EARLY IN THE evening the bar was noisier than usual, with the guests assembling before dinner to discuss the notices about the approaching hurricane that had been placed on their beds while they were out enjoying the day. The air was buzzing with against-the-elements jokes along with reminiscences about the Last Lot, for everyone British thought they’d seen the worst a hurricane could throw at them, having witnessed the odd BMW crushed by a falling oak, along with a Sussex hillside of struck-down pines. There was talk of battening down hatches and Dunkirk spirit (this last followed by behind-the-hand sniggers, guilty looks round for German guests and hissings about ‘Don’t-mention-the-war’).
Several anxious souls murmured about contacting tour reps with a view to arranging an earlier flight home, but they were witheringly accused either of a ratlike abandoning of ship or of missing out on a potentially thrilling experience, as if it was merely another unmissable local attraction, rating five stars in the guidebook. A frantic Italian couple were avidly questioning the hotel manager, wanting more precise details than he was able to give. However hard he insisted he didn’t yet know if the hurricane was even heading for the island, the couple pressed him to tell them more, as if he had a hotline to the elemental gods and was deliberately keeping the truth from them.
Simon brought his hurricane instructions into the bar with him and perched on a stool next to Lucy. ‘I suppose we’ve all got these,’ he said, waving the sheet of paper.
Lucy grinned at him. ‘Well I expect so, Simon, unless you think God is directing a special storm just at you.’ Simon frowned. ‘You shouldn’t joke about it, Lucy. There could be serious danger.’ He was in his own element now, she realized, getting ready to orchestrate the family’s survival in the face of disaster.
‘Listen to this,’ he said, reading aloud. ‘“Pack all your belongings in a suitcase, put the case inside the plastic bag provided and place high in wardrobe …”’
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ Theresa interrupted, arriving just in time to claim the last bar-stool. ‘Surely they don’t really expect us to pack all our stuff up, do they? All the stuff in the drawers, everything off the hangers, I mean if it’s already in the wardrobe …’
‘If that’s what it says …’ The gold lady leaned across and helped herself to cashew nuts from the bowl in front of Lucy.
‘Absolutely.’ Simon was delighted to find an ally. ‘You must do just what it says; after all, the people here have gone through all this before and they know what they’re doing. We’ve got no idea.’
Theresa gave him a look that would have crumpled a non-relative. ‘Thank you Simon, yes I do realize that, but I wonder if it might be a bit over the top, possibly connected with avoiding tricky insurance claims?’
‘We’re all doomed!’ one of the Steves mocked loudly from the far end of the bar. Everyone laughed except Simon and the bar staff, who were too busy dealing with the extra drinks orders that the overexcited guests seemed to need.
‘And what about this bit, about actually getting in the wardrobe?’ Theresa’s perfect cherry-varnished fingernail stabbed at the paper. ‘How are we supposed to get in if it’s full of luggage? Tell me that, Simon.’
‘They’re quite big,’ he ventured.
‘Depends how much luggage you’ve got,’ she countered. ‘And I do have three children and an au pair to cram in as well. It would be like one of those silly student charity stunts they used to do: how many geographers can you cram into a phone box.’
Lucy felt fidgety. The others would be arriving in a few minutes and there was something on her mind that she wanted to share with just Simon and Theresa. ‘Listen, I want to talk to you two. Come outside onto the terrace.’
‘Oh a mystery, I could do with some distraction.’ Theresa picked up her daiquiri and followed, tripping along smartly on her kitten-heeled scarlet mules. She really did look supremely glamorous tonight, Lucy thought, as if this was a special occasion. As well as her nails being wonderfully manicured, her hair had been glossily blow-dried and Lucy knew she must have put in an hour or two in the beauty salon on the top floor. Her dress was spaghetti-strapped, sleek navy blue and fluted a little just below her knees. Lucy guessed it was by Ghost, and probably cost a good percentage of what she herself earned in a week. She tried not to mind, reminding herself that after all what she had was what she earned, not what she’d married. Somehow it didn’t feel quite as comforting as usual.
‘So what’s the big secret?’ Simon settled himself at a small ornate iron table, tracing his fingers over the leaf shapes on the surface.
‘It’s not really a secret. It’s Mum.’ There was no point skirting round it. ‘On the boat she was really shaky, and she sort of, well, she sort of lost it a bit…’
‘Lost what?’ Theresa sipped her drink and looked puzzled.
‘It was rather choppy. She probably felt dodgy,’ Simon contributed, but he was frowning, considering.
