Noughties

by Ben Masters

  “Hmmph.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said yes, okay? For god’s sake.”

  “Well, that’s nice then.”

  “Yeah, that sounds lovely,” said Mum. Dad continued to rummage about the kitchen, filling his special trough-sized cup (the holy chalice; won’t take his tea from anything else) with the dregs of the teapot. “So what exactly are your plans?”

  “Look, I’m feeling a bit jaded,” I said, getting up from the table. Jaded? Dad was thinking. I could tell from his chevron-flexed brow: jaded?… that’s got to be a twenty-first-century thing … kids didn’t feel jaded when I was growing up … probably an American import. “I think I’ll just go to my room if that’s alright.” As I passed through the kitchen door I turned and added, “Oh, Lucy might be coming over tonight.” I had found myself dropping her a text on the bus home. The message’s themes were complex and unclear (friendship? melancholy? hope? homesickness?), its structure haphazard, the imagery muddled, the tone inconsistent, the delivery unreliable. But she said she would try to pop over.

  “Lucy?” I heard Dad saying as I made my way through the living room to the stairs. “Are they courting again?”

  “People don’t court anymore,” I hollered from the bottom of the staircase. “This isn’t Renaissance fucking England,” I added, beginning my stomping ascent.

  “What England?” I could hear at a murmur. “Well, we courted, didn’t we?”

  “Yes love, we did.”

  I thought I was dreaming when I heard Lucy’s distant voice floating up the stairs and in through the crack beneath the door like a magical elixir come to show me a hidden order. I had fallen into a deliciously insistent doze, Rabbit, Run lying across my chest, fanned and foxed, fully dressed atop crisp, childhood sheets. I awoke, shrugging off my doughy coating with a squirm and a yawn, the noises from below growing more authentic and convincing. Nostalgia found its perfect embodiment in my curling limbs, yearning as they were for this presence that I could not see, could not taste, feel, or smell. I thought, for a moment, that I was trapped in one of those sticky dreams where the object of your desire is unreachable, held at bay by some inexplicable perversion of physics or biology: you run but you don’t move; you shout but make no sound; you jump and sink; swim and drown. It was her laugh that finally clinched the reality of the scene—so inimitable and singular; irrefutable proof of her positive being. Dad could always procure this from Lucy with one of his terrible jokes, wheezing and shaking himself into a shock of pink like a chameleon, just grateful for a sympathetic audience, so used to eye-rolling son and wife. But it was precisely this that tickled Lucy so much—Dad’s self-satisfaction contrasted by our utter despair—and her kindly responses were more than enough to make him adore her. As I thought, I could now hear Dad’s squeal coming through the floorboards, having probably off-loaded the one about Quasimodo and the prostitute or the hippy penguin in a bar. I reshuffled my pillow-hair in the mirror and made for the stairs.

  “Yeah, I think it’s the right decision,” Lucy was saying, standing in front of my doting parents in the center of the living room. Dad put his arm around Mum, inspired by the sense of youthful love that Lucy had come to symbolize for them. “Just have to wait and see, I guess.”

  “No, that’s great, Lucy,” said Dad. “Exciting times, eh?”

  She saw me appearing on the staircase behind my parents and hesitated for a second. “Hopefully. There’s one that I’ve applied for at the County Council which I’ve got an interview for next week. I’m quite nervous about it actually.”

  “Oh, don’t be,” said Mum. “What more could they possibly want?” Lucy smiled modestly. Mum and Dad looked as though they were having to restrain themselves from showering her with hugs and kisses.

  I brought myself further into view. “Hey.”

  “Hi,” Lucy replied, calmly.

  “I do love your hair, Lucy,” said Mum, pleased to be saying the kinds of things she imagined she would say to a daughter. “Have you changed it since we last saw you?”

  “Yeah, I’ve grown it out a bit.”

  “Isn’t it lovely, Eliot?” asked Mum.

  “So how are you two anyway?” said Lucy, keen to disoblige me of an answer.

  “Oh, we’re fine,” said Dad. “Nothing much changes here. This one keeps us on our toes,” he added, nodding toward me. I’m not sure exactly what this meant, but figured that it was nothing more than an automatic response, filed away in his conversational repertoire ever since I had been a little boy. A silence fell over us, awkward for me and Lucy, but not so for Mum and Dad who could happily have stood staring at the two of us for hours.

