‘Raaaa-cheeeeel.’ I felt a hand lightly tapping the top of my head.
‘Waaaaaakey-waaaakey.’
As long as I lived, I would never, ever forgive Matthew for waking me
up in the middle of a dream involving Ethan Harrison, a music stand and
certain acts that 16-year-old Rachel would have been horrified by because
her mum said they made you a loose woman. And that was when the term
‘loose women’ still meant you were just a bit of a slag, not Jane McDonald,
a former Coronation Street barmaid or a Nolan.
I really didn’t feel like getting up. After speaking to Veronica, I’d spent
the rest of the day cleaning out my cupboards, trekking all my crap down to
the charity shop and carting three tins of emulsion, two roller trays and a
selection of paintbrushes back from B&Q. Of course, by the time I’d got
home and stuck masking tape all round the doorframe, I was too knackered
to do anything else. I blamed my run. Marathon, practically.
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s almost ten.’ He pulled the cushion out of my hands and started
bashing me over the head with it. ‘Get your arse up. We have to be there by
half eleven; it was the only time they could fit us in.’
At least Matthew brought coffee to accompany his violence. I shuffled
into a sitting position and held my hand out for caffeine-y goodness before I
could even open my eyes properly.
‘Excellent work on the sugar-to-coffee ratio,’ I mumbled, glugging it
down.
‘Since you’re still in the first few days of this process, you’re allowed a
lie-in,’ Matthew grabbed an arm and pulled. ‘But really, we have an
appointment.’
‘You’re not getting me fitted for some horrifying contraceptive device,
are you?’ I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. ‘Where are we going?’
‘If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise, will it?’ He snatched my coffee and
held it over his head.
Totally cheating.
If there was one thing Matthew loved, aside from doing it with boys, it was
a surprise. Once he’d prised me out of bed and dragged Emelie away from
her computer, he refused to part with any details of where we were headed.
All we knew was that it was twenty minutes away and we were headed
there on foot. I was so knackered by the time we came to a halt outside a
pair of big black wooden doors, I was pretty certain I’d agree to whatever
he had planned as long as it meant I could have a sit-down.
Which was a bit of luck actually.
The three of us were standing outside a tattoo parlour.
‘Am I really doing this?’ I asked, looking from one to the other.
‘Seriously?’
‘Totally serious,’ Matthew nodded. ‘But not you, us. I was thinking about
the list and you’re right. There’s no joy in sitting around moping, so I
wanted to help. This was pretty much the only one I could organize at short
notice. Looks like bungee jumping is going to take a few days.’
I launched myself at him in a giant hug. ‘Jumping off a bridge with a
skipping rope tied to my ankles aside, I’m actually really excited.’ I could
feel all my hair giddiness rearing back up. Times a million. ‘I can’t believe
we’re getting tattoos.’
‘Why do I have to get one?’ Emelie dug her hands into the pockets of her
cardi. ‘I really, really don’t like needles.’
‘Because we’re doing this together.’ Matthew pulled her into the hug
against her will. ‘And because you’ve already sodding well got one
anyway.’
She responded with her middle finger.
‘So what are we getting?’ I asked, half desperate to get in there and get
inked before I lost my nerve, half terrified. If Em already had a tat and was
behaving like this, just how much was it going to hurt?
‘I thought, we should get something very deep and meaningful,’ Matthew
started. ‘Like James Franco’s face. But then my artistic talents didn’t extend
beyond this.’
He held out a piece of paper showing three five pointed stars intertwined
with delicate twirly bits. There really wasn’t a word for twirly bits but it
was gorgeous.
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘Chest.’ Matthew tapped just above his heart.
‘Shoulder,’ Em sighed. ‘I suppose.’
‘Really?’ I tried to imagine the design on my bare skin. Shoulder didn’t
seem right.
‘Not as tacky as a tramp stamp,’ Matthew said, pulling up Emelie’s Tshirt
to reveal an elaborate scroll design at the base of her back. ‘See?’
‘Piss off.’ Em yanked her top back down until it reached her barely there
denim shorts. ‘I was seventeen, everyone was doing it.’
‘That’s how the Nazis got into power, you know.’ Matthew looked away
as he spoke. ‘Let’s do this.’
‘It hurts,’ Matthew wailed ten minutes later. ‘I can’t do it.’
Emelie was seated on a stool in the far corner of the room, in silence,
burly tattoo man number one starting on her third star, while Matthew lay
on a bed in the middle of the room and was far from silent. ‘It really, really
hurts,’ he began whining again.
