Tainted Touch Page 32

  Drew: CAIT. Where r u. Im HUNGRY

  Marvellous. I’m having one of the worst Saturdays in recent history, and it appears that Drew has decided to be sober.

  Cait: Am home. & Cakeless.

  Drew: cakeless?!?! :(

  Cait: bad times

  Drew: why so ssseriousss?

  Cait: sad book. Ending sucks.

  Drew: then write a new 1

  Drew: and then make me a fuckin sandwich

  Cait: keep whistling, u toad

  Drew: SUP

  Cait: don’t want to talk about it

  Drew: kk. FINE. U know where I am if u want to, tho

  Cait: Pizza Hut?

  Drew: shh

  The candle splutters on my window sill and begins to choke up soot. It coils up toward my ceiling in limp rings of smoke, smoke that reminds me of Art and his punch bag, and how everything was so much simpler when I just watched him from afar.

  I’m yours, he said. I’m yours.

  But he can’t give me his heart if someone else still has it. I’m too torn up and cynical to take the risk.

  ***

  Not long past eleven, two flustered figures fall through the door of the flat.

  I’ve resorted to typing up my dissertation proposal when I hear them. First the key turns, the lock cracking softly; then in comes Vicky, whispering and giggling and sounding just the tiniest bit drunk. This is closely followed by the distinct, dulcet tones of a satchel thwacking open and closed.

  Rich’s satchel.

  He’s brought an overnight bag. Oh, my God.

  Now I remember sitting in a lesson for A Level psychology a few years ago and talking about entropy. There was a load of gumpf about systems in disorder that I never quit grasped, but when we got to the heart of the matter, it was like being smacked over the head with a brick because entropy–the struggle for mental equilibrium–was awfully close to home.

  I’ve been pouring over business journals for the past two hours, so my brain has gone to strange and dull places. Anything, frankly, is better than staring at my phone and waiting for Mills or Art to call. But Rich and Vicky have arrived, sounding for all intents and purposes like they’re about to bone for England, and I want to punch the air for them. They’re my friends. They deserve some awesome.

  Yet here I am in a little black bubble. If I punch anything, the skin will burst and I’ll ooze misery over the white bedroom I’ve fought so hard to keep pristine.

  I know it’s awful, but I just can’t listen to happiness right now. Even if it is my friends. I have to get out of the flat before I do a Grace and barricade myself in, instead.

  Cait: u still up?

  Drew: 1 sec

  My phone vibrates against my pillow, and I pick up, hand shaking slightly.

  “‘Sup?” Drew says in his warm, concerned and ever-so-slightly bossy way. The wind whistles down the receiver; he’s outside, somewhere.

  “You busy?”

  “I am busy with beer,” he declares.

  I sigh. “How drunk are you?”

  “Shakira, Shakira,” he sings down the phone. “Why. You baked?”

  “I need to get out of the flat,” I say, lowering my voice. “Vicky just brought Rich home, and–”

  “Well fuck me!” he booms. “Jammy bastard. That took less time than I thought.”

  “Drew.” I press a hand to my eyes wearily. “Please…can I come to yours?”

  “I’ll be outside in twenty minutes.” And then he hangs up.

  Each of those bollocking minutes just drags. I put a slouchy red jumper on over my jeans and vest, pull on trainers, comb my hair out and redo the bun. Shove my toothbrush and some knickers in my handbag. Concealer is briefly considered, but I can’t find the energy to look in the mirror (and I’m wary of what I’ll see). Exactly eighteen minutes later, I creep out of the bedroom and pull my door closed with care.

  The coast, it seems, is clear.

  “Cait!” Vicky hisses from the doorway of her room. Then she nods toward our closed bathroom door and throws up a pair of manic jazz hands. She’s still wearing her stage make up, red lips and all, and looks flushed and happy.

  I do my best to give her a smile. “Rich?” I whisper.

  “In the bathroom. I think we’re going to…” She shoves her index finger into her other fist, and I give her a sardonic thumbs up. “You going to Art’s?”

  “Yeah,” I lie. “Catch me up tomorrow?”

  “You betcha.” More jazz hands. “Eeee! I can’t even smith. I just want to squee.”

