She has arranged to meet Dan. He’s late. She’s noticed that about him. He’s always late. The few times they’ve actually arranged a date, that is. Usually they just bump into each other somewhere and go on from there. She watches the queue for the popcorn diminish. If he doesn’t turn up soon they’ll be late for the film. It’s then that she sees him circling in the revolving door.
She closes her eyes against the flickering of the screen. She doesn’t like these self-indulgent French films. She tires of reading the sub-titles. She drifts, thinking of other things. She has on her new bra. The wires are digging into the sides of her breasts. She’s never worn a bra with underwiring before. The effect is magnificent, almost worth the discomfort.
She’s glad he’d left so abruptly. She wouldn’t have known what to say to him, Thank you, it’s very nice, doesn’t quite do it. Would he expect her to be wearing it at the next sitting? She’s going to feel really awkward if she doesn’t. Why couldn’t he have just bought her a box of chocolates, for God’s sake! And yet she is touched. No man has ever bought her anything so special. And it must have cost loads.
The way he had held her breasts had been so tender, as if he’d thought he might break them. She remembers the smell of Imperial Leather. It reminded her of her granddad. She’d done it out of a sense of kindness, of gratitude. She’d seen the expression on his face turn to confusion, then horror, when he realised what he’d said. And then how forlorn he’d looked when she’d asked him if he’d ever held a woman’s breasts. He wasn’t like an ordinary man. She didn’t feel threatened by him.
Dan digs her in the ribs. She opens her eyes. She wants to wait until the credits have finished rolling but he’s already making his way towards the aisle.
She takes a sip of her beer; wishes she had enough money to get drunk.
‘I think it’s better we buy our own,’ he always says. ‘Keeps it tidy, then.’
She hates meanness, especially as she knows he has money.
‘So you enjoyed the film?’ He grins. He has the most perfect set of teeth she’s ever seen. Strange, she thinks, how you can fancy someone and then it not work in bed.
‘Thought it was a bit pretentious actually.’
‘How would you know? You slept through most of it.’
‘The bit I saw was. So it stands to reason.’
He languishes back in his chair, legs apart. ‘I hadn’t been to the cinema for ages.’
‘I went to see the Toulouse Lautrec film last week with …’ No, she won’t tell him that.
‘I wanted to see that. Why didn’t you give me a bell?’
She shrugs it away, ‘How’s your dissertation going?’
‘Not good. I had what I thought was a really good idea and that bastard Alex says, it’s shit, go away and think of something else.’
‘Why do you take any notice of him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if you think it works.’
‘The bastard would fail me, I know he would.’
She stands up. ‘Right, I’m off.’
‘Aren’t you having another half.’
‘Haven’t got anymore money.’
‘There’s a cash machine round the corner.’
She can’t believe the meanness of this man. ‘When I say I haven’t got any more money, I mean I haven’t got any money.’
He sighs a long suffering sigh, ‘Sit down, I’ll get you one.’
She sits back down, ‘Why, thank you. Can I have a pint this time? I could do with getting drunk.’ She watches him standing at the bar; faded jeans, clumpy boots, nice arse.
Back in his room, the sheets are even greyer than before. She sits down on the edge of the bed and watches him strip off. She loves his body, perfect even down to the slight tan. He jumps into bed, pulls her towards him. His kiss is sloppy, intrusive. She pulls away.
‘Come on, aren’t you getting undressed?’
‘Not sure I can be bothered,’ she yawns, stretching her arms above her head. This action causes the underwiring in her bra to dig sharply into her breasts. She lets out a little gasp and stands up. Dan hasn’t noticed her discomfort. He is leaning out of bed scrabbling for something underneath.
She feels quite drunk and sits back down on the bed, ‘What are you doing?’
He sits back up a grin on his face. In his hand he has a small clear plastic bag. He waves it at her, ‘Thought this would liven you up.’
‘What is it?’ She knows what it is. Suddenly she feels afraid.
‘Nice bit of spliff, best Moroccan.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘You’ve tried it before haven’t you, you’re not that square.’
‘Course I have,’ she lies. She has to get out of here.
‘I think artists should to be made to take it.’
‘I don’t need it. I can be creative without all that shit.’
‘Cocky, aren’t we? Well, answer me this, Miss Think-we’re-so-bloody-fantastic, how do you know if you’ve never tried. I think I’ve got an LSD pill under here somewhere,’ he leans back under the bed. ‘I’ll split it with you.’
She walks back home through the terraced streets. No TV screens to watch tonight. Everyone’s gone to bed. She could so easily have stayed, been persuaded. Spliff? LSD? And then what else? It would be so easy to be curious. She wasn’t like that though. Not like him. She wonders if he’s even noticed she’s gone yet.
She studies her reflection as she passes a darkened window. She has the same loping gait as her mother.