‘Not as bad as you did. I saw you chucking up over the side.’ Theresa giggled. ‘What a waste of all those lovely prawns!’
‘Back to Mum.’ Lucy glanced round. Soon the others would be looking for them. ‘She doesn’t get seasick. She’s got a stomach like cast iron. Don’t you remember that time when we went to the Isle of Man in a force nine and she calmly carried on knitting while everyone else was groaning and dying and praying around her? No, this was strange, as if her brain had gone walkabout and she couldn’t quite find it. And she shook so much, really trembling, and when we got off the boat she was wobbly. Dad had to hold her arm. I watched: he was still holding on to her all the way back to the villa. It’s the first time I’ve seen her looking frail.’
‘So what are you saying?’ Theresa had finished her drink and she waved to a waiter across the terrace for a refill.
‘I think she got seriously dizzy, had a bit of what she’d call a “turn”. I think maybe we should ask Pa about it, in case it’s not the first time. Simon might have been right all the time, there might be stuff about her being ill that they aren’t telling us.’
‘I knew it,’ he said, ‘I thought they’d have told us by now too. I was just beginning to relax.’
‘But what if it is?’ Theresa pointed out.
‘Is what?’ Simon asked.
‘Is the first time? And she’s perfectly all right now? Old people do have things like this, very mild strokes that are all right till you scare them witless by giving it a name. What’s the point of making a big fuss and worrying them both when there’s not a lot they can do till she gets home?’
Becky flipped a coin. She’d delved into the bottom of her purse and pulled out a two-pence piece especially. It was important to use English money: the local currency might be biased in favour of Ethan’s requirements. She brushed out of her mind the logical consequence of this train of thought: whichever way the coin fell, she knew deep down that having sex with Ethan was something that she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to do, even though he’d made her feel more randy than a springtime fox. The thing was, it was time she had it with someone; she would be seventeen in a couple of days. Everyone else at school had had sex and mostly with more than one person. Some of them were practically at old-married-couple level, especially drippy Delphine who started every sentence with ‘My Nick says …’ Becky didn’t want that, but she did want to have a clue what sex was like. She listened in on the morning-after discussions, perched on the counter in the girls’ loo, looking as if she knew just what they were all on about, laughing in all the right places when they giggled about squelchy condoms or stuffing their knickers under the sofa when a parent came home too soon. One day, and it was creeping nearer all the time, someone would realize she never actually had anything to contribute to these shrieky tell-all sessions. This must be peer-group pressure, she realized, and she’d always prided herself on refusing to succumb to it. She was still determined it wasn’t just that causing her to stand there with a coin in her hand and a decision to make. It was simply sheer curiosity and the ripe, right time to dispose of her virginity. It was like when she’d been younger and had a wobbly tooth, the moment had always come when she’d known that the one final neat twist was all it needed to get it out.
There was no-one back home she really fancied. They were all pale, clumsy big-footed boys with sick-making acne eruptions and soft stupid-looking fleshy faces and thick necks that reminded her of toys that had been a bit too tightly stuffed. Not one of them had any sense of personal style, even the ones from the university (actually those were worse: they were the dreggy ones who couldn’t pull a fellow student and resorted to easier pickings among the kind of schoolgirls who were pathetic enough to give them some status as Older Men). Ethan was different. He wasn’t that tall, but his whole body swaggered up the beach with effortless sexual confidence. His baggy shorts swung perfectly on his hips, not wilting at half mast as if he needed a Mummy figure to pull them up properly. His shoulders were broad and straight under his T-shirt, not apologetic and shivery like those of boys in England.
The chorus of a song kept coming into her mind; the word ‘horny’ repeating itself over and over. It was exactly how she felt. When his warm soft mouth had grazed across hers on the beach, Becky’s body had been overwhelmed by a kind of liquid lurch, a longing to roll beneath him and be pressed hard into the sand. No-one at home had ever made her feel like that. Snogging boys at parties or crushed up in the crowded dark at various clubs, all she’d felt was mild nausea at the taste of recent hamburger or the stench of belched beer. They shoved their eager swollen crotches in the vague direction of her pubic bone, neither caring nor even aware that half the time they were rubbing themselves frantically against her handbag or the unresponding soft centre of her lower intestines. Until Ethan, the only good sexual experience she could count on having was spread out in a warm, scented bubble bath, by herself.
