Irresistible (6 page)

There’s a loud clang as my arm goes back, knocking a saucepan off the counter, and I cry out. The kitchen door swings open and I panic that it’s Jamie, that he was watching me and he knows what I was thinking. Did I say anything out loud? He’s even creeping up on me in my own head.

“Drink time!” It’s Cleo. “What’s your name again?”

“Mia,” I say, willing my heart to stop thumping in my chest and my breathing to return to normal. My face is burning. I must look crazy.

“Do you want some clothes?” says Cleo.

She’s looking at my skirt and I smooth it down, trying to banish images of Jamie’s hands from my brain. “I’ve got what I came here in.”

“Sorry, I mean do you want some less shitty clothes?”

I briefly consider taking the rudeness and letting Cleo dress me up in expensive clothes, but to be honest, I’m a little
pissed off at people ordering me around when I’m not even working.

“Um, no, thanks. I’m all right.” There’s a miniature Gabi in my head facepalming herself. Gabi has significant debt due to an obsession with expensive clothes.

Cleo spins on her heel and heads to the bar, and I tell her I’m going to put on my (shitty) clothes. Back in the changing room and in my skater dress, I text Jeff to tell him I’m staying later and ask if he can get me at twelve thirty. I get a grumpy reply yes. There’s a text on there from Dan too, suggesting a picnic for tomorrow.

A picnic. Dan’s so thoughtful and nice and normal. He wouldn’t have sex with politicians’ wives or take pictures of girls and send them to their boyfriends. I forward the text to Gabi because we made this rule when we were younger that we would share important boy-related texts, and we still do it when there’s a new boy on the scene. Once she was officially with Max, I told her she could stop sharing hers. Mostly because they were gross.

I realize there’s a text lurking on my phone that I haven’t shared.

Gabi replies to my Dan text with a smiley face.

I suddenly wonder why I’m even going for this drink with a girl I hardly know. I didn’t have to say yes. Am I thinking that Cleo and Jamie will take me to hang out with their elite gang? It would be the first time in a while I’ve hung out in a group. I’ve been avoiding social occasions recently. Even though all the girls totally froze out Kieran, we were still friends with guys from his school, and there was always the chance of bumping into him, and I couldn’t face that.

I missed all the end-of-finals stuff and even the Year
Eleven prom; I had a dress and everything. Mom took me out shopping to cheer me up because I’d broken up with Kieran. She thought I was just sad because I loved him so much. She didn’t know I was constantly panicking that people were talking about me. But the shopping trip really worked for a while. We tried on stupid clothes and Mom got stuck in some skinny jeans and I couldn’t even help her because I was laughing so much watching her struggle. But then I saw some of Kieran’s friends in town and I was sure they were looking at me and whispering to each other.

I sat in my room on the day of the prom in my pajamas just looking at my dress hanging there. My phone kept buzzing with texts from Gabi, starting with,
You ready babe? X
and ending with,
ARE YOU DEAD?
before I finally replied
I’m sorry, I’m not going x
.

Gabi offered to come over, which was really lovely of her, but I wasn’t having any of it, as she’d been going on about the prom all year and getting to see Max in black tie (he still wore his hat, apparently). But just the idea of everyone being there freaked me out, even though I felt miserable sitting like a loner in my room when I knew everyone was on their way to the prom in a limo. Mom didn’t say anything about the dress. She put her pajamas on too, banished Jeff and Matthew from the front room, and we watched
The Notebook
and ate pizza.

I walk back along the dark, echoey corridor toward the bar, thinking that I’ll tell Cleo I’m actually feeling pretty wiped out and will just get picked up now.

But when I see her sitting up on a bar stool, she’s already poured me a glass of champagne.

“Oh, actually you look all right,” she says, holding out a glass.

“Um, thanks.” I clamber onto the bar stool in front of her, wishing I could develop a way of gliding elegantly around at all times. Or just having longer legs. Or a different body and personality.

“We’ll head over to the pool house later if you like. Jay’s got some of his sad little friends there. It’s pretty fun watching them basically kiss his ass.”

She clinks her glass on mine. “So who
are
you, Mia?” She’s looking right at me now. Like she really wants to know about my dull life.

