by Lucy Dillon
‘Both hands on the wheel!’ she yelled.
They’d come to a halt at the traffic lights at the top of Kian’s road.
Lauren collected herself. For some reason, the more she thought about Chris’s inept shuffling the more it bugged her. What was that about?
‘Sorry. Sorry, it’s just been a busy week at the surgery, you know, with me setting up the new computer, and there’s still so much to decide about the reception. I mean, I should have told my mum about the horses only after she said about the catering quote . . .’
‘The horses?’
Lauren remembered too late that she hadn’t told Chris about the horses yet either.
‘Do you not think it would be nice to stop thinking about the wedding for one evening, and think about me instead?’ he grumbled. ‘While Kian’s out?’
She tilted her head towards him. ‘You’re sure Kian’s out?’
Since Chris had moved in with Kian, he’d been out precisely twice. Actually, he’d been out far more than twice, but on those occasions, Chris had been out with him.
‘Definitely. He told me he wasn’t planning on being back tonight at all,’ he added. ‘And if we push the sofa back, there might even be enough room to practise that box junction thing?’
Lauren put her hand on his knee, and stroked the long muscle of his thigh. He was still in his suit, having gone round to Irene’s straight after work. ‘Thanks, Chris.’
‘And once we’ve got that sorted, then we’ll move on to more horizontal dancing,’ he finished, with a cheeky grin. ‘Deal?’
Chris was seriously hot in a suit, thought Lauren. Maybe I should pop round to the dealership in my lunchbreak. Investigate the romantic possibilities of a test drive, like we used to.
‘Fair enough,’ she said.
Kian’s flat was the exact opposite of what Lauren wanted their first home to be: messy and under-furnished, the doormat littered with junk mail addressed to previous tenants, and smelling of curry and mildewy washing that had gone dry in the machine. She was clinging to the hope that living in such blokeish squalor after the six months of relative grown-up living they’d enjoyed together would make Chris realise just how nice it was to sink into a freshly made bed, and know that the bathroom wasn’t harbouring more suspicious bacteria than the surgery fridge.
Unfortunately, Chris seemed to be settling in a bit too much.
‘Go through,’ said Chris, waving her through to the sitting room then abruptly added, ‘Actually, hang on, let me just . . .’ before rushing past to do some emergency tidying up.
Lauren followed him slowly, to give him a chance to hide whatever horrors were lurking.
The only furniture in the sitting room, bar an old table and a ‘No Parking’ sign, were two large sofas, one each for Chris and Kian to watch football on the enormous plasma TV. Kian earned a decent wage now he was a manager at the power station down the road, and he believed in ‘putting it back into the local economy’, hence the vast television, Bose sound system and various black boxes Lauren didn’t recognise. She wasn’t sold on Kian’s financial planning. He was always on at Chris to get a top-of-the-range car, ‘to promote the dealership’, and she had a sinking feeling the stag night was going to cost more than the reception.
Chris saw her looking at the sofas, and he threw a cushion over the largest stain, then shoved them back against the wall to make room for a few steps.
‘Thought about telling Kian to get a cleaner, but then I reckoned it was better to save the money for our deposit,’ he explained. ‘If you want, I can run a Hoover around later?’
Lauren melted as Chris’s earnest eyes searched her face for signs of approval. When he smiled like that she reckoned he had a look of a young David Beckham. And it wasn’t just her who thought so: it was every woman under fifty in Longhampton. He’s just getting it out of his system, she told herself, as he took her hands and moved her into the space he’d cleared. Teenage years in Irene’s house probably hadn’t allowed for a lot of stains. Better now than later.
Then she remembered about Chris taking his laundry back home, and kicked herself for even thinking he’d do housework.
Maybe I’ll drop hints to Irene about the state of the flat, she thought mischievously, as he slipped an arm around her back in a waltz hold. It might distract her from coming to dancing class.
Lauren looked up happily at Chris and put her hand on his strong shoulder, feeling the rounded muscle under his fine cotton shirt. He took her hand in his and raised it to the height decreed by Angelica.
‘So, you want to practise that dip thing your mum was doing at the social night?’ Chris tightened his grip, pressing his fingertips against her shoulder-blade. ‘You bending over backwards – carefully, like.’
