Commitment Issues by Ali Ryecart

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Freddie

“I look bloody ridiculous.”

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, at the short skirt from the charity shop Cosmo insisted we raid a couple of days ago, and at the furry pink body warmer he’s dragged up from somewhere. But most of all I stare in disgust at the horned helmet. Because Norsemen didn’t have bloody horns on their helmets. I blame Hollywood.

“You look like a hot and very gay Viking ready to pillage and ravish. But you need a bit more…” Cosmo’s on me, brandishing something that looks like a small, stubby pencil.

“Get off me, you wanker.” I do my best to shove him away but he’s like a dog going for a very juicy bone. “I told you I don’t want any make-up.”

“I’m trying to butch you up a bit. You’re looking too clean and pretty to be a marauding Viking.”

I try to shake him off, but he’s on a mission, and before I can get rid of him, he’s smeared my face with something that looks like soot.

He stands back, triumphant, as he plants his hands on his hips. “There. Sexy as fuck. If I didn’t know you for the dickhead you are, I wouldn’t think twice about trying to get my hands on your helmet.”

He sniggers and I lob him what I hope is a steely eyed glare, but… I have to admit it’s made all the difference. The dark streaks he’s smudged under my eyes make me look sultry and moody, rather than just the moody I am.

“Why couldn’t we have had a normal party?”

“Because I wanted a fancy dress. And it’s my birthday, so I call the shots. God, twenty-five. I’m turning the corner into old age.” He gives an exaggerated, theatrical shiver. “And anyway, it’s the perfect excuse to wear this.” He pirouettes, light on his feet for somebody so compact. The pleated skirt fans out, along with the pigtail wig he’s wearing. I really don’t like to ask where he’s picked up the schoolgirl uniform from.

“I found it in an old box in the attic, at home,” he says, reading my mind. “Mum never throws anything out. I think this was Allegra’s. One of the few times a big sister comes in handy.”

“Let’s hope it looked better on her.”

“Oh, no, it wouldn’t have. She’s not got the legs for a short skirt. Unlike me.”

He flicks the skirt upwards, revealing a bright red pair of pants.

“Now get out of my way.” He shoves me aside. “I’ve got to do my make-up.”

Tutting, I leave him to it.

* * *

The large kitchen-diner’s been transformed, and I’m pleased with our efforts and all the hard work we’ve put in to get it ready for the party.

Food’s laid out over the counter, easy to eat nibbly stuff, covered with foil and cling film. The fridge is stacked with beer and wine, and bottles of sprits crowd one end of the worktop. We raided Waitrose and I’d almost passed out when the cashier rang up the final amount. It was more than the GDP of a medium-sized country, but Cosmo hadn’t batted an eyelid.

In each corner of the room there are massive pink helium balloons. 25 Today! Birthday Boy! Pink Princess! I snort… Yeah, Cosmo has Princess tendencies, all right.

I worm a finger under one of the foil wrappings and pull out a honey-glazed cocktail sausage, and pour myself a glass of wine before I wander into the living room.

All the furniture’s either pushed to the sides or removed. It’s a large room but now it looks enormous.

Swathes of pink silky material festoon the ceiling, from the edges to the centre, where we’ve hung a large mirror ball. I smile when I look up at all the little glass tiles, remembering all the parties we had at our ratty student house when we’d been at university together.

Cosmo had been a worldly wise nineteen-year-old to my gawky and timid eighteen. Only a year between us, but it made all the difference. I thought he was so cool, as he’d spent a year travelling after school. Or, I thought he was cool until I got to know him, and once I had, I’d liked him a whole lot more.

Like in the kitchen-diner, helium balloons bob and sway. Maybe a party’s what I need, something to stop me being the moody, miserable git not only Cosmo but my other friends have accused me of being for the past month. Drink too much, dance, find a willing guy to snog, all the better if he’s tall, and his hair’s streaked with steely grey…

No.

I swig back the wine, and cough and splutter, then knock back the rest. It’s already hitting my empty stomach.

“How do I look?”

“Fuck me.” I gawp at Cosmo, standing in the doorway.

“You know I love you dearly, but you’re not my type.”

“You look… really good.”

Cosmo beams, a light flush warming his skin.

I have no idea what he’s done, but he’s woven some kind of magic. His eyes seem bigger, his lips fuller, his brows — already groomed to within an inch of their life — remind me of a ’50 starlet.

“Where did you learn to do that? You know, all the make-up stuff.”

“YouTube. I’ve got a whole load of videos saved.” He smiles, his already feline eyes even more cat-like from the stuff he’s put on. “I could do wonders with you. Why don’t you let me?” He advances, a panther stalking its prey.

