M word, p.9
M Word, page 9
‘Don’t know. I can’t think straight at the moment.’ I circle my temples. ‘Bet Moya would know,’ I whisper, then realise I’ve said it out loud.
‘Who’s that?’ Davis goes.
‘Nobody. Nothing,’ I go.
I put some Joan As Police Woman tunes on. Davis looks at me suspiciously. When the music kicks in he lies on my bed, thumb tapping his belly as if he’s a human bass guitar. Can’t believe he’s actually on my bed. Should I lie beside him? I want to, I do. But can you imagine if he sees my legs or runs his claw along my bare torso? May as well go live on an island for humiliated women. Stuff it, maybe I should just jump him, surprise his arse. He wouldn’t know what’d hit him. Actually, no, consent and all that. Maggie, do not sexually assault Davis.
His fingers shift to his chest, making a low-pitched hollow sound. His head is next to Larry’s. I watch them beside each other, my two people.
Who’s that shit you’re listening to? Moya goes, nodding towards the speakers.
Moya’s into painful music: Drake. Kings of Leon. George Ezra. Kill me now. I hated it when she wore band T-shirts, as if I were guilty of shit taste by association.
You’ve done a job on this Ian guy, Mags. He seems like a saucy one.
I’m so tingly cos Davis is here. He doesn’t know what I’m hearing; wonder if he realises what I’m thinking.
You taking the piss? I go.
Just a tiny bit.
Well, don’t! This is no time for piss-taking. My nerves are all over the shop here, Moya.
Not sure about the name Ian though, she goes.
Exactly what I said.
We do a girl-power agreement slap. (Obviously we don’t!) I hate people who high five. What’s happening to me? Seriously, what is happening?
Ians all sound like they stack shelves in Aldi, Moya goes. Or they’ve got a fine collection of gimp masks.
She comedy-puckers her lips.
I laugh.
Davis opens his eyes.
‘What’re you laughing at?’ he asks.
‘Nothing.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Nothing, just a joke I remembered.’
‘Love jokes,’ he goes, and sits up on the bed. ‘I want to hear it – I want to laugh too.’
Mean, fuck’s sake. Can a girl not even enjoy her own thoughts without having to be pure cross-examined? Talk about control.
He pokes me on my shoulder.
‘Come on, tell me.’
Now I’ve got to come up with an on the spot joke. Cheers, Moya.
‘Right,’ I go. ‘Guy walks into a butcher’s and asks if they’ve any oxtails. Butcher goes, “Once upon a time there was this big ox …”’
There’s a processing pause.
Then he laughs.
Laughs hard.
Lolls around the bed laughing. It isn’t that funny. He tugs me on to him, laughing. We roll around, laughing. Squash Larry under our bodies. I could’ve kept rolling; could’ve soggy-kissed and felt him on my leg as we snogged and spun more. I could’ve gone much further, like much further. But when it comes down to it, I just don’t want to. Not while there are three of us in the room. I rediscover reality and roll off him.
Anyway, who knows. He could be gay.
Laughing feels good. I make a mental note to do more of it around Mum.
‘So, what are we going to do, Davis?’ I go.
‘Email him back.’
‘What?’
‘When and where to meet.’
‘Do you know any coffee shops?’
‘You could suggest a hotel,’ he goes, smirking as if he’s just invented the internet or something.
‘Yeah, let’s suggest meeting in a place where there’s loads of beds above them. Magic idea. She’s not a fucking escort service, Davis.’
The words ‘escort service’ make him snort. God, what are guys all about? He’s so chilled about my brashness. I could literally call him a grotesque dickhead (which he’s not) and he’d crack a smile. Shit, is this soul-mate territory?
No, Mags, it’s not. It’s just an eejit in your room. You’re the one who needs to chill.
‘Well, I don’t know any cool coffee shops, do I?’ he goes.
‘There’s a Starbucks next to H&M.’
‘It’ll be dead noisy.’
‘And?’ I go.
‘Well, they might want to … chat … talk softly … I don’t know – I’ve never been on a date.’
