Chapter 16
Finn
Megan’s plane lands at six fifteen, which gives me twelve minutes to make it to the pickup point or leave her hanging around getting piss soaked in the mizzle waiting for me.
Pi’s voice bounces about in my skull. “This could’ve been avoided if you’d bothered to check out the route beforehand.”
“Fuck you, pard,” I whisper into the darkness of my car.
Images of last night flash through my mind. The feel of his lips on mine, the taste of him, the look on his face as he broke . . . “Princess.”
Actually, I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I left his place, and I’ve already had two cheeky wanks remembering it all—one the very second I got home, and one this morning immediately upon waking at five o’clock.
I’m considering pulling the car into a lay-by and bashing another one out before I pick up my girlfriend.
I’ve not been this horny for someone since that one time at the Truro branch of Planet Collectibles when comic book Jean Grey in all her green Lycra-suited glory fell into my grubby pubescent thirteen-year-old mitts.
Overnight I went from zero self-exploration and discovery to jorking it being my entire personality.
Good times.
I don’t stop for a quick fiddle, but I still arrive at the airport over an hour late. Megan being Megan is entirely unbothered. She scrolls on her phone, under a big Perspex bus shelter, chatting to an elderly couple who’re hunkering down with her.
She skips to the car. Literally skips, like a pre-schooler. “Hi, babe.”
“Sorry I’m late. I got lost. I couldn’t text you because there’s no signal around here,” I reply.
“I know. That’s why I told you my flight landed at six fifteen instead of seven when it actually landed.”
“Oh.” I mean, I guess that’s fair.
“Also, I promised Maddy and Earnie you’d drop them at their hotel in central Bath.” She’s not asking a question, she’s telling me.
I glance over my shoulder at the back seat of my Subaru Impreza. I’m a big boy. At six-six, I’ve had to slide the driver’s seat all the way back to the last notch, meaning there’s a couple of inches of leg room behind me at most.
“Maddy’s only four foot eleven,” Megan says, as though reading my mind. “Her legs won’t even touch the mat.”
“Sure, why not.” I say, and Megs waves the two old people over.
Madeline and Earnest Fraser turn out to be Saskatchewanian tourists midway through their grand European odyssey. I can think of much nicer, warmer, and drier places I’d rather spend my Christmas in, but they’re keen to bask in the bleak, grey, Dickensian realness of Britain during wintertime.
I play carols through the car’s speaker system.
Unpopular opinion: carols are infinitely more joyful and fun to sing than trashy pop songs about wanting to ride Santa like his sleigh or songs about buying fuck loads of landfill fodder.
With, of course, the exception of Wham. “Last Christmas” is a fucking choon.
“How was Marseille?” I ask Megan, as we trundle down winding dark lanes on our way back to Bath.
“Good, yeah,” she replies.
“How’s your dad? Is he still dating that woman?”
“What woman?”
“You know, the one with dyed black hair and like sixteen ferrets.”
Megan laughs. “Ohh, Loretta. No, he doesn’t see her any more.
Man, I miss Loretta. She was a blast.” She looks behind her at the old couple who, since the sun has risen, have taken to gazing wide-eyed out of their respective windows at the never-ending British countryside and tiny chocolate box villages.
In all fairness, the drive from the airport to Bath is very picturesque and probably exactly as they imagined England would be.
“How’ve you been?” Megan lowers her voice. “Have you been active in that thing we talked about at Nando’s?”
Luckily, I’m concentrating on pulling the car to a stop at traffic lights, otherwise I’d be swerving into the bushes.
“Uh . . .” I spare a glance in the mirror at the old folk on my back seat. Neither of them seems to be paying a jot of attention to our conversation.
“Cows, Earn,” Madeline says, pointing out the window.
“No, I haven’t,” I say.
I’ve no idea why I lie. It might be because there are two elderly strangers in the car with us.
Or maybe I don’t feel like confessing all the sordid details, even though they make my tummy go squiggly with excitement.
Or it could be something else. Perhaps I just don’t want Megan knowing that part of my life.
And yeah, I know we agreed to be honest with each other, but it doesn’t feel right.
At least right now it doesn’t feel right.
“You haven’t?” She sounds genuinely surprised, which means my acting is on point today. “Not even when you guys played Leicester last month?”
