by Louise Kean
Windows open at work, the phone rings non-stop, but a swift one at lunch, sunglasses on, still psyched for the afternoon, flirting, sunbathing, music spilling out from the radios of soft tops rolling past. Jamaican funk in London town. A strange time. And everybody up for it. The evenings, heat holding into the night, into the bars, ties loosened, sipping something long and cool, sitting outside bars by the river, the heat willing you to stay out all night, swaying home eventually, a little something on the arm picked up in the bar, an unnatural blonde, loving the summer just as much and loving the vibe of middle of the week sex, and telling you about plans for the weekend. In the summer, everybody has plans for the weekend, and this year summer had definitely come early.
Charlie was getting a lot of sex. The weather was his friend, and proving to be the most powerful aphrodisiac known to man. Charlie knows, if the sun is out, and you turn on the charm, the women don’t say no. No talking, no tomorrow, just sex.
One in, one out. The bouncer beckons them forward,
‘How many of you?’
‘Seven.’
‘Four now, three in a minute.’
‘Cool.’
Turning to the boys at the back, Charlie talks and walks backwards at the same time,
‘Boys, we’ll get the drinks in.’
The boys nod, as Charlie turns and is slapped in the face by the heat of the club as he jogs down the steps into the basement. The music is thudding out from behind the big swing doors, and the tune is muffled. Something about joy and pain, sunshine and rain.
‘Don’t leave now, ladies, the party’s just starting!’ Charlie turns on the charm for three average girls in high street sequins, his arms open wide, palms facing the ceiling, blocking their exit, their make-up running slightly down the sides of their faces, sweat trickling into their cleavage from the backs of their necks.
‘It’s too hot in there!’ offers one of the girls with a smile, as the other two ignore him and push past to get out.
Charlie carries on walking towards the big swing doors, and as somebody pushes them open from the inside, the heat and the music jump him at once. The boys are behind him, as he dips his head into the bar.
This is the night.
At the bar, Charlie does the drinks.
‘Boys, boys!’ The lads are already surveying the scene, the music, the women, the competition, the vibe, the atmosphere. Sizing their night up from these very first seconds.
‘Boys – what are we drinking?’ Charlie shouts over the music, as the boys turn back to face him at the bar, and Charlie gets his wallet out from the back of his jeans. He feels his mobile vibrate at the same time, but ignores it. People are already pressing him to get to the bar. The place is moving, the dancing has spilled out from the volcano of the dance floor, and girls are already standing on the sofas, a couple on tables, dancing at their girlfriends. Charlie has observed in the last couple of years a tendency in women to dance suggestively with each other, shaking up and down behind each other, holding eye contact with their mates, turning every man on within ten metres. And that’s exactly why they did it. They weren’t lesbians, they were just showing their slutty side, without putting other blokes off.
‘I’ll get a round of beers to start, it’s too fucking hot in here,’ Charlie tells the boys, and is distracted immediately by two girls in the corner running their hands up and down each other’s thighs, looking over at a group of blokes next to them.
Charlie, getting out a twenty, trying to attract the attention of the girls behind the bar, he holds it out in his hand and leans on the bar. The music is pumping through his head, as a hip hop beat kicks in and he nods his head in time. The air is thick with noise and drink. Charlie closes his eyes for a couple of seconds, and feels the pain in the back of his head ebb towards the front. He pushes it back, tries to ignore it. It comes and goes, just a headache. A product of the heat, and the treadmill at the gym, and the deal he’s trying to cut with PWC. The pain throbs for a couple of seconds and then recedes again. Charlie opens his eyes again, and it is gone completely. A barmaid comes over, black bra under a white shirt, he doesn’t even notice her face, and leans forward for her ear.
‘Four Stellas.’
‘How many?’
Charlie holds up four fingers, and the barmaid turns around to the fridge, and Charlie turns around to see if the boys are still with him, which they are.
