Hetty: An Angel Avenue Spin-Off

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Her sorry sounds even sorrier than most, given her accent.

  “I have this friend, Warrick. He’s a mentor, nothing more, I assure you,” – she nods like she believes me, clearly she doesn’t think my mentioning him means we’re nothing more than platonic (anyway…) – “if I were going to ask him for advice, this is what he’d tell me to do. Do something to contribute, do something different for a change. I didn’t even have to ask him, I just know this is what he’d suggest.”

  “Well we are grateful for your help, Hetty,” Jan says as she returns with three cups on a tray.

  “Pleased to help. If you don’t mind me being a bit bossy…?”

  “Please, we need some new life,” Jan says, and while she does a bit of paperwork behind the till, I enlist Floor’s help in shifting things round a bit.

  IT’S dark when I get home but I have a pile of old clothes that I plan to spruce up. Once I’m done with the sewing machine, everything here is going in the wash for a freshen-up.

  My phone beeps so I look down and see a text flashing, from Joe Jones: Can you make tomorrow night?

  I remember Wednesday is a big night at the student union club, Asylum. It’ll be weird, given I’m so old now, but what the heck. To help a friend…

  I respond: What time you picking me up?

  Nine?

  Sure.

  See you then.

  Yes.

  Poor kid, he doesn’t have a clue what he’s dealing with in me.

  THE next morning, I wake to bright sunshine through the curtains. It’s the first of March and I can tell spring isn’t so far away now.

  Lying in bed for a few moments, I roll into the cool pillow on the other side of the double bed and breathe in the smell of fabric softener. I can tell this is going to be a good day already. Rolling over I reach for my phone and find a text from Liza, sent late last night: Wanna meet for lunch?

  I worry my lip as I consider saying no. All it will be is another chance for her to vent about her husband.

  I’m too busy, sorry.

  You’re just a volunteer, sack it off!

  She riles me and hot heat burns my cheeks, my heart starts pounding and I feel sick. I can’t hold this in. As much as I want to (for her sake), she needs to know how I feel.

  Listen Liz, babe, I’m trying to find a way through my disappointment. I’m just trying to stay busy. All you seem to do these days is pile on me. You claim you care, but you just meet me and pile on me, you know?

  I wait ten minutes for her to respond but she doesn’t. I need to get up and at ’em.

  It’s when I’m in the shower, foaming up, I hear a text come through. Drying my right hand on a towel, I reach my arm out and read the text:

  I didn’t realise I was doing that, sorry.

  Now I feel bad. Liza would never intentionally hurt anyone.

  I’m not a mum and I don’t know if I wanna be one. I am always here for you but you need other mum friends. Try Ruby or Jules…?

  You’re right.

  I don’t know what else to say so I leave it and get back to foaming up.

  I feel guilty but we have such different situations. And I’m not ready to be as grown-up as she is, not yet.

  * * *

  JOE knocks on the dot of nine. I’m ready and waiting in the living room, catching the last of some film I’ve been absently watching. I haven’t made much of an effort, just a denim skirt, thick tights, boots and a Nirvana t-shirt.

  When I open the door he looks a little bit taken aback. He’s wearing a tight white t-shirt and no man wears such a garment unless he’s planning to pull tonight. It fits his toned body like I’ve never seen before. And here I am pulling on a big winter coat as he shivers in the freezing night in just a tiny white shirt.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “Sure am.”

  I lock up and soon enough, we’re strolling down my street and out onto Newland Avenue, ready to round the corner to the university.

  “How was your day?” he asks, as we walk side by side, not touching.

  “It was good. No culture stuff today, just a bit of charity shop stuff.”

  “Oh my god, you’re on a mission aren’t you!” He nearly doubles up laughing.

  “Fuck you, Jones.”

  He continues laughing.

  “Hey, I’m not as bad as your dad. That man seriously cannot stop helping people!”

  Joe quietens and I see a ghost, or something, cross the shadows of his face.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re right, that’s all.”

