own to two minutes’ hard labor. She tasted of cold Malibu and Coke. While taking gouges from each other’s mouths I thought of Ella waiting in the bedroom, growing increasingly impatient.

  Fumbling behind my back after the toilet lid (the pesky seat sliding loose), Abi steered me to our station. Straddling me front on, she slipped out of her top, revealing a chest that was fuller than I had ever suspected of her. Well, you kept them a secret, didn’t you? As she clutched after my belt and fly, unraveling me at the seams, I couldn’t help thinking of all the past occupiers of that same seat, with their clenched buttocks and grinding teeth. Next I had visions of Leopold Bloom dropping a roundhouse dump, which in turn reminded me of the essay I had to write that week, which also in turn gave my erection the sharp sensation of a downward tug. And, by the look of things, I was going to be needing that stiffy right about now, because Abi’s commandeering hand was delving into my pants, kneading balls of dough. It was remarkable really, how she managed to cling on to me, bury her tongue down my throat, and deliver a thorough handjob, all at the same time. I mean, I was genuinely astonished.

  Whether I put it there, she put it there, or it was guided involuntarily by the gods, I soon found my own hand clamped tight in the crotch of her jeans, on the fleshy side. There was little room to operate, my mitt held firmly in place by uncooperative denim. Nevertheless, I started to wriggle my fingers about, freeing up a bit of space, and just hoping for the best. Fumbling in the recesses, I bore the aspect of a man rummaging for loose change. Abi seemed to be enjoying herself all the same. I had to work through spells of severe hand cramp, what with the non-user-friendly positioning, but I think the alcohol helped massively on that front.

  “Bite my neck … bite my neck?” were the only words she said the whole time.

  It was an odd exchange, just sort of rubbing and prodding each other in jagged unison; nothing more than a play of surfaces. At one point I thought her cavewoman industriousness was going to start a fire on my cock. Throughout I puzzled over her breasts that were not Lucy’s and the rumpled torso that was not Ella’s. It was a wank with a question mark at its end.

  And guilt. I felt guilt, like a dull pain throbbing at the back of my throat. I couldn’t tell if that was for Lucy or Ella. I think it was for both. But I wasn’t going to let up. Increasingly, climax became something I needed, hurtling toward it ferociously, the solution of primal rapture.

  I came all over Abi’s hand, but mainly up the bottom inside of my shirt and along the ridge of my boxers. Standing up and re-dressing I was snared in all sorts of hygiene hazards, matted and glued against myself. There was no post-match small talk: no “What are you thinking about?,” no tender spooning, no “I love you,” no playful nose pinches. When Abi opened the bathroom door I was exposed for all to see, hopping around with my hands down my pants, belt and trousers flapping, a motley to the view.

  There in the doorway was Ella, framed in her moment of hurt and shock. I could feel the air fleeing from her zero-shaped mouth. She bolted, and I didn’t have the guts to follow—

  “You know,” continues Jack, “the party where Abi gave you a shiner?”

  “Cheers.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And it was a handjob, by the way.”

  “A blowjob and a handjob?”

  “No! Just a handjob.”

  “Bilateral?”

  “Keep focused.”

  “Sorry. My bad. There I go avoiding it again!” He stares at his feet and takes a deep breath.

  “So, Joel Shaw’s party?” I say, somewhat impatiently.

  “Well, I slept with Ella that night. We went home together and one thing led to another, as they say.”

  “Hang on, you slept … but …”

  “Yeah, we got it on. We were both hammered.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Jack takes a slurp from his beer.

  “Did you ever confront her about the abortion, uh, thing, whatever it was?” I ask.

  “God, no.”

  “Good, good.”

  “What do you mean, good?”

  “Well, you know, it was probably just a misunderstanding and it would’ve been embarrassing for you, wouldn’t it?”

  “But it’s tormented me ever since. Why else would she have a letter?”

  “Did you read it?”

  “No, I just caught the top of it before she came in.”

  “So why didn’t you ever bring it up with her?”

  “Well, because I wasn’t sure if I had got her pregnant. Plus, as time went on, I figured that if she had been pregnant, she’d obviously dealt with it, so why create all that awkwardness for nothing?”

  “I guess it is quite bad for you not to have said anything.”

  Jack drops his head and sighs in regret.

  “But understandable in some ways.” I pat him on the back. “You wore a condom though, right?”

  “I don’t remember. We were so drunk … I always do, but I can’t be absolutely sure.”

  “Well, it’s all in the past now. And let’s be rational about this—you probably did wear protection, you’re just not sure … and even if you didn’t, it doesn’t mean you got her pregnant. For a start, doesn’t she have to be ovulating and shit?”