I look at him, scrunch up my face and semi-scowl. Secretly delighted to hear this news.
‘Starbucks is perfect,’ I go.
‘It is?’
‘Totally. We’ll send this Ian guy there.’
‘Right.’
‘Means we have time to suss him out first, make sure he doesn’t have gloves and rubber tubing on him. He won’t suspect a thing. He’ll think we’re a couple of teenage losers.’
Davis squints his eyes.
‘And?’ I go, holding on to the ‘A’ sound much longer than needed.
‘What?’
‘Well, what if he’s a complete munter?’
He widens his eyes. Puffs out his cheeks.
‘Er …’
‘There’s no way I’m sending my mum on a date with some guy who’s got a face like two cats fighting.’
His features morph into a huge grin.
‘Agreed,’ he goes.
‘We’ll also be able to tell if he’s jailbait material, pure eyeballing all the teenyboppers. He’ll be getting nowhere near my mum if that’s the case.’
‘Like it,’ he goes.
‘OK, let’s do it then.’
He puts up a high-five hand, but, honestly, the moment’s crying out for a celebratory hug followed by a cracking lip-smacker. What good’s a high five to anyone?
Guys and their stupid hands!
Who
I need to concentrate on art school, let her discover her own path towards love. Stop interfering. But my desire to help is bubbling inside.
What’s the point though?
Mean, think about it:
Who’ll be interested?
Who’ll want to be around her screwed nut these days?
Who’ll want to be with someone who’s pure skint?
Then the question:
Will he only be after a quick shag?
People might see her with a new man and laugh behind her back. As if she’s undeserving of happiness.
Graffiti
I don’t know why I was raging when she came back to school; it was bubbling inside me. Not for her; it was all directed at him.
‘What, you actually made it?’ I went.
‘Shut it.’
‘You need to screw the nut.’
‘Oh, there’s tons of screwing being done, don’t you worry about that,’ she winked.
People laughed behind her back.
I was pissing one time and it’s on the door.
Her name followed by: is a spunk vessel
Her name followed by: would shag yer granda (and granny)
I had to clean it with spit and toilet paper.
She’s completely undeserving of this.
Book
I don’t order coffee cos it’s rancid. Simple as that. And the cups are king size. Imagine drinking out of those things. Massive bucket of latte. The world will be queuing up for a gastric band if they keep guzzling that stuff. They should just tie a huge one around the width of Scotland and be done with it.
I get sparkling water. Davis gets a tomato soup, in a cup. His death-row meal apparently.
Moya wouldn’t be happy about Davis stealing her thunder, she’d be like, Sake, Mags, you’re not pure joined at the hip – he’s got to give you some breathing space, know what I mean?
I want us to have a feel of two people fully relaxed with each other, as if we’ve been on loads of dates before, unfazed by our bouts of silence, but I know that’s pure pie in the sky. Still, I’m glad he’s here. I want him here. Not saying I desperately need him or anything like that, although it might be nice to need someone. Also, this Ian guy might be a brain cell short of being normal.
We’re early; important to get a seat. Every minute or so we check our phones. Thumb the refresh button on the invented email.
We’re supposed to be blending in, trying not to attract attention. Davis is twitchy. His soup’s roasting. All the teens seem to be sponsored by Bershka or Hollister. Lots of backcombs and bare ankles on show to make me gag. Styleless clones. No individuality. No idea. I’d loathe Davis to have that look. And me. Mostly I hate living in this body, but times like this I’m glad it belongs to me.
We sit in silence, eyeballing everything around us. Listening to chiming china and drab chat. Gawping at the bored new mums on their eighteenth coffee of the day.
Lots of staring at the door. No sign of this Ian character. He isn’t late. But anyone in their right mind knows it’s a good idea to get to a first date early. Even though this isn’t exactly a date. This is a meeting – nothing more than a quick ‘Hiya, what’s the craic? What do you do for a crust? What stuff floats your boat?’.
‘I’m a bit nervous, Maggie,’ Davis goes, stirring his soup beyond an inch of its flavour.