“Nope,” I say, staring straight ahead. If I turn to look at her, I’ll surely give the game away.
“Who did you share a room with?” she asks.
“Snatch.” I keep my voice level, believable.
“Oh.” She sits back in her seat, shoulders sagging. “Okay.” She leans forward again, and turns towards me. “But, like, would you still want to do that thing we talked about if the opportunity with that person arose?”
The oldies are definitely paying attention now. They know we’re not discussing a work or family issue. I know they know.
I shrug, buying myself a little time to reset my thunderous heartbeat and calm my skittery breathing. “Not sure. Maybe I’m over it.”
Megan watches me for a while. I force myself to make eye contact so she thinks I’m being sincere.
“Okay,” she finally says. “Just . . . let me know if you change your mind.”
“Yeah, I will do,” I reply.
Except for the occasional navigational instruction from Megs, all four of us remain quiet until “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” plays through the speakers and I can’t help but howl along in baritone. By the end of the tune, everyone’s joining in with the festivities.
“What a joyous welcome to the UK,” Earnest says as he climbs out of the car. He tries to pay me like I’m a taxi driver, but I complain until he puts his wallet away.
I carry their bags into the foyer, leave the pair at reception, and utilise the few seconds of respite from Megan to come up with a plan.
Pi is a plan type of guy, he’d already have everything figured out.
I wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of my own actions if I’d taken a leaf out of his book.
Damn it. I’m at the car again and I’ve still got nothing.
I fold myself into the driver’s seat. Megan’s eyes bore holes into the side of my head.
“We going back to yours or mine?” I ask.
“Up to you, babe,” she says, because of course she fucking does.
Sven’s not leaving for the Netherlands until next week, and though he’s never much of a nuisance, I can’t be arsed to deal with him at the moment, but Megan’s flatmate will most likely be home and I don’t fancy the tag-team drilling they’ll give me about Pi.
“He’s just . . . I think he’s lonely,” I say instead of anything even remotely related to the conversation. I turn the key and start the engine again.
“Who is?” she asks.
“Pi. I think he just needs someone to be there for him.” Great, now she knows I’m still thinking about him.
“Okay?”
“That’s why I kissed him. At Halloween. He was standing there looking so sad in his little denim hot pants and his fat fucking tits, and . . . I guess I didn’t like seeing my friend sad.”
While partly true, I don’t enjoy seeing Pi miserable, there’s no way this argument would hold up in court. Take Snatch, for example. I’d never have kissed Snatch if he’d been the one moping around outside the pub on his tod, nor would I kiss any of the other Cents boys for that matter.
It’s only Pi. I dunno, there’s something deeper about him. Like we get each other in ways the other lads don’t. We’ve known each other for six years, so that might be it.
“So, you just wanted him to be happy?” she asks. She’s not buying what I’m selling, but I’m too deep into the haggle to give up now.
“Yeah, exactly.” I chance another look. Her expression isn’t as disbelieving as I imagined it would be. “I think he needs a girlfriend.”
“Or boyfriend,” she says.
“Or boyfriend,” I agree.
“Ooh, we could always introduce him to Georgia?” The way Megan asks, I know she’s already decided this is the best idea since sliced hot dog buns.
“Isn’t she going out with that guy from Bristol uni?” I ask.
“Oh, Simon? Ew, yeah, she is, but he gives me serious ick, and I want her to understand the grass is for real greener on the other side. Plus Aiden Campbell is fucking gorgeous. Makes Simon look like wilted spinach.”
“Okay . . .” I need to buy myself some thinking time.
What if Pi dated Megan’s flatmate Georgia? What if they went exclusive? What would happen then?
Would we have to stop our jizz-swap meet-ups? Or if we kept doing them, would we have to keep everything hush hush? Would the girls care if their boyfriends were secretly fucking?
Probably.
That’s probably something healthy relationships don’t accommodate. It’s not as though Megs and George are rendezvousing for a sneaky shag.
Or are they?
Nah, I’m pretty sure they’re just very close girlfriends.
It would give us more reasons to hang out as a foursome, though. We could double date. Pi and I could sit beside each other at the cinema, we could nip to the bathroom together, we could get cosy while the girls do their girls’ things.
I nod, flick up my indicator, check my mirrors, and turn. “Okay, let’s go to yours and chat to Georgia, see if she’d like an introduction.”