  “Squee like you mean it.” That came out a lot flatter than I intended, but she’s too gone to notice.

  With that, I make my escape, the cool metal wall of the lift a welcome solace for my forehead. I stand there, just leaning into it, for what feels like an hour.

  Drew is propped up against the concierge desk in the lobby. His hair, mad as ever, is out of its usual ponytail and drifts around his face like caramel mist.

  “About time too,” he calls to me. “Come on, missy. My kebab isn’t going to order itself.”

  “Sorry to fish you out of the pub.” I try to smile again, but I know he can see how pink my eyes are, and his big browns soften in response. “It’s just…it’s all a bit shit, Drew.”

  “Shit’s annoying like that. Has this habit of happening.” He glances up, like he expects a steaming heap to fall from the sky at any point. “Are they shagging yet?”

  “Who, Rich and Vicky?”

  He wiggles his thick eyebrows. “The very same.”

  “Not yet. But I doubt it’ll be long.” I pull the collar up on my coat and follow him out into the wind. “Thought it was a good idea to give them some privacy.”

  “And the boyfriend isn’t around because…?”

  I wrap my arms around myself and stare at the rain-soaked pavement. “Because of shit.”

  Anyone else might have prodded me for info, but Drew just nods once and offers me his arm. I settle for clutching his sleeve; it’s the most polite rejection of touch I can manage.

  We walk back to his halls via the Iranian takeaway at the top of the hill, near Hogwarts. Drew opts for a chicken kebab stuffed with meat, salad, and three different kinds of radioactive neon sauce. I mull over cheesy chips, but end up just opting for a Pepsi.

  I’d forgotten the eerie, twilight atmosphere that occupies uni halls late on a Saturday night. Those who stayed in are already asleep, and those who didn’t have just started the long limp home. Half-arsed fluorescent lights shudder in the corridors, and bangs echo as doors are thrust open throughout the building. When we enter Drew’s hall–my old one–we’re greeted by a strong whiff of takeaway and beer.

  “Drew!” yells a guy with braids as we wrestle with the bedroom door. “Nice work, my friend!”

  “What?” His keys fall to the floor with a clatter, and he blinks between me and the guy. “Oh. Dude, NO.”

  The guy looks genuinely disappointed. “No?”

  “That’d just be wrong.” Drew scoops me sideways, his big arm crushing my shoulder.

  “Eesh–!”

  “I mean, look at us,” he goes on. “She’s like my sister from another mister.”

  “Yes,” I say flatly. “We’re very alike.”

  “Two peas in an interracial pod,” Drew adds.

  Braids guy’s top lip twitches slowly upward. “Peas…?”

  “And pods.” Drew releases me, gives my shoulder a heavy pat, and dips to scrape up his keys. “Serious pod squad action about to go down. But not dirty. Clean pods.”

  “You’re actually past the Shakira-quoting stage of being drunk,” I say, “aren’t you?”

  “My hips don’t lie, fucktoads.”

  I throw poor braids guy a glance. “See? I’m a fucktoad. That’s not how you talk to a girl you’re about to screw.”

  “This feels like oversharing,” says braids guy in a strangled voice.

  Drew shoves his door open. “See ya later.”

 
“Okay…” Braids guy calls after us. “And, you know, nice work anyway. Bros before hoes!”

  If Rich’s room is meticulous–and trust me, it is–then Drew’s, predictably, is the opposite. In our first year, it wasn’t unknown for me to do his washing in exchange for takeaway. The walls are plastered in Instagram snaps, their white edges forming a haphazard mosaic, and he’s built a fort out of beer cans on the desk that straps the window.

  “Smells better in here than last time,” I tell him.

  “Aww gee, thanks.” He dumps our coats on a chair heaped with laundry. “It’s about to stench of kebab.”

  I snort. “That sounds about eight kinds of wrong.”

  “Rich is probably having a kebab as well,” he sniggers, clutching his belly.

  “She’s my best friend, remember?”

  “No. She was your best friend, Cait.” He jabs a finger at me before sitting on the bed. “Now she’s Rich’s girlfriend, and your flatmate. You and me…we’re going to be doing this a lot more often. Now sit. And have a chip.”

  I make a show of begrudgingly sinking down beside him, peeling a limp chip from the tangle of fries in his kebab box. “You really think they’ll go that fast?”

