Telling Tales (2 page)

It doesn’t matter. It all amounts to the same thing—me moaning aloud in an empty apartment, my head full of all the stories I never dared to tell, and then God, God, Wade’s face flashes up behind my eyes and I’m coming, I’m coming, and I’m making so much fucking noise it’s almost enough to drown out the phone.

Almost, but not quite. In fact, I’m still right on the edge of it—little shocks of pleasure still shuddering through me—when I hear another voice on the answering machine, as familiar as Wade’s but for different reasons. Wade I know because of all the things we shared together, because of everything in me that longs for him. Cameron’s voice is recognizable because it’s like liquid metal, pouring out of that accursed masturbation-interrupting box.

“I don’t know if this is you,” he says, while my cheeks flame red for reasons better left untouched. I mean, it’s not like he can see me, right? It’s not like he can see me with one foot up on the desk and my knickers half down and my fingers inside, still stroking over my wet and swollen folds.

And even if he could, what would it matter? It’s only Cameron—Cameron with his liquid metal voice that isn’t really liquid metal. It’s just deep because he’s massive, and it’s cultured because he comes from one of those snooty American Harvard-going families even though he didn’t go to Harvard and his family has no money now and, to be honest, I don’t know when he last lived in America.

But he’s on my answering machine anyway, talking and talking.

“Or if you remember me,” he says, as though I could forget. Why did Wade assume I’d know it was him, when Cameron thinks I’d forget him so easily? “But I just wanted to call and say I’ve missed you, Allie. And if you come to this…whatever it is…it’d be nice. It’d be good to see you again.”

I think it’s the most I’ve ever heard him say in one go. He was never big on talking, Cameron. And if he did talk it was always about something that bored most people to tears—computers or rowing or something that once happened that no one else is interested in. Man he was beautiful, but
man
could he clear a party.

And his stories…so strange and mechanical. Wade wrote things full of life and pizzazz, people pogo-ing across the universe in spaceships filled with magical robots from the planet Neptune. Whereas Cameron, well…he wrote about spaceships filled with robots too. But then later we’d all find out that he’d intended to write about living, breathing humans, and only ended up with weird, emotionless automatons by default.

That was Cameron. A weird, emotionless automaton by default.

“Oh, it’s Cameron, by the way,” he says, and it’s strangely those words that touch me. Wade’s message was all bolsh and Kitty’s was all
Oh
my
Gods,
but Cameron doesn’t even think I’ll know it’s him.

Funny, that it’s this very thing that makes me decide to go.

The house is exactly as I remember it. More so, in fact. The driveway seems longer, the surrounding grounds bigger. Nothing has encroached on it—when I’m standing on the neatly shaped gravel semicircle in front of the entranceway, all I can see is a grassy veld that slopes downward into trees, and then more trees, and then nothing but farmland and quaint little villages and the mist of the morning rising up over everything like a veil.

It’s beautiful. The house itself is beautiful. There’s even more ivy all over the front and it’s the same squat, deceptively large gray building it always was, with the thickly varnished blue front door and the actual bell instead of a buzzer.

I almost don’t want to go in. What if it’s not the same inside? The letter said it needed some work, so naturally my head is full of images of walls that have fallen down and squatters living in fireplaces and God knows what else.

But when I get in—the key the solicitor gave me unneeded, because it’s open, creepily—everything looks so…familiar. The great staircase standing between the kitchen on the left and the living room on the right. The living room still stuffed with those leather wingbacks and the big red sofas and the painting over the fireplace of the stag with the terrifying stare.

They still follow you around the room, those eyes. And the colors are still a mess of vivid and impossible greens and reds, as though any second the whole thing is going to come alive and chase you into another dimension.

That was what this house was like. Another dimension. Everything else about university—the mundane classes, the mundane people, the sense of being alone even when actually in a room full of people—was a great swathe of nothingness, apart from this. Apart from the Candy Club and Professor Warren and the weekends we spent, talking until 2:00 a.m. under the watchful gaze of the Evil Stag.

Most of the time Warren just left us to it. It was like our house anyway, in those days—but I think of him now, even so. I think of him in one of these great old chairs, falling asleep thinking about the students he must have loved, and then just one day never waking up.

I wish we’d known. I wish I’d known. I miss him, standing in this plush room, with everything about him all around me and the best memories I’ve got swamping my mind. He gave me those memories, after all. He made me come to this place, and he made me write, and he was the one who said to me:
Don’t ever give up.

Real sorry about that, Professor.

I swipe at my eyes and shake myself, suddenly bristling with a new kind of discomfort because is that another set of bags, by the bureau? Those are definitely someone else’s bags, and if the unlocked door wasn’t enough of a clue to my ridiculous brain, this sure is.

