"Laura Hird - The Happening" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hird Laura)

Laura Hird - The Happening

I wake with the cold, tight-headed, empty sense of an impending family day. Annual leave is precious and it galls me to waste any of it with cousins' brats, my foul auntie and my mother's inevitable tears after a few glasses of Asti Spumante.
There's an unpleasant and unfamiliar odour in the bed beside me as if I've farted out whatever I was eating last night in my sleep. Rolling on to my back, I feel too warm. The side of my thigh suddenly touches flesh, the slight contact eliciting a grunt from someone at my side. Gently retrieving my leg, I lie rigid, trying to recall something, anything. It's not until I hear the burr of light snoring that I can bear to look. Extremely hazy recollections of the latter part of the office party make this almost unbearable.
Who the hell is that? There's a teenage boy in my bed. A smelly angel with a dirty face. I haven't been in bed with a teenage boy since the neighbour's son used to babysit when I was nine. What the fuck is going on? Afraid to move or breathe, I wonder if this is what being scared-stiff feels like. It's not just the fact that my bed-mate could be anyone - a sleepy burglar, a sensitive rapist. It's trying to remember what happened and none of it explaining this.
There was the thing at work. God knows how much wine I had with the lunch before moving on to serious G&Ts. Socialising with colleagues always puts me terribly on edge. Without our work-roles it's as if we're complete strangers. Did I ask Bob about promotion? Oh Jesus. I've just had this vision of Marion, Bob and I in the Bistro. How did we get there? Didn't Bob buy champagne and keep trying to snog me? I definitely remember cold, wet lips bearing down. Beyond that there's just this bad, scary feeling.
Quietly extricating myself from the bed, I gaze at the boy. Is he naked? Not really wanting to know, I nonetheless lift the duvet a little and stare underneath. He is naked - slim, pale, beautiful, dirty and naked. He'll think I'm a pervert if he suddenly wakes up, but despite this, I can't seem to stop looking. Have I already had him?
Reluctantly curtailing my voyeurism, I race a path of clothes to the living room. My bra and screwed-up dress entwined, muddy Dr Martens, Superman tights (sunny-side-up), dirty jeans encasing suspect yellow-stained white Y-fronts. Checking he's still asleep, I rifle the pockets of his inordinately heavy jeans for some clue to his identity. A mobile number scribbled on a betting slip looks vaguely familiar. Who do I know with a mobile? I'm sure Evelyn's 0374. The front pockets are so crammed with coins they can't even muster a rattle and a search. I find a packet of Rizlas and a lump of hash wrapped in a rag of tinfoil in the little pocket at the front. Then I think I hear a noise from the bedroom and haphazardly stuff everything back.
"Hello," I endeavour, shakily. No response. When I go through to the bedroom he's still snoring. Closing the door quietly behind me I accost the phone. It's no good, I'll have to pick Marion's brains. I'll be cagey, though, as I hate confessing to blackouts. People fill your memory gaps with things they can use against you. Never get drunk with work-mates. I'm always telling myself that. I dial the number.
It's worse than I thought. Marion tries to say I dragged Bob, my boss, shy Helen-the-Finance-Officer and her to the Bistro. They supposedly had other things arranged but I became persuasively aggressive. I knew she'd make up bullshit like that. Bob and I were allegedly all over each other. Helen left because he tried to neck her on the way back from the ladies.
"He actually offered us a lift. After what, about a litre of Grouse and that bloody champagne. Unbelievable. And remember him grabbing that girl's breast at the bar. Why didn't they chuck us out?"
"Pretty excruciating," I agree, clueless.
"Sorry Cath. You know I was going to come for the meal but after all his shite with the waitress, God, why do people like that drink?"
"The three of us went to a restaurant?"
"You what?"
"I mean just you, me and Bob?"
"Don't you remember? I left before we got a table. Did you stay for the meal? God, Cath, how could you? Did he keep trying it on?"
Jesus, this isn't making any sense. Mystery boy will wake up at this rate.
"No Marion, see, it's just like... well... I met someone. Was anyone else with us when you left?"
She laughs. "What, a man?"
"Yes."
"Is he there now? Sure it's not Bob? I thought I was going to have to throw a bucket of water over the pair of you?"
"Oh please. I feel sick enough as it is."
"So what happened? Did you shag this bloke?"
This is hopeless.
"Look, Cath, I better go, I have to get into mother mode. Merry bloody Christmas."
"Not as merry as yours by the sound of it."
Putting the phone down, I go back through to the bathroom. Rummaging in the bedside table for my Prozac, I'm aware of the duvet at my side, moving.
"Morning, gorgeous!"
Grabbing my wrist, he pulls me gently towards him and gives me a grubby kiss. I recoil at the smell of me on his breath. He flutters his long eyelashes, sleepily.
"Thanks for letting me stay."
I'm aghast. A man is actually thanking me for sleeping with him and I've no idea who he is.
Ruffling his spiky hair he asks if he can have a wash. His request makes him blush. Pointing out the shower, I get a couple of bath towels from the airing cupboard. Once I hear the water going on I start picking up his things, folding clothes over the arm of the settee, then moving on to the upright chair when I realise how filthy they are. I take the cannabis out of his pocket again. By now the tin-foil has effectively disintegrated. I loved getting stoned when I was younger, but all my friends are straight these days, sobered-up by childbirth. Impulsively I bite a bit off, smoothing the teeth-marks with my finger and hide it amidst the Christmas cards.
Anticipating a silence when he gets out, I switch on the television - cartoons, a sickly American children's film, a throng of singing Christians, or the fuzz of Channel 5. Switching it off, I go to make some coffee.
Did we meet him in the restaurant? Surely they wouldn't let someone that dirty into a place where people eat? I remember Bob standing with his raincoat on. Did he leave when the urchin showed up? Where the fuck did he come from?
A vision in steam, naked to the waist, comes out of the bathroom. Beneath the grime he is even more beautiful. I invite him through to the kitchen for coffee. He has a lovely smile.
Sitting opposite each other, I watch him spoon four sugars into his mug. Taking a cigarette from his packet on the table, he offers me one. Where did they come from? Were we through here last night? Why can't I remember?
"Or do you fancy a Christmas spliff?"
Oh no, the blow.
"I don't mind."
Retrieving his jeans, he comes back, fumbling through them. What if he notices they've been interfered with? He'll see teeth-marks on his dope, I know he will.
"I should have a wee bit left," he says, taking it from his pocket. Oh God, he's noticed. "Aye fine, plenty," he reassures, proceeding to roll a joint.
Let him do the talking. He has an unfair advantage - he knows what happened and I don't. He looks up as he crumbles hash.
"Have you recovered then?"
"From what?" I ask tentatively. He raises eyebrows and grins.
"Last night."
"I was pretty drunk," I explain, but it is really a question.
"I think we all were."
"All?"
He shuts his eyes and looks like he's imagining something extremely amusing then hands me the joint. I inhale deeply. Maybe this'll help me work up the nerve to ask him. Oh, but I can't admit not remembering whether we had sex. I'd be devastated if someone said that to me.