There’s a black privacy screen that hides him from my view, but if I sit forward, I can see everything. His trousers are bunched around his socked feet, his elbows rest on bare knees, and his head is propped up in his hands.
Occasionally he whimpers, or cries out, “Ow, ow, ow, ow,” but I’ve learned not to respond. Every time I have responded, he’s told me he’s fine, or more recently to fuck off, and now when I look at him, he waves me away with a very particular finger.
We’d finished watchingThe Muppet Christmas Caroland despite Lando’s insisted dislike of the musical, he seemed to know an awful lot of the song lyrics. NowSome Like It Hotplays on the hidden-mirror TV, and I am . . . invested. Who’d have thought I’d be into a movie older than my parents?
So far, our lads have accidentally witnessed an absolute bloodbath in a Chicago garage, and now they’re in full drag in the Floridian sunshine tryingto escape the bad guys. Currently, Old Matey Boy is pretending to be a rich bespectacled oil tycoon in order to catfish Marilyn Monroe.
“Wait, what the fuck is that accent?” I say leaning forward. “Is he meant to be English or . . .”
Lando simply shrugs and laughs.
“I don’t like him. He’s a sleazeball.”
“Yeah, a little bit.”
We’re quiet for a while as we watch the movie. Lando’s guts have stopped gurgling like a broken coffee percolator, and now he’s just perching on the loo as a precaution.
“Do you get flare-ups often?” I ask.
“Ehh, sometimes. Dairy sets it off, but other things can do it too. Booze is pretty bad, stress too. Stress is a killer, actually. Like if I’m nervous, or upset . . .” He pauses, his eyes flicker up to the ceiling. “When my mum died I . . .” He doesn’t finish his sentence, and I don’t ask him to.
I lie back in the tub again. On the telly, Daphne is dancing with an old guy, and Tony Curtis and Marilyn Monroe are snogging on a boat.
“I like someone. A dude,” I say before I realise I’ve spoken. Suddenly my heart is pounding a mile a minute. The toilet creaks, and I lean forward. “I’ve had a crush on this guy for years. He works with my mum, and recently he broke up with his boyfriend, and I thought maybe I might . . . have a shot?” I don’t know why I’m phrasing it like a question. “But like, I’ve never been with a bloke before, so . . .”
“So you were going to practice on me first?” Lando asks. “Have me pop your boy cherry before shooting your shot?”
“Yeah?” Still phrasing things like questions. “Is that bad?”
“Of course not. It’s smart, actually. I was going to let you fuck me and then dump you out into the pitch-black wilderness of Mudford, remember?”
“Touché.” I take a sip of beer, and realise I’ve reached the end of yet another bottle. I seem to be amassing a collection of empties near the drain of Lando’s tub.
“He’s older?” Lando says after a few minutes of quiet. How did he know?
“Yeah. He’s thirty, like . . . he’s a proper grown-up. He lives in a flat near me, and likes art and shit. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know I exist, or well, he does, but he just sees me as this butthead kid. I have a bajillion brothers and sisters, and I’m just Donna’s middle boy. Literally nobody special.”
Neither of us says anything. I should get up and stretch my legs, go pee, get another beer, but I don’t move.
“I just thought if I got some experience, then I wouldn’t . . . fuck things up so easily with Lionel. But I can’t even do that. The hottest guy in the Westcountry takes me to his mansion, and I can’t even keep a stiffy.” I let my head fall back against the tub’s rim. It clangs and echoes.
“You think I’m hot? The hottest guy in the Westcountry?”
I have to lean forward to see his expression. He’s hiding a smile. “You know you’re fucking hot, look at you. So don’t play dumb with me.”
I realise his trousers aren’t around his ankles any more. They’re done up, and he’s sitting on top of the closed toilet lid.
“I’m ace,” he says. Any trace of mirth has vanished. “I’m not even that into sex. Don’t really like it.” Lando rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and shakes his head. “I just . . . like the attention, I guess.”
“Oh,” I reply, then shut my mouth because I haven’t got anything else to add. Well, I do, I have thousands of questions, but I have no right to demand an answer to any of them.
I get it, though, the need for attention.
As one of six siblings, and about thirty grand and great-grandchildren, attention isn’t exactly a bottomless resource for me. My brothers and sisters are all wildly more successful or richer or taller or better looking than me. Even my sixteen-year-old baby bro has signed to the Bristol under seventeens squad and has a modelling contract for some kidswear brand. I’m second fiddle to Mathias Jones, and even after making the men’s first team, I spend most of my time on the bench.
Girls like me when they’re drunk enough not to care that I’m not Mathias Jones, but nobody has ever fallen in love with me. I don’t get sponsorshipslike some of my other teammates seem to. And with the exception of that one thirst trap that went viral, I don’t even get picked for Instagram posts.
I understand the feeling of isolation. The desire to be desired.