There’s another person here already. And judging by the assortment of sports bags and rucksacks, it isn’t Kitty. Kitty works as a model now, I know she does, and she was always one for the finer things anyway. She’ll be carrying Louis Vuitton, and if I’ve got my Kitty right, she’ll have bagged a room already. No dumping her stuff in the living room for her.

So that just leaves Wade or Cameron. And odds on it’s Wade. Wade was always the sloppiest one, the one who never packed properly and wound up having to borrow some socks from Cameron that resolutely would not fit him because Cameron’s feet were the size of boats.

Which means that any second I’m going to bump into him. I’m just going to turn a corner and see him, and then the bottom of my stomach is going to drop out of me and find the floor. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if it found the basement. I feel sick just thinking about him awkwardly hugging me or even worse—what if he goes for the equally awkward handshake? What if I’m not worth a hug?

What if I throw up on his shoes?

It’s then that I know why it was Cameron’s voice that persuaded me to come. It’s because Cameron is calming, his very being is calming, and I’m never scared of what he’s going to do next because he’s as steady as a rock. He doesn’t do wild, unexpected things. He’s insular and strange and silent, where as Wade is big and funny and never without a wisecrack. I can’t predict him, and that’s a hard thing to realize when most of me was sure I knew him so well.

Still, I take the hallway past the staircase—the one that still has the stepping stones set into the glossy floor—and make my way to my favorite room. Wade will be in the study if I do actually know anything about him at all, and I’m building up to it.

First, the boathouse room. The one that has nothing in it—not even a carpet—except for the one round window with the glass like melting butter, and the light coming in to fill it up in a way that no other place in the house does. Everything is dark here, everything is heavy and plush and like burying your face in crushed velvet.

But not this room. This room is like suddenly being on a boat in the middle of a golden ocean, and when I press my face to the heavy glass it’s just the same. I can see almost nothing and imagine it’s almost anything, out there. A whole world of high seas that I get to explore.

Though more typically it was Hamin-Ra I got to, through this portal to another world. I wrote about it a thousand times—me lifting the latch, and pushing against the glass, and then the golden beauty of my sand-strewn land would spread before me and—“Allie?”

My heart hits my mouth. It chokes me—and weirdly it’s not because I know it’s Wade. It isn’t Wade, and my heart wants to kill me anyway. Apparently, all four of my once-were-friends have the same effect on me, which is to say they make me want to run and hide.

Maybe by pushing through a portal to another world.

I brace myself and turn, and sure enough it’s Cameron. Of course I knew anyway—that
voice
—but it’s still a kind of electric shock to see him so close after all these years. He doesn’t even look any different, either! God, how I must seem to him, with this cardigan on that I shouldn’t have worn and my hair all massive and curly like this and the glasses, oh no the glasses, oh no I totally forgot how much of a dork Cameron makes me feel, with his bigness and his jockish hair and his smooth, perfect face.

And then I remember that he’s a complete nerd—one who fumbles over his words on a daily basis—and it’s OK. It’s OK.

“Hey,” I say, only it has about four extra syllables. And I can feel my face cracking, like it’s made of clay and he’s just set a blow-dryer on it.

It’s just Cameron, it’s just Cameron
, I think, over and over, but my brain can’t remember him being this…immense. Was he this big before? I think I kind of knew he was, but with him filling the doorway like that it’s a different matter. He looks like a giant. He looks like he killed the beast that ate Jack, then devoured the beanstalk too.

And he looks a lot more jockish than I remember too—though maybe that’s just because I’m seeing him fresh. He hasn’t spoken yet, or spent hours not speaking, or bored some girl to death at a party he didn’t want to go to. I vividly recall putting a baseball cap on him before we went to the Christmas blow-out over at Missy Taylor’s, when he’d asked me how he could at least
seem
cool and approachable.

Smile
more
, I’d told him, because he’d always appeared to find it a strain. His parents had been very don’t-smile-old-money- be-composed sorts of people, and though I always knew he didn’t want them to, those qualities had rubbed off on him.

They’re all over him now as he stands in the doorway, obviously wanting to hug me or something like it, but completely unable to. I can see the hint of a smile peeking through too, but it’s only because of those neat little incisors of his.

“Can I give you a hug?” I ask, and it’s weird how easy it comes. By God, I’d never ask Wade. I’d never ask Wade anything. Pass the peas seems like too much, with him, but with Cameron it’s suddenly and oddly easy.

I try to think back—were we close, Cameron and I? So close that I didn’t mind being the one who suggested, asked, persuaded? I don’t think we were, and yet I can picture a lot of me putting hats on his head or shaking his big body back and forth to loosen him up or asking him if I could read stories he’d hidden somewhere.

Usually he rolled them up and stuffed them down the back of his pants. I have no clue why. Why bother to bring them to class or to the house if you were just going to pretend they weren’t there?

