30 Days in June

by Chris Westlake

  Jenny tugs at my tee-shirt. "Darling, I think you definitely need that break. Don't you?"

  I return to my seat. In the background, I hear the clatter of skittles and the familiar sound of Emma celebrating another strike.

  DAY SIXTEEN

  16TH JUNE 1988

  Her eyes fix on nothing in particular, just stare absent-mindedly at the beer-stained carpet, marvel at the multitude of rips and tears on the flimsy fabric. A pair of black shoes appear in her line of sight. Her eyes rise to the legs. They are lean and long. The jeans are blue and fashionable. Shifting over to allow the strong frame to sit down next to her, blood rises to her cheeks, to her chest.

  "Hello, Princess," he says. “What's your name?”

  Marie Davies turns to the man and notices that he is young, dark and attractive. She hasn't seen him before. She would have remembered. She wonders what he wants with her, whether his intentions are innocent. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to. He isn't speaking to her. Marie glances to her right, just about catches her friend, Donna, pouting her painted lips and giggling like she is high on drugs. She looks at the wide shoulders that separate her from her friend. Her first impression was misjudged. He was like all the others. Just who did these young men aspire to be? Who did they look up to? A splash of beer runs from his chest to his soft, round belly. There is another - as yet unidentified - stain just below the crotch of his jeans. Marie observes that the guy is not the catch she thought he might be. Quite a relief, seeing as he hadn't actually noticed her. And yet she can't quite brush away the undercurrent of jealousy. Not for this man. Just for the attention, to feel wanted, to not feel invisible. Marie knows this is the cue that she'll be ignored for the next twenty minutes or so, maybe for the rest of the night, whichever happens to come first.

  It has been like this all night. The sofa has been a conveyor belt for randy young men with just one thing on their mind. One leaves and another takes his place. And, to think, Marie didn't even want to come out. She'd already slid Dirty Dancing into the VHS, her hands had already dipped in the bowl of popcorn, when Donna called and said that she was having boyfriend troubles. Marie had already told her that the problem was her boyfriend was a dirty rat, but she never listened. Donna was adamant that the only solution to the problem was a girls' night out. The main problem with a girls' night out was that, inevitably, men got involved. Marie actually felt sorry for her friend at the time. She pictured her friend red-faced and tearful, huddled up on the sofa. That seemed ridiculous now, four hours or so later. Marie felt ridiculous now.

  Marie allowed herself another glance around the club. She'd been allowing herself these quick glances – had been quite generous, in fact - periodically throughout the night. Was she a glutton for punishment? It wasn't even in this place that they met. Why did she have to be quite so pathetic?

  She met him a couple of weeks ago. The drinks had been flowing, as usual, and she'd left all her inhibitions at the bar. Marie was a happy, sexy drunk that night, which was not quite so usual. She'd been showing off her moves on the dance floor, handbag between her and Donna on the sticky, beer-drenched floor. Donna was oblivious to anything she did; she busily checked her reflection in the full-length mirror that spread the width of the dance floor. Marie looked up, and there he was, leaning against the pillar like it was holding him up. She smiled. The poor boy looked so shocked that his elbow slipped from the wall and he nearly toppled to the floor. Marie laughed, and his cheeks reddened and then he smiled back.

  Marie still wasn't sure where she got her confidence from that night, despite the copious drink that naturally helped her along. Her dad told her often enough she needed to lose the layers of flesh that coated her body because, he slurred, boys these days just don't like fat girls. Marie's natural reaction when she felt eyes on her was to check that the guy wasn't looking at her skinny friend. But she felt none of this with this guy. She knew he was looking at her, and she knew he liked what he saw. Marie held out her outstretched arm. She laughed when the guy glanced left and right to check that she was holding the arm out for him. Marie didn't long for a strong, perfect guy to protect her; she wanted a guy with all the insecurities she possessed, who understood and loved her despite her flaws. It felt fantastic that she was the one in control. The boy put down his pint with a splash and followed her hand.