The coin came down in Ethan’s favour. Becky picked it up off the cool terracotta floor and shoved it back in her purse, feeling a tweak of encouraging excitement. She wasn’t sure, on the whole, that a spot of hot-weather lust was the best reason to do it, but it would be OK, it was good enough. If the whole thing was a disaster at least she could just go home and forget about it, delete it from her memory and decide it didn’t count. And if it wasn’t disastrous, if it was just the best thing she’d ever had, well – she’d left herself enough time to get in a few more goes at it before the holiday ended.
She picked up the piece of paper that had fallen off the bed and skimmed over the list of instructions on it: a hurricane sounded thrilling, though the hotel management seemed to be taking it horribly seriously. ‘No alcoholic drinks will be served in the hours before the storm’ she read. She slid the page between the mirror and its frame, where the list of rules stared back at her as she smoothed on some lipstick. Spoilsports.
‘You shouldn’t read anything into it, Simon. They are quite old and they’ve been out with us in that frazzling hot sun for the whole day.’ Plum watched Simon as he gazed at the two empty places at the table.
‘And there was no shade or shelter on that boat. They’re probably exhausted,’ Mark chipped in. Shirley and Perry had phoned the restaurant and left a message: they were having a light snack in their villa and an early night, a message which effectively fended off the possibility of after-dinner visitors.
‘It must be awful being old. Everyone sittin’ around waiting for you to snuff it.’ Luke reached across and helped himself to a hunk of bread, which he ripped apart, scattering crumbs across the tablecloth.
‘Luke! That’s a terrible thing to say! No-one’s wanting them to die!’ Theresa slapped his hand hard, knocking the remaining bread to the floor.
‘You did that!’ he accused her, pointing a knife. ‘And you didn’t listen. I didn’t mean you want them to die, just that you all hang about, looking for signs of it. No wonder they’ve pissed off to their own space.’ His voice faded to a mumble as he added, ‘Bloody wish I could.’ Theresa heard him and glared at Plum, waiting for her to tell her son off, but Plum simply smiled fondly at him and took no notice. Bloody floppy wet liberal, Theresa thought, no way will my brood get away with that kind of talk.
Becky also heard what Luke had said and felt sorry for him and a bit guilty. If she hadn’t got these sensational sexy plans of her own for the evening she would have offered to play table football with him in the games room. He liked playing it with her because she was just as good at it as he was and worth having as an opponent. Perhaps the Tom-person with the gold mother was around, or perhaps Colette would take him on. When she got up after the meal and went off to meet Ethan, poor Luke would be stuck with all these boring adults while they wittered on as they always did, disagreeing oh-so-politely about education or acupuncture, or chatted to some of the Steves and got told how much they’d been ripped off for the catamaran trip. The Steves did that every night; she’d heard them in the bar bragging on about how much they’d saved by shopping around for cheap car hire and making sure they got well tanked up with cocktails during half-price Happy Hour. She’d seen one or two of them eyeing Lucy’s legs as well, as if they were wondering how much of a discount she was likely to offer for shagging them all at once. In their bloody dreams.
Theresa was on show and sparkling and Mark was confused. She’d left him to help Marisa with the children’s tea and baths, swanned off to the hotel spa on the top floor and come back with her hair done, body aroma-therapeutically massaged, nails perfectly painted and a look on her face that he hadn’t seen since they’d set off for Paris for a weekend of so much scintillating sex that they came home having seen nothing of the sights. That had been a long time ago. Pre-children, definitely. He couldn’t work out what she was up to. She’d smiled at him as she shimmied naked between the bathroom and bedroom, put on scarlet lace underwear and then those red shoes as well, as if that was all she intended to wear that evening, then she’d sat at the mirror to do her make-up, legs tantalizingly apart, calves and thighs tautly braced on those sexy heels. She’d got him to fasten her chain of silver hearts round her neck and she’d watched his face in the mirror as he’d stood close, breathing in her perfume and fumbling with the clasp. It had driven him crazy, wanting to stroke her, touch her and take her there and then but knowing sex was now completely forbidden. She was doing it on purpose, watching him, teasing him with what she was definitely not going to let him have. Eventually, when all the rest of her was ready, she’d dropped the sleek blue dress casually over the top, like a protective cloth over a precious ornament. And all the time she’d chatted on, bright and brittle, telling him how wonderful it had been to see the dolphin and the turtles when she’d snorkelled with Becky and how much the children had enjoyed their day with Marisa.
