House of Sticks (26 page)

‘So how many have you got?' said a woman.

Bonnie tried to focus on her face. ‘Um … sorry?'

‘How many? Kids?'

‘Oh.' She looked down at her hand around the bottle of beer, her fingers with their unfamiliar bright polish. ‘Three.'

‘Wow.' The woman wrapped her arms around herself and did a little wiggle. ‘That's amazing.'

‘Well, it's …'

‘You must be so happy.' Her lipstick gleamed, a hot pinkish-red, and her teeth were small and white like a child's.

There was an acrid taste at the back of Bonnie's throat. ‘Yeah, of course I am,' she said. ‘But it's, well, it can be really hard work, and …'

‘Oh, I'm sure it's hard. I don't know how you do it. My sister's only got one kid and she's changed
so
much. She doesn't even go out any more. Ever. She doesn't even
try
.' The woman rolled her eyes. ‘But look at
you
.'

‘Well. I don't really … I mean, this is just a one-off. Normally I pretty much just …'

‘But you wouldn't have it any other way, would you? Like my sister — she complains, but then I say, “Well, what do you want? Would you change it all back again?” and she's like, “No way.”' The woman threw back her head and did that body-wiggle again. ‘Oh, I love this song.'

Bonnie drank. She didn't know the song. She swallowed down on the bad taste and the new feeling that was rolling in, that she couldn't quite recognise, that was somehow panic and sadness and a restless kind of lust all running together. It was the feeling she used to get as a teenager, pacing the kitchen floor on hot weekend nights, stealing white wine from her mother's cask, listening to the radio and looking out at the whispering dark that seemed full of everybody else's happiness, of parties, love and sex.
Unknown Pleasures
, like it said on the Joy Division poster in her bedroom. Her aloneness a pool that barely lapped as she floated at its centre in a kind of miserable glory.

‘I hated it.' Another woman, with dark hair cut in a thick fringe. ‘The most boring film ever.'

‘Oh,' said Bonnie, trying not to sway.

‘It was all right,' said a man. ‘I liked that other film he did — what was that film?'

‘They all suck.' The fringe woman lit a cigarette. ‘All his films. He just sucks.'

‘So, Bonnie,' said another man, and she swung her head to look at him.

Did she know him? Had they met, been introduced, some other time? Or perhaps she'd introduced herself just now, earlier, in the whirling blankness of this night. She tried to haul out a memory, short- or long-term, but nothing came: her mind sank into murk.

The man smiled. He had crooked teeth, the canine more prominent on one side. ‘It's nice to see you again.'

‘Yeah, it is. It's …' She tried to shape her face into a casual smile. So they had met before. Maybe he played in a band. She couldn't remember. In her stomach and at the back of her throat there was a rising queasiness. She swallowed. ‘I might just …' She dragged her eyes round the room but there was no sign of anyone familiar. ‘Is there a …?' She caught sight of a glass door, of black sky and the leaves of a plant. ‘Are people outside?'

‘I'll take you.' The tall guy opened out his arm. His shirt sleeve was rolled up, and as Bonnie moved forward and the arm settled across her shoulders she felt its hairs brush against her cheek. She could smell him, his warm body, strongly unfamiliar.

Outside in the cold air the sick feeling dissolved. She tipped her head back to the clean, open sky. ‘Look at the stars.' Her voice went gliding out as if of its own accord.

A raggedy patch of lawn, fences shaggy with vines, a shed. An aeroplane passed low over the horizon, tiny lights blinking staidly. People stood in clusters on the oblong of brick paving. Pot smoke drifted, sharp, grassy.

‘Let's go over here.' The man guided her across the bricks.

Bonnie let herself be led. She didn't look at who was standing by the door, who might be watching. Everything felt blurred, fractured. Sounds crashed in on her and receded — the throb of the music inside, a shard of talk, her own breathing. Out over the grass they went, and to Bonnie it was as if the darkness had weight, as if there were slabs of it that pressed at her, that shifted to let her through, and closed again behind.

