That night Mum and Dad are off on their respective hen and stag dos. Mum is going to a pole-dancing class (cringe), followed by tapas, while Dad is going on a pub crawl. They have the monopoly on the bathroom, which means I don’t get the chance to finally have a shower until gone six. By the time I’m done, I have to start getting ready to go to Paul’s next door. I’m about to pull on my usual babysitting ‘uniform’ (tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt), when I find myself reaching for my denim mini skirt and a black vest top instead, and taking extra care with my hair and makeup.
‘You look nice,’ Grace says when I stick my head behind the living-room door to say goodbye. She and Audrey are sitting on the sofa watching a nature programme about penguins. ‘Where are you going again?’
‘Next-door. I’m babysitting.’
‘I’d hardly call a denim skirt and a vest top dressed up,’ I say. ‘It’s a hot night, what am I supposed to wear?’
Grace points the remote control at the TV to turn down the volume. ‘What is with you today, Mia? You’ve been moody since the second you got up.’
‘Er, no I haven’t.’
‘Yes you have. You were miserable as sin at the fitting earlier.’
‘No I wasn’t. I just don’t see why you need to make snarky comments about what I’m wearing.’
‘There’s kind of a big difference between being snarky and making an observation.’
‘Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel like it sometimes.’
She sighs. ‘Look, I’m sorry if it felt like a criticism; it wasn’t meant to be. You look really nice.’
I inspect my fingernails. The mint-green polish is all chipped.
‘So how was shopping with Sam?’ she asks. ‘You guys have fun?’ With Sam at work tonight, she’s been bugging me for clues ever since I got home.
‘I told you, fine.’
‘I love how close you two have become.’
‘We’re hardly BFFs,’ I mutter, wrinkling my nose.
Grace just smiles this incredibly annoying smile, like she’s somehow masterminded some deep friendship between Sam and me.
‘I’m gonna go,’ I say, backing out of the room.
‘OK, night,’ Grace says, her eyes still lingering on my skirt.
‘Night,’ Audrey echoes, looking worried for some reason.
‘Mia, you’re early,’ Paul says when he opens the door. I guess he’s just finished in the bathroom because he smells strongly of minty shower gel and has a smear of shaving cream on his neck.
‘Do you want me to go away and come back?’ I ask.
‘Of course not,’ he says, smiling. ‘Come on in.’ He steps aside to let me pass.
Duncan is already in his bedroom from the sounds of it, the faint noise of explosions and gunshots just audible from where I’m standing at the bottom of the stairs.
I step out of my flip-flops and follow Paul into the living room where I perch on the edge of the sofa while he fastens on a pair of silver cufflinks.
Paul’s house has the exact same layout as ours, only it’s the opposite way round and about a thousand times tidier. Paul has a cleaner who comes every Monday afternoon. I see her sometimes when I get home from school – a squat Portuguese woman with silver-streaked black hair, vacuuming the curtains or polishing the TV. All of Paul’s furniture and decor is brand-new and what Mum would probably describe as ‘tasteful’ with a wrinkle of her nose. The sofa I’m sitting on is an L-shaped chocolate-brown corduroy number, dotted with coordinating scatter cushions and a cream cashmere throw. A flat screen TV, three times the size of ours, is mounted on the opposite wall and the lights are artfully dimmed, bathing the entire room in a soft romantic glow. Being at Paul’s is the closest I’ll probably ever get to stepping inside a Galaxy Bar commercial.
‘Off anywhere nice?’ I ask.
‘Work do,’ Paul replies.
I realize I have no idea what Paul does for a living, only that he wears a suit, drives a company car and earns enough money to have a cleaner, the latest iPhone and weekly Ocado deliveries.
‘A work do on a Saturday?’ I ask.
‘It’s the company’s fiftieth anniversary. The CEO is taking the entire staff out for dinner.’
‘Does that mean you don’t have to pay for anything?’ I ask.
‘That’s right.’
‘Drinks and everything?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘Nice.’
‘Dangerous, more like.’ Paul’s phone bleeps. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, picking it up off the coffee table. There’s a pause as he taps at the screen, before sliding it into the back pocket of his trousers.
I like his outfit; a powder-blue shirt teamed with well-cut grey trousers. Grownup but not too stuffy.
‘Paul, can I ask you something?’ The question leaves my lips before I can stop it.
‘Of course you can,’ he says, sitting down on the sofa beside me. ‘What’s up?’
‘Er, OK, this might sound stupid, but what did you want to be when you were in sixth form?’
Even though I’ve tried to shove it to the back of my mind, yesterday’s showdown with Ugly Tie Man keeps invading my thoughts.
‘I never made it to sixth form,’ Paul says.
‘You didn’t?’
