Serious Sweet (40 page)

She will be here. Meg will be here. She almost, mostly said that she would. I asked her to.

Please.

A dog howl of wanting her lacerates along his spine. He paces for a while to create a distraction, his feet paddling at the unfriendly floor, seeming bizarre. The whole building offers him far too many opportunities to see himself, reflections of reflections.

Here it is.

Jon Sigurdsson: no fool like an old fool, tall fool, stooped fool.

But please. Please.

His watch shows that midnight has passed and this is tomorrow. And his image shows that he is empty, a hollowed man with gangling feet and heavy fingers.

Taptaptaptap.

Nice coat. Awful trousers. A shirt that would feel gentle if she touched it.

Taptaptaptap.

Please.

I used to think nobody waits in the way that a child waits for something good, anything good, for something to be mended.

And Jon's weight is on his left heel as he turns, slowly. He is trying make sure that somebody catching sight of him would not see a clumsy figure, an unpalatable silhouette.

Taptaptaptap.

He is certain that his expression is unsuitable and that his mouth is ugly.

Taptaptaptap.

And there's this noise which is not in his head –
taptaptaptap –

it's a fact and it's coming from somewhere to his left and it sparks towards him, quick across the great, big floor –
taptaptaptap –
and it's the sound of footsteps.

Oh.

It is the sound of footsteps because somebody immeasurably lovely is walking and now walking closer and now she is here.

Oh.

Meg halts beyond Jon's reach, but not so very far beyond it.

Oh.

‘That's …' Jon's voice tumbles out of him like stupid pebbles. ‘I'd … I thought …' And his arms fall, ungainly, to his sides.

I thought I would die.

Which is melodramatic.

But really I do think that without you I may die in every sense that matters to me.

Which isn't something I can tell you, of course it's fucking not.

‘I thought you might take the bus.'

Oh, fuck. Well, that made her trip worth the effort.

‘I don't like buses.' Meg folds her arms. ‘The Tube's warmer – at night.'

They call it small talk because it's smaller than you should be and so it strangles in and snuffs you out.

‘Is it, I mean, is it safe, though? I mean, on the Tube at night are you safe …?'

Meg is clearly dressed for the meal they haven't shared – for making one straightforward journey and then sitting and giving him a good impression. That she'd do such a thing, try to do such a thing, is impossibly moving.

And I'm getting a good impression, I am impressed – but I always would be, no matter what – but thank you for making the effort – thanks.

By this point, though, the hours have passed and she isn't dishevelled, not that, but her finish has faded, the effect she must have wanted is no longer crisp. She looks weary, too.

Poor darling.

‘
It's my fault.'

‘What?'

‘I – sorry – keeping you up so late and no dinner and being on the Tube at night …'

I want her to look the way she would when everything's fine and all right and she can relax.

Jon raises his hand to flatten his hair, or smooth it, discipline it in some manner, only then he doesn't bother and this makes him probably appear to wave when there is no need to because she is here, absolutely here, terribly here.

Oh.

He makes fists and puts them into his overcoat pockets. He regrets this at once – it seems to put such a limit on his options, ‘Oh … But you … Because I was facing the bus stop and expecting … That's why I didn't see …'

Oh.

He wishes to be unconscious. He wishes to be on his knees, or curled on his side – plainly incapacitated instead of standing and being this apparently capable shape.

Oh.

And then she steps in a pace and reaches out to him and pauses, offering.

Oh.

And there is no way to signal how altered he is by this, with this –
more all the time
 – with this baying and coursing happiness.

Oh.

And up and out of his pocket he lifts one fist and loosens it, loses it, as if this is simple and easy to do and …

Oh.

She takes his hand. ‘And when you're on the Underground you get a better view. I think. Of the people. You can see the people more.'

Oh.

She is here, Meg is here and keeping his hand safe and this means he will not have to fly away.

He finds himself telling her, ‘That's … very sensible.' And he squeezes her palm and her fingers answer, squeeze him back, and this is perhaps how they'll have to speak for at least a while, because he sees no hope in talking when he cannot speak, only make these small noises. ‘Quite the right choice, I'm sure. Good evening, I mean, good morning, I mean hello. Hello, Meg.'

He's been waiting like a child until he can say the right thing to make her seem happy, even slightly glad, about being here and seeing him. ‘I'm cold, Meg. Sorry. I'm really cold. I—'

Oh.

And this is what makes her come to him completely, right in, until she is fitted to him, locked, makes his whole skin ask for more of her so that he nearly stumbles.

