Chapter 27
Fifteen years ago
I think it’s Jack who lets me in. Or maybe his name is Jake. Yan goes through a lot of boyfriends.
‘Yan, your gorgeous sister is here,’ he shouts above the din of people and music.
It’s useless. I doubt the person three feet from him can hear, never mind Yan, wherever he is. How have the neighbours not complained about the music? They can’t all be Donna Summer fans.
I smile at Jack/Jake. ‘Hiya,’ I say, hoping he won’t notice I don’t remember his name.
‘Love what you’ve done with your hair.’ He gives me a hug and points towards the back of the house. ‘Yan was in the kitchen last I saw him.’
There are so many people at this party that squeezing my way through will be a struggle. I say people, but, in fact, it’s mainly men – all groomed, toned, and stylish. In any other circumstances, I might have felt intimidated, but if they’re Yan’s mates, they’re most likely all gay.
Eventually, I find the kitchen – and Yan – and hand over the bottle of Cyprus brandy I’ve brought for him.
‘Thanks, Nell,’ he says, admiring it. ‘Nightmare getting this stuff over here.’ He puts it safely away in the back of a cabinet so drunk partygoers don’t find it.
‘Leo not coming?’ he asks.
‘He’s tired.’
I only got back from Cyprus earlier today, and I haven’t called Leo yet, so I don’t know this for a fact, but it’s a good bet he is tired.
The holiday has energised me and there was no way I would miss Yan’s party.
Why hide away when I could be showing off my post-holiday glow?
My hair falls in soft waves thanks to four weeks away from London’s hard water, and my tan is at that perfect stage where I don’t need to wear make-up, just a touch of mascara and clear lip gloss.
Plus, I’m still in out-every-night mode and feel confident enough to wear a short, white dress with a plunging neckline and not feel self-conscious or worried that it’s slutty – even though it sort of is.
Any admiring looks I get will be directed either at my high-heeled gladiator sandals or charm bracelet, which looks extra shiny against my suntanned skin.
I make my way to the table and pour myself a drink. Red wine from a box into a plastic cup. Oh, Yan, you stingy git. Never change.
Yan gets pulled away by someone, and I head to the living room to see who I know.
A tall man is standing stiffly in the corner, his back to the room as he studies a bookcase.
His dark hair is buzz-cut short and he’s wearing a black T-shirt that stretches deliciously across his shoulders; it’s so snug, I can make out the outline of the individual muscles on his back.
There are so few people here standing by themselves that I feel sorry for him. As I move towards him, he turns round.
Mark?
I stop short.
It’s been more than a year since I last saw him. He’s been doing his military service in Cyprus. He looks both broader and leaner. His cheeks have hollowed, and he’s got a dusting of stubble across his jaw that makes the whites of his eyes pop.
But even while I make these micro assessments, I can’t miss the way he looks me up and down.
Like he’s starving, and I’m dinner.
I’m half tempted to flee just to get away from his wolfish gaze, but the fact he doesn’t recognise me actually pisses me off. He never used to give me the time of day at school, yet here Mark stands, oblivious, enjoying a mild rush of blood to the dick.
I’m about to give him a piece of my mind when he finally recognises me.
‘Nella? Jesus, you look different.’
‘Different, how?’ I ask coolly.
He seems startled by the question. His gaze flicks down to my legs, and I fight the urge to tug at the hem of my dress.
Who knew that all it would take for me to reduce Mark Marino to a speechless mess was a short skirt and balcony bra?
Men are so predictable.
‘Good to see you too, Mark,’ I say, my voice saccharine sweet.
It seems to bring him to his senses. ‘I’m sorry. I sounded like an arsehole. I didn’t expect to see you, that’s all. You look great.’
Before I can stop him, he’s closed the distance between us and is leaning in to kiss my cheek.
I put my hand up to stop his body from getting too close.
It rests hot and awkward on his chest as he brushes his lips against my cheek, then he hovers a fraction of a second before he kisses my other cheek.
His hand is splayed across the small of my back.
I feel these points of contact like static electricity, an unwanted crackle generated deep under my skin.
My reaction shocks me, and I take a step back, trying to slow my breathing. He scratches the back of his neck and the short sleeve of his T-shirt lifts, revealing a well-defined tricep.
His eyes have always been mesmerising. The closer you get the better they look. Even in the relative dark of the room, they’re as clear as amber glass. The devil has angel’s eyes, as my gran always says.
I look away before it gets weird.
Someone puts on Kylie, and a tide of people surge into the middle of the room to dance. Mark instinctively puts his hand on my arm, and we take a step back to the bookcase.
