Don't You Want Me? (17 page)

‘Up the bum?’ I say, trying to sound delicate.

‘What?’

‘With the men, did you do it up the bum?’

Frank is grinning at me quite wolfishly over the Bombay aloo.

‘Do you really
need
to know that, Stella?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you done it?’

‘Up the bum?’

‘Mmm.’

‘No. I have a phobia. Hygiene-based. Have you?’

Frank sighs. ‘You don’t feel this conversation is in any way too much information?’

‘No. I’m gripped.’

‘You’re exactly like a bloke,’ Frank muses. ‘You’re like a pretty bloke.’

‘But would you bum me if I were?’

‘I haven’t “bummed” a bloke, Stella, no.’

I nod, and then gasp. ‘Do you mean you were the bummee?’

Frank pushes his hands back through his hair.

‘You’re unbelievable, you know that?’

‘Tell me, Frankie. Tell your auntie Stella. Get it off your chest.’

‘No bums, OK? No bums. Christ.’

I generously reward him with a dollop of my spinach, before continuing.

‘What about with women?’

‘Back to bums?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes.’

‘Gosh.’ I look up at Frank, who is spearing his rogan josh, unperturbed.

‘Don’t you think it’s sort of rude?’

‘Stella, you are many things but I didn’t have you down as a prude. What do you mean, rude?’

‘I mean, a woman has a perfectly good vagina, which you completely ignore, and that seems to me to be very bad manners. Also, it’s sort of rapey, don’t you think? Overly forceful.’

‘Makes a change,’ Frank says blandly. ‘From the other. That’s all. And anyway, some women ask for it.’

‘What, “Please do bum me”?’ I say incredulously.

‘Yeah. You know, treat me rough.’

‘Does anal sex make one a dirty ride?’

‘It can do. There’s no set of things you
do
to be a dirty ride. It’s possible to have dirty missionary position, if the girl’s dirty enough. But yeah, anal sex’s quite dirty.’

I go quiet for a bit, trying to take in all of this perfectly absorbing information.

‘Who was that bloke in the yellow you were talking to?’ Frank asks.

‘That,’ I tell him proudly, ‘was my next date.’

‘The DJ?’

‘Yes. Why, do you know him? He’s called MC Yungsta, or DJ Yungsta.’

‘He’s quite well known. Givin’ it large,’ Frank says in Yungsta’s exact accent, throwing ridiculous shapes with both his hands. ‘Make some noooooise.’

‘He’s called Adrian in real life.’

‘They all are. There used to be one called Mista Killa, who turned out to be a bloody vicar’s son from Penge. Called Nigel. Kickin’.’

We chuckle happily over this for a while.

‘And you’re going to go out with him? Christ, I’m stuffed.’

‘Well, he’s sort of asked, and I don’t see why not, do you?’

‘Nope. Well … No.’

‘So. I mean, it can’t be worse than Dr Cooper.’

‘I don’t suppose it can.’

‘Oof, I’m stuffed too,’ I say, pushing my plate away. ‘Though I could possibly squeeze in one tiny kulfi, if they have almond.’

‘Cheap date,’ observes Frank.

‘Oh, be quiet. Do you know,’ I suddenly tell him, ‘I’ve got a whole list of films about anal sex. It’s a game I used to play with myself.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, a film called
Deep Impact
came out, and I thought to myself that it sounded exactly like a film about anal sex.’

‘You’re a very silly girl,’ Frank says, but he is grinning.

‘And then I noticed there were loads of them …
Unlawful Entry
.’

Frank shakes his head and sighs, but his grin broadens.

‘And
Backdraft
.’

‘Oh, God,’ says Frank, beginning to snigger out loud. ‘Is this how you spend your time?’

‘It was a few years ago, when I was very bored. But it’s become a sort of ongoing thing. A hobby, if you like. I collect the titles now. There was an older one, with Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, which I caught on Channel 4 the other day.
Unlawful Passage
.’

Frank is really laughing now, choking on a corner of my paratha, gesturing me to stop. But I don’t. I am very much enjoying sharing my carefully garnered information.

‘There are the subtler ones, like
Lethal Weapon
, with Mel Gibson, do you remember? And
The Deep
. And
First Blood
. And
Blood and Thunder
, though that sounds more windy’

‘
The Wind Jammers
,’ Frank chokes. ‘It was a classic when I was a kid.’

‘Oh, if you’re talking classic, there’s
Gone with the Wind
and
A Passage to India
.’

Frank motions at me to pass him my water. He takes a huge gulp.

‘I see,’ he says, sounding hoarse. ‘They divide into two genres really, don’t they – the actually anal and the more windy.’