‘I've always wondered about you, Bonnie.' The man kept his arm around her. They stood side-by-side, backs to the fence, like spectators at some event. ‘I always thought you were' — he spoke down into the cold air — ‘different. Special.'

She couldn't help the sound, half snort, half giggle, that welled up in her throat. ‘Really?'

‘Yeah.' He sounded injured. ‘Don't you believe me?' His fingers closed slightly further round her arm. He was leaning in, bringing his face level with hers.

‘Not really.' A memory flared, tiny, distant — this man at other parties, at nightclubs, backstage after shows. Tall, long-limbed, a shock of hair. Always bent over some girl, slipping off with his arm around her. People smirking after him, raising eyebrows. He was a player. A cruising shark.
He says this to everyone
, came a small, very faraway warning in her head, but at the same time something fluttered awake, a response, flattered and heedless.

‘Come on.' His fingers were touching her, lifting her chin. ‘I've been watching you. Working that guitar. Doing your thing. Don't you know how beautiful you are?'

Bonnie didn't answer. She looked at him, his angular features, the dark of his eyes.
What are you doing?
sounded the warning voice.

‘Bonnie.' His hands were either side of her face, on her hair, cupping her ears. Everything went muffled and close. She kept her eyes open as he kissed her, as he took her lower lip between his teeth and gently bit it, pushed his tongue into her mouth, but still — with her ears blocked and his face right there filling everything, and his body looming over her and moving even closer — still it didn't really feel like it was happening to her. Their teeth clashed. She wobbled, and the guy took her shoulders, steadied her.

She stared over at the shed, its one unlit window like an eye. ‘I can't …'

‘Let's get out of here.' He ran his hand down her arm, took her hand. ‘Where are you staying? Have you got a hotel room?'

She slid her eyes around the garden, the inky ruffles of the vine-draped fences, the spread of grass, the yellow windows of the house, the black shapes of people standing with arms folded, drinks catching the light. ‘Okay,' she heard herself whisper.

And so together they were walking back into the house, through the rooms, the noise, the faces and figures and smoke in the air. Out again, the front this time. Down the narrow street, his arm around her, their steps moving in and out of time. To the main road, and before she knew it another taxi, another door opening. There was no thinking, no control, it was happening and she had nothing to do with it.

His hands on her. Their two bodies in the back seat. His mouth, his tongue, the air cool on her wet lips and chin when he pulled away. His fingers at the crotch of her jeans, working at the zip. His fingers inside her, the sting of her not-ready flesh catching, embarrassment dim and faint at how dry she was, at the legacy of three births — could he tell? — a distant voice, his, hers, or maybe it was both, whispering, ‘Sorry.'

His breath tickling her ear. His murmur, ‘Oh, Bonnie, Bonnie,' warm and close. The awful urge to laugh. He was putting it on. He was a bad actor. She didn't even find him sexy.
What are you doing?

Him trying to kiss her again.

Then blankness, nothing.

‘Bonnie?'

Or an echo of blankness because it was gone again, finished, she was coming straight back out of it. And down she came, rushing, sliding, hurtling dizzily, and — slam — like leaping awake to an alarm there she was back in her body.

‘You okay? Bonnie?'

Lights through the car window, haloing his head. His arm across the seat back, across her shoulders.

‘Bonnie?'

‘Yeah. I'm okay.'

The feeling of his arm behind her neck, her hair pushed up at the back. Her jeans open, the scraped feeling in her vagina. The night flying by outside, whipping past, faster and faster. She gripped the door handle and tried to fix her eyes on the seat in front, to hold something still, to hold herself steady.

‘Have you got a card?'

‘What?'

‘I think we need a card to make it work.'

The bank of buttons hung lifeless. A finger jabbed at one of them, kept jabbing. Bonnie watched it. The nail had purplish polish with a big jagged chip out of it. She closed her eyes and opened them again. The wall, the rows of buttons bulged towards her, wavered, and then smoothed out. She watched the finger and its hand drop and looked down at herself, her boots, her jeans, her top. Heard her own voice, thick and slow. ‘Oh. It's me.'