I start tentatively, saying “um” a lot, and tell her where I live and go to school. Is it possible to bore someone to death? I feel like I’m making a very good attempt.

But Cleo seems interested. She pushes her hair back from her face, emphasizing her flawless skin, and smiles warmly at me while she tops up my glass. Her accent has a hint of something that I can’t place. I bet she’s traveled to all sorts of exotic places and has stories a hundred times more interesting than me informing her that I have a cat and a brother. I tell her about my traveling plan and how I’m going to try to get around my mom. I realize that I’m talking a lot.

“What about you?” I ask, trying to even things up.

“What about me? Dad’s a sultan; Mom’s a whore. Lived all over, but they’ve dumped me here for now.” She pauses as she finishes her glass. “A bit of stability so I don’t fuck up my exams and miss out on Oxbridge.” She pours another, and I notice there’s a second bottle waiting in an ice bucket behind her. I’m about to take a sip but put my glass back down. After two glasses I’m already feeling the effects, and if I carry on at this speed I’m going to be trashed.

“So, how did you meet—”

“Jamie? Some charity gala thing. While this fat old biddy was making a speech about wonderful Jamie raising lots of money for them by climbing a mountain or some shit, he appeared behind me, whispering how he wanted to do unspeakable things to me.”

“Did he?” I say, not really sure what I’m asking.

“Some of them.” She shrugs. “Most of them, actually. But never all the way.”

“Really? You haven’t?”

She shakes her head. “He won’t admit he loves me. That’s my demand. He can’t say it. He says he doesn’t care, that he’s not some slobbering teen desperate to get laid. But I know it drives him crazy when there’s something he can’t have. He’s had it easy all his life, and then I come along and I’m difficult.”

“Do you want it to be difficult, though? I mean, shouldn’t a relationship be easy? Just hanging out and making each other laugh and stuff?”

“And getting married, and having kids, and losing ten years while you’re covered in baby puke and putting on weight till you sit at brunch talking about little Oscar’s stupid entrance exam because that’s all you’ve got in your awful boring life? Difficult is fun. It means there’s passion. You almost hate them, but you’ve never wanted anything more.”

I shift in my chair, and it feels like the champagne bubbles are going up and down my legs. She fills up my glass, then fixes me with her wide brown eyes. “One thing. Just don’t kiss him.”

I give a nervous half laugh. “Um, okay … I didn’t—”

“He’s got this thing,” she says. “He can make you come just by kissing you.”

I shift again and cross my legs. It’s not the champagne this time.

“So,” says Cleo, leaning back again, the intense moment past, “what about you?”

I look down at my glass. “Nothing very exciting. There was this one guy—my ex.”

I trail off, a hot, tense feeling gathering in my chest. I swallow.

Cleo leans closer with her chin on her hand. “Yeah?” she says softly.

There’s a lump in my throat, but I push the words out. “He was kind of a dick when we broke up.”

She puts her hand on mine and smiles sympathetically. Her skin feels impossibly smooth, and her nails are perfectly manicured. “Let it out,” she says. “You’ll feel better.”

I look at her. I find it really hard to say any of this stuff. Even Gabi has to coax it out of me. But for some reason, maybe because Cleo’s a stranger and doesn’t know Kieran, I feel the words forming, ready to leave my mouth.

I start talking. I tell her everything. The stuff that only Gabi knows. While I do, the champagne flows. There’s something else as well: I have this weird urge to impress Cleo and be taken into her confidence. She has this intense way of looking at you, of making you feel like you’re the only person she’s interested in. Even though I know she probably does it to everyone, it still works. I know she’s running the show, confidently drawing out words and feelings I haven’t spoken about in forever, and casually revealing intimate details about herself to make it seem like a conversation. And every time she does, I get this thrill.

“So, that guy. Not good. But what do you think about when you masturbate?”

I choke on nothing, which she probably doesn’t find particularly normal. It makes my eyes water.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t. How do you know what you like if you’ve never done it to yourself, or imagined it?”

“No, I mean, yeah, I have, but …” I swallow and try to will my face not to turn bright red.

She fixes me with a knowing look. “Do it more. And better. Spend time on it. Use things. Not just a thirty-second fumble and you’re done.”