Josh is already chatting up some brunette, Josh likes the brunettes – kids himself they’re the ones with the brains. Charlie has explained to Josh a thousand times that if his intention is only for the night, which it is, then what is the point in going for a girl who can hold a conversation. Besides, conversation is overrated, unnecessary. She hasn’t got to meet the parents. But Josh just likes the brunettes. Charlie doesn’t care – blonde, brunette, redhead, whatever. He’s not looking for conversation, not on nights like these. From the corner of his eye he can see lights flickering over dancing bodies, and he wants to get over there, get into the action, stop hanging about for this fucking waitress. Charlie scoops up the beers, and turns awkwardly as the queue at the bar heaves towards the space he vacates, and he manages not to spill any beer, holding them over a short fat Chinese girl’s head to avoid bumping her.
He dishes out the beers, then gestures to the girl with his head.
‘Too many spring rolls.’ The boys laugh, and the three of them head over to the dance floor, leaving Josh with the brunette, as the other boys come through the doors, and Charlie tells them he didn’t have enough hands, and they’re on the beers. The new boys make their way to the bar, sticking their heads over Josh’s shoulders and leering at the brunette he’s chatting up. Charlie leans back against a sofa facing the dance floor, with about thirty centimetres of personal space to drink his beer in, and surveys the scene. Luther Vandross, an eighties classic, is pumping out of the speakers from every corner, and Harry and Deacon are standing slightly in front of him, swigging their beer from bottles, checking out the action. One group of girls has caught their eye – office girls all of them, no lads with them as far as Charlie can see, all very do-able, all completely in his league. He notices the blonde first, in a bikini top and low cut jeans, riding on her hips, hair pulled back off her face, not too much make-up.
Charlie doesn’t trust girls with it caked on – he doesn’t get to pretend he’s better looking than he is, so why should they? And besides, he has gone to bed with some stunners and woken up with some pigs before now, and it’s always the ones with bright red lips and shit all over their eyes that stain his pillowcases black and powdery. Charlie sizes her up, sees her dancing with her mates, stopping and laughing every now and then, and taking the piss out of a group of blokes with no rhythm dancing behind them. She catches his eye just as the song changes. Looks away, and then back again. And Charlie holds his gaze.
She smiles. He’s in.
Charlie is paying his dues, putting in the groundwork, chatting to his bikini top girl, pretending to listen, but dipping his head so that she can talk into his ear and staring straight at her tits. The flat bit in between them, her breastbone, has a trickle of sweat running down it, and Charlie wonders if it would scare her off to move in right now, and just lick it up …
Waiting for a cab, 1.15 a.m.
The blonde and Charlie hail a cab, and leap in the back. Straight away his hands move under her bikini top and feel her tits, damp with sweat, and his tongue is so far in her mouth their faces are a blur.
She sits astride him, and unbuttons his jeans, while he sucks her neck and her chest, and as she reaches into his pants and feels how hard he is already, she pulls back and gives him an impressed smile. Because Charlie is very drunk.
The taxi driver checks them out in his mirror, but decides to look elsewhere, and concentrates on the road, as they move horizontally to get the blonde’s jeans off. The cab stops at traffic lights and drunken clubbers bang on the windows and shout out obscenities, but Charlie is in a fucking trance and
ignores them. The blonde seems to get embarrassed, however, and jumps off him, just as he was fumbling with his dick, trying to get it into her. Charlie lays back, dazed and confused. He had hoped she wouldn’t even have to get out of the cab. Pushing himself up on his elbows, his erection standing between him and the blonde who is pulling her jeans back on, he feigns sincerity.
‘What? What’s wrong?’ he sighs.
‘I’m not gonna shag ya in the back of no fuckin’ taxi – I ain’t like that. Let’s wait till we get back to yours.’ Her voice rings nastily in his ears – she is young, twenty maybe at most, and common. She doesn’t pronounce her words properly. She looks suddenly grotesque to Charlie. Some little tart who buys her clothes down the market, and makes ten grand a year as a hairdresser’s apprentice. He knows the type – he knows every type. Nicola’s underwear drawer flashes through his mind quickly, full of expensive bits of silk and lace. He shakes the thought off.