Oh.

She is alive, alight, astonishing, her head worrying at his breastbone, his shirt above his breastbone, shifting.

Oh.

And these are her shoulder blades and these are the quiet, small knuckles of her spine and this is the swoop to the small of her back and this is when she slips her arms –
feels determined, feels entitled
 – pushes them inside his coat and inside his jacket –
the way that I have to remember and couldn't forget and she did once before, inside, inside –
inside until she has caught his waist and he is so delighted that his shirt must be tender for her while her touch burns in.

Please.

They stay like this.

Please.

They stay.

Here it is.

They catch each other's breath and mend it.

A man and a woman sit in a living room. The walls have been recently repainted in a warm shade of cream, the skirting is also immaculate in a slightly darker shade of cream. Someone has taken up the carpet and sanded the floorboards in a way which makes them look slightly rough, but also clean, scrubbed. A large rug – obviously new – glimmers with oriental patterns in dark blues and reds at the foot of the sofa. These efforts at refurbishment make the furniture – a nondecript bureau, two armchairs, a low table, a bookcase, that leather sofa near the rug – they make the furniture look both slightly tired and slightly relieved. Each item has the air of an object which feels that everything may be all right from hereon in.

It is late, past midnight.

The tall, red curtains have been drawn and the room's only light spills from a small lamp – perhaps a family favourite, perhaps a lucky find from some market – this dusky-pink glass shade suspended from a polished brass stand. Art deco.

It is tomorrow.

But neither the woman, nor the man has slept – not in almost twenty-four hours – and so they are both, in a way, insisting that it should still be yesterday.

It is yesterday.

The man is wearing a navy overcoat with a lighter blue jacket beneath and has his hands caught deep in his coat pockets. His knees, in navy corduroy, are crimped together, legs angled away from the woman who is beside him on the sofa. His shoes are long and dark and glossy and seem ashamed to be set on the rug. The woman is also still dressed to cope with being out of doors – she's in a charcoal skirt suit, rather dated, and a black trench coat.

The man gradually drops his head further and further forward, letting his torso follow after. He folds at the waist until he is resting along and over his own thighs. His forearms
and hands reach up to wrap around his neck and the back of his skull. His posture suggests that he expects to be attacked soon, or that he is a passenger bracing himself to survive an emergency landing.

The woman leans back and covers her face with her palms.

They both stay like this for some time.

IT WASN'T THAT
the kissing didn't work. The problem was more that it did.

Oh.

The cab had swallowed them into its dim interior and the driver had been cheerfully silent while they …

Oh.

They were on their way.

Oh.

Meg opening her lips because of course, sure, this is the kind of stuff that happens and how you find out who he is when he does these things, these things which are what men, in the end, will always ask for.

Oh.

It's beautiful, though. Being with him is beautiful and this, this, this stuff that you're doing is beautiful, too – the kissing. He feels just the same as he is on paper and also different but not in bad ways. He is careful. The way he licks and flickers is careful, it's delicate. But here he is, more of him, truly, and now here he is being with you in your mouth. His tongue is speaking to you in your mouth and he feels kind and funny and as if he's making it up as he goes along – there are these pauses while maybe he does some thinking about what's next. And he also seems pleased. You would say he felt happy.

You have to get used to him, but it's OK.

He tastes serious, if that makes sense. He tastes like a person who means what he's doing. And then his mouth tastes like your mouth which tastes like his.

You're not scared. He doesn't make you scared.

Oh.

And Jon is aware that he is breathing as if he is running, as if he is labouring along in mud and weather and making the long loop back to school with no cheering because he always was the straggling lad, left out at the end of the pack –
this is, this is, she's letting me and I'm allowed and –
but no running is required. He is kissing her and hearing how it sounds, like eating peaches in sunshine, and this is so much the place to be.

She's silk, glad silk, playing silk, but I can feel her being cautious, too. Jesus fucking Christ what did that man make her expect? Jesus, gentle Jesus. We have to be – me and Jesus, we have to be – the two J.C.s, we have to be careful of her, for her. We won't hurt her.

And the heat of her is what will keep him warm for ever, this is a fact.

If she feels shy, if she feels worried, if there's this … the absolute aim is to not hurt her.

