‘No! Just no,’ interrupts Ivy, making a kind of karate chop with her hand. ‘Don’t even go there. I’m still feeling very fragile and I can smell it from here. Take it away, for God’s sakes!’
‘After I sat with you all night, brushing the puke dripped hair from your eyes, you won’t even let me have this moment of vicarious fun?’
‘Vicarious?’ I repeat laughingly.
‘Aye. I’ve got an English GCSE, you know. It means when you can’nae have any of your own,’ she answers pointedly.
‘God, just don’t tease her with foodstuffs.’ Ivy sighs, dunking the last half of her plain biscuit into her mug. The room is quiet, for about three seconds, before Natasha speaks again.
‘How was the snow storm?’
‘Did it snow last night?’ Ivy looks up from her drink, her gaze sliding to the window and back again. Neither Nat nor I answer. ‘For goodness sakes, it’s nearly spring.’
‘It was, er, a good lay,’ I reply quietly, trying not to smile.
‘Was it soft and gentle or in like a squall?’
‘Really?’ I deadpan.
‘What? I could’ve asked if it was a big dump.’
I shake my head. ‘It was good, okay?’ My voice breaks on the last word.
‘How many inches?’
‘Ah, good Christ,’ groans Ivy. ‘Cut it out. I’m hungover not deaf!’ She hunches her shoulders over her mug, grumbling something about delicate constitutions and trying to rest in a room full of whore’s drawers.
So, out of the corner of my mouth I whisper. ‘The higher end of your scale.’
‘Really!’ Ivy huffs, an exclamation, not a request for confirmation.
‘Excuse me, but women in that entire place were eye banging him. It was like an eye-bang-gangbang, so yeah, really,’ Nat answers. ‘I want to know.’
‘That’s it,’ Ivy grumbles. ‘I’m away to my bed.’
Neither of us speaks as she shuffles from the room, though Nat returns quickly to her questions as the bedroom door clicks closed.
‘So was it a night of hot, angry sex? Has he got more tattoos than those on his arms?’ She pulls her legs up onto the chair, eagerly crossing them.
‘Not angry.’ It was a lot of things, but not that.
‘Oh. That’s a shame,’ she says, her brows pulling into a frown. ‘Angry sex can sometimes be...’ I’m expecting her to say something crass when she surprises me. ‘Cathartic.’
‘No, but it was good.’
‘I bet it was,’ she answers, her tone more to type. ‘Will you see him again?’
‘No, he’s a tourist, I think.’ I take a sip from my drink to prevent me from adding anything.
‘Probably sensible. Best not to get attached.’ I offer a noncommittal shrug. ‘Just remember the boinking,’ she says, sniggering. ‘You’ll always have that.’