  “And having a saint for a dad is a problem, why?” I sound sarcastic.

  He shrugs. “He just… I don’t know.”

  “Listen,” I start, because he needs to know, “you don’t know how lucky you are to have him. I never knew my real dad and in fact, I hope he’s dead and gone, the bastard. Then my only decent stepdad left me when I was four. Left me with her.”

  Joe knows the story vaguely (well I’m assuming Jules or Warrick filled him in).

  “It’s a lot to live up to,” Joe finally says.

  “Errrr maaa gawwwd, we’re not avin’ this, you old granny,” I say, in my best Hull accent. I may have lived here a few years now but before here, I was at a ladies’ college outside Leeds and one talked properly there (until I got chucked out for smoking).

  “What?” he exclaims.

  “You’re just, what?”

  “Nineteen,” he says proudly.

  “Then for fuck’s sake, be nineteen, because before you know it you’ll have the weight of the world on your shoulders. Nobody on this Earth is quite like your dad so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “But I can’t help wanting to make him proud.”

  “You are a stud and a clever stud at that, ergo you’re making him proud. Now shut up.”

  He goes quiet, that blush in his cheekbones again. “I’m a stud?”

  “Oh, for god’s sakes…” I laugh, then he laughs, and we’re both laughing as we get nearer the student nightclub.

  As we’re queuing up, he says in my ear, “Dad and Jules don’t know about this. They think I’m playing Xbox Live with a mate.”

  I purse my lips. “You’re an adult, Joe. See and do what you like.”

  It’s my understanding that even though Jules and Warrick offered to pay for Joe to live out in halls this year, he’s staying at home, and doesn’t seem especially bothered about the social scene. Drinking aside, I think he still prefers to hide away indoors. Maybe he thinks he has to answer to his parents for every decision he makes.

  He looks awkward. “I mean, I don’t want you to mention it, if you happen to see them.”

  “Why?” As we get nearer, I prepare to rid myself of my faux fur coat. It looks sweltering inside.

  We’re the next to the ticket office when he whispers in my ear, “They worry too much, Het.”

  “We’re on familiar terms, aren’t we? Not even your dad calls me Het.” I wink and he moves when the ticket lady shouts, “NEXT!”

  He signs me in as a guest and after we’ve paid entry, I try to pay for my own cloakroom ticket for my coat but his arm jabs out and pays the man before I can.

  I lift my eyebrows and say nothing.

  Continuing our earlier conversation as we move through the entry doors, he explains, “I don’t think Hetty suits you.”

  “No?” I don’t either.

  “Got a middle name…?”

  I frown. “Don’t ask.”

  “Right.”

  We reach the bar and he turns to ask, “Drink milady?”

  “Well I could fucking murder a strawberry daiquiri but I think it’ll have to be whatever you’re having.”

  He grins at the barman. “Two virgin cocktails.”

  I scowl at him. “You did not.”

  “I did so.” He doesn’t stop grinning and I see so much of Warrick in him, like that cheeky, playful sense of humour, but also pain and suff
ering behind the façade, a child of warring parents, a child who suffered on the sidelines of their problems.

  We’re handed our cocktails and I flick away the umbrella in the top when it’s delivered to me.

  “You’re fucking weird, man,” I accuse him, watching with nonchalance as he guzzles his drink.

  We’re watching the crowds from the edge of the dance floor for no more than a couple of minutes before a group of five or six guys comes over, making a noise around Joe.

  “Who’s this then?” one of them asks.

  They all look like sailors or something, maybe rugby players. I remember now… this is sports night.

  Joe gives me a look before turning to his mates. “Everyone, this is Etta. Etta, everyone.”

  I give Joe a look. Etta sounds okay… but I’m still not sure.

  Anyway I hold out my hand for the first guy to shake.

  He has a big hand but I shake his in such a way, he’s rubbing his fingers afterwards.

  The other guys are also left rubbing their fingers too.

  They all look weirded out until I tell them, “This sissy here just had me drinking a virgin cocktail, can you believe it?”

