Dominic
Earlier this week, Florrie asked me to come to a poetry reading.
We were lying in bed together and she looked up at me, the pillows stacked under her chest, her hair a curtain on either side of her face, and adopted an expression I hadn’t seen before – something akin to being bashful.
‘I’m doing this reading thing,’ she said, not meeting my eye.
‘It’s in Peckham, and I was thinking you might come? ’
I’d have gone however she asked me, but something about the way she asked – perhaps coupled with a recent conversation about her parents never turning up for anything her entire childhood – meant that I answered with an enthusiasm I couldn’t usually muster for a poetry event.
‘You look beautiful,’ I tell her. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Just water,’ she says. ‘I want to be sharp.’
We sit through several more acts, Florrie’s attention rapt on the tiny stage, mine wandering to whether I can walk home via the chip shop and trying to work out which neighbour’s hand is in the picture that sent me of my delivery earlier. Eventually it’s Florrie’s turn.
She goes to the stage, her legs long and brown between her cowboy boots and her white skirt.
‘This piece is called Getting Fucked,’ she says, her voice husky and delicious.
She reads. And it’s clearly about someone she’s slept with, and the desire to be fucked in a way that made her feel like she didn’t exist. And I listen, because she’s brilliant and the only person here who should ever be trusted with a pen again.
But also, I can’t help wondering when she wrote it.
Who’s it about? I watch her eye line to see whether she’s looking at anyone else in this room, whether she’s reading it for the direct benefit of a man – or a woman – who’s listening right now.
She finishes and everyone claps. I’m irritated that they only clap at the same level as they did for the previous guy, when she’s dramatically more talented.
Eventually, just as I’ve fully lost feeling in my left arse cheek, the whole poetry thing is over.
Despite my moderately well-disguised horror at some of what I’ve just seen (including a guy with a cut-glass Eton accent doing a spoken word performance about being misjudged and knowing what prejudice is) there were a couple of quite moving pieces.
I’m sort of excited at the prospect of walking home with Florrie and quizzing her about her piece, and her thoughts on the rest of them.
Hopefully we can have a laugh at the stupider ones and she can explain the ones that I’m too thick to have understood.
The applause dies down and everyone throngs to the bar to get drinks. I get up embarrassingly quickly so I’m at the front of the queue. I turn back and search the crowd for Florrie.
‘What do you want?’ I half yell at her.
‘Tequila lime soda,’ she says. ‘And a Neck Oil for Bash.’
Bash is, I assume, the man standing next to her.
He looks like a young Johnny Depp, sort of sallow but painfully attractive and standing really very close to Florrie, who is, as far as I understand it, my girlfriend.
I get a round, navigate through the hapless poets trying to queue for a drink, and hand over two of the glasses.
‘Thank you,’ says Florrie.
‘You’re welcome.’
I look at Bash, sort of expecting he’s going to say ‘thank you’ too. Not that it’s a big deal, I’ve just bought him a drink that cost seven quid, not offered to be an organ donor.
‘Hi,’ I say, after an uncomfortable pause. ‘I’m Dom.’
‘Bash,’ he says, establishing that I didn’t mishear his name and he really is going about the world using a noise as a moniker.
‘Unusual name,’ I say. ‘Is it short for something?’
‘Sebastian,’ Florrie says, putting her hand on his forearm. ‘After Sebastian Flyte, from Brideshead Revisited.’
‘Ah,’ I say, taking a sip of Guinness. ‘The gay alcoholic?’
No one laughs.
‘So, I was thinking dinner?’ I say eventually. ‘There’s a nice-looking Indian place round the corner with good vegan options.’
Florrie’s eyebrows pinch together. ‘Oh, that sounds so lovely, but Bash and I are going to some drinks thing with a friend of his.’
‘Oh,’ I say, high-pitched, trying to sound really absolutely fine and not at all surprised, also trying to shake off the searing embarrassment of getting turned down for a date by a woman I’m already romantically involved with, in front of Bash who I already hate.
‘Okay, great. Cool.’ I draw out the ‘o’ sound in cool which is, ironically, the least cool thing I could do.
Florrie catches up with me outside the pub as I’m leaving. I said polite goodbyes but obviously I didn’t do a great job of acting like I was really fine with this.
‘Hey,’ she says, holding my forearms with her smooth, cool hands. ‘Are we good?’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I just misread the vibe for tonight.’
‘Okay,’ she says, seemingly relieved. ‘I’m really glad that you came.’
‘Me too,’ I lie.
‘And honestly, I would love to go to dinner with you, but Bash is feeling really raw about having me read that poem about him, and I owe him some aftercare.’
The poem was about Bash.
I nod. ‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘Aftercare. A warm down. A warranty, a purchase guarantee. . .’ I’m just saying words now.
I pull myself together and kiss her on the cheek.
‘Let’s do something later this week,’ I say.
Then I stride off, with no idea whether I’m getting any closer to the station or not, putting as many paces between me and them as possible.
I get to the Overground and my phone pings. It’s a voice note, from Stella. I don’t have headphones, I type my reply, so I can’t listen to this right now, but if there’s any chance it’s an invitation to come to your house and complain about my terrible night, then I’d bite your arm off.
She’s typing. I have – confusingly – got butterflies.
See you in twenty? she replies.
‘You seem very sober for a woman who had a romantic dinner with her new boyfriend,’ I say, as Stella pours me a glass of wine and fills me in on her evening, which I have to admit is flummoxing me.
I’m starting to wonder if this bloke she’s seeing is signed up to some kind of internet-bloke online dating scam where they teach you to not shag women because it’s a power trip, or something like that.