  Hungry Eyes came on just as he placed his foot on the dance floor. She remembered the video that was waiting for her in the VHS when she finally got home. Marie looked up at the ceiling. There was a God. She held the boy close. His body felt large and warm and cuddly. His hands rested on her hips. His forehead nestled against her own. She tugged at his shirt and felt the hardness in his trousers press against her belly. Marie smiled.

  The boy pulled away. She watched as he scurried away, his head bowed. Marie wanted to pull him back. He kept on walking. She looked up at Donna. She hadn't even noticed the boy. It was like he never happened, like he never existed.

  Even though it was only a few weeks ago, it felt like a distant memory, a figment of her imagination. Marie wanted to see the boy again for a whole range of reasons. One was that she wanted to say sorry. She had no idea how she'd upset him, but she wanted him to know she hadn't meant to. Another reason was that, even though they hadn't even exchanged a single word, she really liked him. But he wasn't here. She'd probably never see him again, would she?

  She's had enough now. She stands up. Somebody instantly takes her place on the sofa, no doubt ready to try their luck with her friend. Marie makes sure Donna catches her eye , sees her hand held in the air in a parting gesture.

  Marie heads for the exit. Reaches the corridor at the top of the wide stairs. Something tugs at her hand. She turns around, ready to give Donna some choice words. But it isn't her. It is a guy.

  "I've been watching you, and I've been building up the courage to come and talk to you, and now you're leaving?"

  He speaks in hushed, fluid tones, long fingers caressing her arm. His eyes are a fantastic grey, his face almost feminine in its beauty and yet, glancing down, Marie senses undeniable power in the wiry frame. His hands move from her arm to her waist, to where the boy had touched her weeks before.

  Marie gives an open-mouthed nod. She was leaving.

  "Listen," the boy says. "Let me join you? I'll just go and tell my friends I'm going and I'll meet you. I'll tell them I'm ill or something. If they see me going with you they'll want to come or they'll try to stop me going. It will be our little secret. Meet me over at the church in ten minutes? "

  Stretching out his arm, he points in the direction of the church. Marie follows his hand and, mouth still open, she speaks no words.

  This is ridiculous, she thinks, walking down the wide stairs with the thick, surprisingly luxurious carpet, saying goodnight to the doormen. She didn't know this boy. She didn't know his name. And she was a good girl. But then, she thought, maybe that was the whole point? The last thing anybody would expect her to do would be to meet this stranger. And the church? Surely his intentions were far from innocent. Maybe that was why it excited her, why the pink buds of her nipples rubbed against the fabric of her bra as she edged closer to the grounds?

  Although it had been another stifling hot June day, a refreshing breeze chills her skin. Marie folds her arms across her chest as she stands against the black metal gate and waits for him. Minutes pass. She begins to feel ridiculous, just like she did in the club, nearly all night. A group of drink-fuelled boys pass and one of them shouts that she isn't going to get any business stood there, sweetheart. Marie stares at the long, straight street, longing him to appear, even if it is just to quash this feeling of stupidity. However, he is nowhere to be seen.

  Long, expert fingers caress her hips.

  Marie jerks around. The darkness of the night accentuate the whiteness of his teeth.

  "How did you get there?" she asks.

  His hands had slid through the gaps in the churchyard gate.

  "I took a diff
erent route and jumped over the wall."

  The boy guides Marie to a gravestone. Her skin tingles as his hand strokes the inside of her thigh, high up her skirt. She thinks it is peculiar that he wears velvet gloves, like a magician, but the thought quickly passes as Marie arches back against the gravestone and parts her legs. He moves his hands away from her thighs and instead caresses her throat. He is a goddamn tease. She reaches out to stroke him, to caress the length between his legs, but he moves away.

  The pain in her chest is so immediate and so horrific that Marie jerks up. Staring deep into his beautiful, grey eyes, she sees, quite clearly, that they're smiling. Marie smothers her chest with her hands.

  It is him.

  Marie clenches her body, shuts her eyelids, and waits to die.