  “Well, I’ll call around in the next couple of weeks and let you know how the job applications are going,” said Lucy. “You can show me those old photos you were telling me about, Haley.” It always came as a surprise to hear Lucy use my parents’ first names, complicating vague notions of age and hierarchy that were vestiges of my eternal adolescence.

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Do you want a drink or anything?” I asked, attempting to move things along.

  “No, I’m okay thanks.”

  Sensing the shift in procedure my parents funneled off to the kitchen, leaving the two of us alone. I led Lucy upstairs to the privacy of my room, as I had so many times before, this time the motives more oblique. She filled its tiny space with her blossomy scent and I burst the luxuriant familiarity against my palate fine. But it was a familiarity that could not be grasped, guarded and bubble-wrapped by less hospitable dynamics. It was an unfamiliar familiarity. She was wearing a blue denim jacket with sleeves rolled back and the collar partly up. She kept the jacket on the entire time. She didn’t even sit down for the first five minutes, just pacing while I sat upright against the headboard of my bed. Was this what it meant to be estranged?

  “Shall I put some music on?”

  “I don’t mind,” she said, by which she meant no. “Oh, before I forget, I’ve got your book.” From her bag she pulled out the copy of Under the Net I had given her that time in the café. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever have a chance to give this back,” she said, going over to my bookshelf and carefully sliding it in.

  “Oh, thanks. I had forgotten all about that … you could’ve kept it. I don’t suppose you got round to reading it?” I added, more as an afterthought than a genuine question.

  “Yeah, I really enjoyed it,” she said, finally settling down on the far corner of the bed.

  “Oh.”

  “I liked Jake, the narrator. He was so funny and vain. Kinda reminded me of someone,” she said sassily, entirely without menace. It made me feel more comfortable.

  “So what was this about job applications?” I asked, intrigued by the conversation I had interrupted.

  “Well, I’ve dropped out of uni. So I guess I’m looking for jobs now.” She didn’t look at me as she said this; we weren’t even facing the same direction.

  “What?” I exclaimed, unable to hide my surprise.

  “Yeah, I didn’t enroll for my second-term modules.” Lucy’s tone was rueful, but as though she feared my judgments more than actually regretting her decision. “It’s not for me, Eliot. I don’t know, I should never have gone. I think I was worried what you would think if I didn’t. I couldn’t imagine you wanting to be with me if I never went to university. But that’s kind of irrelevant now, I guess.”

  “Lucy, that’s so untrue. I wouldn’t have cared. But why didn’t you tell me? That must’ve been ages ago now!”

  “Because we’re not together anymore, Eliot!” she said, a sudden injection of exasperation tightening her voice. “Sorry. I have to move on … carry on with my life.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I’ve applied for a load of jobs … I’m staying at Mum and Dad’s while I send my CV out and do interviews and that. I guess I’ll rent with some friends when something comes up.” I wanted to tell her how impressed I was that
she had made such a strong decision. In some ways I knew that she was going to overtake me … grow up faster … a job, a place to live … she’d want someone to share it all with. Instead, I began to panic: what was I trying to achieve by having her over?

  “How about you? I bet it’s getting hard now, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, you know. The usual.” The silences seemed weighty, as though they could have shifted the drawers or splintered the shelves. Ella and the abortion were becoming impossible to forget. I felt a burning need for revelation … to be honest with Lucy, even though it made no sense to. She was fiddling with her car keys, applying extra pressure—a reminder that she might up and leave at any moment. I moved down the bed and sat by her side.

  “Hey,” I said (which was ridiculous, considering that we’d already spent ten minutes together).