‘Exactly,’ I beam back at him, pleased that he’s noticed.

‘Can I play too?’

‘Of course you can.’ I raise my beer glass to him. ‘Bottoms up. Welcome to the game. You need to come up with at least one a week.’

‘Done,’ he says, clinking glasses. ‘Do you know – ’ he wipes his eyes – ‘I haven’t had such a laugh for ages.’

‘That’s because you should try
talking
to girls,’ I explain patiently. ‘Instead of immediately sticking your hand down their pants.’

‘I don’t immediately stick my hand down their pants.’

‘Hmm,’ I sniff. ‘You could have fooled me. Here, taste my ice cream.’

Frank opens his mouth dutifully.

‘Perhaps you’re a sex addict, like Michael Douglas or your fellow ginge, what’s his name, the really plain one?’

‘Hucknall,’ Frank says, not laughing any more. ‘Mick Hucknall. Thanks.’

‘Anyway,’ I say chirpily, ‘less of the pant-hand and more of the chat next time, I reckon, and you’d be pleasantly surprised.’

‘Most women don’t have your conversational skills,’ Frank says with heavy sarcasm. ‘Or your great charm.’

‘Frankie, don’t be so babyish. I didn’t say you were
like
Mick Hucknall …’

‘Could you stop saying “Mick Hucknall” please?’

‘I didn’t say you were
like
him, or that you
looked
like him, even. He’s hideous and you’re, well, you’re very handsome, in a way. I mean, he’s a
gargoyle
, a child-frightener. You’d have to be blind. You’re much easier on the eye. Much.’

‘Cheers,’ he says, cracking a wan smile. ‘It’s just I can’t
stand
Mick Hucknall, and people are always mentioning him around me.’ He points upwards. ‘It’s a hair thing.’

Outside on the pavement, the wind is icy and it’s been raining. I am clinging to Frank’s arm, because standing up makes me realize how drunk I actually am. Frank’s drunk more than me but seems entirely sober.

‘Oh,’ I moan, as we stand, frozen, waiting for a cab. ‘I wish I had a lovely hot cup of tea.’

‘Here,’ says Frank, unbuttoning his coat. ‘Get in.’ He
holds both halves of the coat open. I step inside, and he closes them again. My bottom, I notice after a small while, is pressing right against his cock.

‘Don’t get aroused,’ I tell him sharply, ‘and try and impale me bummily.’

‘I’m trying very hard to control myself, Stell,’ Frank drawls. ‘Shall we walk down to the minicab office?’

‘Perhaps they could sweetly make us a cup of tea.’

‘Doubt it. But they could take us home.’

‘Home?’

‘It’s just a thought. If you fancy that party, I’m game. But I know what you mean about the cup of tea.’

‘And we could make a fire.’

‘And maybe watch a vid …’

‘But you haven’t shown me how to pull, Frankie. You haven’t demonstrated.’ We are walking down Brick Lane like a four-legged, two-headed monster, still huddled inside his coat.

‘I’ll show you later,’ he says.

‘Why, are you feeling lucky, big boy?’

‘No, stupid.’ He thwacks the top of my head from above. ‘I mean, let’s do this again later. Here’s the cab office.’ And then he says something that sounds like, ‘Meynd thee divvent stomp in thon kakky.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Mind the dog shit,’ Frank grins. ‘In normal language: Meynd thee diwent stomp in thon kakky.’

This renders me helpless, but
helpless
, for about ten minutes. I howl, I wriggle with laughter from inside Frank’s coat, losing my balance twice and having to be caught.

‘Did your accent really used to be that broad?’

‘Aye. Spent too long in London,’ Frank says. ‘But I like to air it occasionally.’

‘Air it with me,’ I tell him. ‘When we do this again.’

‘Next week,’ says Frank. ‘We’ll do it again next week. Let’s go home.’

I go and check on Papa and Honey as soon as we come in: both are fast asleep and both are snoring, one more attractively than the other. Frank is making a fire as I totter back down the stairs and into the kitchen to put the kettle on. It’s started to rain again. There really is nothing more blissful on earth than being inside, with tea, by a fire, when it’s really bucketing down outside.

I’ve just got back into the living room, clutching two mugs of extra-sweet tea – Earl Grey for me, PG for him – when this rather charming and domestic scene is interrupted by Rupert’s spare keys turning in the lock.

‘Bugger,’ says Frank, sounding intensely irritated. ‘Who the fuck’s that? It’s one in the morning.’

‘Just us,’ Rupert slurs from the hallway. ‘I’ve brought Cress back for a nightcap.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘That’s nice.’

