Chapter 13: It’s Not a Date

I was half-dressed when she knocked on the door. That is to say that I was wearing my black jeans and half my face was covered shaving gel lather. I paused as I raised the blade to my face and called out, “It’s not locked.”

I expected it would be Mark or Jem with a glass of Scotland’s finest. And I do mean finest. Every couple of weeks or so I bought a fresh bottle of the best Scotch whisky I could find and the three of us would partake of a glass most nights. But I kept the bottle in Mark’s room rather than mine. I just didn’t trust myself. Not after ... Well, I just didn’t.

The door opened and closed, but instead of one of the guys telling me they’d leave the glass on my desk, a female voice said, in the softest, sweetest north-eastern accent, “Oh, sorry. I didn’t ... Sorry.”

I looked up. “Vanessa? I ... My god, you look ... I mean...”

She smiled (and what a smile).

Typically, the female students didn’t make a massive effort when they went out unless it was a special occasion. Oh, they still looked great, for the most part, but jeans or skirts and tops was the usual uniform rather than party clothes. There were exceptions, of course there were, such as the balls throughout the year, but nights out were pretty casual affairs on the whole.

But Vanessa looked absolutely stunning in a knee-length A-line skirt, black with a pattern of large white flowers. She also wore a complimentary white top with a black flower pattern. Her long blonde hair was sleek and straight and her makeup subtle. Flesh coloured tights (or were they stockings?) and black high-heels completed her outfit.

“I’d hoped you’d like it,” she said, softly.

The odd thing about Vanessa is that, while Imogen had been very shy the first time I met her, Vanessa had been loud and brash and in-your-face. But I guess that was just her way of dealing with the nerves that everyone was suffering from in those first few weeks in the same way that Imogen had tried to hide away. But whereas Imogen came out of herself as I got to know her, Vanessa had mellowed, and the two met somewhere in the middle.

I didn’t know Vanessa as well as I knew Imogen—in fact, my only contact with her was because of Imogen. She usually joined us to watch DVDs in my room on Sunday nights, or for breakfast when she had an early lecture and I sometimes had an evening meal with her and Imogen, but that was about it. But the two were best friends and I was pretty sure that Imogen was a good judge of character, so that meant Vanessa was alright in my book.

At least, that was how I thought until I’d found out that Vanessa had got herself put in the queue for a P.R.E. After that, I wasn’t so sure.

“You look really good,” I said. “I mean, really, really good.”

“You mean that?”

I nodded.

“Thanks.”

“But, Ness, what are you doing here. I know you’re next in line for a P.R.E.—”

“A what?”

“A Paul Robertson Experience.”

“Oh, right. I’ve never heard it abbreviate like that before.”

“Whatever. But aren’t we meant to meet up in town later? I thought that was how this worked. Or did you think we could start early? Skip the whole going out part and just get on with it straight away? Is that it? Are you that desperate that you couldn’t wait just another couple of hours?”

From the initial look on her face, I thought that maybe I’d gone too far. I actually thought she might start to cry. But she didn’t. She held it together, took a deep breath and said, “No. The opposite actually.”

“Opposite?”

“Yeah. Look, Paul, what I mean is, like ... I mean ... I thought that maybe ... Oh, I’m messing this up. I was supposed to just walk in here, ask you and that would be it, but I can’t even get my words out. I’m just going to go.”

She turned to leave but I reached out to stop her.

“Ask me what?”

She looked even more like she was going to cry than when I was berating her for turning up early.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not important. You’d have thought it was a stupid idea anyway.”

“How do you know until you ask?”

“That’s what Gen said. But she’s not the one who’ll make a fool of herself, is she? Look, I’ll see you later, okay?”

She started for the door again and I had to step away from the sink and go after her to stop her from leaving.

“Ness, wait. Whatever it is...”

“Forget it, Paul.”

“No. I can’t forget it. Not now. I’ll be wondering all night.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. Then, with another deep breath, she said, “Look, I know the deal, okay. I know this is supposed to be all about sex. I know that being next isn’t supposed to be about going on a date or anything. Imogen says that you say you don’t want a relationship or that you’re not ready or something, although she doesn’t know what you mean by that. But I was thinking—”

“Stop. Imogen’s right. I don’t do dates.”

“I know! I just said I know that, didn’t I?” Then under her breath, “I told her this was a bad idea.”

“Told who?”

She half-smiled. “Who do you think?”

“Imogen?”

She nodded.

“So this was her idea?”