Theresa was looking rather different now she was drunk. After three pre-dinner daiquiris she’d made steady progress through the best part of a bottle of white wine and her glossy veneer was sliding off. Her lipstick was smudged beyond the corner of her mouth and her mascara had settled into tiny furrows beneath her eyes. Before what he now thought of as The Telling, Mark would have reached across and stroked the black smudges away. Now he was terrified to make any gesture towards her in case, in this drunken state, she slapped him hard and yelled at him to keep his filthy diseased hands to himself. Then they’d all know. Sober, the humiliation he’d inflicted on her kept her silent. Pissed, she could say anything. Keeping it as something to sort out just between the two of them was Mark’s only chance, he was sure, of mending all that he’d smashed.
‘Goodness, your three are up late!’ It was Simon who first spotted Marisa making her way across the restaurant towards the table. ‘What?’ Theresa spun round and took in the sight of Marisa leading Amy, Ella and Sebastian, in their Teletubby pyjamas and clutching their cuddly bedtime toys, towards them. Sebastian was rubbing his eyes and looking as if he was sleepwalking. The two girls were grinning at everyone, delighted to have the entire restaurant staring at them. Ella stopped to pull up her pyjama top and proudly show Cathy and Paul her tanned tummy.
‘What on earth are they doing in here? They should be fast asleep by now!’ Theresa was on her feet, head to head with Marisa, who stood stolid and silent before her.
‘I want this night off. I meet someone, my friend in the hotel with the one baby.’
‘But … well, you can’t! This is your job!’ Theresa protested. Guests at surrounding tables fell silent. Women pushed their hair out of the way of their ears for easier, shameless listening.
‘But I work all day, with no rest. Now I want time.’ Marisa was immovable. She picked up Sebastian and sat him on Mark’s lap and sent the girls to sit where Shirley and Perry should have been. ‘My friend, she says I have time off just like at home. That is what she has with her family.’
‘But we’ve brought you on holiday!’ Theresa’s pretty red shoe managed a petulant little stamp on the floor.
‘’S’not a holiday for her if she has to work every day,’ Luke contributed.
Theresa rounded on him, hissing like a cross cat. ‘I don’t need any input from you, thank you very much.’
‘Marisa’s got a point.’ Lucy joined in, bravely, Mark thought. ‘I mean surely she should have some time to herself. Looking after three young children is hard work.’
‘Thank you Lucy, I do know that actually. It’s why I brought help with me. It’s what she’s for,’ Theresa snapped.
Mark, trapped beneath the dozing Sebastian, knew he was being worse than useless. Theresa was trembling with alcohol-fuelled fury now and clearly heading for the kind of mood where she’d say something irretrievably awful, probably fire Marisa on the spot and send her straight back to Switzerland in the morning. That would be hugely expensive, he calculated, possibly a figure not unadjacent to the cost of Sebastian’s entire first year’s school fees. He stood up, clutching his son to him, and offered Theresa his most charming smile. ‘Look, I’ll take them back to the room and stay with them while Marisa goes out for a while, shall I? Surely that will solve things. And Marisa, we’ll talk again in the morning, OK? Sort something out?’ He told the girls to come with him, took Amy’s hand and led the little troop out of the restaurant. Marisa followed. There was a daring ripple of applause and Theresa sat down heavily, fuming.
‘It’s that bloody Norland nanny she’s met, giving her ideas about entitlement.’ She stabbed her spoon hard into her melting peach sorbet and it splashed cold orange dollops down the front of her dress. ‘Oh fuck,’ she said, laying her dispirited head slowly down on the table and surrendering to sad, silent tears.
Lucy had tried not to think about Henry all day, even out on the boat when there were long lazy hours of nothing to do but watch the waves. She didn’t want to waste any time thinking about men at all, not since she’d promised herself that Ross would be the last to make her feel like any kind of pathetic victim. That way, at her age, lay a cursed lifetime of Bridget Jones-hood, comparing Disasters and Disappointments over too much appropriately sour wine with similarly afflicted girlfriends. At least Colette would be happy. When she’d been little it had seemed important to try and find her a kind and loving Daddy figure, someone who’d stay around at least long enough to catch sight of any children he might be responsible for producing. For a long time now, though, the seeking of the perfect male had been as if Lucy was trying to keep on pretending to her child that Santa really did exist, long after Colette had come cheerfully to terms with the truth.
So all that meant that this wasn’t like going out on a date. It definitely wasn’t. As she cleaned her teeth – convincing herself she wasn’t being over-thorough with the mouthwash – she wondered why there wasn’t a different word for Going Out With Men that grown-ups could use. ‘Dating’ was so very Australian TV soap, or American early Sixties high-school.
