The beginning of everyth.., p.18
The Beginning of Everything, page 18
“Oh, hey. I thought you’d gone to bed,” says Gethin, emerging from the dining room with a rattling armful of beer bottles.
“No, I was reading,” I say, which is easier than saying “writing,” because if you say you’re writing, people ask you about it. “Thought I’d come down and get ahead of all this.”
“Yeah, look at it all, the monsters,” he says. “There are literally a million empty bottles.”
“You know that’s not what ‘literally’ means, right?”
He laughs at this. “A hundred. At least.”
“Someone’s left their cardi,” I tell him.
“Yeah, I found a phone, and a pair of shoes in the garden. People are shit at looking after their stuff.”
“A pair of shoes?”
“Yeah, I put them by the folding doors. No idea who they belong to. A woman, of some kind.”
This makes me laugh. “ ‘Of some kind’?”
“I can’t tell much from the shoes.” He grins at me. I collect the remaining glasses from the front room, take them to the kitchen, and return with a trash bag for the paper plates. They’re going in the compost, but I need something to collect them in.
“I’m glad we took the rug up,” he says, looking at the scatter of bottle tops and food.
“I know, right? I won’t hoover until tomorrow; I expect next door hate us enough already.” I plump the cushions on the sofa and rescue a half-full can of Coke from behind the telly. “Is there any food left?”
“Not really.”
I follow him out to the dining room and regard the table, covered in empty plates and dishes.
“That all went okay, then.”
“Bloody gannets. I didn’t get to eat hardly any of the stuff we made,” he complains. “I didn’t have a single sausage roll, or any of those salmon things.”
“No, neither did I. Still, good that it all got eaten.” I swipe my finger round the edge of a bowl that once had dip in it. “This is good, the bean dip.” I lick my finger. “I might make that again so we can eat it.”
“Danny Jenkins said the guacamole was the best he’s ever had. And he’s been to Mexico,” says Gethin, and we laugh, rather hysterically, at each other.
Two more trips to the kitchen with bowls and dishes, and then he folds the tablecloth up before shaking it out of the back door. Everything looks better now that we’ve more or less sorted it. I retreat to the kitchen and begin to stack the dishwasher.
“Three loads easy, I reckon,” I say, “but at least we don’t have to do it by hand. I think I might have reached my limit with dishwashing.”
“Mm.” He stands in the doorway, watching me. He’s got a pint glass of water, and he drinks most of it as we stand there.
“You don’t have to stay up,” I say. “I’ll just finish this; the rest can wait.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Oh, er…so…”
I look over my shoulder at him.
“Yes?”
“So, Mike…”
“Oh yeah. I heard you talking to him. You’re probably right about the dick thing.”
“Oh God.” He laughs. “Where were you?”
“In the garage, getting a chair.”
“I hope we didn’t say anything embarrassing. Did we? Shit.”
“I gathered what his plan was.”
“Yeah, he…I know it’s totally up to you, whether you…you know, what you do, and who you do it with, like,” he says, “but I’m not sure I’d recommend Mike as a…”
“No? He says he’s really good in bed.” I wash my hands vigorously to remove the smell of beer.
“Yeah, well, he might be,” says Gethin doubtfully. “I mean, I think he’s had loads of practice. But what I’m trying to say is…”
“Yes, it’s okay, you don’t need to say it. I don’t always make terrible choices. He was a potentially terrible choice that I managed to avoid making. Go me.”
There’s a pause before he says, “You were kissing him, though. Weren’t you? In the hall?”
“No, I wasn’t. Although I did think about it. Kissing’s quite nice, isn’t it. Haven’t kissed anyone for ages. But then it seemed…anyway, so I didn’t.” I look round the kitchen as I dry my hands. “I think that’s everything for now.” I flick the lights out and head for the hallway.
“I didn’t realize you might be thinking about kissing people,” he says as I pass him.
“I didn’t either. It was a bit of a surprise, to be honest.”
“If I’d realized…” he says, and stops.
“Yes?”
It’s very quiet. The hallway is lit only by the light from the landing, and we stand in the fuzzy dusk.
“I might have wondered if it would be a good idea to kiss you myself.”
I close my eyes, briefly, feel my heart thumping. “Might you?” I’m amused by this hedging. “And what might you have decided?” I fold my arms and lean against the wall.
“I’d probably have asked, anyway.”
“Are you going to ask?”
“Jess…”
“What?”
“Is that…something you might be interested in?”
I laugh. “Sweep me off my feet, why don’t you.”
“It’s a long time since I did anything like this.”
“Yes, me too.” I step toward him and reach up, my fingers on the back of his neck, pulling his face to mine.
It’s funny how completely different the idea of kissing Gethin is to the idea of kissing Mike. I suppose that’s what happens when you really like someone. My knees are literally weak, and I mean this in the true definition of the word. He holds my face, his hands cupping my jaw. His tongue is cool from the water he was drinking in the kitchen. We kiss for what seems like forever, an endless perfect moment. I slide my hand under his shirt, skin on skin.
