‘We’ll think of something,’ Lloyd announces, all jovial and clearly revved up about the project. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do the videos.’
‘You never mentioned videos!’ I exhale slowly, aware of a dull, heavy feeling in my stomach that something isn’t quite right. That I’ve made yet another mistake to add to my extensive list. That this is the reason why I can’t lose myself, sex-wise, with him. It’s not the head pills, or the fact that that part of me is broken.
I really tried to focus – to lose myself in my fantasy – that last time we did it. Emilio Estevez. Andrew McCarthy. All of the Brat Pack – even the one nobody fancied whose name I forget – were going at me as I clung helplessly to my fridge. It was rocking dangerously, banging so hard against the kitchen wall that my magnets flew off and clattered all over the floor (thank God I took out the extended appliance warranty!). I dredged up my filthiest perversions from my mental hard drive – the one that would be carried out of my flat, sheathed in polythene, if the authorities ever found out. Yet even that didn’t work.
Seemingly unconcerned, Lloyd sprang off me, stretching out his arms and rotating his shoulders, as if that were his work all done and dusted. For all his pervy foot talk, it turns out he’s a missionary man. Nice and straightforward – job done.
It was early morning and within seconds he was pulling on his clothes. ‘In a hurry?’ I asked, trying not to sound put out. I didn’t want us to part on a bad note, and he’s a kind man, really. He’s offered to put up some kitchen shelves for me while I’m away. ‘Got to get off to a new job,’ he said by way of an explanation. ‘Bit of a tricky one so I want to make a head start.’ Something felt off, I decided. But I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.
‘Well, yeah,’ he is telling me now. ‘Videos are what the punters like. And if they ask for anything you don’t want to do, we’ll just block them.’
I focus on Doris’s sturdy front end as I try to process this. ‘What d’you mean? What kind of stuff might they want?’
‘Oh, you know,’ he says blithely. ‘Specific stuff. Custom stuff. Other body parts?—’
‘Lloyd, I’m not showing anyone my tits!’
‘You won’t have to!’ he blusters. ‘Not if you don’t want to. You won’t have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with…’
‘Oh, won’t I? Thank you!’ I snap.
‘You can just be firm,’ he reasons.
‘Right. Just say no?’ I realise by the ensuing silence that my reference to the eighties anti-drug campaign is lost on Lloyd. I keep noticing that our points of reference are wildly different. When he spotted my ancient crimping irons he asked, ‘Is that for waffles?’ When I mentioned Curly Wurlys, he thought I was talking about my pubes. I know these things shouldn’t matter. I never wanted a boyfriend for prolonged reminiscences over Beloved Confectionery of Our Past, and it’s not as if I want to introduce a Space Hopper to our sex life (although maybe it would help?). But still, it highlights the gulf between us.
‘So, what d’you think?’ he asks. No How’s your trip been so far? He hasn’t even asked where I am.
‘We’ll talk about it when I get back,’ I mutter.
‘Could you just send me a few pics while you’re away, in different environments? Just to get us started?’
‘No, I can’t,’ I say wearily. ‘I’m going now, I’ve got stuff to do?—’
‘Oh, c’mon, babe! You’re in the country, aren’t you? Some dirt would be good. Get your little tootsies all muddy and covered in soil?—’
‘Lloyd, I have to go. Bye.’ Having ended the call abruptly, I get up from the wall, realising my bottom is damp. I find Shane in the van, sitting on the mattress, back against the wall, with a book on his lap.
‘Everything all right?’ he asks, looking up.
‘Yeah, fine. Just my boyfriend.’ I grimace.
He nods, raising a brow. ‘Right.’
‘Just something he wanted to discuss,’ I add, conscious of my cheeks burning.
‘Ah, okay.’ I will him to not ask about my relationship, because right now, I’m not sure what I’d tell him.
‘Are you starving?’ Shane smiles. ‘Because I am.’
‘I am, actually,’ I say, grateful to be pulled from the world of feet-doing-stuff to the practical matter of what we are going to eat. ‘I did notice a chippy on the way,’ I add.
‘Did you? That’ll do!’ Shane says brightly.
So we leave the campsite, and as we stroll together along the lane, I manage to push all thoughts of Lloyd and our prospective ‘punters’ from my mind. We eat our steamy fish and chips with our fingers, discussing what we might do tomorrow and when we should set off for Bridlington, our next port of call. Basic, practical stuff, as if all of this is utterly normal. ‘Have you checked the weather?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. Looks promising,’ he says. ‘We could tick off a few sights, couldn’t we? The harbour, the castle…’
‘And eat more chips?’ I smile.