‘No, that’s boring – what about that fancy lift from Dirty Dancing?’ she said. ‘You have to lift me right up, and turn round slowly.’ She looked around the room. Fortunately there wasn’t a lot to knock over.
He jiggled his eyebrows. ‘OK. It’d give them something to talk about in the next class.’
‘Just don’t drop me,’ said Lauren, as visions of a show-stopping wedding routine floated through her head. They didn’t have to do a waltz for their first dance, after all. What was the point of going out with an amateur rugby player if you didn’t make use of his strength training? ‘You’re the only one there that could do it without putting his back out.’
Before she could prepare herself, Chris grabbed Lauren round her hips and hoisted her off her feet with a skilfulness more suited to a line-out than the dancefloor.
Lauren squealed and tried to stretch out her arm, as he swung her round in a rough attempt at what Patrick Swayze made look so easy, but when she lifted her leg into a better pose, Chris lost his balance and went stumbling backwards into the sofa. Wriggling, Lauren hit the cushions first and brought Chris down on top of her. A bit hastily, she thought.
Still, she wasn’t complaining. And the flat was empty for once. She tried not to think about the stains as Chris’s warm weight bore down on her body and sent hot rushes of arousal through her.
‘Mmm,’ he said, sliding his hand up her shirt and burying his lips in the crook of her neck, finding the exact point that made Lauren’s skin tingle in a delicious line of silvery electricity all the way down. ‘It’s been ages since we had some time on our own.’
‘Mmm,’ agreed Lauren, twisting her fingers into his thick hair and scratching his scalp until he groaned. One of her legs was still hooked over one arm of the sofa, where she’d fallen, and Chris’s other hand slid up it, stroking from her knee up her thigh. ‘Ages . . .’
He kissed further round her neck, dipping down her chest into her hot cleavage, while his fingers tickled and pressed under the thin wire of her bra. ‘Mmm, Lauren . . .’
The sudden note of urgency in Chris’s voice made her shiver and she found herself reaching round to his trousers, to find the buckle, then the zip.
‘Mmm, Lauren,’ Chris groaned again, and she had just shifted to allow him better access to her own buttons when the front door banged.
‘Aye, aye, aye!’
Lauren and Chris sprang apart, and she struggled to pull her skirt down to a decent level while Chris let rip with a string of unappreciative greetings.
Kian Matthews stood in the doorway, blocking half the light with his stocky frame. From the pungent waft of aftershave, stale smoke and beer, he’d come straight from their local, but unusually he seemed to be returning alone, apart from a can of Stella.
‘Hello, police?’ he said, into an imaginary mobile. ‘My flat’s been broken into by a pair of horny teenagers . . . oh no! It’s just my flatmate and his girlfriend.’
‘Fiancée,’ said Lauren. ‘I thought you were out tonight.’
Kian and Chris had been mates since school, though Lauren hadn’t taken that much notice of Kian, not until she started going out with Chris in the sixth form. Then she’d got to know Kian well enough. He was, by his own def
inition, the ‘funny one’ to Chris’s Golden Boy Wonder.
‘Kian, you knob,’ said Chris. ‘I thought you were stopping out?’ He pulled his shirt back into his trousers. ‘Dead cert, you told me.’
‘Yeah, well, had to call in the video ref on that Becky,’ said Kian, opening his can of lager. ‘Turns out I was beer-goggled up when I got her number. Action replay revealed her to be Mrs Moose of Moose County.’ He took a deep slurp, then gasped out a loud, ‘Aaaah! Had to leave her in the Rose and Crown while I did a runner. Still, plenty more where she came from.’
‘And you didn’t think about staying out to give the rest of the lucky ladies a chance?’ asked Lauren, sarcastically. ‘It’s only half nine. The night is young.’
‘No, no,’ said Kian. ‘It’s no fun without my wingman.’ He gave Chris a matey slap on the shoulder. ‘They see the good looks first, then they’re hooked in by my charm. Carry on, like. Pretend I’m not here.’ And he bent down to turn on the new PlayStation, setting up his steering wheel and pedals set.
