Page 7 of Electric Boy

The band was comprised of four members, each as talentless as the next. Julian’s younger sister, Melanie, played bass -- badly. Rahul’s flatmate, Kwambe, played drums -- clumsily. Rahul, her boyfriend’s best mate, played keyboards and guitar -- flashily and self-indulgently. The frontman of this disaster was none other than her boyfriend himself, Julian Bloody Collier. The “Bloody” wasn’t an editorialization on Aisling’s behalf. That was the stage name he had given himself. Aisling had to admit, though, that she enjoyed the way he pranced across the stage like some sort of Adam Ant-Mick Jagger hybrid. And he did look fetching in those getups of his, with the elaborate hair and makeup. It really allowed his education in fashion design from Saint Martins to shine. But his music… It was, frankly, dreadful.

He’d howl and holler, voice swinging without warning from a breathless basso profundo to a weedy tenor. He’d throw himself down onto the stage in a fit of passion, crying out like a banshee in a sequined jumpsuit. He’d kick out flamingo-pink platform boots and shout tunelessly about taking out the rubbish on a Friday morning. He’d karate chop the cymbals on Kwambe’s drums and screech about shoplifting from an off- license. The crowd, or what was left of it by the end of the show, were usually too nonplussed to clap. Aisling could count on more than one hand the number of occasions when she’d had to patch up Julian’s thrown beer bottle-related wounds. But that man was nothing if not stubborn, and he was firmly convinced that his band, known this month as The Flying Carpet Bags, was genius, ahead of its time, and the general public wasn’t ready for them. Clearly the owner of the club, a hairy-knuckled man known only as Jugs, was of a similar mind because he kept them on retainer to play at the Mango Club every Saturday night. Truthfully, it was probably just because he fancied Julian’s sister Mel.

Aisling was, however, nothing if not a loyal and supportive girlfriend. If this is what her partner wanted to waste his time on, he was more than welcomed to it… so long as he didn’t quit his day job.

Tonight’s more-rubbish-than-usual gig ended in stunned silence followed by a drunken voice hollering “You’re shite!” So, nothing out of the ordinary. Julian blinked through smudged, glittery blue eyeshadow, a thousand-watt smile splitting his face in two. “Fuck off, you slags!” He turned up two fingers and chucked the microphone across the stage before stalking off triumphantly. That was Aisling’s cue to make her way to the greenroom.

The greenroom was red. And it was less of a greenroom than a cramped hallway upstairs used for extra storage. Before entering, Aisling made sure the strap of her top was coquettishly off one shoulder. She was here to make up, after all. Mel and Kwambe were already lighting up the usual post-show spliff. They nodded politely to Aisling as she entered, accustomed to seeing her around the Mango. In the far corner, Rahul and Julian were lost in deep discussion. Rahul, who usually towered over Julian, was of a height with him now that the latter wore platform heels. Rahul’s face was scrunched in the sort of serious expression that suggested he knew as well as Aisling that tonight’s performance had been exceptionally bad. Julian’s face was placidly blank, an expression Aisling recognized as Julian’s stubborn optimism, the kind that flew in the face of all logic. Rahul was the first to catch sight of Aisling, and his already grave expression darkened.

Rahul had never been a fan of Aisling’s. Tall and broad, blessed with naturally thick, dark hair and unblemished tawny skin, he might be handsome if he weren’t so bloody awkward. For a long time, Aisling couldn’t understand why he seemed to loathe the very air she breathed. Eventually she gathered enough information from Julian to formulate a working theory.

Julian and Rahul had been inseparable best friends since they were children, but Rahul went back up North for uni, while Julian had remained in London. Early on, possibly the first year, Julian had gone up to visit Rahul and they’d had some type of massive fight, at least from what Aisling could parse out. At any rate, it sounded to her as if some big, friendship-ending event had occurred and they didn’t speak for several years, at least until Rahul returned from university. By then, however, Julian had met Aisling at art school and they had begun dating. Aisling surmised that Rahul believed Julian had meant to replace him with Aisling, and, even though Rahul and Julian began to mend their friendship, he still resented her for moving in on his mate while he was away. That was daft and had led over the years, to Aisling despising him in turn.

Noticing Rahul’s glance, Julian turned and saw Aisling for himself. Her breath caught for an instant. Maybe this would be the time, the one where they didn’t get back together. The last straw. No matter what she’d said last night, she didn’t want it to be the last time. Not really. God help her, she loved the charming bastard. Then Julian’s smile stretched even wider, his eyes lighting up in that way they always did when he looked at her, and Aisling’s breath left her in a relieved whoosh. It wasn’t the last time. Not this time.

Rahul rolled his dark eyes as Julian pushed past him to greet her. She liked when Julian wore heels. He stood taller than her and it felt as though he was powerful, like he could pick her up and toss her about -- though with those skinny arms they’d be lucky if he could lift her handbag.

“Rahul said you’d came round the shop and you’d be by tonight, but I didn’t believe him. Thought he was just winding me up. But you came,” he said, giddily.

“Of course I came,” Aisling replied, letting some of her chestnut-coloured hair fall into her eyes in what she hoped was a sultry way.

“D’you hear the one we did about the sparrow with the Sellotape stuck to its little foot? Hopping around, can’t get it off, ends up having to get a taxi?”

“Er, yes,” Aisling lied, artfully.

“That one was about you!”

“Oh.” Aisling frowned, less artfully.

“I thought for sure you’d still be cross with me. I would be. I was a right twat last night.”

“You weren’t, love,” she cooed, taking his hand in hers. “I was the one who was just awful. I should’ve never said you were a mod with flat hair.”

“That one really hurt,” Julian said gravely.

“I know, chicken.” She pouted her lips prettily as she said her pet name for him. “I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t, don’t you?”

“‘Course I do.” The corner of his mouth tilted up.

“So we’ll put all of that behind us, won’t we?”

“‘Course we will.”

“Jules.” Rahul’s grating, Northern accent brought their flirtatious rhythm to an abrupt halt. Just like his music, Rahul had no sense of timing. “We’re leaving for the Barber. You coming?”

“Oh, ah…” Julian faltered, looking from Rahul to Aisling. Aisling lowered her eyelids invitingly. “Actually, go on ahead. Me and Aisling are gonna call it a night.”

The suspicious glare Rahul flashed her made it clear he knew exactly what sort of night they intended on calling it. “Yeah. Fine. See you Monday.”

“Cheers,” Julian said, but he was already looking back at Aisling, lips curved in a small, private smile.

* * *

They had barely made it through the door of Julian’s flat before he was slamming her up against it. She shrugged out of her coat and he freed her breasts from her flimsy top, groping and nuzzling them greedily. She giggled at his eagerness. He fell to his knees in front of her, wasting no time in pushing his head under her short, corduroy skirt. She threw a stockinged leg over his shoulder and tossed her head back against the door.

Aisling felt that Julian was in bed much like he was on stage. Passionate, unselfconscious, and entirely engrossed. While his cock was average, even slightly on the small side, and he could be rather clumsy at times, he more than made up for those faults with enthusiasm, admirable stamina, and a willingness to try just about anything.

She clamped down hard around him as her body seized with orgasm. She’d barely finished trembling before she found herself bent over the back of the sofa. It took Julian an embarrassingly long time to wriggle free of his sequined jumpsuit and kick off his platforms, though he didn’t seem embarrassed in the least. Freed from constraint, he rustled up a condom from his wallet and set about fucking the daylights out of her.