‘No. I left school at sixteen with four GCSEs to my name.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. A combination of undiagnosed dyslexia and spending too much time showing off in front of my mates.’
‘But you’ve got a really good job,’ I say.
‘Well, yeah, but that’s now, twenty-four years on. There’s been a lot of hard graft in between.’
I do the maths in my head. That means Paul is forty.
He tells me all about his first job, how he started out selling printer cartridges over the phone before rising up through the ranks. It’s a bit boring to be honest and I switch off after a while, glazing over as he reminisces.
‘And now I’m sales director for the entire region,’ he says, puffing out his chest.
‘Wow, sounds great,’ I say automatically.
‘Why’d you ask, Mia? Something bothering you?’
I find myself telling him about my confrontation with Ugly Tie Man. I hadn’t planned to at all, but it actually feels good to get it off my chest and have someone listen patiently and nod and make sympathetic noises in all the right places.
‘He just made me feel so stupid and, I don’t know, insubstantial almost,’ I say. ‘Like there’s nothing more to me than big hair and attitude.’
Paul sits back and folds his arms. ‘Now, Mia, come on, your hair isn’t that big.’
It takes me a second to realize he’s making a joke, albeit a very lame one. ‘Are you taking the piss?’ I ask, poking him on the bicep and noting its firmness.
‘Only a little bit,’ he says, grinning.
I stick out my lower lip in an exaggerated pout.
‘Seriously though, Mia,’ he says, swapping his grin for a straight face. ‘You can’t let wallies like this supply teacher bloke get you down. You’re a bright young woman. You’ll figure out what your thing is, I have no doubt.’
No one has called me a woman before. I like it.
I notice Paul’s eyes drift away from me and over to the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘Shit, it’s nearly half past. I’d better get a move on,’ he says, standing up.
I can’t help but feel disappointed.
‘Now, I shouldn’t be back too late, but it’s hard to know with these things.’
‘That’s OK,’ I say.
I watch as he moves about the living room, scooping up his wallet and keys from the arm of the sofa and pulling on a matching blazer.
‘Duncan!’ he yells up the stairs. ‘I’m off. Be good for Mia.’
‘OK!’ Duncan yells back.
‘Are you not going to come down and give your old man a kiss goodbye?’
‘No thanks!’
Paul laughs and rolls his eyes. ‘Kids.’
‘Kids,’ I agree, mimicking Paul’s eye roll.
‘As always, help yourself to anything from the fridge,’ Paul says. ‘And if you need me for any reason, don’t hesitate to call.’
The smear of shaving cream is still on his neck. I stand up, rising onto my tiptoes to wipe it away with my index finger. His skin feels both rough and smooth at the same time.
‘Shaving foam,’ I explain.
‘Oh, I see,’ he says, his face and shoulders relaxing. ‘Thank you, Mia.’
I shut the door behind him and go back into the living room, flopping on the sofa and scrolling through the Sky Planner. Paul clearly has a thing for moody American crime dramas because they make up the majority of his watch list, along with the odd football match. I find a couple of films I wouldn’t mind watching and a heap of trashy reality TV stuff, before heading to the kitchen to investigate the contents of the fridge. It’s packed with olives and wheels of brie and three different kinds of hummus and those little cheesecakes that come in their own glass ramekins. I load up a plate and head back into the living room.
I select an episode of mine and Stella’s favourite reality TV show, dunk an artisan cheese straw into a tub of taramasalata and wait for my mind to empty.
I’m lying on the sofa watching one of the films I earmarked earlier when I hear a car in the driveway. Paul’s back already? It’s not even eleven. I grab the compact mirror from my bag and quickly check my reflection.
‘Hey, Mia,’ Paul says as he comes into the room. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ I say, tossing my hair over my shoulder.
‘Duncan OK?’
‘Yeah, all good,’ I say, even though I haven’t given Duncan a single thought all evening. ‘You’re back early,’ I add.
‘I’ve got a rule when it comes to work dos,’ Paul says, taking off his blazer. ‘Quit while you’re ahead.’ He drapes the jacket over the back of the sofa. ‘I already predict some rather red faces on Monday morning,’ he continues, laughing as he removes his cufflinks and rolls up his sleeves to the elbow.
An extra couple of buttons have come undone on his shirt. His chest is hairy. Manly. Nothing like Jordan’s – he used to wax the tiny bit of chest hair he had with a kit from Boots. What a loser.
Paul’s eyes flicker towards the TV. ‘Oh, I love this film,’ he says, sitting down on the sofa next to me. ‘Has it been on long?’
‘Half hour or so.’
‘There goes the rest of my night then,’ he says, propping his feet up on the coffee table.
For a few seconds we watch together, laughing out loud in unison. And it feels nice. Like we’re a couple almost.
Paul glances at me. ‘God, sorry, Mia, what am I thinking? You must be wanting to get home to bed.’