And he slows and eases, almost shuts up shop and simply rests, puts small moments of his lips on the crown of her head, on her worry. But she tenses her spine, herself –
sideways, the cab seat … it's awkward, this is awkward, I'm awkward –
and she finds his mouth and the opening shape of hers insists –
but this isn't what we should do, not for much longer, not yet, this is for in the house –
and here is the flavour of her smile while she presses into him, laps and tickles –
safe, so safe, so safe, be safe –
and she breaks out a sweat on him, and she turns his head, turns him, lifts him.

But lifting is for when we're in her house, her flat, with her bedroom, with her bed, Christ not yet. The place with her bed. But not her bed tonight. Jesus Christ, not yet. Not that.

S
he draws him in until the roots of his tongue are tensed and she's lovely and she's something else he can't quite place, there's this shivering sense of her, and –
you taste of love
.

Margaret Williams, you taste of love.

Oh.

The cab's dark had bumped and jogged and leaned them fast against each other and then eased them just fractions apart – it moved them as it seemed to wish and they let it. And Jon had looked out once and seen Peckham High Street –
regal magnificent fucking bloody gorgeous Peckham High Street –
and Meg had tested the warm crook of his neck – licked so she could understand it – and rocked with him and with the journey. And the Queens Road Fire Station was oblivious as they passed. And Meg had told Jon, ‘We're nearly here.'

Oh.

And his body had flinched at the news while he answered, ‘Oh. Not as far as I'd thought.' And he'd withdrawn from her and sat straight-backed as a good schoolboy, slim as a heron, and looking ahead, looking about, as if he were anxious to remember his surroundings and take in the details offered by New Cross Gate, as if he should be visibly admiring every detail, because this might please her. He reached back to her and patted her thigh, elongated the touch, before he broke away and sat like a formal stranger on a midnight sightseeing trip.

Which I virtually am.

Fuck.

His hands hunched in his lap. ‘Thank you, Meg.'

‘What for?'

‘For, for …' His voice blurred and small as a sleeper's. ‘For being kind.'

‘I wasn't. I'm not.'

The last few minutes of their journey had seemed to be wrong and emptying out and beginning to echo.

And when they'd reached the flat, it had resisted them. Meg's key had been foxed by the lock and this didn't seem amusing and Jon's offer of help didn't seem to be helpful. Meg snapped at him and when she'd finally made the lock's levers work, she burst Jon and herself forward and into the hallway as if she was furious and she didn't quite manage to prove to him that she wasn't. ‘Sorry.'

She ushered Jon along too quickly. ‘Sorry.' And as they went along she left the lights off because she knew her way and because the hall hadn't been repainted and it had been an alcoholic's hall so it didn't look great. Still, the living room was cleaned up and sober and was really her best bet to impress him and was, anyway, the place you would offer a guest.

When she'd stood with him at her side, though, halted by the sofa and switched on the lamp – had his unease close up next to her and her sofa – then she understood that everything she had was past its best and a fresh coat of paint wouldn't fix it, would only make it worse. ‘Sorry.'

‘Why? Don't be sorry. What for?'

‘If I could afford a decorator … Someone who could paint, or … I kind of … It's …'

‘No … Meg.' Jon had examined the room, slow-footed about –
like a visiting heron –
and he'd sounded – maybe truthfully – as if his surroundings had somehow been less alarming than he'd thought and Meg couldn't tell if that was to do with what he'd expected from a drunk and a drunk's home.

After his over-laborious tour, Jon had returned to her and nodded, rubbed his ear. He then bent in and held her to him perhaps in the way an explorer might seize a colleague before they set off on an arduous ascent, some risk to life and limb.

And then kissing had flared again while they stood, not quite daring the chairs or the sofa.

Oh.

John's back had rested itself against the door frame –
how did we get over here? –
and her weight –
like the best responsibility you could discover, like the only duty you could long for –
her weight had rested itself, in its turn, against him and he'd been fine, entirely fine, absolutely fine, swimming and smooth all over in fine.

And then it was not fine.

Then it was not.

Fuckfuckfuck … I can't be like this, not with the day she's had and the way it's been for her and she'll think I'm just the same as all the fucking, fucking fucking …

His unforgivable body had begun prickling and stiffening unpreventably and he'd had to recoil his hips and also –
ungallant
 – fend her off mildly –
fuck –
and the feel of her taking this badly and being insulted and worried when he didn't want to worry her, only wanted to please her – it was beyond what he could …

I'm a shit. I'm a shit with a hard-on. I knew this would happen.
He dumps this half-crouching mess that he is on the sofa and tries to think.

Oh, fuck this.

Absolutely, it wasn't that the kissing didn't work.