I step back, keeping up my guard. When Cosmo’s determined, he’s near impossible to stop.

The bell rings, chiming through the house, and I thank my lucky stars. The first guests are arriving.

“Don’t think I won’t get you. Maybe not tonight, but…” He swings around and all but sashays to the door.

“In your dreams,” I mutter under my breath. I’ve no issue with men in make-up but it’s not anything I’m remotely interested in. The streaks of sooty stuff all over my face are already pushing me beyond my limit.

Over the next couple of hours, the house fills. There are a few old uni friends, and people both Cosmo and I have got to know since, but there are a lot I don’t know.

I make myself useful, taking coats and pouring drinks, hovering around the edges of the party and quite happy for all the limelight to be on Cosmo. I might need a party, to shove me out of this dip I’ve fallen into, but to be honest I’m just not in the mood and I refuse to dwell on why that might be. I pop the cap on another beer. I’ve had a few, but I might just as well have been knocking back tap water for all the effect it’s having on me.

I attract my share of attention, and put up with comments about my nice horned helmet, but I manage to twist out of the way of any would-be gropes. So much for finding somebody to have a sloppy snog with.

Everybody’s gone to town on their costumes. Marilyn Monroe rubs shoulders with the Texas Chainsaw bloke, and the Pope throws back a beer as he rubs up against Captain America by the sausage rolls. The music, a carefully curated playlist put together by Cosmo, blares from the living room where multicoloured disco lights strobe as the mirror ball revolves. I’d earlier been dragged in there to dance, but had made my escape after a Harry Potter look-alike tried to stick his hand up my skirt.

I grab another beer, and make short work of what’s left of the chicken satay sticks.

“Nice party,” a voice behind me says. I turn around to see a bearded punk rocker I vaguely remember opening the door to earlier, swaying in front of me. “Like the helmet. I didn’t know the Vikings dressed them with rainbow pompoms,” he says, breathing beer fumes mixed with prawn vol au vents over me.

The pompoms were one of Cosmo’s last minute adjustments, his take on cute, mine on stupid.

“They didn’t dress them at all, because Vikings never had horns on their helmets.”

“Oh? I rather like them.” He steps in closer, and runs a finger down one of the decorated horns.

I stumble back, my bum wedging up against the edge of the counter.

“I’m Rex. I work with Cosmo. You’re Eddie, aren’t you? He’s mentioned you a lot.”

My back stiffens. I don’t like being cornered, and I don’t like that he’s got my name wrong.

“My name’s Freddie. Reg.”

He lurches towards me and I lean back, to escape his dog breath more than anything, almost snapping my spine in two.

“Reg? Really, do I look like a Reg?”

He looks a lot more like a wanker.

“How about a dance?” He runs his fingers through the nylon fur of my body warmer.

I’m a bit taller than him, but he’s a lot wider. Pushed up against the counter, I’m trapped.

“Or what about a kiss?” His lips pucker, as inviting as an unwashed, hairy anus.

My hand scrambles amidst the bowls and plates behind me.

“How about a mini sausage?” I thrust the porky delight into the rapidly diminishing space between us. This close up, I see how glazed his eyes are.

“What?” he stares at the sausage like it’s something nasty under a microscope.

“They’re from Waitrose. Honey-glazed with a hint of chilli. £6.99 for twenty-four. Pricey but good.” I stuff it in my mouth and chew loudly in the hope that a mouthful of sweet and spicy pork will put him off trying to stick his tongue in me. It doesn’t.

He’s on me in an instant, all octopus hands and slobbering lips, which fortunately miss my mouth as I swing my head around, cringing as wet lips land on my ear.

“Piss off, Reg,” I hiss as I shove at him, trying to get my knee just right so as I can land it deep in his bollocks, but I don’t get the chance as he’s wrenched aside.

“I’m giving you a choice. You either leave, now, or I’ll take you outside and kick the living shit out of you. Which is it to be?”

I gawp as Elliot holds Rex by his dog collar, at arm’s length, as though he’s a bag of dog shit.

Rex makes some sort of gurgled sound and stumbles as Elliot tosses him aside, so he lands in a heap on a chair in the corner.

“Are you all right? I saw him launch himself on you like an Exocet missile.”

“Er, yeah, yeah, I am,” I stumble out.

The noise of the party recedes, and I can do nothing but stare at the man who’s dogged my thoughts and dreams over the past month. My heart’s skipping beat after beat, my pulse is thumping in my neck and the whoosh of blood fills my ears. He’s looking good, more than good, he looks fucking amazing just as always. But it’s not how he looks that’s burning me up inside. It’s him, just him. Elliot.

