Part 20 (1/2)

'There's something I need to tell you. I wasn't joking earlier. When I said I was on.'

'That's okay. I'm on too.'

She looks at me quizzically. 'I don't think you are somehow, Bri.'

'No really, I am. I might not have seemed on, but I really am . . .'

She's scowling at me now. 'You're on your period^ 194.

'What? Oh, I see. No, sorry, I thought you meant you, you know . . .'

'What?'

”'On-for-it?'”

'What's ”ow-for-it”?'

I think for a second. 'Slang?' I offer, hopefully, but my hand's out of her bra now, never to return. She's sat up on the edge of the bed, straightening her tights, checking to see if I've torn her jumper, and I've blown it.

'Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all.'

'I don't mind, honestly.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'I mean I'm cool about your period.'

'Oh, well, I'm glad you're cool about it, Jackson. Just as well, seeing as there's f.u.c.k-all I can do about it, is there?'

'I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to say.'

'I bet Alice Harbinson doesn't even have a period . . .'

'What?'

'. . . she probably pays someone to have it for her . . .'

'Hang on, what's this got to do with Alice Harbinson?'

'Nothing!'

She turns, and seems about to snap at me again, but then breaks into a smile, or a half-smile at least; 'You'd better wipe the lipstick off your face. You look like a clown . . .' I wipe my mouth with the corner of my duvet and hear her murmur, 'You are a f.u.c.king clown.'

'What have I done now!'

'You know what.'

'Hey, it was you who started it!'

'Started what?'

'Talking about, you know, Alice.'

'Oh for Christ's sake, Jackson . . .'

'I only mentioned her because you mentioned her . . .'

'But you're thinking about her though, aren't you?'

'No, of course I'm not!' I say. But I am. Rebecca holds 195.

my gaze just long enough to be sure of the fact, then looks away.

'This is stupid' she says quietly, pressing her eyes with the heel of her hands. I' m a wee bit p.i.s.sed. I think I should go.' I might not have been sure before, but now I definitely don't want her to go, so I clamber round in front of her, and try to kiss her again. She turns her head away.

'Why d'you have to go?'

'I don't ... I don't know - what just happened. Can we forget about it?'

'Oh. Right. All right. Okay. I'd rather you didn't go, but if that's what you want . . .'

'I think so. I think I want to go,' and she's on her feet, pulling her coat together and heading out the door, leaving me wondering what I've done this time. I mean, above and beyond the usual, cra.s.s inept.i.tude. I follow her downstairs into the hallway, where she scrambles over the tangle of bicycles blocking the hallway.

'Now look - I've snagged my b.l.o.o.d.y tights . . .'

'At least let me walk you home.'

'No thanks.'

'I don't mind . . .'

'I'm all right . . .'

'You shouldn't walk back by yourself . . .'

Till be fine . . .'

'Really, I insist . . .' and she wheels around suddenly, and points her finger at me, and snaps, 'And I insist you don't! Is that understood?' We're both thrown by the sharpness of this; it may be that I even take a step backwards. We look at each other, wondering what is going on, and eventually she says 'Besides, you should go to bed. You're ”on”, remember?' She opens the door. 'Let's never talk about this again, okay? And don't tell anyone, all right? Especially not Alice-b.l.o.o.d.y-Harbinson. Promise?'

'Of course not. Why would I tell Alice . . . ?'

But she's already halfway down the steps, and without looking back she runs off into the night.

Round Three 'I'm sorry,' said Sebastian, after a time. 'I'm afraid I wasn't very nice this afternoon. Brideshead often has that effect on me.'

Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited 23.

QUESTION: Striated, cardiac and smooth are three types of which tissue? ANSWER: Muscle.

Some New Year's Resolutions 1 Spend more time working on my poetry. If I'm serious about poetry as a literary form, as well as a way of earning extra money, then I'm really going to have to work at it, especially if I'm to discover my own distinctive voice. Remember, T.S.Eliot held down a job in a bank and wrote The Four Quartets, so not having enough time is no excuse.