16. 7 Weeks Earlier – Bonfire Night
16
7 WEEKS EARLIER – BONFIRE NIGHT
JOSIE
I wrap my scarf around my neck and pull on my coat, fluffing my hair out to my shoulders. Earlier today I re-dyed it. Roots had been peeping through with my usual auburn and, although I like my natural colour, I love switching it up, too. Now the cherry red clashes with the mustard chunky-knit hat I pull on — the autumnal colours, the vibrant tones, make my heart sing. I love this time of year.
I snap a pouting selfie in front of the freshly painted mural which now fills my lounge wall. It’s so fresh, some of the paint is only just dry. I send the photo to Ella, gutted she can’t join in tonight. I wish that girl would give herself more of a break. Life is short. Life is precious.
Josie
Change your mind and come out with us? You haven’t been out with the old gang for ages.
My phone pings a reply.
Ella
I can’t. Running around after Chloe. If I’m lucky I’ll maybe get an hour to myself.
Well, at least there's a chance for some fun.
Josie
In that case CHARGE THAT VIBE
I chuckle to myself as I imagine her blushing, but also scurrying to find the charger.
Josie
I’ll miss you
Ella is dedicated to looking after her little sister, almost to a fault. The only time she gets to herself is our weekly cocktail date where we catch up and set the world to rights. I’d dragged the poor girl to a countryside pub a few nights ago on a failed mission to track down that bloody zombie. He’d asked my name on Halloween, but my pheromone-addled brain had thought it was a super sexy idea to remain nameless.
It wasn’t just the pheromones. I was kind of in shock, or in awe at least, that I’d actually gone down on a virtual stranger. And let him go down on me. Let myself get that vulnerable with someone. That night, I’d felt a maelstrom of emotions, wholly out of my depth. Faking confidence, and, honestly, stunned at how attracted I was to him — and at how easily he’d made me come.
Now, a week on, the initial shock has worn off, I’m fucking proud of myself … but infuriated that I didn’t get his contact details. So, of course, I’ve turned into an amateur PI, thinking my internet sleuthing skills were exemplary as I located the pub from the logo on his ripped top. But, when we’d got there, there were no zombies. And not even any cocktails — at first.
Ella seemed to make a connection with the bartender, though, and he rustled up some exotic drinks for us, so at least it wasn’t a total bust. But no sign of my guy. The one that was supposed to be an anonymous, one-time thing. The one that I can’t get out of my head.
A flash of something warm passes through me, but a text comes through before I can consider what it means.
Ella
Miss you too. Loving what you’ve done with your flat.
My flat! I squeeze my shoulders as I look around the place. I might only be subletting it from Abi while she’s in South America, but she’d said to make it my own. And that I have.
She can’t be cross. Surely, it’s her fault for sending me to work at a sex party where I’d had the most mind-blowing time of my life. I couldn’t sleep after. I’d not been able to find the words to describe how he made me feel. Electric wasn’t strong enough. Iridescent , maybe. So I’d painted, staying up all night, restless and vibrating.
I run my fingers over the rich whirls of reds and golds, white and black birds fluttering for the heavens, the orange of fire, heat, and Halloween, blooms of flowers open and inviting. A room-sized monument to feeling free.
My phone goes off again, letting me know my old school friends are outside — the last of my classmates left in town. Stuffing my gloves in my bag, I head out to join the group. We’ve not much in common anymore, other than shared age and classroom memories — I miss Ella at times like these.
We walk the mile towards the park hosting the bonfire, chatting and catching up. A trickle of other people walk along in couples and families, all of us heading to the same place.
We’re all togged up in our winter gear, waddling almost, in the chilly evening air. The smell of caramelised apples and log fires hits me as we approach the huge field. Music pumps from distant speakers, and kids run and screech through the park. There’s an excited vibe in the air.
Under a brightly lit entrance gazebo, we pay to go in. My purse slips easily into my usually crammed bag. I pat around it and realise I’ve lost a glove. Glancing around, it’s not on the floor anywhere.