Burly tattoo man two sighed and pulled away the needle. ‘I did tell you
this was a sensitive area. I’m almost bloody done. So either shut up and let
me get on with it or I write pussy across your forehead.’
Matthew gritted his teeth and nodded for him to continue, the selfsacrificing
trooper that he was. I sat quietly beside the bed, letting him try
and break my hand while I waited for one of the artists to finish up. Did all
tattoo parlours have to be painted red? And did all tattoo artists have to
have aggressive haircuts? The walls were covered in the artists’ previous
works: seemingly there was a huge preference for crosses, roses and boobs
amongst London’s tattooed community. Where were the pretty tattoos you
saw on celebrities? Was the wall art some sort of test for the people who
just wandered in for a Tweetie Pie on the ankle?
‘Right, I’m done,’ burly tattoo man number one announced over by
Emelie’s stool. ‘Let’s have you over here.’
‘Let go,’ I hissed, wriggling my hand out of Matthew’s grip and walking
bravely over to the stool. Em shuffled across to an empty seat, a little pale
but at least she wasn’t screaming in agony. Unlike some people.
‘It was fine,’ she said, wincing as the tattoo artist laid the dressing over
her fresh ink. ‘Not nearly as bad as I thought.’
I explained to the artist what I wanted – the same design as Emelie and
Matthew, on the inside of my left wrist – and closed my eyes as he took a
disposable razor to the area. Then he wiped it down with antiseptic and laid
out his tools. Fresh needles. Fresh ink. Bloody great big buzzing power tool
that was about to scar me for life.
‘Just breathe; it’ll only take a minute,’ he reassured me with a smile.
Underneath his lack of hair and assorted skull and naked woman tattoos, he
actually seemed quite lovely. ‘Really, it’s not that bad, just a scratch.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, trying to ignore my increasing heart rate and squeezing
my eyes shut. To be honest, the razor bothered me more than the needle. At
least it did until I heard the needle power up. It was like a dentist drill. A
dentist drill was about to be applied to the delicate skin of my inner wrist.
‘I’ll be fine.’
And I was for the first couple of seconds. Then the stinging started.
Followed by the undeniable sensation of a needle cutting into my skin. So it
was true. Tattoos were not pricked on by unicorn horns. Damn it.
‘Are you all right?’ I heard Matthew ask. The lack of sobbing coming
from his general direction suggested he was finished.
I nodded in response but couldn’t quite make words. This really wasn’t
as pleasant as sitting in a salon and having someone fuss all over me for an
afternoon. But I was getting a tattoo. Me, a tattoo. Next up, swearing at the
teacher and smoking behind the bike sheds.
‘Well, while you’re incapacitated, I have some exciting news.’
Oh god. What could it be? He was moving to Mexico with José. He was
going on Britain’s Got Talent. He was pregnant.
‘So, you know how me and Emelie both know your Facebook
password?’
‘Leave me out of it,’ she shouted across the room. Burly tattoo artist
number one frowned at the raised voices. He was obviously a delicate thing.
‘I did not know this Matthew, no.’ I gritted my teeth and prepared myself
for the worse. I had a horrible feeling – a feeling that had nothing to do with
the needle being dragged through my skin – that I knew what he was about
to say.
‘It’s nothing really. Nothing that wasn’t going to happen anyway, I’ve
just sped things along a little bit. I might have messaged Ethan,’ he backed
away until he was out of kicking range, ‘as you.’
‘As me?’ My voice was unnaturally squeaky. But then, there wasn’t
anything natural about having needles dragged through your skin, was
there? ‘What have you done?’
‘Nothing, I just sent him a message asking if he was the Ethan Harrison
you used to go to orchestra with and, you know, hello. That’s all.’
I didn’t need to see his face to know he was lying.
‘And what else?’
‘Nothing! Really.’
‘Matthew?’
‘Nothing. But, well, he replied.’
Burly Tattoo Man Number One finished up with a smile.
‘All done,’ he said, wiping off the tiny drop of blood and excess ink.
‘Keep it clean, put a dab of antiseptic cream on it a couple of times a day
and you’re golden. Then kick him in the balls, that’s a proper shit thing to
do.’
I thanked him with a hug, which admittedly might have been a bit much,
but the post-tattoo endorphins were starting to buzz around my body. If I
felt good for getting a haircut, I felt amazing for getting a tattoo. It was
suddenly very clear to me how people got addicted to this.