‘I know,’ she says miserably. ‘It’s the wine he buys. It’s all so expensive and delicious, and he decants it and puts it in lovely glasses, and then you have to sip it and enjoy it.’
‘What a monster.’
‘I know.’ She laughs. ‘Shall we get a bit pissed?’
I’m still smarting over Florrie, who hasn’t messaged me since I’ve been here. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Go on.’
We open a bottle of cava because it’s all she’s got in the fridge and then we knock it back while positing increasingly less likely reasons that Richard might not want to shag her.
‘Maybe he’s impotent?’ I suggest.
She shakes her head. ‘Nope. When we were kissing he was very not impotent. Against my leg.’
I screw my face up, involuntarily. ‘Maybe he’s religious? Like when the Jonas Brothers all wore those purity rings?’
‘I mean surely he’d have mentioned that by now? Right?’
‘You’d think,’ I agree. ‘Why don’t you sack him off?’
For some reason, I’m very much hoping that she’s going to say this is a great idea and ideally she’ll message him right now to tell him to piss off.
‘I can’t.’ She laughs. ‘He’s perfect.’
‘How is he perfect?’ I ask, resting my hand on my chin. The chin slips. Or maybe my hand slips. Something slips and she laughs at me.
‘He’s. . . I don’t know. A grown-up. A good man. He wants a family.’
‘Everyone wants a family!’ I retort, picking up the bottle and refilling our glasses.
‘You don’t!’
‘I don’t know if I do.’
‘Okay, but Richard does. He wants a house in Richmond and lots of kids and an SUV and all the stuff that you need to be a proper family.’
I scrunch my face up. ‘You and Rose are a proper family.’
‘We’re two people. That’s not a family.’
‘Of course it is,’ I say. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
She shifts in her seat and twists her hair away from her face. ‘We always talk about me; let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about you – how’s your love life?’
I don’t know why I don’t tell her about Florrie. Actually, I do know why. Because I would have to tell her about the open relationship and because Stella is too grown-up and battle-worn to pretend that she thinks it’s a good idea, and I don’t want to do any of that.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Nothing major to report.’
Stella makes us crumpets, which are technically Rose’s, and then lets me have two Babybels from the fridge.
‘I love people who have kids,’ I say, feeling really very pissed now, with crumpet in my mouth. ‘No one else I’ve ever dated has ever had Babybels in their fridge.’
Eventually, we decide that it’s time to go to bed otherwise we’re in danger of a repeat performance of meeting the arsehole ex-husband.
‘Time to go,’ I say, heaving myself up.
‘Thank you for cheering me up,’ Stella says, as we stand by the front door.
There’s an orange street light coming in through the window, across her face.
Her lips are so heart-shaped and full. She looks up at me.
She parts her lips slightly and I’m pretty sure she’s getting closer to me.
Is she about to kiss me? Is that okay? Am I going to tempt her into a drunken mistake that ruins this thing she’s got going with No Dick Rick?
‘Do you feel better?’ I ask, swaying slightly, trying to ascertain how much of a gentleman I need to be right now.
‘No,’ she says, smiling. ‘I just don’t get it. I thought he fancied me.’
I look down at her again. ‘I fancy you,’ I want to say, to cheer her up, because she should be cheered up. ‘I think about you when I’m having a wank sometimes.’
‘What?’ She looks shocked.
Oh. I said that bit out loud. The wrong bit. Shit.
She laughs.
I laugh. ‘I’m pissed,’ I say. ‘I’m going to go home. Sorry. Jesus.’ Was that sexual harassment? ‘Bye.’
I get into my Uber. The driver is on the phone to someone else, but tactfully rolls down the windows and I breathe the cool, sweet summer air in, focusing on a fixed point on the headrest in front of me so that I’m not sick in the back of this bloke’s car.
Then I get home, eventually get the key into the lock and collapse into bed.
Around 3 a.m. I get a message from Florrie.
Hey angel, she writes. What are you up to?
I want to tell her that it’s 3 a.m. so obviously I’m asleep, only I’m not asleep so I can’t. So instead, I do something that I haven’t done since I was a teenager: I try to make her jealous. Just got home, I say.
Oh, fun, she replies. Would you like to share more?
How is she so sanguine? Are people born like that, or has she trained herself into it?
It’s driven me mad all night to think of Bash licking her neck and talking about his start-up or theatre troupe or whatever bullshit he does with his life, and she’s apparently totally insouciant at the idea that I could have been anywhere with anyone.
Just back from Stella’s place, I say. Which is completely true. Just not in the sense that she thinks it is.
The phone rings – she’s calling me now. ‘Oh, cute,’ says Florrie, in a voice that suggests she doesn’t find it cute.
‘Did you have fun with Bash?’ I ask, trying to sound sober.
‘It was nice.’ She sighs. ‘Though he couldn’t come because he feels guilty about how he’s treated me in the past, which is always sad, but otherwise nice. How was Stella?’
‘Good,’ I say, trying to process the fact that the girl I’m seeing is casually telling me about having sex with another man.
Worryingly, I’m not sure I’m very upset about it.
I can hear Florrie breathing and I realise that she wants more information from me, but that she doesn’t feel she can ask what Stella and I have been doing.
And I figure that it’s probably easier for everyone if I don’t say anything.
I don’t want to lie – that would violate the strange sort of moral code that I’ve invented for myself where I let her think that I’m seeing Stella, and then keep seeing Stella but don’t start shagging Stella, even though obviously I’d really like to be shagging Stella, because if I do that I’ll fuck it up with her like I have with everyone else I’ve ever tried to make it work with.
‘I’m really tired,’ I say in earnest. ‘Is it okay if I call you tomorrow?’
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Goodnight.’