Emma Unsworth - Animals

A Penis.

More specifically An Erect Penis.

More specifically Not Jim’s Erect Penis.

Marty Grane’s.

I stared at it, too shocked to even blink. I was transfixed. On a distant planet somewhere, Tyler was shaking the jar again.

The photo had been taken from above. It looked as though Marty was sitting in an armchair, around which variously patterned fabrics — hoisted plaid shirt, Persian rug, chintzy upholstery — ringed the main event. His trousers were down to his knees. His balls were quite bald compared to Jim’s. Possibly shaved. Imagination caught the pass and ran with it: Marty, naked, foot up on the side of the bath, beavering away with a Gillette Venus…

Could it be a mistake? ( Oh HI, my good angel! Been a while! ) Could Marty have confused my number with one of his ‘non-regulars’? If so, then any minute he’d realise and I’d receive a mortified follow-up that would be almost as messy to field. I couldn’t bear the thought of having to console him about this.

‘You know what they give you at Alcoholics Anonymous in the States, to mark your progress?’

Someone somewhere was talking to me.

‘Laura?’ I looked. At Tyler. ‘You okay?’

I turned my phone off. ‘Mm-hm.’

‘Poker chips.’

I felt every passing second keenly — knowing that, even if he had meant to send me the photo then every second of my non-replying would intensify his shame. He’d be pacing right now, beating his chest, his horror reducing, reducing, reducing down to one single word. WHY?

In the background, the song played on. I stashed my phone in my pocket.

‘What’s the matter? Is it Jim?’

‘No. I—’

‘You get a different-coloured chip for however long you last.’

‘Um.’

‘Know what colour the last chip is, the Ultimate Chip, to say you’ve been sober a year?’

‘Pink?’

‘No, dummy. Black. Don’t you think it’s strange, though, referencing another addiction? I mean, what do they give you at Gamblers Anonymous, shot glasses?’

You sure you can’t see my nipples?’

Friday night. Her thirtieth birthday. The balcony of a first-floor champagne bar off Peter Street. The monstrous blade-phallus of the Hilton Tower in view.

‘They’re fine,’ I said.

‘I don’t mind the general thrust being perceptible,’ she said. ‘I just don’t want areola contours, you know.’

She was wearing a cowl-necked gold lamé dress that stuck to her curves like plating. Backed by the twilit city, with her gold eyelids and bronze lips, she looked like something made .

I’d come straight from the call centre after getting changed in the toilets. My work clothes and make-up bag were in a carrier bag under the table. I kept nudging it with my foot so I wouldn’t forget it. I kept thinking about the flight I had to make. I hadn’t yet packed. But it would be fine, totally fine. I had a whole morning to do it. I didn’t have to be at the airport until noon tomorrow.

The waitress came out to take our order.

‘Vodka-tonic, please,’ Tyler said.

‘Same for me, please.’

The waitress nodded. ‘We only serve doubles — is that okay?’

Tyler looked at her. ‘BANDITS.’

The waitress went inside.

Tyler plonked herself in a chair and lit a fag. The fabric of her dress folded into ripples above her lap.

‘How’s your day been?’ I said.

Her arm shimmered as she placed the lighter on the table. ‘I had two croissants this morning to line my stomach, like a true sophisticate. A liquid lunch. And then an afternoon of domestic drudgery.’

‘You haven’t been doing housework, have you?’

‘Jesus, no. But first off Jean called to wish me Happy Birthday and told me she felt high from cleaning the shower in her rehab room with Cillit Bang. I pretended the line was bad and hung up. Then, when I was doing my eyeliner, someone cold-called me to ask what brand my washing machine was.’

There wasn’t a washing machine in the flat.

‘What did you say?’

‘Well, it’s the first time I’ve had to spell H-I-T-L-E-R.’

Our vodka-tonics arrived. I took a large swig and crunched an ice cube in my teeth. The bar was busy and loud, blasts of commotion making us turn and look whenever anyone came outside to smoke. At one point someone fell over inside and the bouncers rushed to drag them out.

‘Amateur night,’ said Tyler. ‘Almost as bad as New Year’s Eve.’

My phone beeped. I looked at it. A text from… bracing, bracing… Jim.

‘Is he keeping you in check?’ Tyler said. ‘Coordinating my birthday from afar? The audacity of the man. This is weapons-grade passive-aggression, Lo, and you mustn’t stand for it.’

‘Hush. He’s just looking forward to seeing me, that’s all. Now, do you want another drink?’

The door swung open and a man came out carrying a tray. He looked familiar. I scanned his face. The android screen locked and flashed. Identity confirmed. Nick.

‘Hey, cutie,’ Tyler said. I looked at her. At him.

On the tray there was an orange ice bucket with a green bottleneck protruding and three shiny flutes lying on the ice like fish. Nick did the honours — the cork firing off towards a nearby table and causing someone to dodge it like a bullet. He poured us all a flute. I downed the remains of my vodka-tonic in anticipation. He handed a flute to Tyler and she pulled his hand further up to her lips and kissed his knuckles.

They smiled at each other. I necked half my glass of champagne. Look on the bright side, I told myself, you can leave early now.

Nick said: ‘I hope you’re both proud of me. I have managed to store something special all week in the medicine cabinet. It’s burned a hole in the fucking wall, let me tell you. Every time I’ve gone for a shower or a piss I’ve nodded towards it and said, Soon … ’

My stomach fluttered, a minor thrutch. A dog responding to a bell.

Tyler took his hand under the table and went to the bathroom first. Nick brought his flute to his lips and sucked back champagne in a long, smooth inhalation. His eyes were very very black. Whatever Tyler was being introduced to in the bathroom, Nick had been acquainted with for quite a few hours.

‘How’s the exhibition going?’

‘Well, thanks. Looks like we’ll be taking it to Berlin in autumn.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘How’s the wedding coming?’

I wondered what Tyler had divulged. These drunken indiscretions, how often we mistake them for intimacies.

‘Almost ready. Just a few loose ends to tie up.’

‘I heard that the ham’s been problematic.’

I drained my flute. Nick refilled it.

Tyler barged back out onto the balcony and took a seat. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ she said, grabbing her champagne and tipping it down her neck. ‘It’s like a fucking roux .’

Nick smiled. ‘It’s worth it, don’t worry.’

I watched it possess her. She became a metal shell of purest night. ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Where did you…?’

Nick poured more champagne. ‘Don’t leave Laura out.’

She passed it to me under the table. I slipped it into the side of my bag and made my way to the bathroom. But when I got into the cubicle I found I couldn’t do it, didn’t want to. I rubbed the little bag and thought — well, the word that came to mind was, hilariously, fuckit . I could see the future too clearly. The memories we’d make tonight would not be new ones even though they might look like it on the surface. Given the same stimuli the brain makes the same connections and distracts you with emotion so you feel like they’re new. I liked distraction well enough. I also liked the idea of free will.