‘cos of the boy-style books by the bed: sports biogs, someone called Bill Bryson. The whole place is blue. Blue with gold.
And after I’ve taken off Miss Mint’s clothes I’m scared again; scared to look down, ‘cos I don’t think I’m ready to see what I know will look better; bigger, fuller. Older.
So I don’t look, I just grab a towel and throw it on and go to the bathroom and sink under the bubbles and then I begin, finally, to think more clearly ‘cos the door’s shut if not locked and the towels are white so it must be ok and nothing bad will happen if I just close my eyes and drift.
Josh will be eating with Mum and I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder what they’re saying. I start imagining the conversations that are happening right now in my house and I’m glad I’m lying down ‘cos otherwise I’d fall over. Then,
“Phoebe, I’m off.” From through the door.
I don’t know what to do.
“Where?”
And then the door opens and in he comes with his polo shirt all stretched across the chest and a bit of hair in his eyes. He looks kind and tired and sexy and a bit frustrated.
“Training reunion, baby. Told you I had to leave tonight. I’ll be gone a week, in Plymouth. Back Sunday, though.”
The water’s safe, warm and the bubbles are thick but I feel like he can see everything. And all sorts of things float through my head as well as this tickling between my legs. Hair that’s longer and darker and better than my hair drifts under my chin like weeds and soft, strange thoughts flow through me like I’ll have this huge bed and a house to myself and I won’t know what to do if I get attacked in the middle of the night and I won’t and I don’t get to have sex with Taff and is that a good thing for my first time ‘cos I was secretly kind of excited.
“Sure,” I say. Then I’m starving. “Is there any food?”
He looks at me like I’ve said the weirdest thing ever, like I want to kiss a frog or something.
“You want to eat?”
I think of the piece of paper in the bag.
“I am a little ... hungry, yes.” Who am I, Jane Eyre?
But he seems so happy I’ve said it. So happy in fact, he does a mini skip and jabs a fist in the mid air towards me.
“The words I thought I’d never hear,” and he sounds a bit sarky and looks scared I might be joking but when he sees I’m not, he kneels by the bath and leans in, so the lavender oil gets stronger and he kisses me again, gently, with no tongues.
“You should go to London more often,” he says and I can tell he’s horny ‘cos his throat’s all husky and basically, even though I kept my pants on in the end and they’re stuck to my skin under the bubbles, I feel really, really shy.
He does a sort of shuffly dance thing backwards out of the bathroom after he’s told me there’s half a pizza left over or some eggs and salad in the fridge. Sometimes, when Mum and I are getting on well, we’ll make omelettes together and the thought makes me thick in my throat but I have to make him think it’s fine until he goes, so I just give relaxed smiles and say thank you a lot and eventually he leaves:
the bedroom in a bit of a mess (I guess)
the bathroom and, with a door slam
the house.
I wallow for a while, taking in the bathroom shelf: tubes of decadence; skincare brands I’ve never seen outside department stores or Josh’s mum’s bedroom and it dawns on me that now they’re mine. I must be in shock still I reckon ‘cos it’s very simple the thing I do next: I get out of the bath and start opening them.
Wrapped in my towel, I clear a steam-space in the mirror, which by the way has lights round it like Marilyn Monroe. First thing is my eyes. They’re dark, deep hazlenut like Miss Mint’s bag and the skin around them’s clear and smooth, not baggy like I’m used to. It’s probably ‘cos there’s a cream to put on, just for eyes, at midnight, it says. How does that work?
Smearing a large blob of pale mint gunk over my
And after I’ve taken off Miss Mint’s clothes I’m scared again; scared to look down, ‘cos I don’t think I’m ready to see what I know will look better; bigger, fuller. Older.
So I don’t look, I just grab a towel and throw it on and go to the bathroom and sink under the bubbles and then I begin, finally, to think more clearly ‘cos the door’s shut if not locked and the towels are white so it must be ok and nothing bad will happen if I just close my eyes and drift.
Josh will be eating with Mum and I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder what they’re saying. I start imagining the conversations that are happening right now in my house and I’m glad I’m lying down ‘cos otherwise I’d fall over. Then,
“Phoebe, I’m off.” From through the door.
I don’t know what to do.
“Where?”
And then the door opens and in he comes with his polo shirt all stretched across the chest and a bit of hair in his eyes. He looks kind and tired and sexy and a bit frustrated.
“Training reunion, baby. Told you I had to leave tonight. I’ll be gone a week, in Plymouth. Back Sunday, though.”
The water’s safe, warm and the bubbles are thick but I feel like he can see everything. And all sorts of things float through my head as well as this tickling between my legs. Hair that’s longer and darker and better than my hair drifts under my chin like weeds and soft, strange thoughts flow through me like I’ll have this huge bed and a house to myself and I won’t know what to do if I get attacked in the middle of the night and I won’t and I don’t get to have sex with Taff and is that a good thing for my first time ‘cos I was secretly kind of excited.
“Sure,” I say. Then I’m starving. “Is there any food?”
He looks at me like I’ve said the weirdest thing ever, like I want to kiss a frog or something.
“You want to eat?”
I think of the piece of paper in the bag.
“I am a little ... hungry, yes.” Who am I, Jane Eyre?
But he seems so happy I’ve said it. So happy in fact, he does a mini skip and jabs a fist in the mid air towards me.
“The words I thought I’d never hear,” and he sounds a bit sarky and looks scared I might be joking but when he sees I’m not, he kneels by the bath and leans in, so the lavender oil gets stronger and he kisses me again, gently, with no tongues.
“You should go to London more often,” he says and I can tell he’s horny ‘cos his throat’s all husky and basically, even though I kept my pants on in the end and they’re stuck to my skin under the bubbles, I feel really, really shy.
He does a sort of shuffly dance thing backwards out of the bathroom after he’s told me there’s half a pizza left over or some eggs and salad in the fridge. Sometimes, when Mum and I are getting on well, we’ll make omelettes together and the thought makes me thick in my throat but I have to make him think it’s fine until he goes, so I just give relaxed smiles and say thank you a lot and eventually he leaves:
the bedroom in a bit of a mess (I guess)
the bathroom and, with a door slam
the house.
I wallow for a while, taking in the bathroom shelf: tubes of decadence; skincare brands I’ve never seen outside department stores or Josh’s mum’s bedroom and it dawns on me that now they’re mine. I must be in shock still I reckon ‘cos it’s very simple the thing I do next: I get out of the bath and start opening them.
Wrapped in my towel, I clear a steam-space in the mirror, which by the way has lights round it like Marilyn Monroe. First thing is my eyes. They’re dark, deep hazlenut like Miss Mint’s bag and the skin around them’s clear and smooth, not baggy like I’m used to. It’s probably ‘cos there’s a cream to put on, just for eyes, at midnight, it says. How does that work?
Smearing a large blob of pale mint gunk over my
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