He arches his back to get his wallet out of his pocket. I can smell his aftershave. It smells nice, expensive. Paul is going through all the compartments in his wallet and muttering something about how he could have sworn he had another twenty on him. As he talks, I stare at his arms. I love the way his muscles strain against the pale blue cotton, how strong and safe and reassuring they look. They make Jordan’s arms look pathetic and weedy in comparison. In fact, everything about Paul makes Jordan look like a silly little boy.
I imagine him wrapping his arms around me and kissing me, telling me how beautiful and sexy I am.
He turns to me, a roll of notes in his hand. I realize I’m holding my breath.
‘I’ve only got thirty on me,’ he says apologetically. ‘All right if I pop round with another ten tomorrow?’
I scoot along the sofa a little. He turns his head to look at me, his lips only centimetres away from mine. It’s now or never. Before I can change my mind, I lean in and press my mouth hard against his.
‘Dad?’ Duncan’s reedy voice suddenly floats down the stairs.
Paul shoves me away and leaps to his feet, the money he was holding fluttering to the ground. The straps of my vest top have slipped off my shoulders. I rearrange them and tug at the hem of my skirt.
Duncan appears in the open doorway, his Star Wars pyjamas rumpled and riding up his skinny little legs, snow-white hair sticking up on end. Paul has shot over the other side of the room faster than the Road Runner. He’s pressed up against the fireplace, his neck and face flushed pink.
‘Hey, buddy!’ he says a bit too loudly, sounding like an overexcited children’s TV presenter. ‘What you doing up?’
‘I heard you talking,’ Duncan says, sticking out his lower lip.
Paul shoots me a look, but it’s too quick for me to have a decent stab at interpreting what it might mean.
‘Sorry, kiddo,’ he says. ‘Didn’t mean to wake you up. C’mere, I’ll come up and tuck you back in.’
He swoops over to Duncan, draping an arm round his shoulder and guiding him back out into the hallway. I plop down onto the sofa and listen as they climb the stairs together, Paul speaking to Duncan in a low voice.
I lift my fingers to my lips. A few minutes later, I hear Paul’s footsteps on the stairs. I sit up straighter, arching my back so my tits stick out.
Paul enters the room hesitantly. I wait for him to rejoin me on the sofa but he doesn’t. Instead he returns to the spot in front of the fireplace, raking his hands through his hair before placing his fingers on his temples like he’s trying to communicate with the dead.
‘Look, Mia, you’re a lovely girl, you really are …’
Girl. So all of a sudden I’m a girl again.
‘… but you can’t go round doing things like that.’
I feel like I’ve been slapped. Hard.
‘But I thought you liked me,’ I say. I hate the way my voice sounds, like a sulky little kid denied their share of the sweets.
Paul smiles this sad sort of smile that makes my cheeks burn with humiliation.
‘Of course I like you,’ he says. ‘But not like that, Mia, not ever like that. I’m, what, twenty-odd years older than you?’
‘So? Age is just a number,’ I babble. ‘If you like someone, you like someone, age shouldn’t even have to come into it.’
But do I even like Paul? I don’t know any more. All I know is that I hate the way he’s looking at me, with this excruciating mix of pity and confusion that makes me want to curl up in a ball and have the sofa cushions swallow me up.
‘Oh God, Mia, if I’ve given you the wrong idea somehow, then I’m truly sorry. That was never my intention, OK?’
My brain is spinning. I try to rewind, get the details straight, but the kiss is already a blur, my thoughts all jumbled up.
‘I think we should call it a night,’ Paul says. He’s still glued to the fireplace. ‘And perhaps it’s best if I find someone else to look after Duncan from now on,’ he adds.
‘Right,’ I mutter, standing up and grabbing my handbag.
I want to go home. I don’t want to be in this room, this house, a second longer.
Paul picks up the money he dropped and puts it on the coffee table for me. God, he can’t even bring himself to hand it to me. ‘I’ll stick that extra tenner in an envelope and pop it through your letterbox tomorrow,’ he says.
‘Don’t bother,’ I snap, snatching up the money.
‘Mia, don’t be like that.’ His voice is condescendingly gentle. I half expect him to pat me on the head and say ‘there, there’.
‘Are you going to let me out or what?’ I say, my eyes on the door.
He sighs and digs in his pocket for his keys. I just want him to hurry up.
Ordinarily, he’d walk me to the bottom of the driveway, his hand resting on the small of my back, but tonight he stays inside. The air outside is oven-warm, but I’m trembling like I’ve just been shoved into a walk-in freezer. Hugging my bag to my chest, I stalk down the driveway, praying to see my house is in darkness so I don’t have to face anyone. All I want to do is creep up to bed, fall asleep and forget tonight ever happened.