  DAY SEVENTEEN

  17TH JUNE 2018

  My hand slips inside my right pocket, and my fingers trace the outline of the ticket, making sure that it is still there; I am an obsessive, checking and re-checking that I have locked my car or turned the oven off. And yet, even though I'm desperate to know that the ticket is still there, I'm still not sure whether buying it was a monumental mistake, whether maybe I should just rip it from my pocket, tear it in two and throw it in the nearest trash can.

  This trip goes fundamentally against Richard's advice. And I always listen to Richard. I'm opening the door just a few inches more, allowing leeway for somebody to enter inside. I need to keep him on the doorstep. I know that. And yet, still I continue walking. I'm not listening to Richard. I will need to tell him. I always tell him everything.

  The Great Western Hotel looms like a dark shadow over the entrance to the train station. Inside, I pass McDonalds and Burger King, and I eye Searcys Champagne Bar. Placing my bag down on the floor next to my feet, I gaze up at the departures monitor. It has been a long time since I studied this monitor, searching for this destination. There it is. It stands out, like it is in neon lights, there just for me. I pick up my bag, suddenly laden with dumbbells, and head to my platform.

  Taking my seat, I pull my head back against the cushion and close my eyes. I can hear movements around me. I blink my eyes open; our table of four is fully occupied. No more room. I sense that the girl sat opposite me is young and beautiful, with luscious golden hair that flows over her chest, but she could also be middle-aged with sharp bristles coating her chin; right now, everybody around me is faceless and unimportant.

  My angst begins to fade as the train leaves the station. It feels like not only is the train leaving behind the continuous commotion of the city, but it is leaving behind my current woes. I know a range of new worries lie waiting for me, but I'm not there yet. I look out of the window. The terraced houses are replaced by detached ones and they soon become less and less regular, until all I can see are yellow and green fields. I think about lying on my back in one of the fields, with my arms and legs in the shape of a star. The thought is soothing. I begin to think that I made the right decision, that I can cope with whatever awaits me, that it cannot be any more frightening than what I left behind.

  I know I should have told Erica that I was going away. I was just terrified I’d have to tell her why, that I’d have to tell her everything. It was ridiculous. We’ve been together three years now; we shouldn’t have secrets. Yet, I have so many.

  I was just about getting things back on track when she entered my life. I’d abandoned my dire and depressing bachelor pad, quit my job in the city and moved onto the boat. Some people said I'd self-destructed, but only those who didn’t really know me. It took some time to adapt to a slower pace of life, but it was happening, one languid step at a time.

  I'd jumped on the Northern Line one mid-morning Sunday. I chose which direction to take by the toss of a coin. If the coin landed on heads then I travelled north and if the coin landed on tails then I travelled south. It landed on tails. Initially, I was disappointed. What the hell was there south? But I quickly kicked that reaction into touch. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? The not knowing, the just finding out. I jumped off the train at a stop I hadn’t been to before. That was the whole point, too. I was doing whatever I could to shed layers of my previous self. Trying my best not to give a damn what others thought of me. I didn't realise at the time just how liberating it would be.

  Colliers Wood was probably like every other town in London on a Sunday morning. Everybody was walking their dogs, rubbing their bleary eyes from the night before. I stopped at a cafe and looked out of the window as I sipped a cup of tea. I idled with no real intent in the retail park. I wandered along the canal, always on the lookout for a new place to park my boat. I crossed the gigantic roundabout and found myself in the market.

  It was busy with people of all creeds and generations, all mingling happily together, all looking to fill a free morning away from the sofa. An enticing aroma of food filled the air. I browsed the covers of paperbacks in the bookshop. I wondered whether an ornament of an elephant would look good above the sink on the boat, then realised I'd need to get a new sink first before anything looked good above it. And then I wandered out into the main yard; it was there that I first laid eyes on Erica.

  Perched on a stool, naked legs pressed high to her chest, her dark angled hair flowed effortlessly over her thighs. She looked so at ease, perched on a stool in the middle of a market, that I just stared at her, fascinated. She looked back at me, her perfectly oval eyes seemingly evaluating me.

