I stare at the ceiling of a room in a student flat near Bloomsbury. Pedro is not big on interior décor. It turns out he’s from Seville so makes do with a dresser that’s falling apart, sheets that smell vaguely of oregano, brand-new shiny textbooks and an old birthday card that he’s Blu-Tacked to the door of his wardrobe. I’ll also be frank, he’s big on pubic hair too. Christ, I was waiting for chicks to fly out but A* for effort and enthusiasm and asking me what I liked rather than just ploughing ahead. Would recommend, would come again, hopefully, will come before I leave. Pedro confirms his student status to me as he’s now having a light nap while I count the cobwebs hanging in the corners of his room. I roll over and study the spines of his textbooks and examine the used condom strewn on the carpet. Why do they do that? Like, wrap it in something at least, right?
After introductions, Pedro became quite chatty telling us about his course, his part-time job working as a barista and blabbed some bullshit about Proust that I think he thought was smart. Jill observed the interaction and, as soon as he initiated some flirty contact by touching my knee, she got up and excused herself to go to a tutor group session. Before she left, she held me close and told me to be present. I shouldn’t be retracing steps, I should be going down a newly forged path. Ones that involve random Spaniards.
Pedro snuffles lightly in his sleep and rolls over. There was a spark there for a brief moment when we got in through the front door and he whispered something Spanish in my ear, his breath warm on my neck. Did I enjoy that? It was less awkward than I thought I would be. I remembered how to put a condom on, which given everything I’ve forgotten feels like a skill worth noting. My recollections of my teen sex involved trying to work out what fitted where, like those baby wooden toys where you’re getting the shapes to match up. This felt like more a dance with moves and rhythm that maybe my muscles still remembered in parts. I felt pleasure deep within me, which was a relief but also a release. It felt good. It felt like I still worked. Would do again. Maybe not with Pedro and the big bush because I feel I need to floss now and your dental hygiene shouldn’t be the first thing you think about after having sex.
As I lie here, I think about how many times I may have done this, on a variety of beds with different people, and I won’t lie, it actually arouses me. A lightbulb flickers away inside of me. Not to remember but to think what is now possible. Thanks, Jill.
I’ve not changed. I’m still a nosey bitch so instead of lying here I get up, put some knickers on and head to the kitchen. Pedro is not big on snacks and this is a reason why we would never have a future together. I pour myself a glass of water and sip it as I walk into the living room. Pedro does do plants though and throws, so many throws, like a true student. And books, many books, their spines bent back and withered. I sit down, boobs out, on a very uncomfortable sofa to take it all in. It’s like a version of my house share without the charm, the nudists or the ladders. My eyes are suddenly drawn to a book on the shelf that seems to be a photo album so I sit on the edge of the sofa and run a finger down the spine to remove it from its place on the shelf. Pedro on his travels. He doesn’t wear bad denim all the time, he wears short shorts and goes up mountains and likes a picturesque backdrop to show how he conquered those mountains. How does one do that with your pubic hair situation? He must chafe like hell. He also likes his photos of nature. Seriously, who takes this many pictures of trees unless they have some sort of bark fetish? Does he look back on these and go, Oh, I remember that oak from that hill I climbed in Bologna. What a trunk.
However, after a while, the pictures start to change and a young lady with brown curly hair and hazel eyes suddenly appears in the photos. They like a sunset and a selfie at dinner, these two. She is very present in all these photos to the point where I go to the bathroom and open a cupboard. That’s women’s moisturiser, that’s women’s shampoo for frizzy hair, that’s a lady shaver. I go back to the bedroom and open a drawer. Pedro, there are women’s undergarments in this drawer. You absolute helmet. I stand over the bed, wearing only my knickers, the photo album in hand and drop it with some force over his crotch. I don’t worry too much because his pubes will absorb most of the force.
‘Oooof…’ he says in grunted Spanish tones. He observes me standing there, seemingly not too bothered about having my tits out in his room. ‘Are you going?’
‘I am.’
‘I had fun, can I have your number?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, it’s 0781… you-have-a-girl-friend…’
He looks down at the photo album and twigs why I may be a tad confrontational.
‘Oh, we broke up.’
‘Which is why her pants are still in the drawer. Unless they’re yours but hell, I don’t judge.’
He pats the space in the bed next to him, beckoning me to sit down. I don’t move.
‘They’re not mine. They’re…’
‘Your girlfriend’s.’
‘Seriously… we’ve just broken up. She hasn’t had time to move her things out. Please, stay…’
He continues to pat the bed like one would for a dog, encouraging them to jump up.
‘You fell asleep and… you have a girlfriend…’ I say, collecting my belongings from around the flat.
‘I don’t…’
But before he has the time to answer, a door opens and a voice rings through the flat.
‘Pedro! Pedro? Are you here? My lecture got cancelled.’
You do. It’s the look in his eyes that catches me first, they almost drain of colour, the whites of his eye glow, every sinew in him stiffens. He suddenly scrambles around in his bed, rearranging the sheets and throwing my bra at me. I catch it like a pro but the panic doesn’t seem to flow through me as much. Pedro, she’s home! How are you going to get yourself out of this little pickle?
‘Please, put some clothes on…’ he begs.
You see this scene in the movies quite a lot, don’t you? The wife comes back early and the husband who has his secret lover in the bedroom has to make a mad scramble to put his dick away and hide said lover in a wardrobe or under the bed or push her out through some open window so she can scale down a drainpipe. They are scenes masked in shame and secrecy. But maybe this girl deserves better. I roll my T-shirt on very slowly and Pedro stands up to try and throw a sheet over my body like a toga. How many other people have you shagged behind your girlfriend’s back, Pedro? He stuffs my coat in my bag and takes the used condom and places it in one of his coat pockets. Mate. That’s really grim. Use. A. Tissue.
