the street-lamp.
‘Shel’s just passed her driving test. We’re going out to celebrate, round a mate’s house. Thought we’d take you along. You allowed out? We’ll bring you back before you turn into a pumpkin.’
Greg didn’t realize till he reached the car that there were two girls inside—he’d forgotten about Gizzard’s attempt to set him up. Sherry/Cherie, in the driving-seat, was small and elfin, with a pert face and hair in short black spikes; the one in the back was all legs and breasts and sparkly hair. The Mini was a two-door, and he struggled past the forward-tilted front seat to squeeze in next to her.
‘You don’t know Tanya, do you?’ Gizzard said, getting into the passenger seat.
‘Not yet,’ said the sparkly girl; she made a pretence of moving away, but they were both tall and the back seat was cramped, and Greg was very conscious of her thigh against his. She leaned forward between the two front seats as Sherry/Cherie drove away, continuing a muttered conversation that ended in peals of laughter from both girls; her long hair brushed Greg’s arm, and he smelled musky perfume. She obviously thought she was sultry.
No, she
was
sultry. At the party—it was at the house of someone called Jazz, but Greg never did work out who Jazz was, nor even whether Jazz was male or female—she attached herself to him as if he were her project for the evening. Not knowing anyone, he didn’t mind that at all; being with such a striking girl meant he didn’t need to feel self-conscious, the way he sometimes did at parties. She’d seen him at the pool, she told him. She stood so close that he could see right down between her breasts; her musky scent filled his head. She wore a skimpy black top that ended well above her navel, which was pierced with a silver ring and stud. ‘Did that hurt?’ he asked, looking in fascination at the punctured flesh, thinking of Katy. ‘Yeah, like hell,’ Tanya said. ‘Worth it though, wasn’t it?’ ‘My dad thinks it looks tarty,’ he told her. Her eyes stared at him, round and astonished. ‘Your dad thinks I’m a tart? Do I know him?’ Greg explained about Katy; she laughed. ‘I like this sparkly stuff,’ he said, touching; she’d put it round her eyes as well as on her hair. It made her dark hair looked spangled with raindrops.
They shared a bag of tortilla chips. He downed his beer, drank another, and another, and began to feel pleasantly vague. Tanya pressed herself against him and in a drunken sway he found that they were kissing. Her hands were twining round him, fingers pushing down inside the back of his jeans. There was something teasing in the way she looked at him: as if she were testing him, pushing to see how far he’d go. The room was smoky and hot and loud and he could hardly breathe. Her tongue was in his mouth; he could taste garlic. The thrum of the music sounded in his ears with a hypnotic beat.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ Tanya whispered, and nipped the lobe of his ear with sharp teeth. ‘Jazz won’t mind.’
She took his hand, pulling him through the crowded room. They’d reached the stairs before the thought reached his fuddled brain: Christ, was she intending to
do
it, right now, this minute? My first time, he thought, in a kind of delirium; at the house of someone called Jazz, on a bed piled with coats, with a girl called Tanya with spangles in her hair. It would be a triumph, an achievement, something to tell Gizzard about . . .
If he could do it. He felt as if his groin was on fire, but mixed up with it was sick panic—he had to get out, away from Tanya, away from this houseful of smoke and noise. He balked at the bottom of the stairs, resisting her grip on his hand. Tanya, already on the second stair, lurched back.
‘What’s up?’ Her face loomed close to his; he saw spiky mascara and the gleaming white of her eye.
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Her hand was snaking down his body, flattening against the fly of his jeans,
‘Shel’s just passed her driving test. We’re going out to celebrate, round a mate’s house. Thought we’d take you along. You allowed out? We’ll bring you back before you turn into a pumpkin.’
Greg didn’t realize till he reached the car that there were two girls inside—he’d forgotten about Gizzard’s attempt to set him up. Sherry/Cherie, in the driving-seat, was small and elfin, with a pert face and hair in short black spikes; the one in the back was all legs and breasts and sparkly hair. The Mini was a two-door, and he struggled past the forward-tilted front seat to squeeze in next to her.
‘You don’t know Tanya, do you?’ Gizzard said, getting into the passenger seat.
‘Not yet,’ said the sparkly girl; she made a pretence of moving away, but they were both tall and the back seat was cramped, and Greg was very conscious of her thigh against his. She leaned forward between the two front seats as Sherry/Cherie drove away, continuing a muttered conversation that ended in peals of laughter from both girls; her long hair brushed Greg’s arm, and he smelled musky perfume. She obviously thought she was sultry.
No, she
was
sultry. At the party—it was at the house of someone called Jazz, but Greg never did work out who Jazz was, nor even whether Jazz was male or female—she attached herself to him as if he were her project for the evening. Not knowing anyone, he didn’t mind that at all; being with such a striking girl meant he didn’t need to feel self-conscious, the way he sometimes did at parties. She’d seen him at the pool, she told him. She stood so close that he could see right down between her breasts; her musky scent filled his head. She wore a skimpy black top that ended well above her navel, which was pierced with a silver ring and stud. ‘Did that hurt?’ he asked, looking in fascination at the punctured flesh, thinking of Katy. ‘Yeah, like hell,’ Tanya said. ‘Worth it though, wasn’t it?’ ‘My dad thinks it looks tarty,’ he told her. Her eyes stared at him, round and astonished. ‘Your dad thinks I’m a tart? Do I know him?’ Greg explained about Katy; she laughed. ‘I like this sparkly stuff,’ he said, touching; she’d put it round her eyes as well as on her hair. It made her dark hair looked spangled with raindrops.
They shared a bag of tortilla chips. He downed his beer, drank another, and another, and began to feel pleasantly vague. Tanya pressed herself against him and in a drunken sway he found that they were kissing. Her hands were twining round him, fingers pushing down inside the back of his jeans. There was something teasing in the way she looked at him: as if she were testing him, pushing to see how far he’d go. The room was smoky and hot and loud and he could hardly breathe. Her tongue was in his mouth; he could taste garlic. The thrum of the music sounded in his ears with a hypnotic beat.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ Tanya whispered, and nipped the lobe of his ear with sharp teeth. ‘Jazz won’t mind.’
She took his hand, pulling him through the crowded room. They’d reached the stairs before the thought reached his fuddled brain: Christ, was she intending to
do
it, right now, this minute? My first time, he thought, in a kind of delirium; at the house of someone called Jazz, on a bed piled with coats, with a girl called Tanya with spangles in her hair. It would be a triumph, an achievement, something to tell Gizzard about . . .
If he could do it. He felt as if his groin was on fire, but mixed up with it was sick panic—he had to get out, away from Tanya, away from this houseful of smoke and noise. He balked at the bottom of the stairs, resisting her grip on his hand. Tanya, already on the second stair, lurched back.
‘What’s up?’ Her face loomed close to his; he saw spiky mascara and the gleaming white of her eye.
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Her hand was snaking down his body, flattening against the fly of his jeans,
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