But this time it
wasn’t junk mail. It was from Social Services Adoption
Department.
Chapter Three
I didn’t know what to do.
If I contacted him first, would that make me look like
a total Sad Act? Would it be reported to his mates that
I was turning into some mad stalker, unable to accept the
bleeding obvious, that her boyfriend had blown her out?
Because he had, hadn’t he? Or was it me who gave him
the boot? Or was it neither?
Or what if I’d got it all wrong and he was sitting alone
in his room, broken-hearted, too dispirited to pick up the
phone? After the initial fog of anger had cleared I’d got
to thinking we’d make it up, maybe sulk for a few days
but then fall into each other’s arms, and out of the ether
he’d pull some magic words which would wipe my head
clean forever of Jeanette Piper and her writhing limbs and
panting cries.
But that had been two weeks ago. Oh WHY hadn’t
he been in touch? Even to finish it. You know, if you’ve
shared bodily fluids with someone then they ought at least
to tell you where you stand. Surely it’s manners. It wasn’t
just my pride, there was my hymen too. Or perhaps best
to forget about that.
Bloody Paul bloody Bentham, bloody men.
So in the end I went round to his house.
I practised all the stuff I was going to say before I
went, and on the way as well, trying to get the inflections
exactly right, the face, the body language. I just want to
get things cleared up , I told my bedroom mirror, folding
and unfolding my arms to assess the different effects.
Clothes had been a problem too. I didn’t want to wear
anything which implied I’d made an effort, only for him
to give me the elbow, that would make me look really
pathetic. On the other hand, I didn’t want to look like
something the cat dragged in, in case he had wanted to get
back together but changed his mind when he saw the state
I was in. God knows, I didn’t want him to think I’d been
pining for him. In the end I’d settled for washing my hair
and worn my second-best jeans.
I think it’s best for both of us , I told my friend the
Alsatian, and it wagged its tail slowly and grinned. Then
I marched up and rang Paul’s doorbell, shaking. Paul
Bentham is no good, chop him up for firewood , my head
kept chanting, which wasn’t exactly helpful. There was a
funny metallic taste in my mouth.
Chimes echoed in the distance but no one stirred. I
waited a long time, then turned to go, half relieved, only
to hear the door open behind me.
‘Sorry, love, I was on the toilet.’ Mr Bentham, naked
to the waist, bare-footed, embarrassed and embarrassing.
I tried not to look at his pink rubbery nipples, and the line
of wiry hair which came up from inside his trousers and
touched his paunch. His face was shiny and he had too
much forehead. You could tell he’d been pretty once, like
Paul, but everything had begun to blur and slide. It made me think of my dad, about the same age, mid-thirties, but
sharp-featured, built like a whippet, all his own hair –
extra, actually, if you count the recent moustache. I hate
it when old people let themselves go.
Mr Bentham stared at me for a moment. ‘He’s norrin.
Went off to Bolton, I think. He’ll be back about tea time.
Shall I tell him you called?’
‘Yeah.’ My heart sank. I was going to have to go
through all this palaver again. ‘No. Actually, can I just
scribble him a note? I won’t be a minute.’ I smiled nicely.
‘Aye, awreet, love. Come in.’ I followed him down the
hall to the back kitchen. ‘Want a cup of tea? There’s one
brewed.’
I glanced round the mess and took in the dish of
gritty butter, the weeping Brown Sauce bottle, top askew,
the open bag of sliced bread stuck on the table. I knew
without looking what state the sink would be in. Even if
it was clear of dirty pots there’d be Christ knows what
clogging and breeding in the plughole. My mum has her
faults, God, but at
wasn’t junk mail. It was from Social Services Adoption
Department.
Chapter Three
I didn’t know what to do.
If I contacted him first, would that make me look like
a total Sad Act? Would it be reported to his mates that
I was turning into some mad stalker, unable to accept the
bleeding obvious, that her boyfriend had blown her out?
Because he had, hadn’t he? Or was it me who gave him
the boot? Or was it neither?
Or what if I’d got it all wrong and he was sitting alone
in his room, broken-hearted, too dispirited to pick up the
phone? After the initial fog of anger had cleared I’d got
to thinking we’d make it up, maybe sulk for a few days
but then fall into each other’s arms, and out of the ether
he’d pull some magic words which would wipe my head
clean forever of Jeanette Piper and her writhing limbs and
panting cries.
But that had been two weeks ago. Oh WHY hadn’t
he been in touch? Even to finish it. You know, if you’ve
shared bodily fluids with someone then they ought at least
to tell you where you stand. Surely it’s manners. It wasn’t
just my pride, there was my hymen too. Or perhaps best
to forget about that.
Bloody Paul bloody Bentham, bloody men.
So in the end I went round to his house.
I practised all the stuff I was going to say before I
went, and on the way as well, trying to get the inflections
exactly right, the face, the body language. I just want to
get things cleared up , I told my bedroom mirror, folding
and unfolding my arms to assess the different effects.
Clothes had been a problem too. I didn’t want to wear
anything which implied I’d made an effort, only for him
to give me the elbow, that would make me look really
pathetic. On the other hand, I didn’t want to look like
something the cat dragged in, in case he had wanted to get
back together but changed his mind when he saw the state
I was in. God knows, I didn’t want him to think I’d been
pining for him. In the end I’d settled for washing my hair
and worn my second-best jeans.
I think it’s best for both of us , I told my friend the
Alsatian, and it wagged its tail slowly and grinned. Then
I marched up and rang Paul’s doorbell, shaking. Paul
Bentham is no good, chop him up for firewood , my head
kept chanting, which wasn’t exactly helpful. There was a
funny metallic taste in my mouth.
Chimes echoed in the distance but no one stirred. I
waited a long time, then turned to go, half relieved, only
to hear the door open behind me.
‘Sorry, love, I was on the toilet.’ Mr Bentham, naked
to the waist, bare-footed, embarrassed and embarrassing.
I tried not to look at his pink rubbery nipples, and the line
of wiry hair which came up from inside his trousers and
touched his paunch. His face was shiny and he had too
much forehead. You could tell he’d been pretty once, like
Paul, but everything had begun to blur and slide. It made me think of my dad, about the same age, mid-thirties, but
sharp-featured, built like a whippet, all his own hair –
extra, actually, if you count the recent moustache. I hate
it when old people let themselves go.
Mr Bentham stared at me for a moment. ‘He’s norrin.
Went off to Bolton, I think. He’ll be back about tea time.
Shall I tell him you called?’
‘Yeah.’ My heart sank. I was going to have to go
through all this palaver again. ‘No. Actually, can I just
scribble him a note? I won’t be a minute.’ I smiled nicely.
‘Aye, awreet, love. Come in.’ I followed him down the
hall to the back kitchen. ‘Want a cup of tea? There’s one
brewed.’
I glanced round the mess and took in the dish of
gritty butter, the weeping Brown Sauce bottle, top askew,
the open bag of sliced bread stuck on the table. I knew
without looking what state the sink would be in. Even if
it was clear of dirty pots there’d be Christ knows what
clogging and breeding in the plughole. My mum has her
faults, God, but at
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