Rosie Thomas - Lovers and Newcomers

Once we’re started, rediscovering the inches of skin and the declivities and shadows of a pair of bodies that were once familiar territory (only yesterday, as it now seems), it’s impossible to stop.

Selwyn fumbles to his knees, drawing me down with him, wrestling to extricate me from absurd layers of vest and straps. Towels coiled with clothes and grit mound beneath us. Water laps at the very rim of the bath.

I hear myself gasping with laughter. ‘There’s going to be a flood.’

‘Fuck it.’

He drags me with him as he strains to reach the taps and stem the tide.

In the quiet that follows, there’s the sound of voices.

‘Oh, sweet Jesus.’ Selwyn slumps back against the side of the bath.

I’m already on my feet, spitting building rubble out of my mouth and frantically raking fingers through my hair. I pull my clothes into a sort of order and plunge out of the bathroom.

Colin and Katherine and Polly are all in the hall below. They’re laughing and exclaiming and apparently having some difficulty in taking off their boots and coats.

Polly glances up and sees me on the landing.

‘Colin’s been getting the eye from a nice young chef,’ she calls.

‘I had to carry these two home, just about,’ Colin says drily.

The hall clock chimes. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.

Luckily, they’re all too busy and happy to notice anything.

I run down the stairs, relief all but cancelling out guilt.

The boy climbed the flight of stairs that led straight up from the street door. With the usual smell of warm grease from the café following him, he leaned briefly against the thin ply of the flat door and juggled a bunch of flowers, a brown takeaway bag and a carton of milk. He twisted a key in the Yale and the door sighed open. He nudged it further with his hip and wriggled into the dark, confined space beyond.

‘Nic? ’S me.’

No answer came but he shouldered his way cheerfully onwards past the coat pegs and the parked Hoover and a stack of cardboard boxes. The light in the main body of the flat was slightly brighter. There was only one room, L-shaped, with a kitchenette and a partitioned bathroom that would not have passed a health and safety inspection with flying colours. To excuse this Nicola’s Greek landlord told her that he was not making formal rental, no, more like place for his own family, and cheap for now while he wait for his cousin to come and fix up.

Nicola was sitting in the armchair at the end of the room farthest from the unmade bed, next to a window overlooking a row of lock-ups and the fading leaves of a plane tree. Her knees were drawn up to her chest. Ben saw that she was wearing her grey holey jersey and leggings, for about the fourth day running, but she had pulled a little skirt on over the leggings and her hair was freshly washed.

‘Hi, babe, you OK? Look, I got you these.’ He held out the flowers, yellow and white daisies that he had chosen from a green enamel bucket outside the grocer’s at the end of the road. ‘And some soup as well, properly healthy, bean and something. It might have got a bit cold but I can heat it up again, easy. Or would you rather have a cup of tea? There’s milk.’

Nicola gazed up at him, her wide eyes expressionless. He was uneasily conscious of wanting to placate her, although he didn’t know why she should need this treatment. She had been a bit off, lately. He kept looking up and finding that she was staring at him. When he responded with his wide, frank smile she’d blink, and quickly look away again.

‘Not bad out,’ he went on. He put down the takeaway bag, and the milk and flowers.

Nic stirred, unwinding her legs and biting off a yawn. ‘How was work?’

‘Yeah. It was good. You know, average.’

‘Did you speak to him?’

‘He’ was the editor and manager of the local listings and events magazine where Ben worked part time. Ben wanted to be a writer, like his mother had once been, and even though what he mostly did was go out to the post office or ring venues to check the times of the week’s gigs, he insisted that this was the perfect pathway to literary success. Ben had been saying for a couple of weeks now that he only had to ask and he’d get a proper slot, like a column of his own or something.

‘No. Didn’t get a chance. It was mental there today.’

‘Right.’

Nic stood up. Her shoulders dropped and she reached out an arm and hooked it around him.

‘Thanks for the flowers.’

‘OK. I wish…’ Ben hesitated, lost as he often was for words to express his desire for all to be well, for there to be a safe enclosure for himself and Nic within the only slightly enticing chaos and mystery that the adult world seemed to present. Best of all would have been a house in the country, with a wilderness garden, the sort of place where he and his sisters had been lucky enough to grow up. ‘Well, you know.’

They stood close together, with Ben’s chin resting on Nicola’s head.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked gently.

‘No. What time have you got to go out?’

Ben earned some extra money from working in the set-up and take-down crew of a smart party organizer. The hours were awkward, but the pay was better than bar work.

‘’Bout four?’

She moved away from him and twisted the daisies out of their paper. There wasn’t a vase, so she splayed them out in a plastic jug and put them on the table.

‘Gina wants me to babysit later.’

Nic worked three days and occasional evenings as nanny to the two small children of a GP, and the other two days she went to college to train in alternative beauty therapies. Their various different commitments meant that Ben and Nic sometimes only saw each other for a few hours a week.

‘D’you want to go out for a walk?’

‘I don’t know. No, not really.’

Ben followed her from the table to the armchair, his movements unconsciously mirroring hers. He was two years younger, but it could seem like much more. Nic sighed.

‘Maybe we could just go to bed for an hour.’

He grinned at that. ‘Maybe. Or, I dunno, perhaps we should do the washing up instead?’

Nic’s fugitive smile flashed at him, making her look like the girl he had first caught sight of at an unlikely party. ‘Hey. Watch it.’

She padded across to the bed as he unlaced his Converse and took off his jeans. Nic lay down just as she was, balling up her small fists inside the sleeves of her jumper. Ben stretched out half on top of her, his hands sliding up her ribcage, but she turned her face away to avoid his mouth.

‘No, Ben, wait a minute, can’t you? Let’s just have a cuddle.’

‘After,’ he muttered, trying to press his knee between hers. His mobile began to ring in the pocket of his jeans. ‘Shit. Better get that.’

He reached a long arm for the phone and studied the display. Then he turned it off. ‘My sister,’ he yawned. He rolled back against Nic but she was lying on her back now, her chin lifted and her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

Shadows of the plane tree branches moved on the ceiling.

‘What?’

‘Pregnant. In the club. Up the duff. Expecting. Bun in the…’

‘Shit,’ he said again. And then, on a long breath, ‘No.’

Ben shook his head, trying somehow to dislodge this enormous notion before it could settle on him. ‘How?’

‘Oh God, Ben, don’t make this so hard. Can’t you ever meet me halfway? How do you think ?’

‘But we always use…well, I know, not every time, but…’

‘There you are,’ Nic said coldly.

‘How do you know? Are you sure?’

‘I got a tester thing. I did it two days ago, and again this morning. You pee on a stick.’