  “Do you know what I caught him doing earlier?”

  I shake my head, chewing the chip.

  “Looking at flights to Europe. For a mini break.” Drew shudders. “He’s got a serious fashion habit. Dude’s already broke. I foresee many overdrafts in his future.”

  “Wow.” I thought me and Art had gone fast. My heart thumps against my ribs at the thought of him, and I swallow heavy air to shove it back down.

  “Anyway. I’m now going to eat mah kebab, and it’ll probably be noisy. And disgusting. So you’re going to distract yourself by talking about your shit.”

  I pull my knees up, wrap my arms round them, and throw him a glare. “I don’t want to talk about my shit.”

  “You have ten seconds until I start quoting the Cyrus.”

  Yes. When Drew gets progressively more drunk, he runs through the wisdom of various female pop vocalists. This is to be avoided at all times–especially when he gets to Anastasia.

  A cough rattles in my throat, and I crack open my Pepsi bottle for a long, cool sip. Deep breath. Okay. “So on Friday, my sister tried to kill herself.”

  Drew’s eyes bulge. He nearly spits out his kebab. “Whumphf?!”

  “It gets better. Dominic showed up again and Art nearly beat him to a pulp. Oh, and then I found out that Art’s ex, that Indian girl–she actually did kill herself. And he’s still hung up on it. Her. Both, probably.” I reel it all off like a shopping list. “So yeah. Shit.”

  He swallows a huge mouthful, strains to do so. “I’d offer to fuck shit up, but I’m not actually sure where to start.”

  “There is nowhere, Drew. Mills is in a really bad way. Might miss the rest of school this year. Mom’s doing herself in over the whole thing, which is normal, I s’pose…” My tear ducts prickle hot before they swell, and my voice wobbles to match. “And Art…I really hurt him. I said some horrible things. But this was just waiting to happen, wasn’t it? I mean, like he could actually have ever been interested in me–”

  “Woah, woah, woah.” Drew slices his kebab box back and forth in the air. “Hold your peas there a sec. Did he say that to you?”

  “No.” I sniff. How to explain this without divulging secrets that aren’t really mine? “But he’s…he admitted he wasn’t over it entirely.”

  He gives me a suspicious look. “He get a punch in on Dominic?”

  “Not exactly. People were watching.”

  “Maybe next time, mmm.”

  “There won’t be one.” I rub at the fresh tears on my cheek. “I don’t think it’ll work out between me and him.”

  “You need more chips?” He offers me the box, and the salty scent of meat wafts with it.

  “No. Cheers.”

  “Have to cover all the bases.”

  “D’you mind if we just watch a film, or something?” It’ll take my mind off the shit, perhaps. And will stop Drew questioning me for answers I just don’t have.

  “Lemme finish this, and I’ll load up Netflix.” He nudges me gently. “I’m sorry about your sister. That’s awful.”

  “She overdosed at a party. Who even does that?”

  “Some people get really lost, Cait.” He lowers his gaze. “They get lost and you can’t do shit except stand there and watch, ‘cause they don’t want a map. Can’t fucking read the thing.”

  A sad, rueful smile lifts my lips. “You’re not half bad with the smithery when you’ve had a few.”

  “Beer,” he announces. “It turns some people into poets, some people into perverts, and some into epic twatsmashers. I like to think I do all three.”

  “You say that like you’re so proud.”

  “I am, Cait.” He lets off a melodramatic sigh that even Vicky would be pleased with. “Oh, I am.”

  When the kebab is finally devoured, we watch two episodes of Brooklyn Nine Nine before crawling into his skinny, single bed. He has the wall side; I have the other; we both stay fully clothed. Feels a bit like the sleepovers I used to have with male friends when I was about eight, but if I ignore the fact that there’s some serious bodily contact going on, it’s actually quite comfortable. Knackered beds are always balanced out by the weight of a boy.

  “Promise you won’t fart,” I mutter as he switches the lamp off.

  “Now you know I can’t do any such thing.”

  “Keep it to the bare minimum.”

  He begins to titter, shaking beside me in the dark. “Probably the first time I’ve ever heard that from a girl in my bed.”