Once we were all done, I couldn’t stop looking at the white bandage on
my wrist. Matthew was looking very pleased with himself. Emelie just
looked as though she was going to throw up.
‘Let’s get you outside.’ I put my arm around her waist and walked her
towards the door.
‘I’ll pay, don’t worry,’ Matthew called after us.
‘Oh, you’ll pay,’ I promised. ‘Don’t you worry.’
After Matthew had settled up, we headed out for the freshest air we could
find to revive Em. I led the wounded soldiers to a couple of empty benches
outside the Tate Modern in complete silence. I had no idea what I wanted to
say to Matthew. I knew exactly what I wanted to do, but say? Nuh-uh. It
had taken a little over an hour to do all three tattoos and by the time we
made it over to South Bank, the sun was high in the sky, behind London’s
landmarks.
‘I cannot believe you did this.’ I clutched at my dressing, focusing on that
fresh tattoo buzz and not the rising homicidal tendencies I was
experiencing. ‘What were you thinking?’
‘You know I try not to think where men are involved,’ he shrugged,
sitting down beside me while Em took the neighbouring bench alone. She
looked as if she needed a minute. ‘I thought it would be good for you. He’s
cute, you already know him, he’s in another country. It’s totally safe
flirtation.’
‘Just tell me exactly what you said,’ I sighed.
‘Not a lot.’ Matthew flung his leg over the bench, narrowly missing
clubbing Em in the face. ‘Just the usual, good to hear from you, what are
you up to, I’m doing this, blah, blah, blah.’ He passed out cans of Diet
Pepsi he’d picked up en route.
‘You don’t get to blah-blah over the details when you hack into my
Facebook page and email boys,’ I said, holding the cold can of cola to my
bandage. ‘What exactly did you say? Word for word.’
‘Wouldn’t it just be easier for you to read it?’ Matthew suggested. ‘I can’t
remember what I said, you’ve got an iPhone.’
‘No, you need to read it out loud so I’ve got my hands free to punch you
at the pertinent parts. I can’t do that if I’m holding a phone and a drink.’ I
huddled up next to Emelie, who was still sitting quietly, can unopened in
her lap. ‘And be quick about it, it’s not warm.’
‘Fine.’ He pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket. ‘Just remember
before you start getting shitty, I did this for you.’
‘Whatever, just read it.’ I hugged Em a little closer and stared across the
water, watching buses run up and down the roads, St Paul’s peeping out
above them. Pretty.
‘Hi there, I’m not totally sure if you’re the right Ethan Harrison, it’s been
so long! But if you are, I’m Rachel Summers and we were in an orchestra
together when we were younger. I was just messing around on Facebook
and thought I’d look you up. Give me a shout if this is you! Would be great
to be back in touch. Rachel, kiss kiss kiss,’ Matthew took it upon himself to
read the message out in a hilarious girl voice. Which was, of course,
hilarious.
‘And he replied?’
‘He did, right away.’ He traded his girly voice for a terrible Canadian
accent despite a) being seated next to a native Canadian, and b) that he was
well aware that Ethan had grown up in bloody Surrey. ‘Hi Rachel! Yes it’s
me! It’s so great to hear from you!’
‘You don’t need to exaggerate the exclamation points quite so much.’ I
couldn’t deny it, my heart was pounding. Ethan bloody Harrison. Ethan
Harrison thought it was great to hear from me. Or from a 29-year-old gay
man masquerading as me.
‘Whatever, what straight man is so excited about life? “Hi Rachel, yes
it’s me, it’s so great to hear from you. How’s it going? I tried to look for you
on here once but I couldn’t find you. Seems like there are a lot of Rachel
Summers in the UK. So what’s going on with you? Married? Kids? Still in
Surrey? I moved to Toronto after A levels when my dad got a job out here.
It’s pretty awesome. I’m a high school music teacher now – who’d believe
it after how bad I sucked in orchestra, right? Lol!”’
‘Lol?’
‘Lol.’
Hmm. Wasn’t sure the father of my children would Lol.
‘And then just “Write me back, I’d love to hear from you.” Which is
nice.’
‘I ought to throw your phone in the bloody river,’ I said. Ideally I
wouldn’t have been grinning ear to ear as I spoke, but beggars can’t be
choosers.
‘Do it, I need an upgrade.’ He gave me a nudge.
‘You ought to be shot.’ I picked at the edge of my bandage. ‘You reckon I
can take it off yet?’
‘Yeah, it’s been ages.’
It hadn’t even been an hour.