Henry was out at the front of the hotel, waiting in a white Suzuki Jeep with its roof down. Lucy saw him before he caught sight of her, leaning back in the seat with his eyes closed, one foot up on the dashboard, his hand hanging out of the window and beating out a rhythm to whatever music he was listening to. Lucy felt peculiarly nervous, with butterflies dancing about in her stomach. She waited to collect herself for a moment, lurking behind a feathery palm in a pot by the doorway. On that upturned crate in the dive shop the night before, he’d kissed her – just once but properly, as if laying out his intentions extremely clearly. The butterflies did a formation flip inside her as she hovered behind the plant, considering those intentions and what she wanted to do with them. They’d clearly been what her mother would call less than honourable. Pure sex. Well that was OK, Lucy decided, for now that she’d given up on settled relationships, she would settle for good old sex, honest if not honourable. This could be a classic Holiday Thing. Just for tonight she would be one of those notorious English-girls-abroad who behave disgracefully and then forget about it on the plane home before the stewardess has finished explaining the emergency drill. There were condoms in Lucy’s bag, as ever. They were from way back, from pre-Ross. He’d preferred his own choice, rather ludicrous ridgy black ones that had made her feel as if he was trying to dress up his penis as something else, a cartoon policeman’s truncheon came to mind. She wondered if condoms had a ‘use-by’ date stamped on the packet and, if she got run over and killed, would a mortuary attendant going through her bag feel sorry for her for clearly having had them so long?
She smoothed down her dress, which was an ancient faded Liberty lawn wrapover that she’d had for so many years it had come back into fashion again and appeared in a four-times-the-price version in Vogue that summer. She was far more used to wearing trousers and felt strange with the warm night breeze wafting the fabric around her thighs, almost as if she wasn’t wearing anything at all. The dress was pretty but not actually very sexy. If she wanted serious instant sex appeal she would have to ask Theresa if she could borrow the outfit she’d worn for dinner tonight.
‘Hey, Lucy!’ Henry had seen her, was out of the car and strolling across to meet her. He took her hand, kissed her cheek quickly and smiled, then led her over to the Jeep.
‘There’s a restaurant on the edge of the town up a hill. I thought we’d—’
‘Oh! But we just ate …’ Lucy felt dismayed.
Henry laughed. ‘’S’OK, me too, a TV supper with Olly and his homework. But this place has a great bar, quieter than most places – I thought we can get a drink, talk?’
‘Fine! That would be terrific.’ Lucy hated the sound of her own voice, gushy and silly-girlish. She tried again. ‘We went out on a boat trip round the island.’ She sounded worse and stopped. ‘Sorry,’ she laughed, ‘that sounds so like a typical junior school “what I did on my holiday” sort of stuff. Anyway, I can’t tell you anything new about a trip round the island. I think I’ll just keep quiet.’ She slid down lower in the car seat, feeling foolish. Hell, he’d kissed her once. It wasn’t supposed to turn her into a pathetic quivering heap with mush for brains. Probably if all the holiday women he’d screwed were laid end to end, they’d stretch from here to Barbados, possibly back again too.
‘No, you can tell me,’ he said. ‘After all, none of the versions I’ve heard so far have been yours. Did you get seasick? It’s rough round the Atlantic side, especially now.’
‘Simon did. I’m fine. Why is it worse now?’
‘The storm. We’re already getting the swell from where it’s churned up out in the ocean. The last cruise ships are pulling out tonight and there’ll be no more till it’s over.’
Lucy shivered. The vagaries of British weather-forecasting seemed pretty trivial compared with what could happen here, more a form of take-it-or-leave-it entertainment. The words ‘a bit of a damp start to the day’ could mean anything at home from a spot of minor drizzle to a full-scale thunderous deluge, it didn’t matter much which. Here, getting it wrong might well mean life or death to the residents.
The restaurant was an old converted sugar mill high on a hill, still with the stream and a wheel. Huge lilies grew in a pool up on the terrace, fat fleshy leaves crowding together and enormous pale flowers, as big and smooth as alabaster vases. There were tables on the deck, which was on a level with the tops of banana trees growing on the hillside, so the air was damp and languorous, heavy with the scent of coconut and vanilla. Lucy breathed in slowly.
‘On a hot day in London, all you can smell is traffic and chips,’ she commented. ‘This is bliss. It will be hell to go home. I shall probably cry.’
‘So don’t go.’ Henry shrugged.