  “I guess … Does she? I’m not really sure how it all works … are you?”

  “Err … And let’s say she did have an abortion—how do you know she wasn’t … sleeping with anyone else?”

  �
�I’m almost positive she wasn’t. At least I hope she wasn’t. I would’ve been crushed if she had … I mean, I was crazy about her.”

  I nod silently. We lift our pints to unsmiling mouths and stare ahead into nothing, disconnected. “Maybe you did get her pregnant and maybe she did have an abortion, but—”

  “What if she didn’t have the abortion?”

  “What! You think she’s got a little baby hidden away in a room with your face on it? Fuck my life!”

  “I know, I know!”

  “How long ago was this anyhow?”

  “Nearly a year, I guess.”

  “Well, she would’ve been looking pretty pregs just a couple months back, wouldn’t she!”

  “Okay, okay, she hasn’t had a baby … of course not. I would’ve known, for sure. We all would. It’s just the paranoia … it really fucks with your brain. But let’s say she was pregnant and did have an abortion—I’m responsible, aren’t I?”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “And then after everything that happened afterward, I felt so bad … like I’m also responsible for, you know,” Jack mutters into his pint, “what she did”—I start sweating at the unwanted reminder—“but obviously, after that, there was no way we could talk about any of this.”

  My head is thumping, and this is all I’ve got: “You wouldn’t think about bringing it up with her tonight, would you?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Mate, don’t do it.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Just don’t. It isn’t worth it. What’s done is done. If it did happen you’ll be digging loads of sad shit back up for her. And if it didn’t you’re gonna look like such a dick.”

  “You’re right.” He fidgets a bit, uncrossing his legs and slumping down. “It’s so good to talk to you about this. I’ve wanted to for ages, but, well, you know … I felt like I couldn’t.”

  “Mate, don’t worry.”

  “Thanks. But, you know …” He stutters and swallows nervously.

  I lean over and give him a man-hug.

  “Fuck. I’m so glad to have you … and shit. I really appreciate it … bruv.”

  “No worries. I feel the same about you … mate. I’m always here for you … and that.”

  We both chug the rest of our beers. Jack hawks for extra manly measure.

  “Just one thing,” I say. “I definitely wouldn’t tell Ella about any of this.”

  “You’re right. I don’t want to ruin our last night.”

  “Good lad.”

  Sitting in a cinema. I’m watching some superhero flick, not really my cup of tea. It drags and drones with the occasional special-effects thrill rocking my popcorn-peppered gut. I slouch in the aisle seat for leg room and easy pee flee access.

  The place is full of couples. You’ve got to question the logic of the cinema date: getting dressed to the nines to sit in a dark room where you can’t comfortably look at one another, let alone talk. Ideal for the three-year relationship that’s barely hanging on, oh sure; stupid for the fourteen-year-old desperadoes that form the unsilent majority in here.

  The picture changes. All of a sudden I’m watching myself in the waiting room at the clinic, fidgeting and burying my head in my hands. I close my eyes to escape it, but the same film is projected onto the back of my eyelids.

  “You’re making things really

  difficult for me.

  I’m sorry.”

  The babe’s pram has appeared in the aisle. He’s clutching a super-super-size Fanta and he’s got a bowl of dripping-cheese nachos resting on his paunch. He is nearly bald, just a scraggly ring of hair running round his head, and the bags beneath his eyes have almost hidden his cheeks. The white blanket is now sodden and seeped in dark stains. It clings to his body like an extra layer of skin. The baby’s eyes well up and I can hear him sobbing over the movie.

  “I am jealous of everything

  whose beauty does not die.

  Every moment that passes

  takes something from me,

  and gives something to it.

  It’s all

  my fault.”

  The picture on the screen changes again. Now I am confronted by a medium shot of Jack and Ella locked in an embrace. And then the image flicks—for a split second—to a long shot of the horrible scene that I’ve been burying this whole time: the last night of second year. I jump with shock. This is one memory I can’t hide from forever.

  The pram disappears.

  I’m leaning forward onto the bar, trying to grab someone’s, anyone’s, attention. I play the game. Firstly, having spotted an opening and slotted my way pathetically in (sideways initially, then straightening up with hand on bar and prizing elbows), I’ve made sure that I’m someway toward central. If you line up in the wings, it’s all over; you’ll never get served, just like the wreck at the end there who has been waiting since 1986. His arms are glued on to the corner at the farthest point of the bar. He doesn’t even muster a lift of the eyebrows or a point of the finger. This one’s given up on life, invisible to the barmen, rushed off their feet.

