The Sex Was Great But... by Tyne O’Connell Page B

really fucking hurts.”
    â€œNo, it’s not you. I’m thinking about this readers’ poll—you know, the article your friend Kev mentioned?”
    â€œI wouldn’t give any thought to anything Kev said if I were you,” I reassured her.
    â€œNo—see that’s the point. If someone like Kev has read it, the whole of America must be discussing it by now.”
    â€œI’m not even sure Kev can read,” I told her. And I wasn’t being disloyal either. Kev can’t read. Nor can his mum. No one ever read to him as a kid—how bad is that? When I found out about the lack of literacy in his life, I read him The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, which is the only book Tifanie owns that isn’t about how to make it big as an actor in Hollywood.
    â€œ You can read, though?” she asked. I said yes, but I was really hurt that she’d asked me. How thick did she think I was?
    â€œI’m not as shallow as people say I am,” she assured me a few minutes later.
    â€œI don’t doubt it,” I agreed, only she didn’t look reassured.
    The next time we spoke was when she pointed out her house on Mulholland Drive.
    â€œThat’s my house.”
    My eyes traveled up her arm to where she was pointing, slowly taking in the smoothness of her pale limb en route. For the first time in my life I saw the point in hand-kissing. I looked at her face to see if there was a chance in hell she’d ever consent to let me kiss her anywhere.
    No…not one chance in hell.
    I forced my gaze to leave her arm and looked up to where a massive steel and glass structure stared arrogantly down on me and my little black hat with earflaps.
    â€œWow! You live there?” I asked, giving her arm a playful nudge, but she flinched at my touch, making it clear thatphysical contact with her was not in my contract. As we entered the driveway a squat Latino-looking geezer in a straw hat—a gardener, I guess—looked up from trimming the topiary at the front of the property and waved.
    Holly waved back, and he stopped what he was doing to observe our car’s journey down the driveway.
    â€œI have to get him to park the car for me. I, um…can’t do reverse,” she explained. I was about to suggest that I do it for her, but I’d lost my appetite for embarrassing knock-backs.
    I tried to sound casual and natural, like this was the sort of house I drove up to every day, as I said, “It’s a bit big, isn’t it?”
    She stopped the engine and looked at me seriously. “I’m not a materialist, if that’s what you’re saying.”
    â€œNo, no. I was just saying it’s, well, on the biggish side. Bigger than my gaff, but not too big, if you know what I mean.” My mum always told me, When you’re in a hole, stop digging.
    â€œYou have to realize I grew up in one of the most tasteless mock Tudor houses in Connecticut,” she explained.
    â€œYeah, right. Fair enough too.”
    â€œThis is the house I always dreamed of owning.”
    â€œMe too.” I laughed, and then she laughed too, and I added that there wasn’t a lot of mock Tudor on my estate back in Islington.
    â€œYou live on an estate? ”
    â€œYeah,” I said, trying not to sound too defensive. It’s not as if I have a chip on my shoulder about where I grew up or anything. Even though my mates and me affectionately refer to our flats as the Dog Bum estate, there is a waiting list of four years to get a place on it.
    â€œOh!”
    She looked really surprised, and then I realized what she meant. “No, no, not that kind of estate. It’s a housing estate—single mums, old people, that kind of thing. What you’d call a project.”
    â€œOh.”
    Now I did feel chippy.
    We both opened our doors but neither of us got out.
    â€œI used to dream of modernism when I was a kid,” she sighed.
    â€œTell me about