‘I’ll catch you up, guys,’ I call out. ‘I’ve dropped something.’
They give me a wave as they head in. I retrace my steps and find my hat-matching mustard glove draped on a bush — likely picked up and set aside by a kind stranger. I stow it safely in my bag with its twin. With a smile to the ticket people, I head back towards the field to look for the gang.
Fireworks night is one of my favourites. I love the colours. The way they change. The way the smoke tracks in starry constellations — imprints of fireworks past.
Then there’s the bonfire. The shapes the flames make as they consume the logs and kindling. The way the sparks zing into the ether. I’ve lost days, days , trying to capture the magic of fire on canvas.
I head away from the lights of the entrance gazebo and towards the flaming spectacle, scanning into the crowd for my friends.
Shit. With every step I take, the light gets dimmer and dimmer. I’d totally forgotten how dark it was going to be. I squint into the masses, but can’t see my group anywhere. I can’t see anything other than the people directly in front of me, outlines and shadows, and kids bobbing around with glow sticks.
Pick up, pick up. I try phoning people in my group, but it rings out. The music and the hubbub is pretty loud; no wonder they can’t hear.
A waft of fried onions tugs at my nose. Perhaps they’ve gone to get a drink or hot dog or something.
Ambling through the gloom towards the glowing stands that surround the edge of the field, I try not to trip over giggling kids as I pick my way through the throng.
The glow stick stall is doing a roaring trade to pre-teens. No sign of my gang there. No luck at the candyfloss or hot dog stalls either, although my stomach is becoming very interested in the rich smells filling the air.
I shiver, bringing my coat closer around me. A hot toddy or something would hit the spot right now. People are drifting past with steaming drinks; the bar must be near here somewhere. And, I expect, my friends.
The bar stall has a small crowd around it, but, scanning all the faces, I don’t recognise anyone.
Wait.
The guy behind the stall is a little familiar. The set of his massive shoulders. The cock of his head. He nods as he talks to a customer, then turns to get something. I follow his movements, noticing a huge banner at the back of the stall. The Bull Inn . The curl of the script, the image of the logo — it’s exactly the same as the one I’d traced on his pec six nights ago.
Could it really be?
He turns back with two cans in his hand and gives them to the customer, that devilish smile in plain sight.
Fuck, yes. It is him!
Except this time, he has dark eyes haloed by equally dark, lush lashes, plump pink lips, a dusting of dark stubble on his jaw, and cheeks flush with life instead of the grey pallor from the make-up.
I’d spent long enough studying his features as I watched him come undone at my touch, my mouth. His makeup had been good, but that was a face I wasn’t going to forget.
With my eyes glued on him, I find myself sucked into the line of customers, inching forwards.
The DJ makes an announcement, saying the display will begin after the next song, and Katie Perry’s Firework belts out from the speakers. People start hustling away, probably to get closer to the bonfire.
I find myself at the front of the queue. A hastily scribbled whiteboard shows me the options. While I’d been checking out the hot zombie, I hadn’t missed the scent of the rich, spicy drinks people were coming away with, so there’s no doubt about my order.
‘What can I get you?’ Those eyes are so rich up close, a deep chocolatey brown, flecks of amber glowing in them in the strip lighting. They’re warm, molten almost, and a far cry from the steely monochrome contacts.
‘Do you have any lollipops?’
It comes out of nowhere. Why did I say that? This is a bar stall. Of course he doesn’t have sweets. My bloody brain is tripping out on me, as it often does. Saying random bullshit I have no control over.
He angles his head, mouth opening and closing, as if surprised and not sure what to say. Of course he is. No one goes to the drinks tent and asks for sweets.
‘No,’ he says slowly, kindly, almost suspiciously, ‘we have drinks though. Would you like one?’ He’s staring at me intently and I meet his gaze. Willing him to work it out.
