I wait for him to kiss my cheek goodbye, but he backs away with a little salute, and I’m left feeling forlorn.
‘Oh, honey,’ says a kind voice next to me. It’s Jack/Jake. ‘The pretty ones are never worth it.’
I’m keeping an eye on how much I drink because there’s far too much easily available alcohol, and I’ve been feeling antsy. After acouple of hours, I ask a guy wearing a feather boa, pants, and not much else if there are any soft drinks, and I’m sent to the garage on the promise of Diet Coke.
Seeing Mark has unsettled me. Last night, I’d gone clubbing with my cousin Niki. I’d slow danced with a friend of hers and, even though he’d been a perfect gentleman, it had felt like a terrible betrayal of Leo.
I’ve been starting to feel that I’m too young to be tied to someone. I’d only agreed to go out with Leo in the first place because his mum and mine were such good friends and were always dropping hints about what a cute couple we’d make.
I’d have been happy just staying friends, but he’d seemed keen, and I was curious to see what it would be like to have a boyfriend and to try out this French-kissing lark the girls in my class kept going on about.
Kissing Leo is … okay. I mean, it’s not horrible or anything, but I just don’t see what all the fuss is about. Leo is always up for doing more, but I’ve been holding firm. Inside the bra is acceptable, inside the knickers is not. I just don’t feel anything more towards him.
I mean, Leo is a nice-looking boy. He has these very full pink lips that everyone bangs on about and hair that arranges itself into perfect ringlets if he lets it grow too long. The nurses at the hospital always make a big fuss of his pretty hair.
I’m not going to think about Leo, I decide. Treat tonight as an extension of my holiday – real life is suspended for one more night.
It’s cool in the garage, and with the door closed, the music pumping from the lounge is muted to a more neighbour-friendly volume. I can still make out Justin Timberlake’s ‘Rock Your Body’.
For a six-student house-share, the garage is remarkably tidy. I mean, there’s a lot of stuff in here – old sun loungersand cushions stacked haphazardly in the corner, but close to me, there’s a washing machine and separate dryer and neatly arranged bottles of all sorts of detergents and fabric softeners. Yan inherited Dad’s tidiness and Mum’s obsession with trying every laundry product on the market.
The Persil makes me yearn to get into some fresh clothes. I’m sweaty and it’s making the underwire in my bra chafe my skin. I pull the straps off my shoulder and sigh with pleasure. I don’t have to look to know there’ll be angry red lines crisscrossing my skin. My D-cup boobs are too big to spend so long squished together.
There’s no one here, so I yank the stretchy fabric of my dress down and quickly remove my bra.
Bliss.
I pull my dress back up, then pause. What should I do with my bra? I don’t have pockets and I left my bag inside. I spot a dusty hook on the back of the door, and I hang it up on that.
Maybe it was pointless to dig out a Wonderbra and killer heels to come to a party full of gay men, but it’s liberating to dress up and not have to worry about unwanted attention.
Although, noteveryone’sattention had been unwanted. And his reaction had been surprising, to say the least.
I can’t help smiling and do a little dance step in time with Justin Timberlake. I sing a few bars in a rubbish falsetto and salsa to the back of the garage where the groceries are stored.
It’s too dark to see what’s what, so I flick on the light.
There’s a man lying on his side on an old wooden sun lounger.
I scream.
‘Nella?’
It’s Mark. What the hell? My heart is beating so hard it feels like I’m having a heart attack.
Mark seems pretty startled himself, like he’s been pulled suddenly from sleep.
‘Why aren’t you at the airport?’
He rubs his eyes. ‘I missed the last tube, so I’m waiting until they start again.’ He checks his watch. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I was looking for soft drinks,’ I say.
He runs a hand over the back of his neck while I peer at the shelves looking for a Coke I don’t even want any more. Not that I can bend down and keep a modicum of modesty at either the neckline or hem.
This stupid outfit. I’m going to burn it.
‘Let me do that,’ he says, coming over. ‘It’s dirty down there. Don’t spoil your dress.’