‘I’m making tea! Do you want tea?’ rings a voice from the kitchen. I’ll have tea if you’re making. I hear her talking to someone on the phone. We don’t have a lot of time, Pedro… do we? He goes to the window of his room, which opens out into the street.
‘Please… Please… I beg of you. Please, Lucy.’
‘Did you not want my number then?’
‘I will pay you to move quicker.’
‘I believe that’s called prostitution. I’m offended.’
‘She will kill me, please… don’t do this…’
‘Do what?’ I stare at him for a moment. You cad. How many times have you done this? In the actual bed you share with your girl? The girl you’ve shared all those moments and pictures with. How long will you keep doing this to her? All the way through university together? Through a marriage? After you have kids? This girl deserves better. I’m not leaving out of a fucking window. I put on my clothes, stuffing my bra in my bag, and barge past him, sauntering through the flat until I find the girlfriend in the kitchen, dunking teabags in and out of mugs, AirPods in, chatting to someone animatedly in Spanish. Pedro chases me down clumsily like he’s escaping a hurricane. Mate, you have no idea.
‘Hi! I’m Lucy…’
‘Disculpe, hay una chica aquí…’ she mumbles, looking at me curiously. Pedro appears at the door and smooths down his hair, hoping it might mask his damning guilt.
‘Gabriella.’ She even reaches out and shakes my hand.
‘God, you’re so beautiful. Pedro, you didn’t tell me how beautiful she is…’
‘Thank you…’ she says. ‘Who are you?’
‘I met Pedro at the university.’
Pedro is a funny colour now. The sort of colour of raw chicken that’s gone past its best before date. He’s also sweating a great deal, droplets of sweat just forming in globules on his brow.
‘Well, would you like tea?’
God, you’re sweet too. I shake my head. The thing is I didn’t want to cause a scene or leave a note anonymously. I needed to meet her first so I could look her in the eye and make sure she isn’t too fragile or that the news would leave her in danger.
‘This is my number, Gabriella,’ I say, slipping my number to her on an old receipt I’ve found in my bag. ‘I’d guess both of you are very new to London so do give me call if you need me.’
‘Why would I need you?’
‘Because I just slept with your boyfriend…’ I say with steely eyes. ‘He didn’t tell me about you because I’d never have slept with him if I’d known you existed. I am so very sorry you are hearing this from me and not him. It gives me no joy to bring you pain but the way he tried to just push me out of a window makes me think, Gabriella, that you deserve better.’
I will not feel shame in this but I can at least make this better for her. Pedro looks like he might throw up. She stares at him and then back at me.
‘For how long?’
‘It lasted about twenty minutes.’
‘No, I mean… I had my suspicions he was seeing another woman.’
‘Oh, no… we just met.’
Pedro. You bloody whore of a man. Gabriella shakes her head and I hear a very angry Spanish voice projecting through her AirPods, which she places on her kitchen counter. There is then a barrage of Spanish words that my GCSE can’t quite translate but I think I hear the words for pharmacy, sausage and the colour green.
‘This was not your job to tell her…’ he tells me angrily.
‘No, it was yours, you lying piece of mierda!’ she screams, storming out of the kitchen and into their bedroom. I stand there in the hallway peering through, still on nosey bitch mode, watching as she opens bags and stuffs them full of her belongings. Pedro cries on his knees, she tosses some Proust at him, right into his eye. Good for you, girl. She then starts chucking stuff out the window Pedro asked me to jump out of so I absent myself and go out into the street. I hope she throws him out by the scruff of his neck. I cross the road and watch as passers-by get sucked into the drama. That’s a laptop, girl! I hope his thesis is on there and it’s not backed up. Pants, socks and shoes follow and the shrieking sound of Spanish anger resounds down the street like the scene from a better film where a douche gets his comeuppance. My phone suddenly rings inside my bag. It’s Beth.
‘Hey, babe.’
‘Hey. Where are you? Who’s shouting?’
‘A Spanish girl called Gabriella has found her fire.’
‘Did you help her find that?’
‘Naturally. She’s just thrown a kettle out of the window.’
‘Is it a good kettle?’
I watch as crockery starts breaking on the pavement like something out of a Greek wedding. I wish I understood Spanish a bit better.
‘I slept with a Spaniard, B.’
‘OK, someone’s going out into the world again and having fun. That’s good?’
‘No. His girlfriend came home while I had my tits out in their bedroom.’
‘Oh. Shit. Why are you still there?’
‘Because. Drama. I kinda started it, I want to make sure she gets out all right. I’ll leave if the police show up. He had a lot of pubes.’
‘The Spaniard? More than me?’
‘Enough to have donated pubes to at least two other men.’
‘Why would you donate pubes?’
‘For merkins, maybe.’
Beth is silent. Possibly wondering if I’ve hit my head again.
‘Anyway, when you’re done, go to Mum’s. It’s the reason I’m calling. I’m coming round.’
‘OK, for dinner? You bringing the boys?’
‘Nah… I just found something out and you need to know… Meg will be there too.’
The tone of Beth’s voice changes and, for a moment, I stop looking across the road, at the builders heckling the scene from the scaffolding next door, at the old woman with a shopping trolley who seems to be stealing some of Pedro’s stuff, at the people filming the drama on their phones.
‘Everything OK, B?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. I don’t want to say it on the phone.’
‘Is it the boys? Will? Are you OK?’
‘No. It’s just… Oscar. You had that name Oscar on your phone. Oscar from the 9th of February. We’ve worked out who it is…’