‘Relax, or try to.’
‘What if we don’t recognise him?’
‘We will,’ I go.
‘But how can you be so—’
‘We’ll know it’s him as soon as he steps through that door,’ I go. ‘Look around.’ He does. ‘Do you see any old, single men in here?’ He shakes his head. ‘Exactly.’
‘But what if …’
‘Look, Davis, I’ll know when it’s him. He’ll be shitting himself – it’ll be written all over his mush. Guys have the same expression whenever they’re out to impress.’
‘We do?’
‘See, thing is, men are always trying to be something they’re not: friendly, intelligent, sensitive, not sex offenders, whatever. But everyone knows it’s all a bullshit front – they’re just terrified in case their façade drops or we see through it, which, let’s be honest, in most cases that’s a pure doddle. So, take my word for it, when this Ian geezer walks through that door, I’ll know.’
I suck fizzy water into my mouth.
Davis jerks his head twice.
‘And what am I then?’ he goes, leaning back.
‘You?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re … er … you’re … er … just Davis.’
Mean it as a compliment.
‘Wow! You’re good, Maggie.’ He folds his arms. ‘Pure doddle, eh?’
‘Don’t be a dick.’ I flick water off my straw at him.
But he’s far from being a dick. Would I be sitting with anyone that dickish? No danger. When Moya was going through her I-hate-all-men phase cos her latest monster in a tracksuit, or MOT as I liked to call them, couldn’t keep his trackie bottoms hiked up, she saw nothing redeeming in the male world.
‘He said he’d be reading a book,’ I go.
Hi Donna,
Starbucks it is! Looking forward to it. Oh, so you know which one I am, I’ll be wearing a rose in my lapel!!! Seriously though, I’ll probably be reading a book (or pretending to).
See you,
Ian
What tool goes on a date with a book? Moya goes.
Tell me about it.
And what sap eats soup in a coffee shop?
He’s not a sap, so park it!
‘What numpty brings a book on a date?’ Davis goes.
At least they agree on something.
‘Let’s stop calling it a date, Davis. It’s not a date. It’s a meeting.’
‘Fine. A meeting then.’
‘Actually, it’s a nothing,’ I go. ‘Cos Mum isn’t coming, is she?’
Davis sinks his tomato soup, licks the cup rim clean, table manners of a knuckle-dragger. He plays imaginary guitar when he hasn’t any conversation in his head. Thinks I’m blind, but I see his fingers subtly flicking and his mind coiling to remember chords and notes. Weird, but cute. Too cute. He’d definitely get it if I was giving it.
A girl at the next table fiddles with her bra cos she’s wearing one of those small push-up ones that cut right in. Is tit elevation worth the hassle? Davis painfully fights the desire not to check her out.
Then I clock him.
He joins the queue. I know it’s him straight away cos his face screams: shitting bricks. Job-interview mug.
I manage to get some major visuals of him from where I’m sitting. Face. Hair. Height. The full bhuna. God, he’s the spit of that actor. Whatshisname? Can’t put my finger on it. But, take it from me, he’s the spit. Let’s be clear about something: he’s no catwalk model. But he hasn’t been dunking for chips either. Result! Seven out of ten. Eight or nine with beer goggles on. Mum will approve.
Hundred per cent a teacher though. Clothes are a giveaway: duff half-trainer half-shoe numbers, boot-cut jeans with daft fake rips on the thighs, a starch collared shirt and a black cord box jacket. Sale at M&S maybe? Reeks of a rugby fan.
My eyes dart between the guy and Davis. My guess: Ian is an English or history teacher. One of those who wants to be everyone’s buddy; the go-to teacher in times of baby-school crisis:
‘Sir, we want a non-uniform day.’
‘Sir, it’s not fair that we can’t have a Battle of the Bands event.’
‘Sir, the sixth year should really have their own common room.’
The take-no-shit-in-class teacher who likes a bit of banter from time to time … usually on their own terms. The low-self-esteem teacher who needs everyone to like them.