  “Hey,” she echoed. I placed an arm over her shoulder. Was this going back in time? In some ways, but not the ones I had hoped for. I felt infantilized. There we were, surrounded by posters I had Blu-tacked to my wall before my balls had even dropped: Michael Jordan, Shaquille O’Neal, Aerosmith, Beavis and Butthead. Embarrassing. My oldest teddy bear, which I usually hid when Lucy visited, was flat out on top of the TV like a defeated drinker, arms open, just desperate for a hug. There was the retro Sega Master System, the decaying sports-day medals, the china hippopotamus with all my dusty pennies in its belly. More pressing was the fact that we were sitting on my wanking bench, the bed bolstered up about six inches by all the used Kleenex stuffed underneath. It was like going back to a vivid time of skidmarks and wet dreams, cheap deodorant and youthful saltiness. But it wasn’t a return … more a retrogression. And there was certainly no sense of return with Lucy. She was no longer the girl who’d roll around with me, giggling as I greedily tickled her lithe body … the girl who would list to the minutest detail every single thing she had done with her day. She wasn’t the girl who said things like “You’ve got such a pretty brain” or “You’re so lucky I love you.” And she certainly wasn’t the girl I could kiss at will—

  “Eliot … don’t.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  I tried to kiss her again. For a moment, this time, her lips grazed mine back. And then we were apart. Subtle tears meandered down her face like slow-motion shooting stars, each millimeter of their lengthening tails a measurement of lost history. The reminder that there was genuine feeling behind her defensiveness made me reel. I was astir with sudden guilt and self-loathing.

  “Eliot, what are you doing?”

  I had no answer to give. Why can’t I stop hurting the people I love?

  “I should go.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “I should never have come.”

  “So why did you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  We hugged a hard, icy hug.

  “Please …”

  Lucy got up to leave, tears still making channels down her cheeks.

  My parents were in the living room watching the TV. I didn’t want them to notice Lucy’s emotional display, so I snuck her through as inconspicuously as possible. I walked in front with haste and didn’t say anything as we momentarily blocked their line of vision. They fidgeted, uncertain about what was happening or what to say. Lucy didn’t pause at the front door, just letting herself out and slipping away. I followed a couple of feet behind, all the way to her battered car, parked on the corner. Holding the driver-side door I told her that I loved her and kissed her on the cheek.

  Then she drove off.

  I remained on the corner, barefoot, hands in pockets, folding under the knowledge that she would be driving all the way home through reality-bending tears.

  Ella hasn’t reappeared yet. Everyone else is over at the bar, eyeing up additional drinks with looks of beautiful boredom. Jack and I are left alone. He gives me a sidelong glance, the trace of a smile recognizable beneath the hood of his pointed noise. I want to laugh. I feel extraordinarily tense, but all I want to do is laugh. Jack’s smile grows and we both find ourselves chuckling.

  “Ah mate,” he says, shoulders humming.

  “Hah, I know,” I say, the laughs unwinding as I rub my eyes and stretch my arms. “Shiiiit.” I pat Jack on the shoulder. He’s the best mate I’ve got and it finally feels like we might be back as a duo. Am I going to ruin it all before the night’s over?

  “Ha.” His smile gradually irons out as reality reimposes itself. “Mate.”

  I’m glad to be sitting. There’s so much crap in my system now that a sudden lethargy comes over me, filling my limbs with liquid fish and chips. Standing up will create all sorts of problems.

  “It’s such a relief,” he says, filling his small chest to maximum capacity and letting it out. “You know, opening up to you earlier. I’ve gotta say, I really appreciate having you here for me … They say you make one or two friends for life at uni, and I guess it’s true.”

  “Mate, don’t mention it, you’ve always done the same for me.”

  He thinks about this. “Thing is, I feel like I haven’t been there for Ella, despite everything. Now that I’ve spoken to you I feel like I really should be open with her. You know, tell her that I know what happened and that she shouldn’t have had to shoulder the burden this whole time—”

  “If it even happened,” I interrupt. I really do not want this conversation. I wish he’d just drop it and lighten up … leave the angst to me; I’ve got it covered.

  “Whatever … but, realistically, I am the only person who can share the burden of it—”

  “If it even …”

  Jack frowns at me.

  “And if I don’t set things right now we could end up drifting apart as a result … and then she will be left to deal with it all … forever! Just imagine how she must be feeling … Fuck! I feel like shit about this.”