‘You’re tapping your foot,’ I tell him.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You want to dance. Admit it.’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t dance.’
‘Your mum would disagree.’
‘I don’t like to dance.’
‘So what are you doing at a party, then?’
‘I’m starting to wonder the same thing.’
I move closer to the middle of the room to join the other dancers.
‘Your loss,’ I say as nonchalantly as I can.
I sway my hips in time to the music, and after a few moments I look over my shoulder. Mark’s taking a sip of beer, watching me. He puts the bottle down on a shelf, and then he’s at my side.
I can’t help grinning.
He leans into my ear. ‘Tell Yan I said hello.’
I frown. ‘You haven’t seen him and you’re already leaving?’
‘I came here to kill time before my six a.m. flight back to Larnaca. I’m gonna wait in the airport.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I mumble.
I wait for him to kiss my cheek goodbye, but he backs away with a little salute, and I’m left feeling forlorn.
‘Oh, honey,’ says a kind voice next to me. It’s Jack/Jake. ‘The pretty ones are never worth it.’
I’m keeping an eye on how much I drink because there’s far too much easily available alcohol, and I’ve been feeling antsy. After a couple of hours, I ask a guy wearing a feather boa, pants, and not much else if there are any soft drinks, and I’m sent to the garage on the promise of Diet Coke.
Seeing Mark has unsettled me. Last night, I’d gone clubbing with my cousin Niki. I’d slow danced with a friend of hers and, even though he’d been a perfect gentleman, it had felt like a terrible betrayal of Leo.
I’ve been starting to feel that I’m too young to be tied to someone. I’d only agreed to go out with Leo in the first place because his mum and mine were such good friends and were always dropping hints about what a cute couple we’d make.
I’d have been happy just staying friends, but he’d seemed keen, and I was curious to see what it would be like to have a boyfriend and to try out this French-kissing lark the girls in my class kept going on about.
Kissing Leo is … okay. I mean, it’s not horrible or anything, but I just don’t see what all the fuss is about. Leo is always up for doing more, but I’ve been holding firm. Inside the bra is acceptable, inside the knickers is not. I just don’t feel anything more towards him.
I mean, Leo is a nice-looking boy. He has these very full pink lips that everyone bangs on about and hair that arranges itself into perfect ringlets if he lets it grow too long. The nurses at the hospital always make a big fuss of his pretty hair.
I’m not going to think about Leo, I decide. Treat tonight as an extension of my holiday – real life is suspended for one more night.
It’s cool in the garage, and with the door closed, the music pumping from the lounge is muted to a more neighbour-friendly volume. I can still make out Justin Timberlake’s ‘Rock Your Body’.
For a six-student house-share, the garage is remarkably tidy.
I mean, there’s a lot of stuff in here – old sun loungers and cushions stacked haphazardly in the corner, but close to me, there’s a washing machine and separate dryer and neatly arranged bottles of all sorts of detergents and fabric softeners.
Yan inherited Dad’s tidiness and Mum’s obsession with trying every laundry product on the market.
The Persil makes me yearn to get into some fresh clothes.
I’m sweaty and it’s making the underwire in my bra chafe my skin.
I pull the straps off my shoulder and sigh with pleasure.
I don’t have to look to know there’ll be angry red lines crisscrossing my skin.
My D-cup boobs are too big to spend so long squished together.
There’s no one here, so I yank the stretchy fabric of my dress down and quickly remove my bra.
Bliss.
I pull my dress back up, then pause. What should I do with my bra? I don’t have pockets and I left my bag inside. I spot a dusty hook on the back of the door, and I hang it up on that.
Maybe it was pointless to dig out a Wonderbra and killer heels to come to a party full of gay men, but it’s liberating to dress up and not have to worry about unwanted attention.
Although, not everyone’s attention had been unwanted. And his reaction had been surprising, to say the least.
I can’t help smiling and do a little dance step in time with Justin Timberlake. I sing a few bars in a rubbish falsetto and salsa to the back of the garage where the groceries are stored.
It’s too dark to see what’s what, so I flick on the light.
There’s a man lying on his side on an old wooden sun lounger.
I scream.
‘Nella?’
It’s Mark. What the hell? My heart is beating so hard it feels like I’m having a heart attack.
Mark seems pretty startled himself, like he’s been pulled suddenly from sleep.
‘Why aren’t you at the airport?’
He rubs his eyes. ‘I missed the last tube, so I’m waiting until they start again.’ He checks his watch. ‘Why are you here?’