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'Graham? Look, I'm really sorry. I'll be out soon. God I'm sorry.'
'No, no,' he said, almost shouting; he had to lower his voice, 'That's okay.
That's fine. I'll wait... in... the room, all right?'
'Yes. Yes please. Five minutes.'
She was there! He went bounding up the stairs, three or four at a time,
praying to himself the room hadn't been taken over by some amorous couple
while he'd been away, cursing himself for doubting her. Now she'd think he
didn't trust her.
The room was empty, as he'd left it. He sat down on the bed, his hands in his
lap, his heart thumping in his chest. He stared at the bottom of the door. I
go into ecstasies because a woman is in the loo, he thought. This is enough
to make me feel like I own the world. Can I tell anybody about this? Can I
tell Slater? Can I tell mum? Did she and dad ever feel like this?
She came back. She looked whiter than ever. Her breath was ragged and faint,
pulsing.
She lay down on the bed, not speaking to him. She made him feel frightened,
but as she lay down, eyes closed, on her side and facing him, something else
in her, some frail, scavenging eroticism made him shake with desire. Oh my
God, I feel like a rapist. She's _ill_.
'Are you -' he choked on the dry words, began again. 'Are you really poorly?
Should we get an ambulance?'
' "Poorly",' she said, and smiled, her eyes still closed. 'That's a nice
word.' She opened her eyes, looking at him; she blinked in the light. 'I'm
fine, really. Really I am. Just nerves;
I'm a weepy female and I should probably be on valium, but fuck it. I'm
riding it out, you know?
I've things to get over. Sorry to be a bother.'
'It's no bother,' he said, and was at last pleased with the way he had said
something;
warm, strong, not patronising, but caring. Did she hear it that way, though?
She nodded at him, eyes closing. She sniffed at the top of her dress, over
her breasts.
'I'm sorry,' she said suddenly, eyes open again. 'I stink of some horrible
aftershave.'
Graham realised that indeed there was a strong smell of cologne from her. She
smiled wanly at him and shrugged. 'I threw up. This was all I could find to
cover the smell. I've brushed my teeth too, but I still taste it... God,
this is awful, Graham. I'm using you like a nursemaid. I
didn't mean to.'
'Don't... worry about it,' he said weakly.
Her eyes closed again. 'You wouldn't get the wrong idea if I asked you to put
that light out, would you?' she asked. 'My eyes hurt.'
'Sure,' he said softly, and went to the door.
With the light off, cold yellow bands of light spread from the window. She
was a black pool of shadow on the bed, a space of darkness. He sat down by
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her, and she raised one of her arms; he sat down beside her, muscles
trembling. Her arm pulled him gently down. Her face was opposite his; close,
indistinct.
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This is terrible, Graham,' she said, almost too softly for him to catch.
'You've been lovely and I'm leading you on but I can't deliver at the moment.
You'll hate me.'
'I - ' he began, but gulped that precipitous, too instinctive and glib
statement back.
Too soon. 'No,' he insisted, 'not at all.' He put one of his hands out and
took both of hers in his. They were warm. 'Just this is...' he shook his
head, not knowing if she could see, or maybe feel the bed bounce slightly,'...
it's really nice,' he gave a tiny, self-depreciating laugh on the last word,
acknowledging its inadequacy. She squeezed his hands.
'Thanks,' she whispered.
They lay like that for a long time. His thoughts were in a strangely distant
turmoil, as though they were no more the workings of his own mind than the
far-below hubbub of the party was his own voice. In the end he gave up trying
to analyse his own feelings, or even totally understand them, and lay there
relaxed, listening for the slow, regular breathing of sleep, and wasn't sure
if he detected it or not. The door opened briefly at one point and a young
man's voice said 'Shit,' but Graham didn't even turn to look; he knew it could
be nothing which would disturb them.
He held her in his arms, still and warm, and after a while in that darkness he
felt as though he held nothing at all; it was like when a limb, having been
left in the same position for too long a time, somehow loses all reference to
the body, and for those instants before some willed movement the very location
and attitude of that arm or leg is quite unknown. He held her, but he felt
nothing; she was there, and in his consciousness distinctly other and
different, but she was also like some relaxed part of himself; a silent mix of
identities cancelled out, like the pale skin, white scar, dark clothes and
black hair being equated and combined, and the resulting coalescence being
clear, invisible... nothing.
Eventually she stirred, kissed him quickly on the forehead, and levered
herself up, sitting on the side of the bed. 'I feel better now,' she said.
She turned to look at him in the darkness; he stayed looking at her. 'I'd
better go home,' she continued. 'Could you ring for a taxi? Come; we'll go
back down.'
'Yeah,' he smiled.
The light was very bright when he switched it back on. She yawned and
scratched her head, messing her hair still further.
In the hallway he called for a cab for her, going to Islington.
'Where are you going?' she asked him. 'Can you come as far as Islington, do
you want to take the cab after that?' The party was slightly quieter, but
there were still plenty of people about. A man and woman in punk gear lay
asleep in each other's arms on the couch in the hall.
Graham shrugged.
'Islington's a bit closer, I think,' he said. Was she inviting him back?
Probably not.
She looked pained.
'I can't invite you in or anything, I'm sorry.' He hadn't thought so, but his
insides still ached briefly.
'That's all right,' he said brightly. 'Yeah, Islington's a bit closer. I'll
pay half.'
She didn't let him pay half; he didn't protest too much. They got to the
place where she was staying, a quiet cul-de-sac. The taxi drove off; he
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couldn't afford taxis. She looked at a big BMW bike parked by the kerb, then
up at a darkened row of tall houses. In the yellow light, her face was like a
ghost's. 'I keep saying I'm sorry this evening,' she said, coming closer to
him. He shrugged. Would they kiss? It seemed impossible. 'I wish I could
invite you in.'
'Not to worry,' he said, grinning. His breath made a cloud between them.
'Thanks, Graham. For staying with me, I mean. I'm such a bore; do you
forgive me? I'm not always like this.'
'Nothing to forgive. It's been great,' She laughed quietly when he said it.
He shrugged again, smiling hopelessly. She came to him, put her gloved hand [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] - zanotowane.pl
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