stopping there. ‘I wouldn’t call this nothing.’
‘You can’t be serious—’
‘Who said anything about serious? I feel like it, that’s all. And don’t tell me you don’t!’
Her hand continued to move against him, fingertips pressing, exploring—he closed his eyes, then opened them again and pushed her hand away. ‘Leave off!’ There were two people sitting at the top of the stairs, more voices on the upstairs landing.
‘Oh, come on, Greg!’ she said into the dip at the base of his throat. ‘Don’t wind me up. You fancy me, don’t you?’
‘Who wouldn’t?’ he answered evasively.
She nuzzled his neck. ‘You scared or something? Don’t tell me you’ve never done it? You’ll be safe with me, I promise—’
He edged away. ‘Course I have,’ he lied.
‘What, then?’
He gazed at a painting on the wall behind her, an elegant print of a tulip, black-framed. How could he explain? And who was she anyway? Someone he’d only just met. He didn’t owe her anything.
He moved towards the door. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, right?’
‘You’re joking!’ Her face hardened. ‘Stuff you! Go home to Mummy then. Loser!’
He nodded towards the jewel in her navel. ‘In case you’re interested, it
does
look tarty. Suits you.’
Her eyes narrowed and her mouth started to open; he saw her preparing a retort. Then the door to the main room opened and three people spilled out. In the confusion, Greg slipped out of the front door and slammed it shut behind him.
He stood on the doorstep, breathing deeply. He heard the bass thud from the stereo, laughter and a girl’s voice shrieking from inside. The air was cool against his face. It was dark, but a smudge of moon showed edges of heaped cloud. He stood there biting his lip, ashamed and angry—angry with Tanya, angry with himself. Gizzard would hear all about this, with embellishments. They’d be talking about him, laughing, Gizzard and the two girls.
He could go back into the party and pretend to enjoy himself; maybe find some other girl, show that poser Tanya where she could get off. He needn’t ring the doorbell and stand there like a nerd; he could go round to the open back door and just reappear, get himself another lager, find Gizzard and make the whole thing into a joke. He got as far as the side gate, saw the lighted kitchen window running with condensation, and an exhalation of fag-smoke from the extractor fan.
No. He’d had enough.
He walked away from the house. On the way, in the back of the Mini, he’d taken little notice of where they were going. He turned right, found himself in a culde-sac, and tried the other direction, at last reaching a road he recognized. The solitude, the silence broken only by occasional traffic, were like gifts he hadn’t deserved. His head cleared and became his own again. If he’d had his bike, he’d have gone to the Tavern after all; he considered hitching a lift, decided he couldn’t be bothered, and walked home.
His parents were watching a film; his mum looked at the mantelpiece clock in surprise. ‘You’re not very late! Did you have a good time?’
‘Great, thanks,’ Greg said. He went straight up to his room and turned on his stereo.
Caryatid
Greg’s photograph (colour): the female caryatid
figure on one of the garden summerhouses at
Graveney Hall. From ground level, a pillar of
stone rises in an angular, widening co fin-shape,
becoming the top half of a girl or woman. A draped
cloth falls in folds around her waist; above she is
naked, with graceful, muscular arms and small
rounded breasts. In her arms she holds a garland
of vines and fruit. The sunlight throws strong
shadows on her face, exaggerating the classical
repose of her features. On her forehead there is a
medallion or brooch, from which the folds of stone
fabric fall away like hair. Above her head, the stone
becomes pillar again, rising to a decorative beaded
edging, surmounted by balustrades. Moss or
lichen gives a greenish
‘You can’t be serious—’
‘Who said anything about serious? I feel like it, that’s all. And don’t tell me you don’t!’
Her hand continued to move against him, fingertips pressing, exploring—he closed his eyes, then opened them again and pushed her hand away. ‘Leave off!’ There were two people sitting at the top of the stairs, more voices on the upstairs landing.
‘Oh, come on, Greg!’ she said into the dip at the base of his throat. ‘Don’t wind me up. You fancy me, don’t you?’
‘Who wouldn’t?’ he answered evasively.
She nuzzled his neck. ‘You scared or something? Don’t tell me you’ve never done it? You’ll be safe with me, I promise—’
He edged away. ‘Course I have,’ he lied.
‘What, then?’
He gazed at a painting on the wall behind her, an elegant print of a tulip, black-framed. How could he explain? And who was she anyway? Someone he’d only just met. He didn’t owe her anything.
He moved towards the door. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, right?’
‘You’re joking!’ Her face hardened. ‘Stuff you! Go home to Mummy then. Loser!’
He nodded towards the jewel in her navel. ‘In case you’re interested, it
does
look tarty. Suits you.’
Her eyes narrowed and her mouth started to open; he saw her preparing a retort. Then the door to the main room opened and three people spilled out. In the confusion, Greg slipped out of the front door and slammed it shut behind him.
He stood on the doorstep, breathing deeply. He heard the bass thud from the stereo, laughter and a girl’s voice shrieking from inside. The air was cool against his face. It was dark, but a smudge of moon showed edges of heaped cloud. He stood there biting his lip, ashamed and angry—angry with Tanya, angry with himself. Gizzard would hear all about this, with embellishments. They’d be talking about him, laughing, Gizzard and the two girls.
He could go back into the party and pretend to enjoy himself; maybe find some other girl, show that poser Tanya where she could get off. He needn’t ring the doorbell and stand there like a nerd; he could go round to the open back door and just reappear, get himself another lager, find Gizzard and make the whole thing into a joke. He got as far as the side gate, saw the lighted kitchen window running with condensation, and an exhalation of fag-smoke from the extractor fan.
No. He’d had enough.
He walked away from the house. On the way, in the back of the Mini, he’d taken little notice of where they were going. He turned right, found himself in a culde-sac, and tried the other direction, at last reaching a road he recognized. The solitude, the silence broken only by occasional traffic, were like gifts he hadn’t deserved. His head cleared and became his own again. If he’d had his bike, he’d have gone to the Tavern after all; he considered hitching a lift, decided he couldn’t be bothered, and walked home.
His parents were watching a film; his mum looked at the mantelpiece clock in surprise. ‘You’re not very late! Did you have a good time?’
‘Great, thanks,’ Greg said. He went straight up to his room and turned on his stereo.
Caryatid
Greg’s photograph (colour): the female caryatid
figure on one of the garden summerhouses at
Graveney Hall. From ground level, a pillar of
stone rises in an angular, widening co fin-shape,
becoming the top half of a girl or woman. A draped
cloth falls in folds around her waist; above she is
naked, with graceful, muscular arms and small
rounded breasts. In her arms she holds a garland
of vines and fruit. The sunlight throws strong
shadows on her face, exaggerating the classical
repose of her features. On her forehead there is a
medallion or brooch, from which the folds of stone
fabric fall away like hair. Above her head, the stone
becomes pillar again, rising to a decorative beaded
edging, surmounted by balustrades. Moss or
lichen gives a greenish
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