It’s him. Defo. Can’t be anyone else. The book seals the deal. I shall probably be reading a book my arse. You’ll be alternating the thing between hand and underarm. Maybe it’s his character flaw? Carrying a book about as if to say, ‘Look at me, I read tons of books – aren’t I dead clever?’
I don’t mention seeing him to Davis at first cos I want this moment for myself. It’s my game after all. I want to decide if he’s worth further study. Mean, if I get a whiff of any wife-beater demeanour, we’re hot-stepping it out of that door before you can say ‘Want to listen to my Thriller album?’.
He collects a small cup of something and a sparkling water. Sits down, pulls his book from under his arm, cracks it open. When I spy the front cover my jaw almost scuds the table. YOU’VE GOT TO BE WRINGING MY KNICKERS! Who brings a book with that title to a first date? A meeting? What kind of special needs does that? Big yellow letters slap-bang for all to see: A Man in Love.
I wish she were here to back me up. To remind me that I’m not going mental. Far too many of these where-is-she-when-I-need-her? moments.
What the fuck is that? Moya goes.
I know, right, I go.
‘Davis, don’t look,’ I go, quietly. ‘He’s here.’
‘You sure?’ he goes.
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Behind you. One o’clock.’ Davis makes to turn his head. ‘Don’t look! Don’t make it totally obvious. Move your chair so it’s subtler.’
He shifts around.
Ian (the guy) is reading, or pretending to, and doesn’t notice our movements.
‘Guy with the book?’ Davis goes.
‘Has to be,’ I go.
‘He looks like that actor.’
‘I know, right.’
‘What’s his name again?’
‘Can’t remember. It’ll come to me.’
Davis squints towards him once more.
‘He’s all right, Maggie.’
‘He’ll do.’
He can do me.
Honest to God, Moya!
Apart from that book, doesn’t seem like he owns a dungeon. I think your mum’ll like him.
‘Bit weird, that book,’ Davis goes.
‘A bit? Mean, if I were meeting some guy and they pulled that out, I’d run a mile.’
‘Might be really good.’
That’s not the point, boyf. Duh! Where did you find him?
Give him a chance – you’d like him, Moya.
I know what I’d give him.
Don’t! Just … don’t.
‘The point isn’t if it’s any good, Davis,’ I go.
If eyes could tut, mine would be tutting.
‘So, what do we do now?’
‘Let’s leave it for five minutes then email him.’
‘From here?’
‘It’ll save the poor sap sitting there all day waiting on nobody arriving.’ I pick up my phone. ‘What should I write?’
‘Something like, “Sorry I can’t make it cos I’m up to my eyes in work.”’
My fingers begin to dance over the screen.
‘I’ll just ask if we can organise for another time,’ I go.
‘Think he’ll want another meeting?’
‘Look at him, Davis. He looks like a lost soul – course he will. He’s a man in love, remember? Mum’ll thank me for this in the future.’
The future.
I don’t want to think about the future. Too much shit to consider. Suppose that’s why we have that part of the brain where we can leave stuff languishing. A bit like left luggage.
I write:
Hi Ian,
Apologies that this is short notice, but I’m afraid I can’t make our coffee meeting. Something last minute came up at work which I just can’t get out of. I’m so sorry. I hope it won’t be a major inconvenience to you. Could we arrange another time to meet? I’d really like that.
Speak soon,
Donna
No kisses, Mags?
Far too early for email kisses.
I show Davis.
‘Yup, that’s cool.’
‘OK, will I send it?’
‘Fire it off.’
I see no pages of A Man in Love being turned. Proving once and for all that he’s pretending, that he was shitting boulders; faking it.
The book falls. He picks it up and places it on the table, cover side up; takes out his phone. The email has landed. He’s reading. I inspect his expression. His face intensifies. Disappointment. He leans back in his chair, plonks his phone next to A Man in Love. Seriously disappointed. Lifts his book, opens it. Closes it. Flops it back down again. Majorly pissed off. Downs the rest of his drink. Game over.