  They all start laughing, as if they should be laughing, but they’re not quite sure. I laugh inside. A six-foot woman can disconcert a group of men sometimes, not sure whether to worship her or run from her.

  “Voodoo trick,” I say with a wink, then shove Joe towards the dance floor.

  “Come on lady, let’s get you dancing,” I say to Joe.

  The music is Kings of Leon ‘Be Somebody’, so I grab Joe’s hands and start jumping up and down, our fingers locked as we wave our arms about madly. Joe’s all smiles as he shouts in my ear hole, “What was that back there?”

  “Jedi mind trick,” I tell him, grinning.

  When I look over, the guys are all watching with confusion – still rubbing their hands.

  Yes, you pack of meatheads, your sensitive mate is with a bigger brute than the lot of you put together.

  I laugh to myself and shout in his ear, “Knobs.”

  He laughs and quickly twirls me, pulling my back against his front. We’re dancing a lot closer than I’d like but he’s strong and tall and it’s hot and crowded, so there’s not a lot I can do to argue.

  His hands are around my waist and we’re grinding during a slower, more melodic part of the tune. His stubbly chin rests on my exposed shoulder, my Nirvana t-shirt rolled up to my shoulders and knotted at my waist. He starts to slide his hand round to put his fingers on my stomach beneath my shirt, but I grab his fingers and hear him complain of pain in my ear.

  “Not there,” I rebuke, pulling away from him to head for the bathrooms.

  The bathrooms are almost communal, men to one side, girls to the other. Anything pretty much goes here. After playing sport all day the men are easily drunk and very horny, so some of them are probably using the facilities to evacuate their fluids in places other than the urinals.

  I find a cubicle not occupied and not covered in vomit (only one), and take a pee.

  I shake my head at myself.

  Joe doesn’t know, does he?

  Jules and Warrick haven’t told him.

  Well, that’s great.

  He doesn’t know the specifics of what my mother did.

  I’ve had laser surgery but the marks still aren’t all gone. Some were so bad… not even money or therapy could erase them.

  “Hetty!” he shouts. “Hetty!” He keeps calling my name. “What did I do? Hetty!”

  I finish peeing, flush the loo and pull myself together.

  “Hetty!” He sounds ludicrous, like my name is a battle cry.

  I stand on the loo seat and look across the bathroom. “Here, dickhead.”

  He’s pacing across the girl’s bathroom before I know it. I unlock the door and he lets himself in.

  Looking around he mumbles, “Better than the guys’ side in here, innit?”

  I chuckle. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know what I did.”

  “You went too far.”

  His frown flexes in confusion. “I thought we get on, I thought…”

  I lift my top but I look to the side so I don’t have to look at his face as he takes a good look. After I’m sure he’s had enough, I cover myself back up. “Satisfied now?”

  “No, actually. Can’t I have a kiss?”

  “What?” I turn my head sharply to look at him.

  “I want a kiss.” He looks serious and sounds it, his voice low.

  “Just a kiss?”

  “Yeah.”

  I nod. Poor kid looks like he’ll be heartbroken if I don’t.

  He comes towards me and smoothes my hair off my forehead, an excuse to stroke my face. His hands are on my cheeks and he’s looking right into my eyes. He smiles a little, then his eyes go to my mouth. As he nears I can’t help but shut my eyes.

  His full mouth cups mine and he strokes gently, then licks a little, before his body moves even closer, engulfing me. His lips are so damn soft and lush. I want to taste him too but I’m scared and wobbling on my legs. I put my hands on his arms for stability and kiss him back, just a little, receiving a small growl in response. He wraps me tight in his arms and the kiss transforms to something much deeper, my mind and body blown. I’ve never been kissed in such a way before, never – like he’ll starve without me. He feels so strong beneath my touch as I wrap my hands around his neck, but through his kiss, I recognise a weakness – for me.