  The sheets rustle, bed springs creak. We both lie there trying to contain our laughter.

  “Drew?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re such an idiot.”

  He shoves his foot back against mine in a mock kick. “Don’t fuck with the pod.”

  Weirdly enough, I get the best night’s sleep I’ve had for days.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sunday’s a bag of dicks.

  Mills is still in hospital, psyche evaluation pending.

  Not a peep from Art. A round of applause, if you will, for the slow death of our affair.

  Drew managed to hold his farts in until morning, but woke me with one so loud and putrid that I actually had to evacuate to the kitchen. Talk about the ‘crack of dawn.’ He did compensate by buying me a Crap Breakfast, but I’m still traumatised.

  Hazel is lovely on the phone, and tells me to come back when I’m ready.

  “Your sulky himbo is extra sulky without you,” she says in her sly I know you’re shagging him voice.

  I want to tell her that he’s neither sulky nor a himbo, but if I’m being honest, I’ll also have to tell her that he may not be mine. And that’s more than I’m ready to say.

  Perhaps he’s waiting for me to make the first move–it was me who did the walking out, after all. But perhaps, as well, he didn’t follow because everything I put to him was true. Like he said, he might still get another slash tattooed across his hip, come June. Another little lament to his Priya.

  I am morbidly curious about her, and feel dreadful for that. But I’m only human. I have my lighthouse, and Art comes pretty damn close to nailing me behind a blood-spattered door.

  I manage to pass the morning at Drew’s, but sooner or later, I figure I need to face Vicky. Put her in the picture. After she’s told me all about her night with Rich, of course.

  When I get back to the flat, she’s lounging on the sofa in bunny slippers and her leopard print onesie. Her damp, shower-fresh hair is pulled back in a clip, and she’s clutching a mug of coffee to her chest.

  “Cait!” she shrieks. “Guess what?”

  I hang my coat up, and sit down beside her. “Cupboard of Shame’s empty…?”

  “Well yeah.” Her eyes dart left and right, sheepish. “Had a little attack of
les snackeroos last night, you know…needed a sugar hit.”

  “Because you boned Rich,” I supply.

  She spreads her arms theatrically, coffee sloshing about. “Friends, romans and countrymen, he gave it to me like woah.”

  “Are you two, like…a thing, now?”

  She leans forward, as if to whisper something sacred. “We might be.”

  “Vick, I’m so pleased for you.” I give her hand a little pat.

  “He cleaned my room,” she confides, and then bursts out laughing.

  For a while, we put Next Top Model on and just talk trash. Arrange which classes we’ll do at the gym in the week, since my back seems to be better. She tells me how the final show last night went–awesome, apparently–and describes how Rich came to the after party with more flowers. Frankly, she didn’t stand a chance.

  When I can avoid it no longer, I tell her about Mills. And Art. And Dominic. And Priya. The whole sorry shebang.

  “You are not getting the train,” she says pointedly, when I outline my plans to visit Mills the next day. “We’ll get a cab on Dad’s account, and I’ll come with you. We’ll raid M&S on the way, take her a box of goodies. Hospitals are horrible–poor chick’s probably desperate for lip balm and a bag of Percy Pigs.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at that one, so I just nod weakly.

  “And what about Art?” she presses. “You’re just going to…leave it?”

  “He’s not ready for the stuff he’s offering me,” I shoot back.

  She rolls her eyes to high heaven. “Don’t give me that, Cait. So he’s not ready? Fix him!”

  “Oh, okay then. Just hang on while I get the sellotape–”

  “Stop it. Stop sabotaging things, for god’s sake. You told me as much the other night.”

  “He’s got this tattoo though, Vick.” I tear up just thinking about it. Screw secrets–I have to know if this is okay. “This tally. He literally ticks off the years since she died.”

  Her face drops. “Serious?”

  “Uhuh.” I give a helpless shrug. “What am I meant to do, just pretend it isn’t there? What if he keeps ticking them off? They’ll be up to his bloody forehead eventually.”

  “I actually have no idea what to say about that.” She takes a sip of coffee and concentrates on it very hard. “The universe needs to, like, recompense you for that.” She glares at the ceiling, a finger cocked in accusation. “You hear me, you bastards? Cait demands a refund!”