  He’s right, but it’s me who should be saying it. “Just listen to yourself,” I begin, to stem his drunken outpour. “I’m sorry, mate, but that’s a bit melodramatic. Nothing happened! You’re being so paranoid. And even if it did, it’s a bit late now, so just let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “Do you really think?” he replies, looking puzzled.

  Is it any wonder that things have been complicated between me and Ella this past year? Just look at how it’s weighing on Jack. How do you come to terms with something like that? There are no terms for the unborn … But all this unexpected stuff with Jack is making everything so much worse.

  “Yes,” I say decisively. “You need to man up. Seriously, mate, just let it go.”

  Ella reappears from the toilets, a gliding saint of distortions. Every context is hers, readjusting to her presence and poise: this bar, our conversation, my night. She sees the others at the bar and with a heavy heart I watch her make her way over. But contingency plays its incalculable part when she scans to her left, nothing but a whim, where Jack and I remain. Her face reads quiet alarm before softening into an unconvincing smile. She wishes I hadn’t seen her, or that she hadn’t seen us, and continues on to the bar.

  This is it—the last stand in the bar before the finale; the warm-up for the crunch; the final push toward the main event: club. The adrenaline starts to pump; the skin begins to prickle. I long for the baying of the gladiatorial arena … awaiting … electric. I anticipate it with all my body. This is it, pal. Now we’re really going somewhere.

  After nailing consecutive Jägerbombs, we’re colonizing the dance floor in our farewell bid to the via media establishment. It’s so cramped in here, what with the bar area and the dance space merging into one, that we can’t help but grind each other, gyrating and bouncing in a frenetic sweat swap-shop. Our personal clump has its internal dynamics, like a multicelled organism in constant flux. There’s Megan and Sanjay, congealing and splitting, congealing and splitting, sometimes face-to-face, sometimes spooning. Then there’s Jack, secreting energy and pumping it around to the rest of us. He gives Ella a spin and hooks an arm over her shoulder. He see
ms to have taken my advice to heart and Ella looks like she’s finally starting to relax. Scott participates with pointing fingers and a pained expression of sudden self-consciousness. Need I say that we are now officially off our tits? Abi’s fucked and she’s granting me a boundless amount of attention. It’s logistically impossible not to lavish each other with intimate respect. And now that I have accepted my bona-fide hammeredom, I amiably greet her rebounding loins.

  Packed this tight, all gropes are permissible … mainly because no one can see. And so I think fuck it when Abi reverses into me and, reaching behind, pulls me up close by the rim of my jeans. It feels nice—the undulating curvature of her sides and soft torso as I steal my hands round to the front. Things can’t get any worse right now, so why not? She dry-humps me to the beat, raising and lowering her ass over my crotch in perfect rhythm. There’s no point pretending that she can’t feel me harden, so I allow my cock free rein, stabbing it into her bum and spreading it around as far as the dance will allow. And she isn’t pretending either when she reaches round (continuing the dance as she goes) and grabs it with devilish lust. As we bump and grind amongst the rest of the ensemble, Abi delves her exploratory mitt right inside and down my trousers. I look around, a moment of hesitation, but nevertheless breathe in and arch my back to give her easier access into my pants. She continues to face forward, away from me, while the exalted movements of the mass carry on—

  A sudden memory of a college formal dinner, the last night of second year … Up on high table the Fellows and the Dons, the Principal, the Dean, the honorary guests and the oily Chaplain lay it on and spare not. Before these bluff talking heads stands a veritable fare of cheeses and truffles, figs and jellies, grapes and mints, rammed in the grand dining hall, all wood and portraiture. Their cheeks bulge like whoopee cushions, glowing fiercely jocular in the candlelight, blustering flatulent tsunamis from their mouths and other more hidden orifices. Watch these great bears as they pass the port to the left and masterfully refrain from taking the nose off the Stilton. See them in their sweat-glued tuxedos and gowns, dropping crumbs and tweaking the grapes. Oh, how smug and snug are these crazed hyenas in their after-dinner loathing, wretchedly bumbling and bellyaching their way through the evening, indulging in accepted hatreds. Oh, how they scoff those crackers and then, filled to the brim, scoff at the outside world. What a jolly occasion, all rumbles and booms; knowing jokes and greasy back slaps; gluttonous retching and snobbish assent …