Sweet by Julie Burchill Page B

– or even a sex-thang – with some cute immigrant kid who cleaned out karzies for a living. Don’t forget, I was still walking on air, or at least some invisible catwalk, from my recent reign as Baggy and Aggy’s muse. Though my part in their next world-conquering collection was finished in practical terms, I still couldn’t shake the notion that there might be some sort of modelling job for me when the clothes were finally good to go.
    I was standing in the restroom phoning them on their landline for the nth time that day – having been texting them and trying their mobeys all week – suggesting we get together, when I heard the door go behind me. I turned around and there was Asif – his mouth was like a kiss, I thought immediately, and as he looked at me it was like I could see birthday candles in his eyes. I closed my phone, walked across to him and, reaching behind him, I closed the door softly. Yes, I KNOW what I said, but rules were made to be broken. Especially your own. And especially ESPECIALLY if there might be a decent shag as a result.
    ‘Knock knock,’ I whispered in his ear.
    He stared at me, terrified.
    ‘Say “Who’s there?”,’ I prompted him.
    ‘Who is there!’ His eyes went really big – big mistake, as it only made him more perve-worthy.
    ‘Asif,’ I purred.
    ‘Asif –’ He pointed at himself and smiled nervously.
    ‘Say “Asif Who?”,’ I instructed.
    He laughed, finally realizing I meant him no harm. Hmm, well, not in a VIOLENT way. Unless he struggled, of course. ‘Asif who!’
    ‘As-if-I-wouldn’t-snog-you,’ I whispered in his ear. He turned his head slowly – I kept mine still; we were eye to eye and mouth to mouth. And by the look in his eye, and the way his lips parted, I knew we were speaking the same language, all right.
    But as I said, I wasn’t about to throw my future away on some tasty toilet-tender. Play it as cool and sweet as ice cream, that’s the Sugar-shock. I held my phone up to his mouth.
    ‘Put your number in. But kiss it first.’
    ‘Kiss . . .?’
    ‘It’s a Sussex custom. “Silly Sussex”, they call us. Cos we get a rush out of doing daft things. You know what a rush is, don’t you, Asif?’
    ‘When people hurry – they rush—’
    ‘Na, not that type. The fun kind.’ I pushed the phone against his lush lips and he winced. ‘You want to have fun, don’t you – not just clean out toilets all your life? You’re too beautiful to be doing a crap job like this . . .’
    He shook his head. ‘No . . . YOU are beautiful – I am . . .’
    ‘You’re gorgeous.’ I put the phone in his hand. ‘Put your number in –’
    I watched his lovely dark face as he did it, wondering if he was blushing or not. He handed it back to me.
    ‘That’s right,’ I told him. ‘So now I’ve got your number, we can have fun.’
    ‘Tonight? When we finish work? We go out?’
    Why not? Wasn’t like I had any other hot date lined up when I finished going berserk with the Cillit Bang, was it? I opened my mouth to give him instructions.
    Then my phone rang.
    I checked it – Baggy and Aggy’s landline. And seeing it, I snapped back into reality – MY reality. A place where people lived in big white houses and did creative things – not cleaned toilets and ate at Burger King before a quick fumble by the bins round the back.
    I gave Asif a quick dismissive smile – ‘Not today, kid – I’ll call you sometime’ – and a good view of my coldest shoulder as I turned away to take the call.
    ‘Hiya!’ I squealed into the phone. ‘How’s it hanging!’ Behind me I heard the door close quietly, and if a door could sound sad, it certainly did.
    ‘Pretty good, last time I looked,’ someone sniggered. But it wasn’t B or A.
    ‘Who’s this?’
    ‘It’s Duane, Shugs – Duane Trulocke.’
    ‘Oh, right.’ I couldn’t help feeling a bit hurt that my mates were still obviously doing whatever they were doing with Duane, when they hadn’t had any time