Matthew pulled at the neck of his shirt, unfastening a couple of strategic
buttons to peer at his own. ‘Ew, it’s been bleeding.’
‘You woman.’ I tried not to wince as I pulled away my own dressing.
Three little black stars sat out in sharp contrast to my pale skin. ‘I can’t
believe we got tattoos.’
‘I know,’ Matthew replied, sticking his bandage back down. ‘We should
go and get some cider and drink it in the park while we smoke a pack of
Lambert & Butler or something.’
‘Behold people, item number four. Bloody busy couple of days.’
‘A toast,’ Matthew raised his Diet Pepsi to mine. ‘Do you feel any
different? Now that you’re a third of the way along the road to being a real
singleton?’
‘I feel amazing actually,’ I said. ‘Like I could do anything.’
My wrist hurt. My head buzzed. I wanted to look at my tattoo. Because I
had a tattoo.
‘You can,’ he replied, rubbing my back. ‘That’s the point of this list, isn’t
it? To help you realize that.’
‘It is,’ I nodded slowly. ‘And I cannot tell you how pleased I am to have
my OCD validated.’
‘I don’t think it would be that good an idea to try and bungee jump off
Westminster Bridge. Two’s enough for one day, don’t you think?’ Matthew
let his arm settle on my shoulders.
‘Simon hated tattoos,’ I said. ‘He would hate this.’
‘Well, you didn’t do it for him,’ he reminded me. ‘You did it for you.
Because you wanted to do it. That’s how you’re making all your decisions
from now on. Remember that every time you look at it.’
‘And I can totally cross it off the list.’ I was delighted. Being terribly
careful about my wrist, I pulled out the scabby napkin, found my black pen
and dutifully ticked off ‘Get a tattoo’.
‘And you’ve already got your crush, your makeover, and Emelie tells me
you attempted to exercise,’ he said, ruffling my hair. ‘You’re doing so well.’
‘You as well.’ I gave him a nudge in the ribs. ‘Just exactly who were you
entertaining last night?’
Since StephenGate, Matthew hadn’t actually allowed a man over his
threshold. Not that he hadn’t been over theirs; he just couldn’t mentally deal
with the idea of someone else in his and Stephen’s place. It was
understandable, or at least it was now.
‘Just a friend.’ He dismissed my question out of hand. ‘We’ll do me
when we’ve done you, don’t worry.’
‘Well, I’m thirty-three-and-a-third per cent more successfully single than
I was on Saturday, so I’ve got thirty-three-and-a-third per cent more time to
worry about you,’ I said with some pride. ‘We’re getting down to the tough
ones though. Might have to wait until tomorrow. Apparently Em and I are
going out tonight, some charity thing, and she says I have to dress up.
Could take some time.’
‘Sounds tough,’ he replied. ‘Dress up like a girl?’
‘Like a girl. And not just put on a dress, the whole shebang,’ I confirmed,
stashing the napkin carefully back inside my handbag. ‘Em, you ready to
head home? I’m feeling a tub of Marks and Sparks Rocky Road bits coming
on … oh shit, Matthew.’
On the opposite bench, Em was slumped forwards, her head tucked
between her knees and a very attractive puddle of puke on the floor by her
feet.
‘Emelie, are you OK?’ I asked as I rushed over, crouching down at the
side of her; being very, very careful not to get near the vom. New shoes.
New suede shoes. ‘Em?’
‘I puked.’
‘You did,’ I pushed her hair back from her face. She had not puked in her
hair. Result. ‘But it’s OK.’
‘’Bleurgh,’ she whispered. ‘Puke.’
‘Matthew!’ I called back to the bench but I’d been replaced by a tall,
combat-short-wearing man who was preening himself and trying to give
Matthew a piece of paper. Dear god. It would all have been terribly cute. If
our friend hadn’t been throwing up in front of the Tate Modern.
‘MATTHEW.’
A little giggling, acceptance of the piece of paper, followed by an
awkward handshake, followed by a face like thunder stomping over in my
general direction.
‘What?’ he demanded, looking at Emelie unimpressed. ‘What’s wrong
with her?’
‘She’s sick,’ I said, stroking her hair. The universally approved action for
consoling a pukey friend. ‘We need to take her home.’
‘Excellent timing.’ He bent down and scooped her up, tossing her over
his shoulder. Which was when she threw up down his back. ‘Brilliant.’
I followed dutifully, trotting behind and knotting her hair into a bun on
the back of her head. ‘And she’s not even drunk.’
No comments:
Post a Comment