Page 22

JEM

So, what the hell do you talk about after someone unexpectedly goes down on you?

Because I’m a little bit lost for words right now, if I’m being totally honest.

Not that I didn’t enjoy it.

I really did.

In fact, it pretty much blew my mind.

And there’s the crux of the problem.

It was a hell of a lot better than I ever expected.

Trouble is, I’d told myself it would be absolute folly to get sexually involved with Dee, but I went ahead and did it anyway, because in the moment, I found I couldn’t not. Again.

I’ve never done anything this wild before.

She’s a terrible influence on me.

No. That’s not fair.

I went back into that room for exactly that reason. I wanted her to persuade me to go back on what I’d said, not ten minutes before. But I was too much of a coward to admit that.

Jesus.

What’s happening to me?

It’s like I’ve been put under some kind of spell.

But again, that’s not fair.

I’m just as culpable for what took place here.

I pull my boxers and shorts back on, then say, ‘Come here,’ holding out my arms in a gesture of thanks, hoping for a hug.

Because I am grateful to her. She may push my buttons in a way I find difficult, but at least she makes things happen. Things I’d probably never have the guts to initiate myself.

I guess that’s exactly why I’d find her so tricky to navigate a relationship with – she doesn’t do things by the book.

It’s unsettling.

And extremely exciting.

In equal measure.

To my relief, she gets up from where she’s been kneeling between my legs, then moves into my embrace, straddling me and snuggling her face into my neck.

It’s like having a Dee blanket.

It’s lovely.

I wrap my arms around her back and pull her close, enjoying the sensation of her breath as it tickles my neck.

‘So, are we doing this then? Everything but full sex?’ she asks me, her voice a little muffled against my skin.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘it seems we are.’

She moves her head so she can look me in the eye. ‘Are you sure? Because I don’t want you to feel railroaded into this. It’s supposed to be a bit of fun, that’s all. So if you’re not entirely sure, speak now and forever hold your own cock.’

I feel a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. I have to give her that: she can make me smile like no one else I’ve ever met.

‘Yeah, okay. I’m in. If you are?’ I say, ignoring a jab of conscience. She’s the one setting the terms here, I tell myself, not me.

‘All the way, baby,’ she says, moving in for a kiss.

And it’s the sweetest thing ever. And by sweet, I mean hot and heavy and immediately erotic in ways I’ve only ever dreamt about.

‘Hey. Do you want a drink? I’m parched,’ Dee says, pulling away, then swinging her leg off me so she can sit back on the sofa, then carefully get to her feet.

‘Sure. I’d love one.’

I watch as she fills us both a glass of water from the bottle on the dresser.

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the one she proffers to me.

We both drink in silence for a moment, the sound of the storm outside acting as an unnerving soundtrack to this bizarrely cosy scene.

So, what now? What do we talk about?

This has to be the oddest situation I’ve ever found myself in. And yes, I know that makes me sound like a total noob, but I’ve been a bit busy for the last few years.

‘You know,’ I say when she sits back down next to me on the sofa, ‘I’ve never seen any of your art.’ That has to be a safe topic of conversation, doesn’t it?

Tilting her head and frowning, she says, ‘You’ve never asked to.’

‘Can I see some now?’

She blinks in surprise, then pulls her head back in a comical, seriously? kind of move. Then when I just look at her expectantly, she says, ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Err, okay. Sure. I guess I can show you some on my phone?’

She suddenly looks nervous, her lip quivering.

‘You don’t have to if you don’t want,’ I say, unsettled by the flash of uncertainty in her eyes.

‘No. It’s fine. Let me just grab my phone and I’ll find some I’m happy to show you.’

‘Are there some you’re not happy with?’ I ask, intrigued by her flash of anxiety.

‘A couple.’

I watch her walk over to the nightstand next to the bed and pluck her phone from it, then saunter back to me – as elegantly as she can with her ankle still paining her.

I suppress a smile.

Flopping back onto the sofa, she starts scrolling through her Photos app, holding it at an angle so I can’t see what she’s looking at.

‘Here you go,’ she says, showing me the screen now. ‘I think you’ll like this one.’

It’s a painting of Bea. And it’s knockout good. It really captures the essence of her, her expression shining with kindness and warmth.