I’d do it here, now, against the wall, if he wanted to. I’m surprised at myself, sort of. If you’d asked me—even five minutes ago, when I was pretty sure we’d be kissing—I’d have said I didn’t want to have sex, not with him, not with anyone, not ever. I’m not sure who I thought I was fooling. I begin, awkwardly one-handed, to unfasten his belt.
“Jesus, Jess,” he says, pulling away. We blink at each other in the half-light.
“Ah,” I say. “Sorry. Is that not…”
“We could go upstairs,” he says. “If you…”
“Okay. Yes.”
“You…ah.”
With that we’re kissing again. Upstairs seems a long way away. He kisses my face, my eyelids, my throat. There’s a strange noise and I think I’m making it.
“Wow,” he says, after a bit. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“So…I’ve got to say…your hair really looks amazing, and this evening you were…you looked absolutely stunning. I mean…uh…”
“No,” I say, “go on.”
“I think…did you want to go upstairs?”
“Yes.”
Chapter Sixteen
In his bedroom, I kick off my slippers, and he pushes me backward, tripping me, cautiously, so I fall onto the bed.
“Jess, look…”
“I might not be able to,” I say.
“You…”
“I don’t know if…so, the last time I had sex,” I tell him, “it was…not very nice?”
I look up at the expression of concern on his face.
“Right. Shit,” he says, “I’m sorry…”
I shake my head. “And I don’t know if…”
“Okay. Well…just tell me, if you want me to stop, or do anything differently, or…”
I’m worried, now, that I’ve moved past the moment. Maybe we should have done it down there, against the wall. It would probably be over, now, and…but that makes it sound like I want it to be over. Which I don’t. We stare at each other. It’s funny to look up at someone. He looks worried. That’ll be my fault.
“Is this…”
“You could kiss me again,” I suggest, so he does. After a while, it seems like it might be a good idea to actually get into bed, so, after he wrestles his shirt over his head and extricates himself from his trousers, we do. The curtains are open, and a flat slab of moonlight falls across the end of the bed.
He strokes my face, my shoulders, unbuttons the top button of my pajamas.
“Is this okay?”
I nod.
“You’ll tell me, if…”
I nod again.
“The thing is,” he says, “I really like you.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was taking advantage or…”
I shake my head this time. My hand rests against his chest. I am astonished to touch him, to be here, in his bed.
“And I know we haven’t talked loads about why you…left, but I’m not a complete idiot…”
I shake my head again.
“And I know…bad things…have happened to you.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to be a bad thing. I really don’t…”
I close my eyes. “I think you might be a good thing.”
He dips his face to mine and we kiss, slow, deep kisses.
“I’d like to be,” he says, after a while. He leans to rummage in the drawer of his bedside table and produces a condom, which seems unexpectedly well prepared, although I’m happy to see it, of course.
It’s warm in his room. We kick the duvet off as we move together, all unexplored yet familiar places. Things are slow, and then faster, almost silent, mouths and fingers. The demons I worried about do not appear. The two of us are alone and, in my head at least, unaccompanied by any complications. I am grateful for this, as the sweat cools on my chest, as I lick salt from my upper lip.
“All right?” he says.
“Thank you.”
“You needn’t thank me,” he says. “You’re always thanking me.”
“I’m…always grateful.” I smile, but I fear it may be tremulous. I feel oddly delicate, elevated. I am so thankful for this, for everything. I touch my finger to his cheek, and he turns his head to kiss my palm. I close my eyes.
“Ah, Jess, I…”
I feel his breath on my shoulder. Then I sleep.
* * *
When I wake, drawn from sleep by my bladder, I sit up cautiously and look at his face, closed in slumber, distant despite his physical proximity. Would other people’s dreams be at all comprehensible if one could see them? I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad quietly to the bathroom.
I wonder about what I’ve done and whether it was a sensible thing to do, or merely a pleasurable one. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, in the gray light of four-thirty. I’ve always thought how strange it is that nothing you do is visible on your face. I remember going into school the day after I had sex for the first time, absolutely astonished by the fact that no one could tell.
It’s the same with rooms—the bedroom looks exactly the same as it did last week. The walls have no memory of love or pain. Perhaps Mrs. Evans—Bronwyn—died in there? Who knows? Not me. I let the tap run for a moment and drink thirsty gulps of cold water.
I return to Gethin’s room. Since we’ve been sharing the house I don’t think I’ve ever been naked on the landing, always very cautious not to be caught even in a towel, and to be naked in the doorway of his bedroom seems oddly transgressive. I hesitate on the threshold. Perhaps I should spend the few hours left of the night in my own bed. I think…I think I’ve allowed myself to be carried away by events.
He stirs, raises his head. “Jess?”
