His & Hers

‘Stand by the door, skank, and make sure nobody else comes in here. If you don’t, I’ll do something far worse than making you drink piss out of a Coke can.’

It was the one side of Rachel’s character I disliked – the way she picked on Catherine – but I had reached the conclusion that there must be a very good reason for it, even if I didn’t know what that was.

Rachel dragged me into a cubicle and closed the door.

‘Take your shirt off,’ she said.

‘What?’

I was fully aware that Catherine could hear every word.

‘Don’t worry, Dumbo and her big ears won’t listen if I tell her not to,’ Rachel replied. ‘Take it off.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I told you to.’

We had fooled around in our bedrooms and in the woods by then, but it was always dark. Although I had seen Rachel naked more times than I could remember, I still felt shy about her seeing my body. When I didn’t move or answer, she smiled and started to undo the buttons of my shirt for me. I let her, just like I’d been letting her do all the things she had wanted to. Even when they hurt.

As soon as my shirt was off, she slipped her hands behind my back and unclasped my bra. I tried to cover my breasts, but she pushed my fingers away, before reaching into her bag and producing a black lacy bra for me to wear instead. I had never worn anything like it – my mother still bought all my underwear, and it was inevitably white, cotton and purchased in Marks & Spencer – this was something a woman would wear.

‘It’s a Wonderbra! I never wear anything else now, you’re going to love it,’ said Rachel, putting it on me like a child dressing their favourite doll.

To my horror, she took a picture on her disposable camera of my breasts in their new outfit, then opened the door and pushed me out of the cubicle. Catherine Kelly just stared at the floor, so I peered at my reflection in the mirror. It was like looking at someone else.

‘Look how much bigger they are now!’ Rachel said, then frowned at my face.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Your lips are all chapped. That’s no good.’

She took a tiny tin of strawberry-flavoured lip balm out of her bag, and slowly applied some to my lips with her fingertip.

‘Does that feel better?’ she asked, and I nodded. ‘Let me see,’ she said, and kissed me.

She had her back to Catherine, but I didn’t. And I was more than a little disturbed by the way the girl stared at us the entire time Rachel’s lips were on mine. I stood as still as a statue while she pushed her tongue inside my mouth, fully aware that someone was watching.

‘Don’t worry about her,’ said Rachel, glancing over her shoulder. ‘She won’t tell anyone, will you, skank?’

Catherine shook her head, and when Rachel kissed me again, I closed my eyes and kissed her back.

Him

Wednesday 08:45

‘You need to come back,’ I say, as soon as I find Anna in the woods.

It wasn’t hard. There is a place right at the basin of the valley, not far from the school, where all the naughty girls used to sneak off to after lessons, and sometimes during them. It was used for smoking, drinking and other things. Each year, the new class of ‘cool’ kids thought of it as their own secret outdoor den, but its existence was common knowledge – even boys like me knew – and its whereabouts were passed down from one teenage generation to the next. The small clearing is defined by three large fallen tree trunks, dragged together to form a triangular seating area. There is evidence of a recent fire in the middle, surrounded by stones.

Anna looks at me as though she has seen a ghost.

‘How did you know where I was?’ she asks.

‘I remember you telling me about this place.’

‘Did I?’

No.

‘How else would I know?’ I say.

She looks so confused. Her face wears what looks like a second-hand expression inherited from her mother. I almost feel bad not confessing that it was Rachel who told me that they used to come here together, not Anna.

‘You look a bit like her, you know,’ I tell her.

‘Who?’

‘Your mother.’

‘Thanks.’

I can see her comparing herself to the forgetful old woman living in the cottage at the top of the hill, but that isn’t what I meant. Everyone in the village remembers how beautiful Anna’s mother used to be twenty years ago. I always thought of her as a suburban Audrey Hepburn. I might have had a bit of a crush on my future mother-in-law back then, when I was a teenager. The wild grey hair used to be long, dark, and shiny, and she was the best-dressed cleaner I ever saw. I think a hard life stole her looks. Funny how age can be kind to some and cruel to others when it comes to beauty.

‘I mean when she was younger. It was meant to be a compliment,’ I say, but Anna doesn’t respond. ‘Are you OK?’ I ask, knowing it’s a stupid question.

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know any more.’

The subject of Anna’s mother is always a sensitive one; I should have known better.

‘I’m sorry that you think I interfered with your mum. You’re right, I should have told you that she was getting significantly worse. I did try, and I only wanted to help.’

‘I know. It’s just that she never wanted to leave that house, and I feel like I’ve let her down—’

I take a step towards her.

‘You haven’t let anyone down. I understand why you stayed away, and what being here does to you. Maybe you should go back to London?’

Her body language instantly translates into something completely different.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Jack?’

‘What does that mean?’

‘How old is Detective Patel? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?’

I’ve never known Anna to be jealous before.

‘She’s actually in her thirties’ – I checked her HR record myself recently – ‘she’s good at her job, and she’s not my type.’

‘What is your type now it’s no longer me?’

I don’t know whether to laugh or kiss her, and both options seem inappropriate.

‘You’ll always be my type,’ I say, and her face strains to hide a smile.

‘I’ll try to remember that if you ever need a blood donor.’

I laugh. I think I’d forgotten my wife can be funny. Ex-wife. Mustn’t forget that.

A magpie swoops down onto the path behind us, and Anna can’t stop herself from saluting in its direction. Some superstitious nonsense her mother taught her.

‘Come on, everything will be OK,’ I say, holding out my hand.

I’m surprised when she takes it. I always loved the way her fingers seemed to fit right inside my own. I find myself pulling her closer without really meaning to, and she lets me. The hug feels rusty, the kind you have with someone who hasn’t had much practice. Anna starts to cry, and all at once, I am back in her mother’s house again that night two years ago. Holding my wife just after we discovered that our daughter was dead. I’m sure the memory comes back to haunt her too, because she pulls away.

I take a clean hanky from my pocket, and she uses it to wipe the tears and smudges of mascara beneath her eyes.