‘Wow, that’s seriously fantastic,’ I say, staring at it. ‘Have you shown this to Bea?’

‘Not yet. I might give it to her for her next birthday,’ she says, sounding a little shy about it.

‘You should. I’m sure she’ll love it.’

Her smile is wide and delighted. ‘Thanks.’

‘I guess it’s only natural you’re that way inclined – having a professional artist for a mum. Was it her that inspired you to take up painting?’ I ask, handing back her phone.

‘Err, maybe. To begin with.’

‘I can just imagine the two of you, working side by side in a studio, covered in paint. It must be great having someone you can go to for feedback if you need it.’

Dee snorts. ‘No chance. I never show my mum my work. Not after I let her see the picture I was submitting for my A level final project and she absolutely tore it apart. Eviscerated it, actually. I don’t think there was a single thing she liked about it.

She’s a bit like that, Mum – very opinionated about very specific things: what I wear, who my friends are, how much fun I’m being, or not, and especially how good my art is.

’ She pauses and seems to consider what she’s just said.

‘Yep, that’s about it. Everything else is of absolutely no concern to her. ’

‘Bea told me she’s a bit self-involved.’

‘No kidding. She’s not interested in anything that doesn’t revolve around or reflect well on her.

And the woman doesn’t pull her punches.’ She draws up her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around her shins.

‘I know I shouldn’t care what she thinks, and I mostly don’t about the rest of it.

When it comes to my art though, it cuts deep.

I tell myself it’s just one person’s opinion, but her comments about that particular picture hurt like she’d slashed my soul with a knife.

I loved that piece; it felt really personal to me.

I even dreamt about it, that’s how invested I was in it.

Until she pointed out everything that was wrong with it.

How na?ve and predictable it was. How uninspired.

I could barely look at it after that, I was so embarrassed, and I stashed it away and submitted something else at the last minute, something less “juvenile”.

It got a decent enough mark, but it didn’t exactly wow the examiners. ’

‘Oh, shit, Dee, that’s awful.’

She shrugs, like she’s over it, but there’s something in her expression that tells me it’s still raw. That she does care. More than she wants me to know.

Hell, no wonder she can be so defensive.

Feeling like she’s only worth being around if she’s being fun and creative, but not competing with – or, I suspect, outshining – her mum, must weigh heavy.

And having something that’s come from your heart torn apart by the person who’s supposed to love and nurture you has to be tough to get past.

‘At least I got her attention,’ she says with a lopsided smile.

But she’s definitely forcing it.

‘Which is no mean feat,’ she goes on. ‘Especially when she’s deep into making her own art. She’s never exactly been the engaged, mothering type.’

‘No. It doesn’t sound like it. But at least she didn’t put you off doing what you love.’

She picks at a thread on the sleeve of her t-shirt.

‘To be honest, I very nearly gave up painting at that point. But Bea convinced me to carry on. She was really sweet, as well as practical, about it. She said she thought Mum might have been jealous of me, of my talent, but I’m not sure that’s really the case.

Her style is way different to mine. And she’s got a lot more experience than me, so she knows what she’s talking about.

She’s sold a lot of her pieces too. Though often not for the sort of money she thinks they’re worth.

I think she was probably trying to give me a life lesson or something.

About how tough and competitive the art world is and how thick a skin you need in order to have a successful career as an artist.’

‘Tough way to learn that lesson. Especially from your own mum.’

‘Ha. Yeah, I guess.’ She shrugs. ‘It is what it is. Lots of people have a much rougher time growing up than I did, I know that. At least there was always food to eat, even if someone other than her usually ended up making it. The benefits of communal living.’

‘You didn’t mind living like that? It sounds exhausting,’ I say.

She shrugs. ‘Not really. It was a bit noisy sometimes, I guess. But that never really bothered me like it did Bea. And it was fun a lot of the time. Always new people coming and going. Like having an ever-changing extended family.’

I cock my head. ‘Is that why you chose to live with her, rather than with Bea and your dad? If you don’t mind me asking?’

This is something that’s always baffled me. Their mum sounds like a completely absent parent, so why not stick with the one that’s actually invested in your upbringing?