“Hey.” It occurs to me as we look at each other that perhaps he’s forgotten what happened earlier—maybe he was a lot drunker than he seemed?—and now he’s wondering what the hell’s going on, and why I’m in his room, naked.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “I’ve been to the bathroom.”
“Come back to bed,” he says, sweeping his arm across the sheet.
* * *
We do it again. Quicker, dirtier, more—desperate? We gasp and mutter. It’s daylight, more or less, early sunshine.
“Wow,” he says afterward. “It’s a long time since…”
“Mm?”
“Well, you know.”
“Not bad for an old fella.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
We smile at each other, drowsy. More kisses. I’m glad to overwrite less…pleasant…experiences with this. Now I needn’t think about before; now I remember how it feels to do this stuff with someone I like. His hands on me, his lips, the taste of him.
* * *
When I wake again, it’s six o’clock. This time, I think, I need to get up, go to my own bed. I don’t think this is…if I fall asleep again, and we wake up, and it’s, like, nine or something, then what will happen? There’ll be a whole awkward coffee/breakfast thing, and it will be…I’m not sure how that will work, so it seems best to go. I gather my pajamas and slippers and head to my own room. My sheets are cool; my bed feels very small compared to the expanse of Gethin’s king-size. I lie on my back and look up at the ceiling, so white and clean and freshly painted.
I close my eyes. The muscles on the insides of my thighs ache, just a little, from my unexpected exercise. I’m not sure what we’re going to do about this thing we’ve done.
* * *
When I wake up for a third time, it’s because Gethin has put his head round my door and called my name. I blink at him.
“I brought you a cup of tea,” he says. “Can I come in?”
“Oh…yeah.” I push myself up on my elbows, making sure the duvet covers my chest, conscious that I’m still naked, which, considering that three hours ago we both were, and very close together, might seem odd. “Thanks, you didn’t need to…”
“I wondered where you were.”
“Yeah, I thought I should…”
He puts a mug of tea on the bedside table and pulls the chair from the desk over toward the bed. He has a cup, too, and he sits down.
“So, look…”
“I thought I might have a hangover,” he says, “but I guess I sweated it out.”
I laugh. Although I didn’t exactly mean to. “Were you…very drunk? You didn’t seem it.”
“No, not really. It’s physically impossible to get drunk at your own party, have you ever noticed that?”
“Actually I have, yes.”
“Yeah, weird, isn’t it. Responsibility, I guess.”
“I guess so.”
“Anyway,” he says, “I was thinking we should go out for breakfast. Or brunch, or whatever. We could go out for a drive, maybe. Looks like it’s going to be a gorgeous day.”
My stomach swoops with…something. Anxiety, I suppose.
“I don’t think…look, the thing is, Gethin, I think maybe…”
“What?”
“I think…I don’t want you to think I didn’t enjoy myself. I really did.”
There’s a long pause. I try not to look at him.
“But?”
“But maybe it would be better if we…pretended it happened, like, five years ago, and that’s fine, and we’re not pretending it didn’t happen, just that it was…in the past?”
“Oh.”
“Is that…would that be a problem?”
He looks at me for a long moment. His eyelids flutter, and he looks away. I see the muscles in his jaw tighten for a second.
“Not a problem, no. A shame, maybe,” he says. “Anyway. I’ll leave you to it, then.” He gets up and returns the chair to its place by the desk, picks up his cup, and leaves the room.
I slide back beneath my duvet, head and all. I know this is the most sensible course of action. I don’t want to be involved. I don’t think Gethin is a dick, obviously, so I’m sure he can cope with this. I don’t expect him to take it badly; in fact, if he thinks about it, he’ll be relieved. Yes.
* * *
Not long afterward, I hear the front door bang, and then the sound of the car. He’s gone out, then, and that’s probably a good thing. I stare at the ceiling for a bit, telling myself that I feel fine—better than fine, actually, because whatever else happened, I had sex, and not only was it extremely enjoyable, but it didn’t freak me out or make me uncomfortable or fill my head with unpleasant images or anything. This is a definite win, because of what happened last time, which wasn’t much fun at all.
After a while, I get up, shower. It would be a good idea to get a better shower; maybe we should ask Mike for the number of this other bloke…
I go downstairs and wrestle the hoover out of the cupboard under the stairs. I vacuum carefully, then heave the rug out from behind the sofa in the front room and re-lay it. This is hard work; it’s heavy.
I open the folding doors and sweatily, awkwardly fight with the old sofa, dragging it onto the patio and back into the garage. That was much easier with two people, but I want it to be done. I empty and restack the dishwasher, box up the borrowed wineglasses, mop spills off the kitchen floor. I wonder if Gethin will come home for lunch but think, on the whole, that he won’t. I make myself some toast and another cup of tea and sit in the sunny garden for a bit. Then I do some washing. The house is back to normal, more or less, although it still smells slightly odd, of other people’s perfume, overlaid with cleaning products.