  “See something you like?”

  My eyes followed her tongue as she spoke. “I was only looking,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologise,” she said, unrolling her body from the stool. “That’s what I am here for. I want you to look, to like what you see, and then sweet talk you into taking things further. Which one takes your fancy?”

  I’m sure I stood with my hands on my hips and my mouth open for quite a few seconds. She must have noticed, for she pulled back her head and started laughing. “I’m Erica,” she said, holding out her hand. Her wrists were covered in bracelets, and she had a ring on every finger.

  “Marcus.”

  “Now, Marcus,” she said, twisting her body at her hips and opening out her hands, “can I interest you in any of my creations?”

  I hadn’t even noticed the paintings at her feet. It didn’t cross my mind that she was sat on the stool for any other purpose than to entertain me. I gazed at the paintings and smiled. I didn’t know whether they were any good or not – not really – but I was fascinated by the array of colours and the personality that shone through. And there was such variety, from landscapes to portraits to abstract. I told her that I was intrigued by the painting of a mature lady with her grey hair in rollers, lips curling at the corners; a slightly more energised Mona Lisa.

  “That is my good friend, Moira,” Erica said. “Can you see that her face is void of make-up? That the fine lines by her eyes are very clear?”

  I pushed my neck forward and nodded my head.

  “Moira, bless her, wanted me to paint her as she really is, with no pretence or cover. That is how she views her true self.”

  “But didn’t she want to keep the painting?”

  I regretted asking the question, for it crossed my mind that maybe Moira - bless her - didn’t like the painting. Erica smiled, displaying childlike, slanted teeth.

  “Moira said that she sees the face in the mirror every morning, and that is enough for any one person. She wanted somebody else to enjoy my creation. Or, at least, that is what she told me.”

  And so I purchased a painting of an unattractive, elderly lady I'd never met before, went home and hung it on the wall in my boat, even though there was scarcely room to swat a fly.

  I returned to the market every Sunday that summer. I no longer spun a coin. Fate had chosen the direction for me. Within no time at all I'd acquired three paintings. I had to slide one under my bed. Erica was wise to my game. She knew she was the attraction, not her paintings. We went for coffee one week; the next we
walked along the canal.

  “I want to paint you,” Erica said. It wasn’t a question, just a statement.

  I visited her house on a scorching Saturday afternoon. Erica lived on a long street of terraced houses just a stone's throw away from the market. She opened the door wearing an apron, hair tied back, paintbrush already in her hand. Mouth free of lipstick, eyes absent of liner, she looked devastatingly sexy.

  “So, do you feel yourself?” Erica asked.

  I considered a smart remark, but instead decided to be honest. I told her I wasn’t really sure who my true self was, but I felt most comfortable when I lazed around in my shorts and sandals on my deckchair with a glass in my hand.

  So that was how she painted me.

  Or at least, that is how she started painting me. After about half an hour, Erica put down her paintbrush and sat on the edge of my deckchair. She parted my feet just a few inches to make some space.

  “Marcus, is this truly how you look when you are most at ease?”

  “I think so,” I said. “Yes.”

  She let that reply linger in the air for a while before saying, “So what would you wear if there was nobody in the world to judge you? That is what you seek, isn't it? Complete freedom from the chains of society? So what would you wear if you were on a deserted island? If it is this then that is fine. But just be honest, okay?”

  Erica returned to her canvas and continued painting. It might have been a few minutes before I unbuttoned my shorts. It might have been a few more minutes before I removed my boxer shorts, before I lay on the chair naked. I looked up at Erica. She said nothing, but the subtle smile said much more than words ever could.

  At first I was self-conscious when her eyes scanned my body, for they gave away nothing. Was I horrific? Vulgar? This quickly passed. She wanted to paint the true me, and here I was. The scar on my chest didn’t matter. It was me. The blood flowing to my cock didn’t matter, either. That was how I felt.