Lauren looked at Chris and her narrowed eyes said, Wingman? Hello?
‘He’s taking the piss. Take no notice.’ Chris rearranged himself awkwardly. ‘Kian, have you eaten yet?’
‘No,’ said Kian. ‘Have you? Eh? Eh?’ he added, with a lascivious wink at Lauren. ‘Eh?’ he said again, in case she hadn’t got his meaning.
‘Oh my God,’ said Lauren. Any vaguely sexy feelings she might have had were out of the window now. Kian sucked any romance out of the atmosphere like a Dyson on full power. How he managed to pull such Russell Brand-worthy numbers of women was beyond her – and yet he did, according to Chris, anyway.
‘Do you want to get a takeaway?’ Chris turned to Lauren with a placatory expression. ‘How about it? You can choose, Loz.’
‘I’m not really hungry,’ said Lauren.
The sounds of a Formula One Racing game began to roar from the speakers positioned around the room as Kian settled himself down on the beanbag that doubled as a racecar. Lauren had heard the familiar ‘set-up selection’ chimes so often now that they set off a Pavlovian reaction in her: one of intense irritation. In the beginning she’d tried to be interested, asked to have a go, but it was just one of those things that blokes were more into. Even now she could practically feel Chris’s need to take over the other steering wheel. And Kian knew it.
This happened nearly every time she went round. Him and Kian, laughing about people she didn’t know, cracking open the beers, talking about Formula One until she wondered if she’d gone invisible. It was like trying to share her boyfriend with another woman, and to make it worse, Lauren knew she’d made the whole thing happen because she’d insisted on them saving up for the flat deposit – it hadn’t been like this before.
Lauren glared openly at Chris, who was edging nearer the television. Finally he couldn’t help himself.
‘You need slicks on that circuit, Kian, you tool!’ he blurted out, then looked guiltily at Lauren.
She didn’t want to say it because she’d vowed she’d never say it again once she stopped being a teenager, but Kian was leaving her no choice – and he knew it, the manipulative sod.
‘Come on, Chris,’ said Lauren, trying not to sound like a nag. ‘Let’s go to your room.’ She pulled herself off the sofa, grabbing her handbag, and hauled him after her.
Chris threw a final longing gaze at Kian’s new pedals, then followed.
Lauren missed her old any-time access to Chris’s lovely toned six-pack, and it was fair to say that absence was making the heart, not to mention the rest of her body, fonder for both of them, but any lingering romantic atmosphere soon evaporated as the squealing sounds of Kian’s attack on Le Mans cut through the seduction music Chris had hastily put on in his room.
‘That’s it. I’m going home,’ Lauren announced, pushing Chris off her with an effort, and struggling up to a sitting position on his single bed.
Chris slumped face down on the pillows with a frustrated moan. ‘Why?’
‘Because . . .’ In the sitting room, Kian crashed, swore, and burped. ‘Because the walls in this place are too thin. And Kian is too . . . here.’
Chris turned his face upwards. ‘What are you saying? It is his flat.’
‘Then maybe we need to think about houses again.’ Lauren paused. ‘Or maybe I need to get my mum and dad to go away on holiday for a week.’
‘Or we could go on holiday?’
‘We’re saving up for the flat, remember?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Chris, without much enthusiasm. ‘Fair enough.’
They lay in silence for a few minutes, as Kian roared away next door.
‘You know what I really miss?’ sighed Lauren.
‘Doing it in the shower?’ asked Chris, hopefully.
‘No. Just . . . being together. Not talking. Not doing anything.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Chris? You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’
‘I am. It’s a girl thing, that, isn’t it? That whole “being together” business. We’re good as we are, aren’t we?’
‘No, it’s not, it’s a . . .’ Lauren stopped. ‘I’m going home.’
Chris didn’t try very hard to stop her, and as she was leaving, she distinctly heard Kian say, ‘Don’t get under the thumb, mate!’ as he threw Chris the other controller.
The lights were off in the sitting room when Lauren let herself in, and she guessed that her mum and dad had turned in for the night. They were both early risers, even at weekends.