Beside her the guy laughed. She turned to him. There was a mirror behind him, smoky glass. The lift. They were in the lift.

He laughed again, but then his face went serious. He bent towards her and frowned. ‘Are you sure you're all right?' he said. ‘I didn't realise you were so …' He dropped his eyes. ‘I think maybe I should just help you up to your room and then go.'

In the mirror Bonnie saw him reflected, his long back, the worn strip of his leather belt, his shirt half tucked in. And, peering out from around him, her own bleared empty face. She closed her eyes, shook her head, tipped forwards on her toes and pressed herself to his chest. She felt his arms go around her
. Fuck it
, she thought.
Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it
.

‘Bonnie?'

She straightened up, let her bag slide down her arm and started digging through it. ‘Got a card here somewhere.'

He kept a hand on her elbow as if she was an old woman. ‘I'll just come up with you and then I'll leave,' he said. Even through the blur she could hear the edge of embarrassment in his voice.

Fuck it
. ‘No — stay.' She caught hold of the card, drew it out and fumbled with it at the slot. ‘One more drink.'

‘Bonnie?'

She opened her eyes. Tiles. Her elbows on her knees. Her head heavy in her hands.

‘Bonnie?' A tapping at the door.

‘Hang on.' She lurched to her feet and pulled up her jeans. Flushed the toilet and ran the tap in the basin. Liquid ripples of black hung at the edges of her vision. She felt huge, loud, her body crowding the tiny room. Her boots crashing on the floor. She tried to look in the mirror but she couldn't see her whole self, only bits at a time — her chin, her mouth with its traces of lipstick. Her hair, an earring. She leaned in, got a fix on one eye, right up close so it floated, enormous, the threads of red veins like a web dragging to the centre, the glaring pupil.
I hate you
. Her forehead touched against the cool surface.

‘Bonnie?'

She scrabbled at the lock, wrestled the door open.

He stood uncertainly in the small dark hallway. ‘I think I'm going to go.'

‘Oh no — don't.' She saw her hand reach out, for his sleeve, clutch at it. ‘Come on.' The weight of his flesh as her hands tried to turn him, manoeuvre him in the direction of the kitchenette. ‘We're doing this now. Let's just have one more drink. We can sit out on the balcony.'

He stood still, resisting. ‘No, look, I really think I should go.'

‘Come on.' She left him, went past and opened the bar fridge. ‘Let's see.' She watched her hand touch the bottles. ‘We've got Crown Lager or very nasty white wine. Or UDLs that cost a frightening amount of money.'

He moved forward, near to the main door. ‘This was a nice idea, Bonnie, but I think I should go.'

‘Why?' She straightened up with a beer in each hand.

‘I just — I think you're way drunker than me. I don't want to take advantage of you.'

‘Oh, come on.' She went towards him, held out one of the bottles.

He kept his hands by his sides. ‘No, really.'

‘I promise it's okay.' She could hear her voice, slurring, brash, the words bouncing around the small room.
Shut up
, she thought, but there was something there, making her do this, pushing the words out, some flattened need that came from somewhere, she knew, that had some reason but she'd forgotten it, lost it in the fog.

‘Thanks, anyway.' He went to the door. ‘See you next time.' He went out and the heavy door swung and sighed shut behind him.

‘Fuck,' she said. One of the beers slipped from her fingers and smashed on the floor. ‘Fuck.' She shuffled away from the mess. Put the other bottle down on the bench. Found a tea towel — pristine, folded in a perfect rectangle — and knelt. The overhead light sparkled on the pool of beer, the glitters of glass, the lace of foam, the whole mess of it. She tried to pick up some of the glass and felt a piece push into her finger. A delayed intake of breath and a childish sob sounded, faintly, as if coming from elsewhere. She put her finger to her mouth, tasted the blood, warm and sweet.