Polly James - Would Like to Meet

The bedroom’s freezing, and so is the bed, now there’s no warm Dan to curl up against, so I put on a pair of very attractive red polka-dot flannel pyjamas. After that, I add green-and-white striped socks and a hideous leopard-print fleece Claire gave me for my birthday last year. When I glance in the mirror before I get into bed, I look like one of those oscillating paintings by Bridget Riley. One she produced on a very off day.

My name is Hannah Pinkman, and I am sex symbol of the year.

* * *

No sooner have I fallen asleep (it seems) than I wake up again. You can’t drink much during the evening when you get to my age, and certainly not enough gin and tonic to fell an ox. They say gin dries you out, but if it does, it’s only because it’s a diuretic. Now I’m dying for a wee.

I try to ignore the sensation for a minute or so, but then roll out of bed and make my way across the room with my eyes still shut. I’m working on the principle that if I keep them closed, I won’t wake up properly, so then I’ll go straight back to sleep as soon I get back into bed, instead of lying awake fretting for the next few hours. That’s what used to happen every night once Dan moved out, until I developed the “eyes-shut” technique. Now there are no more piles of his discarded clothing forming trip hazards across the bedroom floor, I can usually make it safely to the bathroom without having to open my eyes at all. Note the word “usually”.

Tonight, I open the bedroom door and step out onto the landing with my eyes still closed, and my arms stretched out in front of me. I’m using them to locate the banister rail that runs along the landing, in case I miss where landing ends and stairs begin.

“Arrrrgh!”

Now I’m screaming, because my hands have just touched something warm, squishy and unexpected.

“Ow,” says a voice I’ve never heard before.

Oh, my God, it’s a burglar, and I’ve just poked one of his manboobs.

I open my eyes, blink several times to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing, and then I close them again, out of a misplaced sense of modesty. There’s a naked girl on the landing, right in front of me. For a few seconds, I try to dodge round her without looking at her, but that just leads to more accidental physical contact, so eventually I have to half-open one eye so I can work out how to negotiate my way to the bathroom without any more squishy surprises. I’m desperate for a wee by now.

“Um, hello,” says the girl, while I stare fixedly over her left shoulder, or as fixedly as you can stare while also hopping up and down.

For one crazy moment, it looks as if she’s going to offer to shake my hand, until she realises that would involve exposure of even greater indecency.

“Who are you?” I say, as we sidle past each other, our eyes downcast.

“Ruby,” she says, as she reaches Joel’s bedroom door, turns the handle and enters the room.

“Nice to meet you,” she adds, before she shuts the door behind her.

I’m not sure I can say the same.

* * *

It’s not just Joel and the naked girl. Everyone is having more sex than me, or talking about it anyway.

I wake up early, despite the hangover, and decide I’ll go to see Pearl, rather than hanging around at home. It’s Sunday, and I’ve no desire to spend the whole morning waiting to encounter Ruby again, whenever she and Joel finally get out of bed.

“Well, you can’t deny your son a sex life, Hannah, just because you don’t have one any more,” says Pearl, as I unpack the blueberry muffins I picked up on my way to her flat.

“I bloody can,” I say, “while he’s living under my roof, and especially when he prevented me and Dan from having one most of the time. We never knew when he was going to come barging in, looking for a missing sock.”

Pearl’s fiddling about with a fancy new coffee machine I’ve never seen before, so I’m not convinced she’s giving the subject of Joel’s inappropriate sex life due consideration.

“He obviously doesn’t realise it’s just as eurgh -inducing for parents to think of their kids’ sex lives as it is the other way round,” I continue. “And my heart’s not up to coping with the stress of meeting naked strangers in the middle of the night.”

Pearl raises her eyebrows, froths some milk, then pours it onto the coffee that she’s already shared between two mugs. Then she starts farting about trying to create fancy patterns in the froth, until I lose my patience and grab my mug. I need caffeine, and I need it now.

“There’s nothing wrong with your heart, my girl,” she says. “Apart from being a bit broken, that is, and that will pass with time. Do you like the coffee maker Dan bought me, by the way?”

Dan’s been to see Pearl? My Aunt Pearl? That’s almost as rich as this fancy coffee.

“Why did he do that?” I ask, putting my mug down and pulling a face. “You’re my aunt, not his, and it’s not your birthday or anything. He shouldn’t be coming to see you now we’ve split up, anyway. What did you two talk about?”

“I’ve been Dan’s aunt-in-law for twenty-seven years,” says Pearl, “and I am fond of him, and he of me. That’s why he bought me a house-warming present, but as for your other question –”

She stops talking and taps her nose. One of her more infuriating habits, I’ve always thought.

“You’ll have to mind your own business on that front, Hannah,” she continues. “I’m following Joel’s lead when it comes to you and Dan. I’m not telling you what Dan says to me, and I’m not telling him what you say, either.”

Joel’s lead? What the hell is going on? Anyone would think that Joel’s the adult and I’m the child, especially now I’m the one having to stuff my fingers in my ears to avoid overhearing him having sex. The world is rapidly going mad.

I scowl at Pearl, then put the kettle on to make some tea. I’ve gone right off coffee now.

Pearl turns the radio on to alleviate the rather awkward silence that ensues, and picks up a magazine from the coffee table. She flicks through the pages while I sit and stew.

“Another muffin?” she says, after a while.

“No, thank you,” I say. “I’m fine as I am.”

It’s possible that I’m undermining the effectiveness of this claim by the way my feet keep jiggling, and my fists are clenched, so I lean over to the coffee table and rummage around for something to read. Amidst the magazines, I find some of those Sunday supplement-style gadget catalogues, so I choose a few of those. If Pearl can sit there ignoring me by pretending to be absorbed in reading something, then I can do the same to her. And gadgets don’t take much concentration, which is good, given how my mind’s still racing.

I open the first catalogue and flick through a few pages showing incontinence aids, massage cushions and adult bibs, when something slips out and falls to the floor.

“Holy shit!” I say.

Something called “Your Free Kinky Sex Booklet” is lying at my feet. It’s generously illustrated, and it almost makes me lose the will to live. If even elderly people are supposed to carry on like fetish models now, I’m never going to get laid again. Imagine having a hot flush while wearing latex!

Pearl tells me not to be silly when I ask if she owns anything rubberised, and then she orders me to be “more open to new experiences”.

“You and Dan got stuck in a rut,” she adds. “Not just when you were together, but in terms of who you are. You both need to be willing to try different things.”

“What – like some of these?” I say, pointing to the small ads in the back of “Free Kinky Sex”.

The men in the photos are ancient, but the girls look as if they’ve just left school.