This is possibly the weirdest pep talk I’ve ever had. But the excitement of talking about something I never talk about, despite Gabi’s best efforts, is burning in my chest. “O-okay.” I laugh, holding up my empty glass. “I promise.”

She laughs. “Good.”

I try to focus on the clock on the wall. It’s a quarter past midnight. “I’m getting picked up soon.” I look back at Cleo and the room lurches.

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so.” She grabs my phone out of my bag. “What’s your stepdad’s name—Johnny?”

“Jeff. Wait, what are you doing?”

“
Jeff … am … staying … over …,
” she says as she types.

“No!” I try to snatch the phone back.

She wriggles out of my way and bats at my hand. I sway on the stool, and the room spins a bit. I reach my hand out to steady myself and accidentally put it in the ice bucket. “
No need for lift …
”

I go for the phone again, but she puts her hand on my face and pushes me back, finishing the text with the other hand. “
Thanks!
And, send.”

“He’s going to be so pissed off,” I say, but I can’t help
laughing. Sure enough, the reply comes through. He’s been waiting up; this is inconsiderate, etc. The letters are going a little blurry. Cleo bites her lip in mock worry. “Sorry.”

I get a wave of confidence (or it could be nausea) and toss the phone aside. “Whatever. He should know that lots of other people—even other teachers—don’t go to bed at nine on a Saturday.”

Cleo laughs, encouraging me to keep going with the random crap that’s falling out of my mouth.

“He’s a geek and a loser.”

Cleo grabs my hand. “Come on. Into the devil’s lair.”

I can see flickering lights up ahead as I stumble toward the pool house. Cleo’s dragging me forward forcefully, which is fortunate, really, because otherwise I would probably veer off into the pool and drown.

As we get closer, it looks like the pool house is glowing. Between the pillars are three floor-to-ceiling doors, all wide open and flinging light onto the water. Inside is an open-plan kitchen and living room with a stone floor, white walls, and arching wooden beams forming the roof. I spot two doors along the back walls that are closed but must lead to the bedroom and bathroom. There are people sitting in groups everywhere, and Jamie holds court from a mahogany armchair surrounded by girls. He watches us, but Cleo leads me to the other side of the room where two girls are sitting.

“This is Nish and Effy,” Cleo says. “They’re lesbians.”

“Oh, good,” I say and mentally kick my brain.

“They’re my only female friends. Every other girl in here is trying to sleep with my boyfriend.”

I try to look at Nish and Effy, but really all I see are outlines of hair and a glittery headband.

From then on everything happens in flashes, a series of images and clips of conversation. For a while I am on a sofa talking to a guy with a mop of wavy red hair. I’m saying, “You’re William?”

“I’m Willem,” he assures me.

“William,” I tell him.

“Will-em.”

I shake my lopsided head at him. “No, no. That’s not a real name.”

He melts away and then I’m by the side of the drinks table and a guy with spiky black hair leans over to whisper something in my ear and at the same time puts his hand on my butt.

Cleo appears and rescues me. “Hands off, cretin.”

I blink and suddenly I am sitting on the steps outside. I’m with a guy who possibly just told me he’s named Toby and has a friendly smile and lots of curly hair. He’s smoking a joint and I ask for some, telling him, for some unknown reason, that I do it all the time. Just a tiny bit has my head swimming and fiery tingles racing through my hands and feet. The next thing I know, I’m poking the boy and showing him my hand. “Toby, Toby, my finger’s on fire!”

A hand grabs the back of my dress and pulls me up. Perhaps it’s Jamie. Perhaps he’ll kiss me.

It’s Cleo. “Come on. We’re dancing.”

My eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness after sitting by the lights around the pool. Drum and bass music reverberate
through the floor, and bodies all around me are moving in a blur. There’s Cleo’s face at the center, and we start moving. For the first time in a long time, I’m doing crazy dancing and I don’t care. And then Cleo’s hands are on my face. She pulls me forward and our lips meet. I can taste the alcohol on her mouth, which spreads through my body, and I kiss her back.

“A little attention-seeking, even for you.” His voice comes from behind me.

Cleo pulls back and smiles at him, triumphant. She drops her hands back down to her sides and I stumble backward, into his hard chest.