‘Look,’ he says, pulling himself up, but not bothering to put himself away. ‘I thought it would be fun, exciting.’ He reaches over and massages one of her tits. The boys would love this. How much had he bet them that he could have her in the cab anyway? A twenty? A fifty? A ton?
‘Nah.’ She pushes his hand away, and pops herself back into her bikini top
‘Let’s wait till we get back, yeah? It’ll be nicer.’ Charlie almost laughs out loud. ‘I don’t want it to be nice, love. I just want it to be …’ Charlie sees her face dropping, her angry little jaw setting in front of him, and the prospect of not actually getting a fuck in the next half an hour.
‘I wanted it to be exciting, didn’t I?’ He smiles over at her, but now he is getting increasingly fucked off himself, for having to try so hard. This was supposed to be an easy one.
The blonde smiles and leans forward and pecks him on the mouth, and then nestles under his arm, trying to get a hug. Charlie freezes – what the fuck is she doing? Jesus Christ, he’d picked wrong tonight.
‘What number?’ the taxi driver yells into the back. Charlie’s erection has abated, and he tucks himself away.
‘Just by the entrance is fine,’ he says. What now?
The blonde jumps out before him, and he sees the tight little arse in her jeans, and the curve of her back. Fuck it, he’ll fuck her.
Charlie pays the cabbie, and pushes her into the stairwell, spins her round and sticks his hands down her jeans. She pushes him back.
‘Not yet, wait till we get upstairs!’ She laughs like she’s the ultimate, the fucking bee’s knees, like she can keep him waiting. Charlie considers pushing his hand straight back down there again, but changes his mind, and walks off ahead of her, up the stairs to his apartment. The blonde follows.
Charlie’s flat, 2.04 a.m.
Charlie’s erection has gone. Rolling around on his bed with this little blonde tart, grabbing her and tossing her from side to side, they had both got naked within seconds of getting into his flat. But nothing is happening downstairs. His dick is limp, even though he is tugging it himself, guiding it into her little mouth, lipstick smeared all over her face now. But the more she sucks, and moans, and moves up and down him, the more he sticks his fingers into all her openings, the less difference it makes. Charlie flips her over suddenly, and tries to guide his limp dick into her arse, but she jumps off him, and he lays back, defeated.
‘Can’t you get it up no more?’ she asks, angry.
Charlie lays back in silence. She stomps her skinny little foot.
‘Charlie, can’t you get it up now – what about in the taxi? It was up in the taxi!’ she screams at him.
‘Just fuck off, okay,’ Charlie says, and closes his eyes.
‘I’m sorry? Excuse me? Did you just tell me to fuck off? Charlie, did you just tell me to fuck off – did you?’
‘That’s right. Fuck off. Shut the door behind you.’ Charlie rolls over and stares straight ahead. This is the third time in two weeks.
‘You bastard. You can’t just fucking chuck me out!’ The blonde’s tiny, tinny voice shrieks at him. Charlie just stares ahead, naked; he pulls the sheets over himself.
‘You can’t just chuck me out, you fucker – where am I supposed to go?’ She walks around and stands naked in front of him. Charlie is repulsed.
‘Just leave. The phone’s through there if you want to phone a cab.’
Charlie rolls the other way – he doesn’t want to look at her ugly skinny little frame now; spot-lit from behind, she looks like a child.
‘You cunt,’ she whispers, and spits on him. She grabs her clothes, and storms out of the bedroom. Charlie hears her swearing and a vase smashing in the lounge, and then his front door slams shut.
Charlie sits up, and pulls on his jeans from the floor. He walks into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, pushing a hand through his hair. He feels sick, with the heat, and the sweat creeping down his back. His flat is quiet. He steps over the glass of the shattered vase that Nicola bought him, then changes his mind, leans down and picks up the pieces, and places them on the side by the kettle. He grabs a beer from the fridge, pulls open the door to his balcony, and steps out into the night air.