Lucy laughed and sipped her beer. ‘If it was that simple … I’ve got people’s houses to paint, a daughter to educate and …’ She couldn’t think of anything else.
‘Is that it?’ Henry waited, laughing at her hesitation.
Lucy thought for a moment, looking out at the lights of the town below, at a ship heading for a safer horizon.
‘I suppose it is, really. Jesus, it doesn’t exactly add up to a whole bag of good reasons.’
‘There are schools here. You can paint houses here. You’d have no trouble finding work, though you’d miss home I expect.’ It sounded so simple.
Well, would she? Lucy thought aloud. ‘There’s friends of course, I have got people I’d miss but not desperately. And family, well, you’ve seen them, but we all live scattered separate lives. We don’t usually go round in a herd like this. This is a mysterious Proper Family Holiday, some kind of last-chance bonding effort.’ She laughed, thinking of Theresa over dinner, and spluttered a bit into her drink. ‘Though of course for that you need a Proper Family.’
‘And what’s that?’
Lucy didn’t hesitate this time. ‘One that leaves you in peace. One you can check in with just now and then without them greeting you with unsubtle accusations like “Well hello stranger” when you phone.’
‘Wait till Colette goes to college. See if it’s really that easy.’
‘Yeah I know. But it’s not just that. My parents wanted the best for us all. Nothing wrong with that, but it’s their best. Simon managed it, he’s successful, big house, posh wife, all that. And Theresa too, she did the thing girls are supposed to do, or should I say were, and married the perfect Surrey man. I’m the one that they still think is the underachiever. I mean I support myself, I have a job I like but, Jesus, in a few years I’ll be forty and Ma still looks mildly disappointed every Christmas when I don’t bring along a Mr Nice Man that she can serve up to the rest of them along with the turkey.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got one of those families you have to join,’ Henry said.
‘What, like a golf club with rules and a waiting list?’
‘You got it. I reckon with families there are two sorts,’ he went on. ‘The family that’s happy to see you set sail on your own, do your stuff and be pretty casual about when they see you and when they don’t. Then there’s the sort that wants to keep you on strings. Like anyone you get involved with has to join the clan, not claim you for themselves, and kind of almost abandon their own folks so the control stays in the same old hands. Seems to me you got one of those.’
Lucy thought for a moment. ‘You could be right. Those who are happy with it call it a close family. With Plum and Mark, my parents got a pair of highly suitable candidates to join the family, not people who would remove their kids to an alien world. But don’t forget they live a couple of hundred miles from all of us. It’s not surprising that when they come down that motorway they want some sort of gathering that will let them go back home reassured we’re OK. Anyway, what about yours? Joiners or quitters?’
Henry laughed. ‘Quitters. Glenda and I have our own lives, which means we’re free to be close. This island is completely my home. Apart from a few years I’ve been here all my life. Glenda could go back to England and fit right in but she likes it here. It’s choice.’ He leaned close to her and stroked her wrist. ‘You should come and see her work.’
Etchings time, Lucy thought, her insides lurching a bit.
‘You could come maybe a couple of nights from now, the night before the storm’s due say? I’ll cook. Bring Colette,’ he said. Lucy’s stomach resettled itself. Just when she was up for a spot of stolen sex, he turned out to be A Friend. Well, maybe that was OK: she liked Henry, so friends would have to be fine. She thought about the condoms in her bag and smiled. She would throw the damn things away, she decided. They didn’t seem to be required.
Becky scrubbed at her teeth for at least ten minutes, rinsed and slooshed with half a bottle of mouthwash and could still taste Ethan. She felt used and furious. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t what she’d wanted and she’d been had, but only in the sense of being conned. She looked at herself in the mirror. Still a fucking virgin. Or rather not fucking. It would go down all right in one of the morning cloakroom sessions at school. She could picture herself combing her hair, doing her mascara, saying breezily, ‘Oh yeah and I gave him a blow job on the beach, under a coconut palm, completely stoned.’ Definitely it would be a worthy contribution, it would sound great. She wouldn’t tell them it had been about as interesting as chewing the gearstick on her mother’s Volvo, and tasted like something that had been too long at the back of the fridge. Nor would she tell them that the only bit of her he’d wanted to get hold of had been the back of her head, and then, painfully, a grip on her ears, making sure she kept going, couldn’t even come up for bloody air. Still a virgin. God. She snapped the bathroom light off and dived into her bed, landing on the TV remote control. There might be something on, she thought, fishing it out from under her tummy and flipping through the channels. And she wasn’t giving up yet, there was still time. After all, he owed her now.