She closed the door softly behind her. The cat wound itself round her legs and she bent down to stroke it, nearly knocking it over as her handbag swung round. Mittens knew Lauren well, though, and skipped neatly out of the way, like a footballer swerving a tackle, curling round her other ankle.
In the kitchen, Lauren made herself a hot chocolate, and, after a cursory inspection of the fridge, added a slice of ham and egg pie and a piece of toast and jam. Unlike Kian’s smelly excuse for a fridge, there was always more than beer in theirs, especially if her mum had just done a big shop. Chocolate mousses, crème fraîche, low-fat dips . . . all her favourites.
I really must do a shop for Mum soon, she told herself.
The toast popped up and she opened the cupboard to find the jam. It wasn’t there. She reached her hand into the depths, in case it had been pushed back, but instead of jam jars, her fingers closed on something else: letters.
Bridget and Frank had lived in the same house virtually all their married life, and during that time, nearly every spare corner had silted up with old birthday cards, postcards, and dog-eared paintings scrawled in playgroups over thirty years ago. It wasn’t mess, Bridget always said; she had a very specific mental impression of where everything was, and tidying up would spoil that. There was The Official Box, Lauren knew, where all the important documents were kept, in case of emergency, and another one where all the bank statements and bills were filed – Bridget was very organised about her budgeting. Apart from that, you never knew what school report or newspaper cutting you might come across. It was like having This Is Your Life in your own cupboards.
Without telling her mum – who would have told her she should look after her things more carefully – Lauren had been on the hunt for the premium bond certificate she’d been given for her eighteenth birthday since she’d been home. Thinking she might finally have struck gold, she eagerly drew out the clutch of envelopes. There were some promising official ones in there, but apart from a TV licence reminder, they were mostly credit-card statements.
Oh God, thought Lauren, they must be mine. I’d better get them filed before I get the lecture. But when she looked more closely, she realised they were for cards she didn’t have: First Direct, and Barclays. Lauren pulled out the statement, and saw her mother’s name on the top: Mrs Bridget Armstrong. The pay-by date was last month. Hastily she pushed it back in, feeling guilty.
She stood for a moment in the quiet kitchen, wondering what on earth h
er mother was doing filing bank statements in the jam and coffee cupboard. It was the kind of thing old people did when they were starting to lose it. How old was her mum? Sixty? Lauren saw a lot of old people at the surgery with senile dementia, their faces slack, eyes wandering helplessly at people they should love. It wasn’t something she could associate with her bright, neat mother, and a cold hand gripped at her heart.
She shook herself. Mum’s not senile, she thought. Probably Dad’s put them there while he was looking for the coffee.
She tucked them in her pocket and headed for the staircase, slipping off her shoes and treading quietly in case her parents had had an early night. But as her head drew level with the top floor she saw a thin sliver of light underneath her own bedroom door.
Curiously, she padded up the remaining stairs and pushed open the door with her elbow, trying not to spill her hot chocolate on her toast.
To Lauren’s surprise, Bridget was sitting hunched awkwardly at her computer, fiddling with a digital camera, trying to work out which port it slotted into. An array of knick-knacks were spread out on the bed – tea cups, belts, butter dishes, Lilliput Lane houses . . .
Honestly, thought Lauren, I’ve only shown her this a thousand times. Maybe she is losing her marbles.
‘Here,’ she said, leaning over to get the lead. ‘Let me.’
Bridget jumped, banging her knees against the desk. ‘Ooh!’ she said, clapping a hand to her chest. ‘You gave me a shock. I thought you were staying over at Chris’s tonight?’
‘Yeah,’ said Lauren. ‘So did I. Look, it goes in here.’
‘Oh, never mind that. Do you want some supper?’ Bridget turned round, half hiding the screen.
‘No, I’ve got some toast. Mum, are you eBaying this stuff?’ Lauren looked impressed.
‘Well, I thought I’d get rid of some junk, save going to a car boot and having people pick over your things.’ Bridget swept the bits and pieces into a fold-down laundry crate.
‘What’s your seller name?’ asked Lauren curiously.
‘MrsArmstrong47,’ said Bridget. She looked flustered. ‘Listen, we’ll be waking your dad. I’ll get out of your way. You’ll want to get to bed . . .’