And, like the good wing-women we are, we join in at the chorus.
The cheque arrives shortly after. A coincidence? I think not.
‘I’m desperate for a pee. I’ll need to stop off at home. I won’t make it back to the flat.’
Ivy has always possessed the bladder control of a pregnant woman at almost full gestation. But even through my wine numbing, I feel a pang, because the home she’s referring to is the one she grew up in. The fact that she still calls ithomeand the place she actually livesthe flattells a story, I suppose. How I wished I still had a place to call home even if, like her parents’ place, it was rented out. They’re currently off doing the grey nomad thing.
‘Did you say they were in Australia?’
‘Yeah, they’ve been there about three months now. I can’t say I’d enjoy living in a caravan for months on end. I told them, you’re supposed to go travelling when you’re in your twenties, not when you’re sixty-bloody-three.’
‘Hey, won’t the tenants be a bit pissed off when you pop in to use the facilities?’ asks Nat. ‘I would be.’
‘It’s not tenanted at the minute. It’s not really holiday season, is it? Anyway, Mac’s staying there for a couple weeks and it’s my home as much as it is his, so he can get stuffed.’
Ivy slips a bundle of keys from her purse as she darts up the garden path. ‘Why is it the nearer you get to a toilet, the more desperate you become?’ She shoves the gold-coloured key into the lock.
‘Ah, the age old mystery,’ says Nat. ‘You could cop a squat in the bushes if you’re that desperate.’
‘Some of us prefer not to flash our vaginas to the unsuspecting public.’ The door bangs against an internal wall in her haste and she turns, shoving the box containing the remains of our pizza into my hands. ‘Go on. You know where the front room is.’ Then she dashes upstairs to the bathroom, taking the steps two at a time.
I do know where the front room is, having spent years making myself at home in this house. Pushing open the door, I think I still expect to be greeted by the overstuffed chairs and chintz curtains of my youth, so am a little perturbed to find a room of nautical near whites and pale blues. From the threshold, I take in the changes. How the furniture is so very different, of how a large-screen TV now hangs above the fireplace, replacing a dark framed mirror that once hung there. And of how this TV is currently playing silent porn, of how the sofa’s high back now faces the door—hang on,porn?
Natasha’s fingers tighten on my arm. ‘The dirty bird!’ she whispers. ‘Is that her brother rubbing one out? Wanking, I mean?’
‘Thanks for the clarification,’ I whisper back. ‘And I don’t know!’ The question belongs in an alternative reality; a place maybe parallel to what’s playing on the TV. It’s also a question I don’t want to know the answer to.
Is there someone watching porn from the sofa?Yes.
Is that person masturbating?Probably.
Is it Ivy’s brother?I don’t know, you go look!
If it’s not him then this is somehow both better and worse. Better, because, you know, less mortifying. Worse because, hello, there’s a random man whacking off on Ivy’s mom’s couch.
As the person in question suddenly straightens, I’m ninety-nine percent sure that it’s Mac.
My eyes flick automatically from the top of his dark head to the busty blonde on the screen, currently riding the pool boy and his massive... erm... hose. Silently. On second inspection—yes, I looked—it’s not a silent orgasm, but rather the result of Mac wearing a set of headphones.
Not that there aren’t other sounds.
‘That’s right,’ Mac grunts. ‘Hmm... hngg.’ His heavy masculine breaths fill the room. ‘Oh,oh, fuckkkk yeahhh.’
Mac’s enjoyment, coupled with Natasha’s heavy breaths, is an assault to the senses. Her chest begins to heave in the periphery of my vision and I’m suddenly worried which of them will reach climax first.
‘Where are you going?’ My fingers tightly grip Nat’s as she makes to step further into the room.
‘I want to see,’ she says a little breathlessly, trying to tug her hand from mine. ‘Why are you whispering? It’s not like he can hear.’ Her smile becomes wicked as she adds with a lewd wink, ‘But we can hear him.’ Wet, furious sounds—intimate sounds—continue to fill the air.‘I’ll put money on that being lotion, not lube, and I wanna be sure.’
‘I don’t give a flying fuck what it is!’ I sort of whisper-yell. ‘You can’t go in there. God, this is—’
‘Come on, what are you doing standing there? In you get.’
Engrossed—though also maybe just plaingrossedoutin my case—neither of us realise that Ivy, post pee, has reached the bottom of the stairs. Which is also why I’m surprised to find myself ushered, or more accurately, pushed into the room.
‘No, Ivy, you don’t understand—’ I say, turning back and waving my arms.
I don’t know why the hell I decide jazz-hand semaphore as a suitable diversion. Bad enough that I’ve seen more than I’d care to, but she’s his sister. She deserves not to see! But as the expression slides from Ivy’s face, it’s replaced by a look that remarkably resembles a whale shark.You know, the huge, open-mouthed one. A bit like a vacuum cleaner.The look lasts for precisely two seconds before morphing into something way more vicious—maybe tiger shark?—as her expression swings from the TV screen to Nat.