Join the dots.
‘I’ll have a mulled wine … please.’ I beam and his eyes flash. Then he dips his head, before turning to grab a glass and filling it with a steaming, burgundy liquid from a silver urn.
As he passes it to me, I meet his gaze again and say, ‘You know, being un-undead really suits you.’ I grasp the drink and lift it up to gesture a cheers sign. ‘Thanks for this.’
Then I swivel and walk away with not even a glance back.
What did I just do?
Was it technically stealing?
Maybe.
Was it expecting the guy who gave me mind-blowing orgasms to buy me a drink?
Most definitely.
Am I going to be in trouble?
Possibly not.
Would it mean I see him again?
Hopefully.
Why I couldn’t say, ‘ Hi, do you remember me?’ I don’t know.
Fuck my brain’s surprise random bullshit mode — sometimes it shocks me as much as everyone else.
I’m determined not to peek back, but I wish I could see the look on his face. Is it stunned? Outraged?
Shit, what if he’s nonplussed?
I keep going, one foot in front of the other, and scan the crowd for my friends. Unable to spy them anywhere, I hit redial, but it rings out.
The last few bars of the song peel away, and I turn to the display area, resigned to finding my friends after. Thankfully, watching fireworks is not reliant on being with other people, although I always think stuff like this is better shared. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t gone travelling like Abi — I don’t want to do it alone.
I put the mulled wine to my lips, inhaling the spicy sweet aroma. Suddenly, arms surround me. I gasp as I’m pulled against a solid body, the warm drink slopping over my hand.
Right in my ear there’s hot breath, a voice. ‘Stealing, huh? Is that another trick of yours?’
Zombie.
Colourful bangs start whizzing and crackling overhead. The sharp smell of gunpowder fills the air.
Hands are roaming across my thick coat, working their way inside as he nuzzles my scarf down, teeth finding my neck and giving a nip that makes me gasp. My breath puffs out into a cloud and then vanishes.
Outraged. Delighted. I suppress a giggle and taunt, ‘I thought you were supposed to be a zombie, not a vampire?’
For that I earn a harder nip, and a strong suck that makes my knees buckle. My cup slips from my hand as my back arches. Strong arms hold me up, spinning me round to face him in the darkness.
Hands are in my hair. Lips are on my mouth briefly, tenderly, then my face, my neck.
His calloused fingers move, tracing their way under my layers, burning along my ribs. Another fierce suck on my neck as stars burst around us.
Through the noise, the bangs, I hear him mutter how the thought of me has been driving him crazy, how beautiful I am. Nonsense pours from his lips as he presses them into my skin, chasing goosebumps along my limbs.
I try to kiss him back but he moves his mouth away. His hand brands my back where he grips me close. His head rests on mine and into my hair he rumbles, ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Wha?’ I reply, almost incoherent.
‘I can’t tonight.’
A bubble of disappointment swells up from my centre and into my throat. ‘But …’
‘Come find me.’
‘How? Where?’ I pant.
‘Hide and seek. You’ll work it out.’ One last suck on my neck. One last kiss on the lips and then he backs off as rockets explode above.
His silhouette vanishes in the dark crowd of people who are oblivious as they coo and caw, admiring the display above. I touch my fingers to where I can still feel the rough tingle on my lips as I stare after him.
He’d barely kissed me on Halloween.
Okay, he’d kissed me everywhere … but barely on my mouth. And again, now, a fleeting, almost brutal connection.
But it has wrecked me.
I’m totally gone.
Craving his lips, his mouth. More.
There’s a last thrust of fireworks, the finale reaching a crescendo. Then the whizzes and bangs above fade, and the crowd starts to heave and surge with people rushing off to their cars, their homes. Looking back to the bar tent, there’s no sign of my hot zombie bartender so I join the throng and try to catch up with my group. Finally, I spot them at the exit and tug at my scarf where I can still feel the sting of the zombie’s harsh kiss.