Page 74 of Great Sexpectations
‘Why, thank you,’ he replies, smirking.
‘No, you have a fever. Let me…’ I put my plate down and place a hand to his core this time, reaching inside his T-shirt. I won’t lie, the physical proximity is a thrill to me, but his skin is literally burning to the touch. ‘You’re not well, you’re boiling,’ I say.
‘Really? I thought it was just your nan’s flat. Old people’s houses are always warmer than most. This must be why I cried before. I don’t usually cry. Honest.’
I smile and lift up his T-shirt to reveal his back. Again, it’s nice to see, but his skin is dotted with about ten or twenty small blisters.
‘Did you have chickenpox as a child?’ I ask.
‘My mum couldn’t remember.’
Oh.
It’s 11.42 p.m. on New Year’s Eve and lying next to me is a very spotty gentleman wrapped in my duvet, dosed up with paracetamol and hoping his fever may break. After I pointed out that Cameron may have chickenpox, we stripped him in the flat which provided momentary enjoyment until we found spotseverywhere, even a few perilously close to his penis (I was allowed to study those, there was some thrill involved, though it went no further). So we abandoned curry and I found tablets in Nan’s medical cabinet (I also found some cough mixture with a best before date of January 1986) and hydrated him well. There was no point him going home to an empty house, so I said he could stay here with me. I had chickenpox in the summer of 2001. I got them in between my toes and used to itch them with disposable chopsticks. We then cuddled up on the sofa and put an Indiana Jones film on that he watched through bleary eyes. We snacked, we drank, we googled adult chickenpox and it scared the shit out of both of us. For the love of crap, please don’t die here of haemorrhagic complications in Nan’s flat before I’ve had the chance to tell you the truth.
I put a hand to him now and the worst of the fever seems to have subsided. He snores gently, even through the bass of the party in the flat below. I should tell Cameron now. Tell him everything. If I do it now, then he’ll think it’s all just a delirious, fevered dream.
Do I wake him so we can see the New Year together? That feels a little selfish, especially as he’s ill. It’s fine. He’s here and that alone makes me so content. I think it’s some milestone that even though he’s unwell and spotted, I still want him close, I still think him unfathomably cute. That means something, right?
He mumbles something in his sleep and I wipe away some sweat from his brow.
‘Are you OK? Cameron? Do you want another drink?’ I ask him. ‘It’s nearly New Year.’
‘I’m good. Love you,’ he mumbles.
I stop for a moment. It’s because he’s sick. When people have fevers and are on pain meds, they love everyone. He might think I’m someone else.
‘Love you too…’ I can say that because I’m drunk. I’m very drunk. I’ve medicated with two Becks and more wine this evening.
Even though he’s contagious and not well and this is not the evening that either of us had planned, I don’t want to be anywhere else.
As the credits onIndiana Jonesroll to a close, I hear my phone buzz on the table and from afar see it’s my brother. I wriggle off the sofa and go out onto the balcony, wrapped in a blanket like a giant version of E.T.
‘Happy New Year,’ I say as I answer the phone. ‘How’s the party?’
But as the picture comes into focus, I see Sonny pushing Mum and Dad into view. Both of them hesitant and possibly a little too tipsy to be coherent. Mum looks glamorous in a gold sparkling cocktail dress, Dad in a dinner jacket, looking like a retirement-years Bond. We’ve not spoken since Christmas and the words still feel raw and barbed.
‘Sonny… I… I don’t know what to say?’ Mum says.
‘When have you ever been at a loss for words? Hey, Josie! How are you? Happy New Year! We miss you,’ Sonny says, in a voice that I hope isn’t supposed to be Mum’s, otherwise we need to find him a new acting coach.
Instead of replying, Mum just starts crying on the screen. This, of course, makes me cry, but also sets Dad off too. Sonny just stands there watching all of us.
‘Basically, I’m getting married in a month, so I need all of you to sort this out. I love you all madly and this isn’t us. This isn’t us at all.’
I nod, my blanket over my head making me look like a sad little orphan child. Maybe it’s the moment, the alcohol or the fact that they’re big sobbing messes, but my heart suddenly pangs with regret and apology. ‘I’m sorry I never told you about the Mike thing. About lying. I only did it because I didn’t want you to feel what I was feeling at the time.’
‘I’m sorry that when we found out he got married we didn’t think to tell you, to discuss it with you like adults,’ Mum says, twisting her lips around.
‘I’m sorry I called you cruel,’ Dad says, openly crying. ‘You’re not. You’re the kindest person I know. I’ve had people come up to me all night telling me what a brilliant boss you are and how you look out for everyone.’
Mum nods in agreement, trying her best to not let her mascara run down her cheeks. ‘This party is just not the same without you. Everyone keeps asking where you are. I’ve missed having a dance with you.’
I grin broadly. Every year, we go onto the dance floor and basically hug and dance our way through The Communards’ ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’. It was the song we used to dance to in the kitchen at home when I was little, we even had a routine where halfway through I’d run at her and she’d spin me around. Yes, we try to recreate that when we’re drunk too.
‘And it kills me that you’re alone tonight,’ Mum adds. ’Are you OK? Come on down for a drink?’
‘I’m not dressed up, Mum.’