“No. It was my idea, but I dismissed it as a bad one. She talked me into believing that...” She shook her head again. “I’m not saying let’s go on a date. I’m not saying let’s go to the movies, or for dinner or anything romantic or anything like that. But, maybe, since you already know that it’s my turn tonight or whatever, I just thought that we could spend some time getting to know each other a bit, you know? Just ... talk and stuff.”

“Talk?”

“Yeah. Talk. Look, Gen’s always saying what a good friend you are and what a great guy you are and how some girl’s gonna be really lucky to have you all to herself one day and then there’s this reputation of yours. The campus stud, the guy who makes girls pass out from too many strong orgasms and it’s like ... I don’t know ... the two just don’t seem to match up. You know?”

I shrugged. I did know. I didn’t want the reputation. I didn’t create the reputation. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t who I was. But I had it and I had to deal with the consequences twice a week.

“Look, I’ll be honest with you, Paul. I’ve fancied you from when we first met—I think a lot of girls in Wintersmith have, although most seem to be attracted to the reputation of the campus stud. But for me, it was the way you came over to Imogen to talk to her even though she was giving off all those leave-me-the-fuck-alone vibes, and then you didn’t push it, you didn’t come on to her, you just offered to be her friend because you were on the same course. And it’s that, and the way you’ve gone on to be a really good friend to her, that makes me think that maybe she’s right and everyone else is wrong. That the reputation is ... I don’t know, a cover story or something. Although I don’t know what you need cover for.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Sounds serious.”

I shrugged again. Sometimes, a good shrug means you can avoid answering awkward questions.

“So how about it?”

“I don’t kn—”

“I’m not asking the world here, Paul. I’m asking you to be a friend to me like you’re a friend to Gen. That’s all.”

“Only, at the end of the night, you want to come back here, get naked and sweaty and be knocked out cold by orgasms, right?”

It was Vanessa’s turn to shrug.

She waited. I looked at her. She did look good. Really good. What the hell, right?

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, we’ll go into town together, we’ll talk—if we can—and then we’ll come back here and I’ll fuck your lights out as much as you want. But that’s it, all right. Don’t expect any more than that.”

She smiled. “I’ll try not to.”

I can’t remember the last time someone watched me shave. Actually, that’s a lie, I can remember exactly the last time someone watched me shave, but I’d rather choose not to. She didn’t just watch either. I don’t know which was more a sign of how much I trusted her, the time I let her shave me or the time she gave me a blowjob as I shaved myself.

I digress.

After I’d scraped away the last forty-eight hour’s growth on my face, I went to the wardrobe to retrieve a white button-down shirt. Usually, I’d wear a polo shirt for a night out because the dress restrictions at the clubs we went to weren’t very tight, but I figured that since Vanessa had made an effort, then I better had as well. I left the collar open though and didn’t even consider a tie. I didn’t want to make too much of an effort.

After locking my room, I told Mark I was walking into town with Vanessa and that I’d meet him and the others in The Mariner later. The seafront pub was our usual final stop off before we headed to either Central Pier or Porky’s.

“So, where to first,” she said as she bounced along beside me. And I do mean bounced. The timid young woman who’d been afraid of making a fool of herself in my room earlier had been replaced by a playful, excited teenager. We were making our way through the campus towards the main entrance on Westmouth Hill Road which was the main road into town.

“I dunno,” I said, “this was your idea. I guess we need to go somewhere quiet if you want to talk.”

“Ha, ha, very funny.” She grinned at me. “Okay, how about The Railwayman’s Arms. That’s usually pretty quiet.”

“That’s because you can only fit about five people in there. It’s tiny.”

“It’s not that small. And besides, they do hot bar snacks. We could share some cheesy chips. Don’t know about you but I’m famished.”

“Cheesy chips?”

“Yeah, you know, a bowl of chips with melted cheese on top. Don’t tell me you’ve never had cheesy chips.”

“Not that I ever recall. And I think I’d remember something like that. Sounds disgusting.”

She gasped. “How can you say that? Cheesy chips are the best! You’ve got to try them.”

I nodded. “Okay. Cheesy chips in The Arms it is. How come you’re so hungry anyway? Didn’t you eat earlier?”

“Well, yeah. But you know what the canteen food is like, right? It’s rubbish. Certainly not as good as cheesy chips. And besides, there’s always room for cheesy chips.”

“You really have a thing for these chips, don’t you?”

She grinned but said nothing.