Actually, I’m with Frank on this one: I was looking forward to our cosy, homely time
à deux
. I quite wanted to watch
The Godfather
on video. I wanted to get to the bottom of the dirty ride thing, and I wanted Frank to speak Geordie to me more. And, of course, give me some sex tips (though actually Rupert is the one who’d really benefit from these, given his technique, or the lack of it. Perhaps we could hold a quick seminar,
en famille
).

‘Hello,’ says Cressida, more pink-cheeked than before. ‘We had a
wonderful
time.’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘it’s a nice restaurant. Very romantic. All those mirrors.’

‘Excellent wine list,’ says Rupert, butchly addressing himself to Frank, who looks up grumpily.

‘I’m not much of a wine expert,’ he says. ‘I prefer beer, or spirits.’

‘I do wish you’d stop always making yourself sound like an oik with a lone O-level in welding,’ I tell Frank, who is poking fire-things unnecessarily hard, with a cross look on his face. ‘Rupert doesn’t know anything about wine either – he’s only saying that to impress Cressida.’

‘Impress Cress,’ Rupert says, which he and his date both seem to find almost unbearably funny. Har-har-har, they bray, like a pair of donkeys. They’re standing immobile in the middle of the room, making eyes at each other, taking up space.

‘What would you like?’ I ask them, trying to conceal my irritation. ‘The kettle’s just boiled, or there are drinks in the kitchen. There’s a delicious bottle of Calvados, actually, just on top of the fridge.’

‘I’ll have
oon petite Calva
,’ Rupert says in his excruciating French. ‘Cress?’

‘I didn’t know you spoke French,’ Cressida beams.

‘There’s no end to his talents,’ I mutter.

‘I’d love another glass of white wine,’ Cressida says, throwing me a mildly annoyed look.

‘Rupert?’ I say to the man, who is standing there rubbing his hands together and gazing idly at Cressida’s well-turned ankles. ‘The kitchen’s through there. Surely you don’t expect me to waitress for you?’

‘Keep your hair on,’ mutters Rupert, sloping off unsteadily. ‘I’m just going. Got any crostini left?’

‘Did you have a nice time too?’ says polite Cressida.

‘Great,’ says Frank, coming over to perch on the side of my armchair. He bends down absent-mindedly and quickly sniffs my hair, as though I were Honey, whom he is always sniffing surreptitiously, I’ve noticed. Can’t say I blame him: she smells delicious.

‘What did you do?’

‘We went for drinks, and then to a boring party where we bumped into Honey’s father,’ I say. ‘And then we had dinner and lovely chats. Very interesting chats. About sex.’

‘You’re obsessed with sex,’ Rupert says, coming back through with two glasses. ‘Always were.’

‘Really?’ says Frank, looking amused. ‘What a surprise.’

‘Really?’ says Cressida. ‘And how,’ she smiles plumply and fondly at Rupert, ‘would
you
know, mister?’

‘From giving her one,’ Frank answers. God, the man’s blunt. A little grace wouldn’t go amiss every now and then, it really wouldn’t.

‘Charmingly put,’ I tell him with a sigh. ‘Nice one, Frankie.’

‘Excuse me?’ says Cressida.

‘I said,’ says Frank, ‘from shagging her. Slipping her a length. Her. Here.’

‘Don’t call me “her”,’ I tell him. ‘God, Frank, you know –
manners
.’

‘From shagging Stella,’ says Frank, correcting himself.

Cressida looks nonplussed, and not what you’d call overjoyed.

‘A long time ago,’ I say comfortingly. ‘Once or twice.’

‘Well, more than that, as I recall,’ says Rupert with a chortle. ‘Oh,’he suddenly remembers. ‘Oh, yes. Oh, bugger and blast. Oh, damnation. Curses. Um, Cress?’

‘Yes?’ says Cressida glacially.

‘Thing is, Cress … Thing is, darling … What I mean is …’

‘Thing is, we were married,’ I interrupt. Sometimes that blithering, stammery English thing gets right on my nerves. ‘Ages ago. Aeons. For a tiny while. After Cambridge.’

‘Didn’t you know?’ asks Frank.

‘No,’ says Cressida, in a small voice.

‘Oh, fuck. Sorry, love,’ says Frank.

‘We were extremely young and it was a mistake,’ I tell her. ‘A disaster. Lasted thirty seconds.’

Frank laughs, and then looks penitent.

‘I mean, the
union
,’ I continue, tutting at him.

‘And now you’re just, um,
friends
?’ asks Cressida, sounding a bit snuffly.

‘Yes,’ Rupert and I say in perfect unison.

‘And you forgot to mention it when you told me your life story over supper,’ Cressida says, looking at Rupert.