  Secondly, I make certain to establish eye contact with one of the almighty concoctors as they crush ice and splash our spirits. Once identified, I’m placed on the hallowed waiting list.

  Thirdly, I make elaborate and experimental noises of disgust when anyone who hasn’t waited as long as me, who hasn’t done the time (fucking newcomers), gets served first. But it’s hard when you’re not stacked or over six feet tall. My average frame is average in so many averagely interwoven ways that, in this kind of setting, I’m as inconspicuous as room temperature. The rest is just concentration. Focus. Don’t allow anyone or anything to steal your—

  “Boo!” Ella.

  “Oh, hey.” (The guy next to me gets served.)

  “What are you getting?”

  “Pint,” I reply.

  She wriggles in until she’s level with me at the bar.

  “How about you? My shout,” I offer.

  “What can I get you?” says the barman, going straight for Ella.

  “Vodka and Coke, and a pint of …?” (she looks at me inquiringly).

  “Stella. Thanks,” I say with more than a twist of bitterness.

  “And a pint of Stella please” (it has to be relayed by Ella. He’s just not interested in helping me out here. I puff my chest and fold my arms).

  That taken care of, we retreat to a high circular table with two vacant bar stools.

  “How’s Lucy?”

  I choke ever so slightly on my first pull of the pint. Ella sips her drink, eyes cast down.

  “Errr, she’s fine I guess … I think … thanks.”

  Ella nods but seems miles away. She’s gone pale.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she says. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Eliot. I hope you know that.” She reaches out to touch my arm but changes her mind, steering her eyes away instead and looking at the table. She seems slightly embarrassed. “A really good friend.”

  All I’ve wanted to do tonight is tell Ella that I think I need her as more than a friend. I want to make a decision for once. If I dive in now it might change her direction: “Ella—”

  “SHOTS!” shout Sanjay and Abi, off-loading a cluster of tequilas onto the table, the others gathering round, seemingly out of nowhere. Christ, we’ve been ambushed. Everyone is grinning, except for me and Ella. There’s a pile of sliced lemons and a cracked saltshaker in front of us. Words are unnecessary. It’s like clockwork. I absentmindedly lick the fleshy hinge between thumb and forefinger and hold it out for Sanjay to sprinkle on the salt. He seasons me to good effect. Ella prepares herself resignedly, watching me the while.

  “Salute,” we shout, clinking our glasses in a merry round.

  The salt makes me gag and the whiff of the tequila has me heaving before it’s even past my lips. I glug it back though and cho
mp on the lemon, my eyes watering: they’re furious with me. We all do that breathing-through-clenched-teeth jag and shake our heads farcically. I shudder. Ella jumps up and rushes to the toilet.

  “Lightweight?” declares Abi.

  My chin and hands are real sticky and I brush the excess salt against my soggy jeans. I think I’m going to retch but I find a way of swallowing it down. Megan looks disastrously white and I reckon I might have gone a psychedelic shade of green. That’ll soon pass though. Our time in this joint is drawing to a close. Soon we’ll be club: Filth. Maybe it’s the change we all need.

  Why are things turning out so much more complicated than I had anticipated? And why is it Lucy I can’t escape from? She’s still on my mind, despite everything else. Any kind of ordeal and my thoughts instantly turn to her. She’s like a security blanket to which I’ve always felt I could go back. But after what she’s told me tonight—my phone is still off, biding me time—I’m not sure I even have that anymore …

  Maybe I should admit that this kind of nostalgic return has never worked. You can only run and hide for so long. I remember one occasion, visiting home for a couple of nights … if I could just get near to her again it might help me to forget …

  “It’s lovely to see you,” said Mum, fixing me a cuppa. Dad had picked me up from the bus station, laden with dirty washing and books that weren’t going to get read. I needed to get away from Oxford—those nightmare spires, all that clamoring ambition, and knowledge of real loss. I needed out. I didn’t tell my parents about what happened with Ella. Never have. I doubt they were suspicious of anything, my home self typically being a moody fuck anyway.

  “Hmmph.” An affirmative grunt from me, but affirmative all the same.

  “Very unexpected. That’s always the best though! I do like a surprise.” Mum settled on the opposite side of the kitchen table, hugging her mug with both hands. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders in an intimation of coziness.

  “Have you got any plans?” asked Dad, hanging his car keys on the purposely fitted hook over by the pantry (where he has an individual hook for each key: car key, house key, Mum’s car key, Mum’s house key, a vacant one for my house key, the garage key, and the window key). His domestic pedantry grated on me, embroiled as I was in my internal melodrama of vertiginous grays and blues, languishing in thick, treacly angst.