We were on Westmouth Hill Road by then and starting the descent into town— about a mile’s walk. The night was cool and crisp, with hardly any cloud cover for a change. The breeze blowing up the hill from off the sea wasn’t quite as biting as it had been the past week, but there was a sense in the air that things could take a turn for the worse at any moment.

That’s one thing about Westmouthshire—the weather was never boring. Winter, summer, spring or autumn. Some said the only way to tell them apart was the time the sun set. Summer would see hot sunny days regularly drenched by sudden ferocious storms, while winter could see a week of storms punctuated with sunny spells that almost made you want to break out your shorts. Almost. Hell, I’ve seen people have barbeques in December.

And on this night, the cloudless sky and reasonably gentle breeze were the harbingers of a storm the like of which many of those students new to the area had yet to experience. But for now, it was a pleasant enough evening to be strolling down the hill with a pretty girl by my side.

Vanessa reached out and slipped her hand into mine. I looked down at our hands, then up to find her looking at me and smiling. She had a fabulous smile. Almost as fabulous as—

“Do you mind?” she asked, breaking my train of thought. She swung my hand gently as she held it.

I returned her smile and shook my head slightly. “No.”

She looked ahead and said softly, “Good.”

Vanessa chatted incessantly as we walked. And it wasn’t even as if it was about anything, just idle gossip about people in Wintersmith or on her course, hardly any of whom I knew. I recognised the odd name here and there, but that was about it. But I didn’t mind. It saved me from talking. I mean, what had I got to talk about? Lots, I suppose. I mean, these sorts of dates (although, it wasn’t a date) were all about sharing stories and backgrounds and getting to know each other, weren’t they? And I certainly had what most other people would consider an interesting story to tell. But I really, really didn’t want to tell it. Not now. Not to a girl I barely knew.

So as far as I was concerned, she could talk all night and I’d listen. Well, not listen, exactly. More like, I wouldn’t interrupt. And besides, Vanessa had a lovely accent. Not as lovely as Imogen’s, but lovely nonetheless. I said as much to her as we finally entered the town. She had either run out of things to say or had taken a breather before her next aural assault. I suspected it was the latter.

“Thanks!” She positively beamed at my compliment.

“You’re from Newcastle, right?”

“South Shields, actually. It’s on the coast. Newcastle is further inland. Not much, mind. But enough.”

“It’s a really soft accent you have. It’s lovely.”

“Yeah, well, like, the first few days after we moved down south with me family, like, no-one could understand us could they, like.” She had deliberately thickened her accent as she spoke. “So I learnt quick, like, that I had to speak a bit different to how I normally would, like. You knows?” Her speech softened again as she continued, “I found I had to concentrate on speaking a bit more clearly—pronounce words more—and slow down too. Do that all day, every day, and you’re soon doing it without realising it. But I bet if I goes back up north, you knows to see friends, like, I’ll slip straight back into it. If I don’t, like, they’ll all think I’ve gone posh, you knows.”

“I can relate. While I was in the US, I had to be careful about how I spoke to make myself understood. Not all over the country, but in some places it was like ... I don’t know, it was as if they weren’t even speaking English, you know?”

“Two countries separated by a common language, isn’t that what they say about us?”

“I’ve heard that. It’s true too. So many things are different there, but at the same time, they’re really familiar.”

“That’ll be all the TV shows and films we get sent.”

“I suppose.”

“Why were you in America then? Gap year?”

“Something like that.”

“Hmm, now that sounds interesting. I mean, either it was, or it wasn’t. What did you do? Work at camp? Like, a counsellor or whatever they call it?”

I shook my head. “No, I was just travelling.” Why was I telling her this?

“Cool. With friends? Or was it, like, an organised trip or something?”

“Nope. Just me. Just me and the open road. Free to go where I wanted.” Seriously, why was I telling her this?

“Now, that sounds epic. Was it cool? Where did you go? What did you see?”

And that’s how she conned me into telling her about the past year. Oh, not the details, if you know what I mean. Nothing about the names in the diary. But after we sat down in The Railwayman’s Arms with a pint for me, a glass of white wine for her and a bowl of cheesy chips, I wound up telling her about the places I’d been and the things I’d seen. And yes, I got my phone out and showed her some of the pictures, and yes, that included the world’s largest rubber band ball. Look, it’s cool, okay? Drop it.

It turned out to be a lot of fun. Vanessa had an easy manner and was very, very easy to talk to. Too Easy. She listened well. I mean, really listened. She had a knack of sounding and looking interested. By the time the first pint had been refilled, I realised I needed to be careful, or I’d wind up telling her too much. Far too much. And I’d do it before I even knew what was going on.