Until I found them, of course. I always coaxed him out of his shell.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, yeah—sure.”

And I guess maybe then I know why it’s easier with Cameron. Because although he’s probably better looking than Wade—he’s so good looking that it’s blinding, for a moment—I somehow have this weird little inkling…this little feeling that he won’t say no. Like maybe he understands that I don’t ever expect anything to happen between us, so he can be open with me. Or maybe he just…maybe he’s just like that. He just wants to be hugged, probably.

Even though I’m sure I’ve seen him bend away from a pat on the shoulder, before today.

He doesn’t bend away from a pat this time, however. I put my arms around his middle—just like that, easy as anything—and I feel his huge hands spanning my back, so warm and good after all this time. He even smells the same, like that airy aftershave he always used to wear, and then all I can think is how odd it is that I can remember Cameron’s scent.

“It’s so good to see you, Allie,” he says, almost directly into the top of my head. Mainly because he’s six-five and I barely graze the
Pembroke
on his old and very worn university hoodie—but then it’s not his height I’m thinking about.

Instead I’m flooding with heat, remembering when I last heard him say something like that. On my answering machine, as I…did stuff. With my legs all over the place and my hand inside my knickers and ohhhh, there it is. There’s discomfort and embarrassment, my old friends!

I pull away from him too quickly and he looks…startled? I’m not sure. Sometimes it’s hard to read the expressions on his immense face, and it gets even harder when he says things like this: “You look really…great. Just very…pleasant.”

Because I remember how often he used to search for words, as though the real, normal, sane ones eluded him. As though his brain constantly wanted to put weird things in there instead, like
You
look
really
pumpkin. Just very bicycle.

Odd, that it only makes me want to leap in there with all the casual conversation I don’t usually have, and that he resolutely cannot provide.

“So do you—I think you’ve gotten even better looking, somehow.”

Which is absolutely true. His mouth looks even plumper, and softer—Jesus, that lower lip like something out of
Hot
Blowjobs
Monthly
. And he’s cut his copper-hinted dark hair so that it kind of swirls all over his head and swoops over his forehead and looks much lazier than he is and oh God, why is he staring at me like that? Am I staring too long at him?

It had seemed easier to do, at first, but now it’s getting harder.

“I think the others might be here,” he says and then I definitely know I stared too long. He’s going to think I’m hot for him or some other nonsense thing, which is completely not the case. Even if my face feels like it’s burning and there’s this funny, tingly ache between my legs as though
really
? I’m horny
again
?

Usually it’s once a month and even then I’m pushing it. So what’s going on here, exactly? Is the thought of Wade really such an aphrodisiac?

It must be, because little weird sparks prickle the length of my spine when Cameron puts a hand on my shoulder. Like he wants to steady me as we make our way back down the hallway, like maybe he knows that my heart is hammering and my legs don’t want to keep walking—even though that’s impossible.

Cameron never knew anything about me, least of all this.

He doesn’t know that I can hardly bear to look Wade in the face, not even when we come to the entranceway and Kitty’s giggling her ass off, camera in hand as usual, snapping away like there’s no tomorrow. And then there’s Wade, my Wade, just standing there with his back half turned as though this is nothing at all, really.

“Allie!” Kitty screams, and I see how easy this is for her too. I see her in slow motion, tiny arms out, charging toward me—oh, she was always the one who never let me forget she loved me, with postcards from far-flung places and ridiculous emails about swimsuits made of ham—but it’s Wade I can’t stop watching, Wade who turns in that said same slow motion while my heart tries to eat itself.

He looks older. And then my brain kick-starts and yells at me that
of
course
he
looks
older, people with masses of handsome stubble generally look older
. At which point I have to process that he has masses of handsome stubble and dear God I can’t let it slide. I just can’t! It’s all over-styled and too practiced and he’s gonna get it, now. He has to.

“Did something
grow
on your
face
?” I ask, and oh I’m so grateful for the great chunk of incredulity in my words. I’m so grateful that it all floods back into me—the way we used to talk, like nothing could ever be serious. Nothing could ever hurt.

And he grins that shit-eating grin of his through the great mess of hair all over his chin, as though to tell me I’m right.

He’s still him and I’m still me. I haven’t lost him forever, my best friend in all the world.

“There’s something on my
face
?” he says, with a real and perfect slice of panic in his electric eyes, and then he just throws his arms around me. Just like that. Nothing to it. Cameron’s hand slides right off my shoulder and I’m hugging Wade as though no time has passed at all.

Makes me wonder what I was worried about, really.

***

It takes three boring conversations about jobs we all do now—Kitty models, of course, Wade mysteriously works in real estate and Cameron now does something to do with software I’ve never heard of—and around two bottles of the terrible wine Kitty found in the back of the fridge—Cameron drinks more than I remember, Wade drinks less—before we get around to stories.