“Freddie?” His voice is quiet and gentle, yet it sends a shiver down my spine. A concerned frown puckers his brow. “Are you sure you’re—?”

“Yes. Fine,” I blurt out. “Really. He was drunk, that’s all. Took me by surprise. I’d just about got myself into a position to knee him in the, well, you know… Would you really have done that? Chucked him out or…?” Would you have done that, for me?

“Of course,” he says simply, sending tingling heat surging through my veins and a fluttering to my stomach. “Although I don’t think I need to, thank goodness. He’s not in any state to push in where he’s not wanted.”

I follow Elliot’s gaze. Rex is slumped over, a snoring heap on the chair.

“I didn’t know you were coming.” The words tumble my mouth.

Elliot’s lips lift in a lopsided smile. “Nor did I, until a couple of hours ago. James turned up on my doorstep, in what I think is supposed to be a Kylie outfit, and told me to get ready. The little runt’s very fierce when he wants to be. He gave me no option. But I’m glad he didn’t.”

“Oh? Oh, yes. Good. Well, it’s nice to see you again. So, you’ve come as James Bond?” Dinner jacket, bowtie, cummerbund… James Bond on steroids.

He laughs, slicing through my fantasy.

“No. This is what I wear when I have to attend formal dinners and functions.”

“Sure, erm… Can I get you a drink?” I don’t wait for an answer as I bound towards the fridge, and pull out the first thing I find.

“Flying Dingo.” I wrinkle my nose at the bright pink wine. “That sounds—”

“Revolting?” Elliot offers.

I look from the label to Elliot, at the amused smile tugging at his lips, and I laugh, bursting the weird bubble his appearance has wrapped me in, and my nervy tension drains away.

“Well, I think there might be something better. How about a beer?”

Grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge, I flip the caps. “Cheers. It’s good to see you again.”

“And you too, Freddie.”

My spine tingles at the sound of my name on his lips. We sip our beers, as tongue-tied as each other, as all around us the party grows louder and more raucous. Has he come because of me? Is that why he’s here? I want to ask, I want to know, but all that comes out of my mouth is, “How’ve you been?”

“Busy, as always. I’ve been in Oslo for a few days, trying to wrap up a business deal. Isn’t that where you’re heading off to?”

“I’m still not sure. The signs are looking good, according to my Prof., but—” My words are cut off by Cosmo, running through the kitchen, lipstick smeared and wig akimbo, being chased by a guy in a gorilla mask brandishing a banana. “Oh God, sorry. It’s, erm, probably not the kind of party you’re used to.”

Elliot laughs. “It’s a little noisy, but otherwise it’s fine. How about we head into the garden, we at least might be able to talk without coming face to face with rampant banana waving.”

I’m not so sure of that, but I’m more than happy to head out.

We make our way along the garden, to the back. Just like in France, which seems like a lifetime ago, the way is lit with artificial flares, but they stop half way down because we didn’t have enough, leaving the back of the garden in shadow. There’s an old iron bench, and we sit down.

“I like the Viking look. It reminds me of that little toy you dropped, when I first met you in Barista Boys.”

“Oh, that was embarrassing, but in my defence I was using that as a prop when I was assisting in some first-year undergrad classes. It was Cosmo who insisted I come as a Viking, so you can blame him for me looking so stupid.”

“I don’t think you look stupid.”

My heart jolts. In the shadowy darkness his words are quiet, low and gravelly. My throat’s dried up, and is as raspy as sandpaper.

“Well, erm, I think I’d rather have come as James Bond. It’s much more…” Sexy, gorgeous, hot as fuck… “sophisticated,” I end, limply.

Elliot chuckles, the sound going straight to my balls, and my dick, already at half-mast, perks up. I shift on the bench, and attempt to tug down my skirt which has ridden up my thighs.

“I’ve actually come as me, but thank you, I’m more than happy for you to think I’m James Bond. Just as long as it’s not the Roger Moore version.”

“Oh no, Daniel Craig, definitely. It’s the hot craggy film star look, and the blue eyes.”

My body stiffens and the world around us goes silent. What the fuck have I just said? I grip the bottle so hard it might break. It’s the beer talking, and the wine, and—

“Freddie?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Are you? I’m not.”

My body knows what’s coming before my brain, as I lean towards him just as he leans into me. My lips part and I sigh into his kiss. He tastes of toothpaste and mouthwash and the hoppy citrus of the beer, but most of all he tastes of Elliot.

“I really do seem to have a habit of kissing you in the dark,” he whispers against my lips.

“And I seem to have a habit of kissing you back.”

And that’s exactly what I do.