Leaning over the balcony, he stares out at the street. He tries to clear his head of the day. Nicola flashes through his mind. He wonders if she’s home. He pictures her asleep in her flat, oblivious to everything, to what he’s doing. If she cared she’d know. Or does she? She knows. She won’t say anything though. And he’s starting to hate himself. Thinking of her, lying in bed, he feels something rise slightly in his trousers. He can hear a tiny clicking below him, and he sees the blonde emerge from the front of his apartment block, and struggle down the steps. She is still adjusting her top. She looks like a prostitute stumbling down the road. Charlie watches her try and hail a passing cab without a light on that just speeds up and drives straight past. He hears a muffled high-pitched curse. She was laughing at him before. Goading his lifeless dick with her giggles. It’s not lifeless any more. Charlie feels it stiffen in his jeans. The blonde flops down on the side of the street. Two drunken blokes on the other side stagger past and shout out abuse. She screams at them to fuck off. Charlie walks back inside, grabs his keys, and leaves the flat, his erection growing harder by the second, throbbing slightly in his jeans. He hits the button for the lift, which comes straight away. His mind whirls at the thought of catching her up.
The music in the lift is straight off some hand-held organ. It tinkles along annoyingly as Charlie paces the lift, waiting to get to the ground floor.
The blonde is still sitting on the floor as Charlie walks towards her purposefully. He is within shouting distance.
‘Now, I’m ready now,’ he shouts at her as he gets closer and closer.
‘Eh?’ She turns around to see him getting nearer by the second, and tries to scramble to her small feet, to run, but he is on her, grabbing her arm.
‘Get off me, ya fucking asshole.’
Charlie and the blonde grapple for a few seconds. ‘Get off me, ya fucking queer. Get the fuck …’
Something snaps behind Charlie’s eyes. A pain shoots through his head, and he grabs it with his hand, letting go of the blonde’s arms. Instantly, she lashes out at him and misses, but Charlie reacts and strikes back with the back of his hand. Her tiny head hits the wall, and her eyes close. Her body goes limp in his hands, and he drops her to the ground. The pains shoot through his head, and Charlie looks around himself, trying to work out how he got here, where he is. Who is this young girl lying at his feet – what was he going to do to her? The tears start to pour out of his eyes, and he reaches down to shake her, but she won’t wake up. He feels like he is going to be sick, to pass out, his breathing comes quick and fast. Charlie runs, as fast as he can, back to his flat, leaving the girl lying out in the middle of the pavement. He gets back to his flat, and grabs the phone, and heads out to the balcony. He can see her still lying there. The pains in his head begin to subside as he dials 999. As the phone rings, Charlie has the sensati
on that the lights are going out.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Jen for being wise and wonderful, and to Max for being fabulous. Also to Sara, Kelly, Fiona, Jane Harris, Martin Palmer, Nick Sayers and all at HarperCollins. And of course a continued big thank you to my agent Ali, Carole, and everybody at Curtis Brown.
To Ken, Alice and Karen, for caring, wisdom, and fun, in that order – am I anything yet? To Nix, for always reminding me what I am at the end of a phone line, Jules, Nat, Nim, Claire, Marc (for adding value), to JP for making me think, to Jamie for inspiration (which surprised me more than anyone), and to Watson, for his penis – now you see, how does that look?
And as always my love and thanks to my family: Amy, an adult now and taking it seriously, to Laura and Jase, for their constant support, and to Mum & Dad, for always being where I need them to be.
About the Author
Louise Kean was born in 1974 and grew up in Essex. A graduate of the University of East Anglia, she worked as a marketing manager at an international film company in London for five years. Her first novel, Toasting Eros, was published in 2002 to great acclaim.
By the Same Author
Toasting Eros