Page 30 of The Story of Us
“Perhaps it’s because you frustrate me.”
“You barely know me, how do I frustrate you?” I don’t know if I feel hurt that he thinks this or happy that I have at least some kind of effect on him. Do I want to have some kind of effect on him? God I don’t know, I don’t know anything where he’s concerned. My life might be a mess right now but it’s a mess I have control over and that’s the way I want it to stay. I don’t want my emotions roller-coastering all over the place; in fact, I don’t think I’m ready for emotions of any kind in my life right now. I’ve survived the last few years without them and I think that I’ll manage without them for the next few.
“You frustrate me because you so obviously put on a front; I wish you would just be yourself, at least for me.”
“Why, why does it matter who, or what I am around you?” He twirls my hair around his fingers, it’s such a simple thing but for me, so intimate.
Yes I’ve had sex with men, ten of them in fact, over the last six months and some would say that’s the ultimate act of intimacy, but not for me. For me, it was a cold and unfeeling act of power and control. I rarely let them kiss me, I gave them the best sex they’d ever had but just that, they got no part of me whatsoever. I didn’t hold hands with them, unless they took mine and left me with no choice, I didn’t stroke or lick or suck. I just fucked, but I did it so well that they couldn’t get enough, just so that I could hear them say those three little words then have the pleasure of walking away, but this, him playing with my hair like this, was so much more intimate to me than anything else I’d experienced in the last six months. It was the most intimate thing I’d done with any man since Sean!
“Because I like you Kitten, I like you a lot and I want to get to know you, the real you, not the spitting, clawing alley cat you seem to want people to think that you are, and the first thing I want to know is what’s made you like this? Who did this to you? What did they do… hmm?” He raises his eyebrows at me like he’s actually waiting for an answer, well fuck that, I’m not spilling my guts to him so that I can get the pitying look I’ve got from everyone else these past five years.
“I need to go home; I’ll get my Dad to arrange for my car to be towed tomorrow.” I move to slide off of his lap.
“Don’t go, don’t run away Georgia, stay and talk to me.” He holds me in his lap, his hands on my hips, his eyes looking right into mine, through mine, into me and I have to go, I can’t have him seeing through me, into me, to the real me, I can’t.
“I need to go Cam, please let me go.” He shakes his bloody head at me again.
“You’re shaking your head.”
“Coz you’re frustrating the fuck out of me. Would you have had sex with me, earlier, before little limp dick went all mental and started smashing things up? If we hadn’t been interrupted, would you’ve let me fuck you?” My cheeks burn with embarrassment at the thought of my earlier behaviour, I shake my head very slightly.
“No Cam, you wouldn’t have fucked me… but I might have fucked you.” He lets out a deep breath, almost a hiss, through his teeth.
“Get your stuff, I’ll take you home and don’t worry about your car, I’ve got someone coming for it now, I’ll get it fixed up for you.”
“You don’t have to do that, it’s my own fault, I behaved badly, and I got what I deserved.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But do you want to be the one to tell your Dad what happened and why? Do you want your Dad’s blokes out looking for little dick, seems to me, the poor blokes got enough problems without Frank Layton putting a price on his tiny balls.”
I actually laugh out loud at the thought of Lee and his little cock and balls being chased by my Dad; shit he’s right, the least my Dad knows about the damage to my car the better. I chew on the inside of my lip.
“Okay but I want a receipt for the work, I want to pay the bill and make sure you tell them to be gentle with her, she’s getting on and needs to be handled with love.”
He frowns. “Who?”
“Hilda.”
“Fuck, right, yeah, of course, Hilda the Triumph Herald, how could I forget?” He smiles as he speaks, he looks so young when he smiles and I wonder again how old he actually is. I’m guessing twenty-nine, thirty…
“How old are you Cam?”
“Old as my tongue, bit older than my teeth,” he says with a shrug and looks away from me.
“My Nan always used to say that and she was like eighty or something when she died, are you as old as her?”
“Fuck off, let’s get you home.”
Cam dropped me off at my flat and we came to an arrangement whereby he would sort out the cost of the damage to my car as long as I agreed to go out for dinner with him Saturday night. I agreed. Of course I agreed there was just something about him that made me want to agree and try as I might, I didn’t seem to be able to fight it.
Saturday morning I had a fitting for my bridesmaid dress with Jimmie, she was having three of us and her older sister was being matron of honour. Jim being the funky little soul that she was, had chosen fantastic fifty’s style retro dresses for us, they were really simple, in a soft peach colour, with a strapless bodice a wide ivory sash to match the colour of Jims dress and then a full skirt that came just above our knees, with lots of petticoats underneath. Jimmies dress was the same style but where ours were strapless, she had lace over the bodice, with three quarter lace sleeves and a massive bow at the back of the sash around her waist, we all had little short veils for our heads, Jims was longer and covered her face, the whole thing was so her and I just loved it.
I got the usual telling off from Claude and Sally the dress-makers; I had to have my dress made slightly smaller every time we had been back for fittings, then my mother joined in the charge and started going on about how I spent too much time at the gym, at work or out clubbing, that I never ate and that I would never find a husband in a noisy, sweaty club.
“Actually, I have a date tonight and he’s taking me out for dinner,” I state loudly from where I’m standing on the podium while Claude darts the back of my dress where he wants it taken in.
A pin scrapes my skin, only just not piercing it. “Oww!” I complain, looking over my shoulder at him; we use Claude and Sall for lots of jobs for the shops and we referred lots of customers to them who wanted Bespoke tailoring so they we providing their services for free as a thank you to my Mum.
Claude looked up at me and rolled his eyes in an ‘I barely touched you’ expression. “Is there blood?” I asked.