  He pulls back and I swallow my shock. He’s not a boy, he’s a man. I’m aroused because of his kiss. A passionate, hungry kiss. I want to do it again. I need to remember it this time. I need more.

  “Your stepmother’s gonna bloody kill me, mate.”

  He laughs. “Good.”

  He kisses my cheek, his hands moving up and down my arms.

  Then holding the sides of my head in his hands, he has my hair between his fingers, almost gripping it. He leans in and plants a soft kiss on my mouth, so soft it takes my breath away, his lips greeting mine properly. I feel him, really feel him.

  “Seriously, what did you do to my friends out there?” he murmurs, and when I open my eyes, I find him searching mine.

  “Lots of wanking,” is my retort, “superhuman fingers here.”

  A snort rips out of him and some surly tart outside screeches, “Ain’t using the shitter, then gerrout lovebirds!”

  Joe takes my hand, laughing. We leave the stall and the surly bitch steps into the same cubicle we were just in, followed by two friends. It looks like they have a lot of items to discuss. Like who they’re gonna shag tonight, who’s looking shit, and where they’re getting shit-faced tomorrow night. Oh to be a student again.

  We head to the bar and I ask, “So do you think you got props for bringing a woman tonight?”

  “Surely,” he says, then he orders himself a non-alcoholic beer, and a vodka and coke for me.

  When he hands it to me, I press my lips together. “You sure?”

  “Drink it,” he says, then with his hand around my waist, he leads me through to the karaoke bar, the Johnny Mac, where a group of blokes (dressed in their kits still) are crucifying ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. Strange choice, but then men are strange.

  We get comfy in a corner booth, away from the crowds, just us two, alone. I sit close and the moment I do, his arm is around me.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this, Joe.”

  “Why?” His eyes are full of lust, swimming in it in fact.

  “Your parents have been very good to me.”

  “And I’ve been bewitched since the first time you came to our house.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. This can’t be happening.

  “I’ll hurt you Joe. You don’t know me, I’ll hurt you.”

  “Then I’ll heal. Not like I haven’t been fucked over before.”

  I turn and stare into his deep, brown eyes.

  “I’m twenty-four in the summer.
It’s a big difference.”

  He shrugs. “I’m twenty a couple of months after that.”

  I am very attracted to him now I’ve tasted a bit. It doesn’t feel right somehow but he’s keen and he’s buff.

  “I’m hungry, what about you?” I suggest.

  “Starved.”

  We jump up and leave and he helps me with my coat in the entrance hall. We’re outside a moment later.

  Before we leave the campus he pushes me up against a brick wall, his hands on my face again, his body so close to mine I can feel how excited I make him. Even struggling for air, I let him kiss me roughly, then tenderly. When he finally pulls away, my stomach’s in knots. I have never felt this way before – absolutely never – from kisses alone.

  “We can’t,” I gasp, afraid.

  Why does he still want me? I showed him my disgusting scars. How can he still want me?

  How is this even happening? How have I been so blind to him harbouring this crush on me?

  How was I so blind to assume he’s not a man, nor a man who can make me feel like this? I want to ride the knackers off him and that’s just from a few fairly innocent kisses.

  “I think you’re amazing,” he says, as he’s kissing my neck. “You smell fucking gorgeous, you are fucking gorgeous… and you make me laugh like I haven’t laughed in years.”

  His lips are back on mine and he’s kissing me so vigorously that even when his phone vibrates strongly in his pocket, he ignores it and carries on.

  I know this is so wrong but I can’t help myself.

  “Let’s go to mine,” I demand, pulling him with me.

  WHEN WE’RE FINALLY inside my house, everything changes. We rushed to get here but now we’re actually here, it’s scary, and his face reflects how I feel. The air around us is charged with electricity and I awkwardly ask, “Do you want a drink?”

  “No.” He looks freaked out. “I mean, no. Thank you.”

  “Okay. So…”

  Maybe we should both be plastered for this. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever had sex sober.

  I’m staring at the floor when he says, “Did your mother hate you, giving you the name Henrietta?”